He would say, in a tone as indifferent as possible, that he was terrible at remembering people's names.
That he had no brother. No one was known to be his relative. No stockaways in his brain.
He would say that he couldn't remember any recent killing. He didn't know of anyone named. Sorry, what was the name again?
That he actually didn't know what an axe was meant to be. He never harmed anything. Chrissake, not with an axe.
That it couldn't have been him because he hadn't been there.
That he didn't want to hear about it any longer.
Yes, he may have heard something, maybe. Read on it in a newspaper. It was said that a certain X had killed his brother with an axe. Nothing more irritating than such pointless trifles. He had had enough of it. On having killed. What is the name again?
That he couldn't remember. If he would have been thinking of doing something to anyone, or someone he even didn't know: not with the bloody axe. With a quote or two maybe, smiling that terrific smile he had.
But how tail a lie from a truth, how one wrong-doer from the other. For a reason far less unhealthy anyone could have done it, right?
Over a six hundred reasons to clean the untouched blade are left without argument. Flattering.
He sure got popular doing so.