Son(s) of Papa II

GALVESTON, OH GALVESTON

The next time John Muhammed and John Malvo want to snipe somebody, they oughta go to Galveston. And buy a couple of dresses.

The terrible twins in last year's terrorization of Washington, D.C. and its vanilla suburbs, M & M have the dubious honor of being tried in Old Virginie. Despite long-standing evidence the contrary, it seems Lone Star juries are feeling a might friendlier these days.

In early-November, touchy-feely Texans opened their hearts and cut loose Robert A. Durst, a transvestite millionaire who'd bow-sawed a 71-year-old neighbor before dumping pieces and parts into Galveston Bay. Despite what looked like a straightforward murder, the whole thing was an unfortunate misunderstanding. An accident. Really.

Initially, Durst high-tailed it to Galveston from New York after hearing the local district attorney had re-opened an investigation into the disappearance of his first wife. It seems he feared being victimized by a perpetually pre-menstrual lawyer looking to further her political career. (I don't know why anybody in Texas would think this was a way to get ahead.) So, Durst, doing what any red-blooded American male would, dolled himself up, played dumb, literally, and rented a seedy apartment on the wrong side of the tracks.

How he spent Saturday nights is unclear but wearin' a wig and pumps became a chore. Durst chucked the get up and started spendin' time with Morris Black, a "cantankerous former seaman," who lived across the way. Black was argumentative with friends and strangers alike. No matter. He and Durst got on just fine, watchin' TV and shootin' at stuff.

One night, Durst came home and found Black in front of the tube. For reasons unknown, he raced into the kitchen to discover, much to his dismay, that his .22-caliber pistol wasn't where it was supposed to be. When Durst turned around, Black was his turning the gun his way. "I was," he said, according to The New York Times, "concerned that Morris was going to shoot the gun, most likely at my face."

Don't that beat all?

Not surprisingly, they "struggled" over the gun. It found Black's face instead. Then, "in a haze of drugs and alcohol," the panicky Durst carved up his old buddy 'til he was "swimming in blood," triple-wrapped him in plastic garbage bags, and chucked short-ribs and all into Galveston Bay. Being relatively inexperienced, he neglected to weigh down the load sufficiently. Soon afterward, pieces and parts -- minus Black's head -- were found bob, bob, bobbin' along the city's scenic shoreline.

Now comes the juicy part.
Durst gets busted, is charged with murder, jumps bail, then skidaddles to the Quaker State. Hungry for food and information, he wanders into a supermarket, pilfers a newspaper, Band-Aid and chicken salad sandwich, gets busted again, and is perp-walked back to Baghdad by the Bay.

By now, the perpetually premenstrual district attorney is feeling pretty good. She's got an open-and-shut case against the slime-ball son of a real estate developer responsible for blotting out parts of free-range sky above Manhattan. The same sumbitch is also a social misfit whose primary talents are smoking pot and belching at cocktail parties. We know how Texans feel about such things.

Even better, the same sumbitch is suspected of killing his wife after stumbling into a police station in 1982 and claiming he hadn't seen her in five days. It seems he'd dropped her off at a train station after a weekend in the country and never saw her lovely face again. In an odd coincidence, his wife had told a friend, "If anything happens to me, don't let him get away with it."

No problemo.
Durst invokes plutocratic privilege and the ruckus dies down. He breaks with his family and starts meandering between estates in Trinidad, San Francisco, New York and Connecticut. With his talented throat, he's the life of the party everywhere he goes.

After years in luxurious wilderness, he marries a New York realtor on the sly. Meantime, another lady friend is found dead in a Los Angeles apartment with an extra hole in her head. The same friend was of particular interest to law enforcement types because she'd acted as Durst's mouthpiece after his first wife vanished from public view.

Well, folks in Galveston don't need, or want, things spelled out. If a millionaire nare-do-well with a history of trouble keepin' female friends alive sneaks into town to check out personal matters at the local DA's office while wearin' a lady-like disguise, then happens to take up with a down-and-out sailor before shooting his ugly mug and chopping up his body, there's got to be a reason.

Still, from the picture in the paper it looks like Durst nearly pooped his pants when his non-peers decided to cut him loose. Explaining the verdict, one jury member said there were a few loose ends but hell, "The defense told us a story and stuck to it." His momma must be awful proud.

Now, if those poor, black sumbitches M & M can somehow manage to find the appropriate at-tire and sashay down to Galveston, they'll no doubt find a similar helpin' of Texas-style justice. It won't matter how many white folks they're accused of killin'. Galvestonians don't give no mind to eth-nicity, personal history or circumstantial evidence.

The only thing they care about is how you manage in high heels.

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