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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Crime
- Published: 09/10/2014
The Victim
Born 1941, M, from Harvest, AL., United StatesThe Victim
By
Carl Brooks
The front door of the Commodore Hotel opened as Mark stepped out onto the sidewalk. He stopped and looked around as if to regain his bearings. It was a little past 2:00 AM and 7th street was nearly deserted. Los Angeles, though never sleeping, redistributes its nerve centers on a time-basis and this part of the city is not considered the safest after dark. Two blocks off Wilshire, and parallel, Seventh Street is noted for its bars, hotels and that certain element of transients who frequent them. Mark normally worked the day shift and getting off this late at night felt more than a little strange to him. He felt uneasy being there, especially at that time of night, but his apartment was only a short walk, so he told himself that it was safe, and anyway he had no choice but to slough off his apprehensions and get home as quickly as possible. He squinted as he fought to see into the dense blackness across the street; the intended path to his apartment three blocks away.
Mark was a waiter who had been trained to work hotels. He liked his job well enough, which also paid very handsomely. Mark turned left, walked to the corner and stopped to wait for the light to change. Across the street, on the corner and down one flight was The Lamp Post, with its flickering neon sign which read "Bar." Exiting through the open door was a steady flow of smoke, along with an occasional drunk who attempted to negotiate the climb to street level, occasionally succeeding. When his workday was over, Mark had been known to stop by for a quick drink just to soothe his jangled nerves… but that was in the clear light of day… not tonight. He wasn’t truly afraid of the dark, as such, but this was still Los Angeles… and at this time of night… and in this neighborhood… There was an option of carrying a gun, just for protection in situations like this, but so far he hadn’t acted on it.
When the light finally blinked "Walk,” Mark stepped off the curb directly into the path of an on-coming Volkswagen. By the time the car screeched to a stand-still, he had already jumped back onto the curb vacating its path.
"What the hell are you trying to do, Lady? You want to try that again?" he shouted.
Mark walked around to the driver's side, ready for a full-blown confrontation. The car had stalled and the very attractive woman inside was slumped over the steering wheel mumbling obscenities. Mark opened the car door and was struck with the overwhelming stench of alcohol. He turned off the ignition, threw the keys in the back seat, walked to the front of the car, opened the hood, and disappeared across the street and into the darkness.
He looked down the half-block to the corner ahead and felt the hair stiffen on the back of his neck. A shrill siren sounded in the distance. As it grew louder, desperately trying to reach Central Receiving in time, the harsh wail changed to a frantic warble, warning everyone in its path of the crisis within.
Central Receiving was three blocks away. Anyone living in the neighborhood for more than a week was completely oblivious to these sounds, as well as others the city echoed after dark. Neighborhood tenants tended to retreat into their apartments at night, blocking out the trouble and violence of the streets; and there was always plenty of that. After living in this area for awhile, a growing, pervasive fear seemed to materialize and was one of the many reasons people kept to themselves. It was simply part of the overall tension one must endure to live in such a city, plus, it was just safer that way. Mark had counted the sirens once for almost an hour and finally stopped at twelve. One of the things that he’d noticed after first coming here was that people really didn't get involved in other people's lives... or problems. He had lived in the same apartment building for almost a year and knew one person there, the landlady.
The shadows of the dirty apartment buildings on either side of the street created a surreal atmosphere. The sky was just barely visible through the maze of buildings, slightly and eerily illuminated by a half moon and the smog leftover from today’s activities. There were no visible stars. There never are in this over illuminated city. Home was not far away, so he quickened his steps and even completed walking down the center of the street to avoid the dark alleyways and blind corners. Tiredness engulfed him but he still felt the ever-present, uneasy defensiveness which accompanied him on this walk home when he had to do it at night. He searched the apartment buildings on either side of Bixby Street for some signs of life. Just ahead, a garbage can clanked and rolled a few feet before stopping at a fire hydrant. Mark’s adrenalin spiked as he visually scanned the alley’s entrance to his right, but saw no movement. He stepped around the spillage and quickened his pace, moving more toward the center of the street for imagined safety. Squinting, he again searched the blackness leading into the concrete alley. A muffled groan was barely audible, then, what sounded like shoes scuffling on a sandy surface.
"Wait," someone said.
