--77 year old man murdered
In the early morning hours of
February second at residence on Roselawn Ct.
The man, survived by his 17 year-old
Granddaughter, was a well-respected
Pillar of the community.
Police have no leads at this point and are asking
Anyone with information to come forward--
After my first semester at Longview College, I realized that higher education would never benefit me. All of it--the early morning classes, the treacherous exams administered by hippie gurus (who never saw the light of the real world penetrate their cluttered offices,) and the group projects, more like group therapy—hacked away at my increasingly splintered soul. I was 20 and desperately looking for a way out. So far, I had been similar to the obligatory victim in an 80’s slasher flick who, being chased by a machete wielding mad man, does nothing of consequence to evade the perpetrator. Of course, I’m not the first person that has come to despise the educational process and sheepishly cower. I’m one in a million losers.
And like those millions, the dilemma was more tragic than the conclusion of a Shakespearean drama: money depended on my collegiate pursuit. If I dropped out, mom and dad’s automatic deposit stopped. Nobody wants that, least of whom me, fearing a job, which would be my only means of survival. Honesty, I loved my parents with all my heart, and accordingly, I had always relied on their financial assistance. I remember my mom gave me 50 dollars for Christmas when I was ten, and in return, I rushed over to her and squeezed her with the biggest hug ever. The Christmas Tree, ornate with tons of lights and figurines, paled in comparison to my smile.
I needed a plan: Keep the funds rolling in, like drug money, and never crack open a book again. Firstly, I went to the registrar’s office and filled out my dropout paperwork. Now, all I had to do was find a place to live. That’s when I came across an ad in the local paper I picked up at Kroger.
I stood there sloppily spreading the paper put in front of me, some pieces flying out. On one ad, a professor was offering free room and board to any student who lacked an apartment to live. The old man must have been quite a philanthropist. One who put utmost value in a person’s desire for education. Of course, he was sadly misled in his kind-hearted motives, but I was damn lucky to find such an opportunity. I went to the nearest payphone outside the automated door and called the man. A mother of two emerged pushing a stuffed cart with her kids hanging off the sides. I quivered for a second, considering the inevitably of chance that life dishes out without remorse.
The next week I’m in. The old professor believed my plight and opened his unsuspecting arms to help me. But something wasn’t right with his place. The old man, Mr. Roderick, occupied this Victorian style house, with a porch that stretched around both sides and peered out curiously at the street. Across from his house was Roselawn Cemetery, which had a big double, rout iron gate that opened on deathly occasions. I imagined that when opened, the big glooming gates would generate a snarling shriek, a huge defiant sound making the mourners cringe and, for one brief moment, forget the sufferings of their loved one.
Mr. Roderick had a teenage granddaughter, a pretty seventeen girl on the verge of losing her virginity I found out. It was she in fact (as I will tell you) that would lead to my downfall. She occupied the biggest room on the second floor and kept it filled to the brim with girly teenage stuff. A week after moving in, during dinner, Mr. Roderick confided in me his hopes that his granddaughter was happy. He elaborated on his feelings, even sharing the sad story of the tragedy she had endured. Her parents had died in mysterious car accident, and since then, he had been left to care for her. The house could be very lonely sometimes he said. In fact, it was Briana who suggested they take in a guest to liven up their home.
“She needs more guidance and direction,” he eventually said.
“Well, I think she seems very happy, Mr. Roderick.”
“I need to be here every night, I know this.” The old man rested his fork on the edge of his plate. I felt like an intruder for being privy to such honest information from this wise man who didn’t know a thing about me. “I might have to quite my night lectures,” He said. “Her grades have always been fine, but I worry about her well-being. I’m glad that you are here some and can keep an eye on her.”
Not considering myself any guardian whatsoever, I simply replied, “I enjoy being here and will help out in any way possible. You have been very generous to me.”
The old man took me into the din, and, after seeing him take command of the main chair across the table, I sat down on an old couch. He began to smoke a long, aromatic pipe. I hadn’t seen a person smoke a pipe for years.
“You got school; that’s most important for you, I realize,” he said. “That’s why you’re here even. I know you save most of your time for studying as I did when I was your age. You’re a man of academics and therefore, of real integrity. Every since I saw you the other day, I knew you were the type of man I wanted to help. I hope you have everything you need; please, of course, due inform me, if otherwise,” he added. He took a short puff from the pipe and rested it on the arm of the chair. I hated to think of this mad finding out the truth—that, instead of attending classes, I frequented the student center and played pin-pong, pool, or on my bad, really bored days, arcade games. The books I brought home were phonies, ones I had randomly picked up at the library, some big, some small, all to give an impression of my so-called academic pursuits. Once a month, I even used the man’s phone to call my mom and keep her satiated with a synopsis of my classes.
