83

NYDA-#146-121AT.

BINGHAM: When the firing started, I suggested everyone get down on the floor. We all did except for the old ladies from across the hall who said they wouldn’t—or perhaps they couldn’t. In any event, they slumped in their chairs. The man who was guarding us fired his pistol out the window.

QUESTION: Was there any return fire, Mr. Bingham?

BINGHAM: No, sir, I do not believe there was. None that I was aware of. The man just kept firing his gun and cursing. I saw him reload at least once from a clip he took from his pocket. And then a few minutes later another masked man came into the apartment. I recognized him as the second man who had been in my apartment.

QUESTION: The man who told the first masked man to stop kicking you?

BINGHAM: Yes, that’s the one. Well, he came into the apartment right then and he was drawing a gun from his pocket.

QUESTION: What kind of a gun? Did you recognize it?

BINGHAM: It was a revolver, not a pistol. Big. I’d guess a .38. I couldn’t recognize the make.

QUESTION: All right. Then what?

BINGHAM: The second man, the man with the revolver who came in the door, said, “Socks.”

QUESTION: Socks? That’s all he said?

BINGHAM: Yes. He said, “Socks,” and the man at the window turned around. And the second man shot him.

QUESTION: Shot him? How many times?

BINGHAM: Twice. I was watching this very closely and I’m sure of this. He came through the door, taking his gun from his pocket. He said, “Socks,” and the man at the window turned around. And then the man coming in walked toward him and shot him twice. I could see the bullets going in. They plucked at his jacket. I think he shot him in the stomach and the chest. That’s where it looked to me where the bullets went in. The man at the window dropped his own gun and went down. He went down very slowly. As a matter of fact, he grabbed at the drapes at the window and pulled down a drape and the rod. I think he said “What?”—or maybe it was something else. It sounded like “Wha” or something like that. Then he was on the floor and this maroon drape was across him and he was bleeding and twisting. Jesus. …

QUESTION: Shall we take a break for a few minutes, Mr. Bingham?

BINGHAM: No. I’m all right. And then my wife was sick; she up-chucked. And one of the old ladies from across the hall fainted and one screamed, and the two faggots I didn’t know and had never seen before hugged each other, and Dr. Rubicoff looked like someone had sapped him. Holy God, what a moment that was.

QUESTION: And what did the killer do then?

BINGHAM: He looked at the man on the floor for a very brief moment. Then he put the gun back in his pocket, turned around, and walked out of the apartment. I never saw him again. Strange you should call him a killer.

QUESTION: That’s what he was—wasn’t he?

BINGHAM: Of course. But at the moment I got the feeling he was an executioner. That’s the feeling I got—this man is an executioner, doing his job.

QUESTION: Then what happened?

BINGHAM: After he left? Dr. Rubicoff went over and knelt by the man who had been shot and examined his wounds and felt his pulse. “Alive,” he said, “but not for long. This is very bad.”

QUESTION: Thank you, Mr. Bingham.

BINGHAM: You’re welcome.