It sounded like a woman. There was anguish in her voice… desperation. More scuffling, then a dull thud; the sound a body makes when being hit by something heavy. Mark slowed his progress, straining his eyes and ears for some clue to the drama unfolding in the darkness. He looked up and down the street, searching for some sort of security… or help, or just to assure himself that he was not alone. No one was there. On the third floor of the apartment building at the end of the alley, two windows lit up, briefly illuminating patches of the alleyway. The dim light exposed two people lying on the asphalt, struggling. Once again he looked up and down the street for some sign of aid. Finding none, he slowly and cautiously entered the corridor, all the while hoping the struggling he was witnessing wasn’t serious. But, if there was a woman in trouble, he was obligated to at least try to help.
Mark spoke with as much authority as he could muster, but it was false. "Hey, what's going on there?"
The alley grew quiet. Taking this as a good sign, he slowly walked toward the two shadows. Another light flashed in one of the apartments above. Someone yelled an obscenity out his window, then, slammed down the sash. He could see one of the figures on the ground. It was a woman.
Certain that he had seen two people, he quickly searched for the other one. The woman was lying on her side, her blouse torn in several places exposing her bleeding breasts. She groaned and tried to lift her head. Mark turned and looked behind him, toward the street, desperately searching for someone... anyone… for help. He bent down and gently touched the woman on the shoulder as if to test the life remaining in a wounded animal. He heard himself ask, "Are you alright?"
Falling garbage cans sounded behind him, and as he turned toward the noise, something hit him hard in the side. Mark fell to his knees holding his pain as he watched the attacker turn and repeatedly pound the front of the woman in a stabbing motion.
The garbage can on which Mark was leaning, gave way. He was surprised at how fast he hit the ground. The windows in several apartments on the ground floors lit up as Mark called out.
"Help... Please, help! Somebody call the police! Call the police!"
Two of the windows went dark. The attacker, hearing Mark's plea, was standing over him, breathing heavy and twisting a knife in his hand. The man fell on Mark’s chest with both knees, knocking the breath out of him. Then, he covered Mark’s open mouth with his bloody, foul smelling hand and simultaneously slipped the knife blade deep between two of Mark's ribs. The attacker looked directly into his eyes, shushing him softly in short bursts, telling him quietly not to cry out; that it was no use. The attacker slipped the knife in and out of Mark’s tense stomach several times very slowly, very deliberately, as a killer would do who enjoyed total control over his victim and wanted to prolong the act. With each stab, more and more energy and life left Mark’s punctured body. The attacker waited for Mark’s eyes to soften in submission… for his body to relax, then, spoke in an almost inaudible whisper, “It’s alright… it’s alright, sh-h-h-h-h…” Mark feebly grabbed at the man as he casually walked to the street and disappeared around the corner.
Warm sticky blood filled Mark's hands and mouth… his blood. There was no terror in him now, only acceptance of the facts. He'd been stabbed several places in his stomach and kidneys. The woman lay beside him, very still. Now, they both needed help, desperately. Someone had to hear them. He knew he was badly hurt, but didn't know about the woman. She looked dead, but maybe not. Mark cupped his hands, trying to catch the precious contents of his abdomen which was spilling onto the asphalt. He felt the knife still sticking in him. His first instinct was to pull it out, but decided against the uncertain action, lest he bleed even more. Anger filled his thoughts as he quickly evaluated his situation. As an angry reflex, he grabbed the knife and in one movement, pulled it from his body, flinging it across the alley. He thought he heard a siren but wasn't sure because his ears were ringing so loudly. He turned his attention toward the woman. Sweat saturated his face, settling in his eyes. His mind was spinning in a strange and overwhelming delirium.
As he crawled to the woman, he realized she had been badly beaten, her near-naked body bruised and bleeding. He pulled himself up against the base of the apartment building and tried to think. The crawling made him bleed even worse and now he could see the stretched, open gashes in his abdomen through what was left of his shirt. Why hadn't someone come, he thought? Surely someone had heard the commotion and called the police. He listened, hoping for the wail of an ambulance rushing to save their lives; lives that were on a very short fuse. But all he heard was his own breathing and the buzzing of flies as they discovered his wounds.
What had taken place in two minutes, seemed like hours. Where were the police? He looked up at three lighted windows on the first and second floors across the alley. Occasionally a shadow stopped, looked out, then, shortly afterwards the light went out.
He looked at the woman again and saw something in her hand. He leaned over and pulled it from her frozen grasp. It was a man's wallet. It didn’t seem expensive and held few contents: a driver's license, a pawn ticket, and a few dollars. Mark coughed and tasted blood in his mouth. He took out his pen and wrote "KILLER" on the front of the wallet. He tried to read the name of the man who had killed him. The man at least owed him that, but with the sweat in his eyes, he couldn’t focus.
