In the mid-nineties, an ambulance attendant got off a graveyard shift at Spring Mountain Medical Centre, one of the major Las Vegas trauma centers, and decided to unwind with a couple of drinks at a bar frequented by shift workers and emergency personal from the hospital.
He finished his drinks and got in his truck. A couple of blocks later he got into a traffic altercation with a woman and shot her dead.
He said the women gave him the finger, and he thought she had a gun. He said this and he said that, but it really wouldn't wash. When his case came up in court, the judge had to recuse himself from the case because the woman was his girlfriend.
This case haunted me the way the King case did when I first moved to Vegas. That's the one where the young lady got off her graveyard shift at the Circus Circus, had a few drinks, got in her car and half a mile later on mowed down and slaughtered a boy and a young man waiting at a bus stop.
This case with the ambulance driver was not as big of a case. The King case traumatized and galvanized the whole valley.
I decided to go to the bar where this guy drank. I get in there and order a Greyhound a Vodka and grapefruit juice. I asked the bartender, "Does that guy still drink in here?" "What guy?" "The guy that shot the lady." He snorts, "That guy's in prison."
I had me another drink and went out, got in my car, a woman cut me off and I shot her dead. No. Not really. I saw some tee shirts on the wall of the bar with the name of the bar on them, but I forget the name of the bar. I bought a large.
The fact that these Gothic, macabre horror stories take place under a cheerful, incandescent, merciless desert sun makes them all the more disturbing and sublime.