Tell me exactly what happened on the night of August 30.
I rode my bike to 847 Mount Prior Avenue in St. Paul, and was greeted at the door by a friendly, plump woman who I judged to be about in her 60s.

What was that woman’s name?
Elaine Nussbaum.

Why were you there?
I was there for a writers’ group that I’d seen advertised on a flyer at The Loft Literary Center. It was advertised as a support and discussion group for people writing memoirs.

And you’re writing a memoir?
I’m thinking about it. I just wanted to talk about it, maybe get some ideas or inspiration.

Who else was at the house?
A thin woman about in her 30s, and a very jovial man who I figured was in his 40s. They were sitting at the dining room table, and Elaine asked me to join them. They introduced themselves as Mary and Ted.

Mary Anderson and Ted Carter.
I now know those to be their last names, yes.

And what happened next?
Well, I was offered a cup of herbal tea, which I accepted. There was an angel-food cake on the table.

What else was on the table?
A small vase of flowers, and a carving knife that I assumed was for the cake.

So you were all seated at the dining room table.
That’s correct.

And then what happened?
Well, they asked me to talk about myself and the memoir I’m thinking about writing. I told them who I was and I explained how I’m thinking about writing about my struggle with an eating disorder.

You suffer from an eating disorder?
I did, yes. Anorexia. But I recovered several years ago.

Noted. What happened next?
Well, they explained to me that they’re all writing memoirs, but they said they were going to be publishing the memoirs as fiction rather than non-fiction. I asked why, and Elaine said that some of the things they’ll be writing about are actually illegal.

Did they say what those things were?
No. When I asked about that, Mary explained that the three of them had come together because they’d all lived fairly boring lives, and they decided that together they would not only write their memoirs, but collaboratively work to create situations that would be more…interesting, I guess. More worth writing about.

What did you say to that?
Well, I said that I really didn’t need any more interesting experiences. And Elaine’s response to that was, “I’m sorry, dear, but I’m afraid you don’t have any choice.” It was at that point that I noticed Ted holding the knife.

The cake knife?
The knife I thought was for the cake. Ted was looking kind of nervous, and I figured that was because he was feeling awkward about offering cake to someone who’s recovering from an eating disorder. But then he lunged at me!

Please be as precise as possible.
Okay. He stood up and, holding the knife with his right hand, tried to stab me in the vicinity of my heart.

But he didn’t succeed.
Well, I grabbed his hand and we struggled. He wasn’t very strong, but he was a heavy man and he was pressing down on me, so when I twisted the knife out of his hand and he fell on it, he was stabbed quite deeply, I think just below the ribcage.

What was the others’ reaction to this?
Mary had run around and come up behind me—I presume to help hold me for Ted to finish the job. But when Ted collapsed and I pulled the knife out, she saw what had happened and tried to put a choke hold on me. She was stronger, and I was really scared, so I felt like I had no choice but to stab her in the face.

In the eye, in fact.
Well, I had no idea—I mean, she was behind me, and I was just stabbing backwards over my shoulder. But then I felt her grip loosen, and I felt this hot wet spray along the entire left side of my face, and I guessed correctly that it was Mary’s blood.

And what was Elaine doing at this time?
She had reached for her purse, and as Mary fell to the floor, I saw that Elaine had pulled a small revolver from her purse.

A gun?
Yes. It was a…what do they call them? Overnight specials? Over-the-counter specials?

A pistol.
Yes, a black pistol. And she was actually standing clear across the table from me, so I couldn’t reach her to grab the gun. I was convinced that I was about to die, so I took a chance and threw the carving knife at her.

And the knife struck her, before she could fire the gun.
Well, sort of. I’ve never even thrown a knife before—just a tomahawk that one time at a county fair up north. So my aim was off, and the knife just grazed her neck.

And it cut her.
Yes, quite badly. Blood immediately sprayed on the table—on the flowers, on the cake, everywhere. She fell to the floor. I went to walk over to her, but I must have slipped on the blood pouring from Mary’s eye, because I fell and hit my head on the table. I mean, I don’t remember that—it’s what I was told later, by your colleagues on the force.

You have no further memory of that night?
I do not.

Thank you, Mr. Gabler. We’ll return you to your cell now. We may have other questions for you later.
Okay. Say, is there any chance you guys can give me a laptop, or at least a pen and paper? I want to get started on my memoir.

– Jay Gabler

Photo by Geoffrey Fairchild (Creative Commons)