Mark heard someone walking up the alley and tried to call out, but all he could do was emit animal sounds that were unfamiliar to him. The shadow came closer and hesitated, straining to see more of the unnatural sight, then turned and ran back to the safety of the street. Mark coughed again. The pain was terrible. The irony of his thirst struck him with full force. He had seen abdominal wounds before, in Vietnam. He knew it was bad. He knew he couldn't have water even if some were available.
The wound was throbbing in unison with his heartbeats. Weakness engulfed him, making it almost impossible to move. Even his slightest effort multiplied the pain almost to the point of unconsciousness. It wouldn't have been so bad, he thought, if he had only done some good. But she was dead and he couldn't even help himself. What a really dumb thing to do. Barge into a situation like that, unarmed.
He heard someone coming up the alley. The figure turned the corner and walked quickly toward the woman. The man looked all around her body, felt in her hands, then rolled her over with his foot. His attention turned to Mark, as he saw the wallet in Mark’s hand. He grabbed it, kicked Mark hard in the face, then shuffled back to the street. Mark was barely conscious as he fought for breath. He heard a siren in the distance and prayed for it to be calling to him, telling him to just hang on a little while longer.
A spark of consciousness stirred as his eyelids parted halfway. He was numb over most of his body, except for where the pain had doubled… tripled. His breath came in short gasps as his mouth had long since dried up except for the new supply of blood that drooled onto the torn shards of his shirt.
All the windows were dark now as he thought he saw the sky lighten just slightly with the dawn of a new day. He couldn't be sure, sitting against the building, his eyes half open, starring at the alley entrance. No sound came from his mouth, no rhythmic rising and falling of his mutilated abdomen… nothing.
At 9:14 AM, a car stopped at the mouth of the alley. An aggressive police Lieutenant stepped out. "What happened?" he asked a uniformed policeman who was standing near-by. "Well,” the officer began, "It looks like rape and mutual homicide. The guy's fingerprints are all over the knife. Apparently, he raped her, then, beat her to death. But before he could get away, she sticks him full of holes."
"Who were they?" asked the Lieutenant.
"We're still running them down, but as far as we can determine, he was a waiter in a hotel near here; a loner, and she was a hooker who worked this area."
"Any witnesses, the Lieutenant inquired?"
"None we can locate," said the officer. "Nobody saw a thing."
"Yeah," whispered the Lieutenant, “They never do."
The End
The Victim(Carl Brooks)
The Victim
By
Carl Brooks
The front door of the Commodore Hotel opened as Mark stepped out onto the sidewalk. He stopped and looked around as if to regain his bearings. It was a little past 2:00 AM and 7th street was nearly deserted. Los Angeles, though never sleeping, redistributes its nerve centers on a time-basis and this part of the city is not considered the safest after dark. Two blocks off Wilshire, and parallel, Seventh Street is noted for its bars, hotels and that certain element of transients who frequent them. Mark normally worked the day shift and getting off this late at night felt more than a little strange to him. He felt uneasy being there, especially at that time of night, but his apartment was only a short walk, so he told himself that it was safe, and anyway he had no choice but to slough off his apprehensions and get home as quickly as possible. He squinted as he fought to see into the dense blackness across the street; the intended path to his apartment three blocks away.
Mark was a waiter who had been trained to work hotels. He liked his job well enough, which also paid very handsomely. Mark turned left, walked to the corner and stopped to wait for the light to change. Across the street, on the corner and down one flight was The Lamp Post, with its flickering neon sign which read "Bar." Exiting through the open door was a steady flow of smoke, along with an occasional drunk who attempted to negotiate the climb to street level, occasionally succeeding. When his workday was over, Mark had been known to stop by for a quick drink just to soothe his jangled nerves… but that was in the clear light of day… not tonight. He wasn’t truly afraid of the dark, as such, but this was still Los Angeles… and at this time of night… and in this neighborhood… There was an option of carrying a gun, just for protection in situations like this, but so far he hadn’t acted on it.
When the light finally blinked "Walk,” Mark stepped off the curb directly into the path of an on-coming Volkswagen. By the time the car screeched to a stand-still, he had already jumped back onto the curb vacating its path.
"What the hell are you trying to do, Lady? You want to try that again?" he shouted.
Mark walked around to the driver's side, ready for a full-blown confrontation. The car had stalled and the very attractive woman inside was slumped over the steering wheel mumbling obscenities. Mark opened the car door and was struck with the overwhelming stench of alcohol. He turned off the ignition, threw the keys in the back seat, walked to the front of the car, opened the hood, and disappeared across the street and into the darkness.