“Darren, I need help and I think you, more than anyone, can assist me.”
“Sure, Mr. Roderick,” I said.
“I’m afraid to admit it, but Briana’s boyfriend is the problem. They have been dating for a year now, and her attitude towards school and me has progressively declined. I’m sure you’ve noticed this just in your first week. As of late, I’ve been increasingly afraid that my poor girl will lose her virginity to this vile, repugnant adolescent. In truth, she doesn’t know any better. And that’s a reflection of my bad parenting. Of course I cannot bear such a truth to exsist.
“I bet she will get over him,” I said, not believing the words of my own statement. Stupid teenage girls like her always wasted their first time on a loser. But my job was to make the old man happy.
“She ‘s too clingy and absorbed in him to see him ruining her. You know, she even once told me she wanted to marry him.”
“It’s just a phase, I bet you it is, and I can keep a watch over her, in case it’s not.”
“Please do, and I want him out of the picture—I mean break them up, for me, that’s the only way. You go out with her. You are a good man and I trust you.”
“Are you sure you want me to do this? I don’t want to hurt Briana or makes things worse.”
“Until she’s at least, long forgotten about him, please do.”
The words of the man echoed in my head for the rest of the night. At last, I had a purpose or objective to follow--A reason to stray from chance that claimed so many others. But still, I didn’t feel altogether right. I sat up in my bed and looked out into the gloomy street lit with a few shadowy streetlamps. The old man was wise and meant well, but his proposition wasn’t exactly admirable or ethical. My role as pawn in the game might haunt me someday as the cemetery had done.
The first step, as Roderick indicated, would be to distance the two lovers. Stop the dating.
Next Saturday, the boyfriend came over to pick Briani up for a date. I heard his Honda-civic roar into the driveway. He had one of those Japanesk racing civics, modified with all the extras and completely lost in stickers and logos. It was lowered to the ground and had shiny new rims. Basically, with all due respect to the car, it was piece of crap. I stood at my window and watched him emerge from the car. He was wearing baggy pants with a black jacket. Labeling the guy a meathead at this point would have been an understatement.
“Briana, “ I said, stopping her as she closed her bed-room door. “Your dad. He told me not to let you go out.”
“He didn’t say anything to me, ” she said but still looked at me as if I was still her friend.
“I know, but that’s what he said. I hate to be the messenger, especially me being the guest in your house, but I had to tell you.”
Interestingly, she gave up without incident. “Go tell Bobbie, I’m sick, please, will you then?” She said cynically, but with all anger and frustration seemingly directed at her father.
I went to the front door and opened it. Bobbie stood there with an awkward countenance, as he didn’t recognize me.
“You’re Bobbie?” I asked
“Yes, I am here to pick up Briania,” he said in a fragile tone. The punk's huge façade, if he had one, came crashing down in front of me. He was nothing more than a scared loser who had luckily found a girl, the “professor’s daughter,” who would subject herself to his quasi manhood.
“She’s sick right now; call later.” I said and went to close the door
“I hope she’s okay,” he added.
“Just the flu.” I said. Now go along and jerk off in your car, I thought about saying. At that moment, I closed the door.
Thinking back on it now, I have to give the kid his due recognition--he did appear like he really cared for her. Maybe if I’d known him more, I would have discovered a person who wasn’t anything more than what he was. Sometimes I wish I was like that.
The old man came home around 9:00. By that late hour, Briani and I were watching some sitcoms in the den. He approached us with a flush, cold face and looked like he held some news inside him that would shock us. Both Brian and I knew something terrible had occurred.
“Honey, on my way home, I passed an ambulance stopped in the street with police cars and fire trucks. I stopped and asked the police about it,” he said, “they told me a young boy was killed in a hit and run car accident. I’m afraid to tell you, but they identified the boy as Bobbie. I’m so sorry, dear.”
An electric pulse went up my spine while listening to the old man recount the news. Coincidence and chance encircled my thoughts. Of all the young boys to be in a fatal car accident, the day when I had just sent Bobbie on his way without Briania as directed by Roderick, it had been Bobbie. The old Bastard had done in the poor boy simply to keep him from his daughter. The man had also involved me in his scheme to murder the boy and had ultimately been successful. I knew then, even before the night arrived, something had to be done to balance out the universe in which I inhabited.
The rest of the story is basically pointless to tell. I’m not a hero, or a person of high ethics, as you probably know by now. Some independent newspaper claimed to know the truth about the old man and I, but it’s just one paper in the face of thousands that proclaim me a vicious killer after a young girl. I never thought I’d be such a sick person, but it must be true, right? I should have been in an 80’s horror film; at least then, I would stand a chance.
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