Jack W
Fred was a widower in his late seventies when he became my patient. A slender build, small mustache and a full head of white hair complemented his avuncular smile. He was always charming and thoughtful of my staff. He liked to flirt with my employees, even bringing them flowers or candy on Valentine’s Day. He was not offensive, if anything he was a classic Southern gentleman. He spent most of his day time at the Senior Center, playing cards and enjoying the hot lunches and social contact. He was not much of a complainer, but I noted signs of alcoholic liver disease on routine blood tests. I started suggesting he cut down on his alcohol intake and work toward abstinence. After a few such conversations he confided in me.
“Doc, I hear what you’re saying about my drinking, but I have to tell you it’s something I’ve done my entire adult life and have no desire to stop now. I was a drinker back when I was in my twenties and Prohibition was the law. My first paying job was running moonshine in the back of my truck on back roads in Georgia in the wee hours of the night. Liquor almost killed me then.”
“ I was pulled over by a cop on one of my midnight runs and he demanded I open up the back of the truck to show him what I was carrying. I knew I was in big trouble if he found the booze and also in big trouble if I didn’t deliver it. I made like I was reaching for the key for the padlock and shot him with my handgun. He died instantly. I hid the body and high-tailed it out of there. They never figured out who killed him.”
“It’s been over 50 years since it happened and you’re the first person I ever told. I guess I just wanted to get it off my chest.”
I was speechless. I don’t remember what I said to him, but recall thinking later that he trusted me enough to finally tell someone he was a murderer.
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