He looked down the half-block to the corner ahead and felt the hair stiffen on the back of his neck. A shrill siren sounded in the distance. As it grew louder, desperately trying to reach Central Receiving in time, the harsh wail changed to a frantic warble, warning everyone in its path of the crisis within.
Central Receiving was three blocks away. Anyone living in the neighborhood for more than a week was completely oblivious to these sounds, as well as others the city echoed after dark. Neighborhood tenants tended to retreat into their apartments at night, blocking out the trouble and violence of the streets; and there was always plenty of that. After living in this area for awhile, a growing, pervasive fear seemed to materialize and was one of the many reasons people kept to themselves. It was simply part of the overall tension one must endure to live in such a city, plus, it was just safer that way. Mark had counted the sirens once for almost an hour and finally stopped at twelve. One of the things that he’d noticed after first coming here was that people really didn't get involved in other people's lives... or problems. He had lived in the same apartment building for almost a year and knew one person there, the landlady.
The shadows of the dirty apartment buildings on either side of the street created a surreal atmosphere. The sky was just barely visible through the maze of buildings, slightly and eerily illuminated by a half moon and the smog leftover from today’s activities. There were no visible stars. There never are in this over illuminated city. Home was not far away, so he quickened his steps and even completed walking down the center of the street to avoid the dark alleyways and blind corners. Tiredness engulfed him but he still felt the ever-present, uneasy defensiveness which accompanied him on this walk home when he had to do it at night. He searched the apartment buildings on either side of Bixby Street for some signs of life. Just ahead, a garbage can clanked and rolled a few feet before stopping at a fire hydrant. Mark’s adrenalin spiked as he visually scanned the alley’s entrance to his right, but saw no movement. He stepped around the spillage and quickened his pace, moving more toward the center of the street for imagined safety. Squinting, he again searched the blackness leading into the concrete alley. A muffled groan was barely audible, then, what sounded like shoes scuffling on a sandy surface.
"Wait," someone said.
It sounded like a woman. There was anguish in her voice… desperation. More scuffling, then a dull thud; the sound a body makes when being hit by something heavy. Mark slowed his progress, straining his eyes and ears for some clue to the drama unfolding in the darkness. He looked up and down the street, searching for some sort of security… or help, or just to assure himself that he was not alone. No one was there. On the third floor of the apartment building at the end of the alley, two windows lit up, briefly illuminating patches of the alleyway. The dim light exposed two people lying on the asphalt, struggling. Once again he looked up and down the street for some sign of aid. Finding none, he slowly and cautiously entered the corridor, all the while hoping the struggling he was witnessing wasn’t serious. But, if there was a woman in trouble, he was obligated to at least try to help.
Mark spoke with as much authority as he could muster, but it was false. "Hey, what's going on there?"
The alley grew quiet. Taking this as a good sign, he slowly walked toward the two shadows. Another light flashed in one of the apartments above. Someone yelled an obscenity out his window, then, slammed down the sash. He could see one of the figures on the ground. It was a woman.
Certain that he had seen two people, he quickly searched for the other one. The woman was lying on her side, her blouse torn in several places exposing her bleeding breasts. She groaned and tried to lift her head. Mark turned and looked behind him, toward the street, desperately searching for someone... anyone… for help. He bent down and gently touched the woman on the shoulder as if to test the life remaining in a wounded animal. He heard himself ask, "Are you alright?"
Falling garbage cans sounded behind him, and as he turned toward the noise, something hit him hard in the side. Mark fell to his knees holding his pain as he watched the attacker turn and repeatedly pound the front of the woman in a stabbing motion.
The garbage can on which Mark was leaning, gave way. He was surprised at how fast he hit the ground. The windows in several apartments on the ground floors lit up as Mark called out.
"Help... Please, help! Somebody call the police! Call the police!"
Two of the windows went dark. The attacker, hearing Mark's plea, was standing over him, breathing heavy and twisting a knife in his hand. The man fell on Mark’s chest with both knees, knocking the breath out of him. Then, he covered Mark’s open mouth with his bloody, foul smelling hand and simultaneously slipped the knife blade deep between two of Mark's ribs. The attacker looked directly into his eyes, shushing him softly in short bursts, telling him quietly not to cry out; that it was no use. The attacker slipped the knife in and out of Mark’s tense stomach several times very slowly, very deliberately, as a killer would do who enjoyed total control over his victim and wanted to prolong the act. With each stab, more and more energy and life left Mark’s punctured body. The attacker waited for Mark’s eyes to soften in submission… for his body to relax, then, spoke in an almost inaudible whisper, “It’s alright… it’s alright, sh-h-h-h-h…” Mark feebly grabbed at the man as he casually walked to the street and disappeared around the corner.
