Death Without Grace
Breathing heavily the man unfolded his height and looked down to the water pooling inside a muddy pond, where two blue-green orbs floated lazily; each looked a different direction as if trying to find egress from the muddy morass.
Shaking himself, the fair-haired man rested his skeletal arms across the pooch of his stomach, waiting for reality to return him to his senses. He watched, amazed at the precision with which he had killed. He had hungered to destroy her beauty, but now that he had, desire was rising quickly once again, fed by the rain of crimson drops on the shower curtain and the ruined face of the woman beneath him.
As if dancing in merriment the blue-green eyes bobbed in the tub of water, watching him scurry to the front door. He could feel them boring into his back. “Bitch.”, he whispered hoarsely and melted from visibility into the dark wet of the warm night.
Chapter One
Tuesday promised to broil with stagnant heat. Commuters dragged themselves onto and off the Max and fleets of Tri-Met buses that burped them out every two blocks along Sixth Avenue. Asia Trent trudged with determination toward her stop, climbing on the #6 bus with a quick tug on the bus handle.
A short woman, pleasingly plump, she had to pull herself up. Her dahlia-flowered skirt hiked up over dimpled knees and she felt the drift of heat tugging at her thighs. Her tissue-like white blouse was already starting to wilt, and it was not yet 8:00 am.
Finding a seat, she sat, grateful to rest a bit. A street man lurched up the aisle and plopped himself onto the seat next to her. “Mornin’ girlie,” he said, sending a mouthful of sour air in Asia’s face.
Asia felt nauseous and kept her lips pressed tightly together as she sent a smile his way. The filth and odor she could deal with, this was downtown, but the continuous blast of sour farts was rancid in the close quarters of the bus.
At last the Tri-Met came to Asia’s stop and she hurried to let herself out into the air. It was several blocks to her office, and she welcomed the time to settle her jumping nerves.
Window shopping along the mall was a distraction that pleased Asia. She loved pretty things, even though there was no money to buy any of the lovely items. Carl Grieve Jewelers always displayed tempting, shiny jewelry and crystal along with art glass in their half block of windows.
She stepped over a passed-out drunk just before the doorway to her building. Pushing open the doors to the cluttered newspaper office, Asia gulped at the air. It tasted of ink and paper and people too poor to afford deodorant. “Mornin’ there, Miss Asia,”, called a whiskey-laced voice.
“Mornin’ right back at you, Hiram,” she called to the patchy-bearded man with only two front teeth.
As she looked around, Asia sighed deeply. She was a writer! Never mind that it was a tiny, struggling newspaper that was sold by homeless vendors. She was a writer!
Chapter Two
Asia’s desk was a wobbly affair with one leg propped up by the standard issue telephone book that threatened to collapse beneath the weight it was asked to bear. She knew every inch, every scratch and every item it held. All were in their proper place as Asia was OCD, and nothing could be out of its proper allotted few inches.
This morning something was off kilter, she was sure thing were not as she had left them the night before. Despite the homeless and many volunteers that roamed the offices, she knew none of them would have even sat at her desk.
Cole Parker, the man in charge of the newspaper, Doorways, had hard and fast rules about boundaries. No one could touch another person’s things without permission. It held down the possibilities of theft and gave a haven for those with mental health issues.
Asia had issues. She was 32 years-old and a survivor of severe domestic violence. She had hidden away for years after leaving her abuser, Brian, and had only been able to come out slowly and painfully. Her physical and mental scars would be with her forever. Once a Hospice nurse, she well knew the world of the disenfranchised.
The pay at Doorways was small, but she managed. Money was not the reason Asia worked there. She knew her poetry and op-ed pieces might help open the eyes of the straight world to the plight of the homeless, the addict, the ill – and it helped clear the stuffiness out of her own soul.
After searching through desk drawers and her cubbyhole, Asia pinned down what was missing. She had a bright magenta hair band that she kept in case there was a dinner or occasion that required something dressy. It was gone. She thought about telling Cole, but just then caught a fleeting movement out of the corner of her eye.