Warm sticky blood filled Mark's hands and mouth… his blood. There was no terror in him now, only acceptance of the facts. He'd been stabbed several places in his stomach and kidneys. The woman lay beside him, very still. Now, they both needed help, desperately. Someone had to hear them. He knew he was badly hurt, but didn't know about the woman. She looked dead, but maybe not. Mark cupped his hands, trying to catch the precious contents of his abdomen which was spilling onto the asphalt. He felt the knife still sticking in him. His first instinct was to pull it out, but decided against the uncertain action, lest he bleed even more. Anger filled his thoughts as he quickly evaluated his situation. As an angry reflex, he grabbed the knife and in one movement, pulled it from his body, flinging it across the alley. He thought he heard a siren but wasn't sure because his ears were ringing so loudly. He turned his attention toward the woman. Sweat saturated his face, settling in his eyes. His mind was spinning in a strange and overwhelming delirium.
As he crawled to the woman, he realized she had been badly beaten, her near-naked body bruised and bleeding. He pulled himself up against the base of the apartment building and tried to think. The crawling made him bleed even worse and now he could see the stretched, open gashes in his abdomen through what was left of his shirt. Why hadn't someone come, he thought? Surely someone had heard the commotion and called the police. He listened, hoping for the wail of an ambulance rushing to save their lives; lives that were on a very short fuse. But all he heard was his own breathing and the buzzing of flies as they discovered his wounds.
What had taken place in two minutes, seemed like hours. Where were the police? He looked up at three lighted windows on the first and second floors across the alley. Occasionally a shadow stopped, looked out, then, shortly afterwards the light went out.
He looked at the woman again and saw something in her hand. He leaned over and pulled it from her frozen grasp. It was a man's wallet. It didn’t seem expensive and held few contents: a driver's license, a pawn ticket, and a few dollars. Mark coughed and tasted blood in his mouth. He took out his pen and wrote "KILLER" on the front of the wallet. He tried to read the name of the man who had killed him. The man at least owed him that, but with the sweat in his eyes, he couldn’t focus.
Mark heard someone walking up the alley and tried to call out, but all he could do was emit animal sounds that were unfamiliar to him. The shadow came closer and hesitated, straining to see more of the unnatural sight, then turned and ran back to the safety of the street. Mark coughed again. The pain was terrible. The irony of his thirst struck him with full force. He had seen abdominal wounds before, in Vietnam. He knew it was bad. He knew he couldn't have water even if some were available.
The wound was throbbing in unison with his heartbeats. Weakness engulfed him, making it almost impossible to move. Even his slightest effort multiplied the pain almost to the point of unconsciousness. It wouldn't have been so bad, he thought, if he had only done some good. But she was dead and he couldn't even help himself. What a really dumb thing to do. Barge into a situation like that, unarmed.
He heard someone coming up the alley. The figure turned the corner and walked quickly toward the woman. The man looked all around her body, felt in her hands, then rolled her over with his foot. His attention turned to Mark, as he saw the wallet in Mark’s hand. He grabbed it, kicked Mark hard in the face, then shuffled back to the street. Mark was barely conscious as he fought for breath. He heard a siren in the distance and prayed for it to be calling to him, telling him to just hang on a little while longer.
A spark of consciousness stirred as his eyelids parted halfway. He was numb over most of his body, except for where the pain had doubled… tripled. His breath came in short gasps as his mouth had long since dried up except for the new supply of blood that drooled onto the torn shards of his shirt.
All the windows were dark now as he thought he saw the sky lighten just slightly with the dawn of a new day. He couldn't be sure, sitting against the building, his eyes half open, starring at the alley entrance. No sound came from his mouth, no rhythmic rising and falling of his mutilated abdomen… nothing.
At 9:14 AM, a car stopped at the mouth of the alley. An aggressive police Lieutenant stepped out. "What happened?" he asked a uniformed policeman who was standing near-by. "Well,” the officer began, "It looks like rape and mutual homicide. The guy's fingerprints are all over the knife. Apparently, he raped her, then, beat her to death. But before he could get away, she sticks him full of holes."
"Who were they?" asked the Lieutenant.
"We're still running them down, but as far as we can determine, he was a waiter in a hotel near here; a loner, and she was a hooker who worked this area."
"Any witnesses, the Lieutenant inquired?"
"None we can locate," said the officer. "Nobody saw a thing."
"Yeah," whispered the Lieutenant, “They never do."
The End
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