Turning quickly, she tried to sense what she had seen. But there was no one unusual in sight. Just then the coordinator, Randy Goodfeather arrived with the latest issue and began selling them to the vendors. Asia got up to help him and forgot the hairband.
The vendors were a rowdy lot, crowding to be first in line with their soiled dollar bills and fists filled with coins. Doorways sold the papers
To the vendors for a quarter, then the vendors went to the streets and sold them for $1.00. It provided a bit of dignity and some money to help them survive.
Asia wasn’t comfortable in a room full of men, but she smiled and did her best as she bundled the papers in lots of ten or twenty, then accepting the payment to place it in the cashbox.
Feeling the hair on the back of her neck raise, she turned to find Al Baxter, bending into her personal space. “You read the Oregonian this morning, fine lil thing?” Swallowing revulsion, Asia breezily responded, “No, didn’t see it. What’s today’s good news?”
Asia knew Baxter’s oily smoothness hid a cruel, insensitive interior. He reached over and tossed the newspaper he had been reading onto the table in front of the young woman. He snickered at her slight shudder of distaste.
Determined to not give him a least victory, Asia casually began to read and look at the picture. The photo was of a pretty blonde girl with a vacant smile. Dorie Anderson, the photo caption read. “Young woman victim of brutal slaying!!” Asia read through the text and wondered aloud, “This didn’t make it above the fold, wonder why?”
Chapter Three
Baxter was filling his chipped coffee cup, leaning toward Asia as he said, “Dancer, that’s why. Not exactly a society doll.”
“Baxter,” Asia seethed, “You are such a … jerk!”
“Aw, now, Asia, say prick. It’s what you were thinking.”
Baxter liked to goad Asia about her reluctance to spice up her language, but she had been trained early on, and harshly, to watch her mouth. As a lover of words, she believed there were lots of ways to communicate without gutter language.
Pinning the man with daggers from her big brown eyes Asia retorted, “Thanks, Baxter – that was just the word I was thinking.” She held his stare then returned to the newspaper report.
According to the Oregonian Dorie Anderson had been found in a suite at the Victoria Hotel. Not as glamorous as The Hilton or the Park Avenue, the Victoria was nonetheless a prestigious address. That alone was enough to warrant front page reporting.
As she continued reading the story Asia ran her hand through her dark hair and remembered her lost hair band, but vaguely. Asia wondered if some john had enticed Dorie up to his suite for more than an around-the-world. She hated to see women exploited, but then, she had ridden the same train herself.
Asia’s OCD was running high and she busied herself with the volunteer work at hand. Doorways was a cluttered old building a block from the 405 Freeway overpass. Space under the concrete structure was dark and a popular squat for the homeless. Two of Doorways vendors lived there year around.
After the paper closed these men drug their precious cardboard into the shelter of overhangs and canopies, meeting up with the street families that shared their space. These families meant safety from being beaten up and tossed onto the Max tracks, or worse.
Even though Doorways was a small volunteer place, people worked hard to make the paper interesting. People hate what they fear, and Asia knew the paper was a bridge between the disenfranchised and the shoppers and workers who filled Portland each day with their bustle and their disposable dollars.
Deeply engrossed in the op-ed piece she was editing, Asia did not look up when the bell over the door sounded. She felt the silence that was suddenly in every corner of the tiny office. Asia looked up to see two men standing by the door watching the activity. People began to ooze through doors. The door to the squalid restroom was eased shut and the lock pushed into place.
Cops.
They stood out in their rumpled suits as they took badges out of their pockets and flashed them into the room.
Reggie Davis, the editor of Doorways, looked up and pushed a clean wedge of hair from his eyes. He stood as he said, “Can I help you with something?”
Taking their time answering, each one eyed whoever had had the guts not to leave. Asia refused to look away. After several moments the detective said, “It was at the Vic.” It was a relief to know that the visit didn’t involve the paper for its protests and demonstrations.
“We don’t know anything about it, officers,” Reggie said. Turning to the room he asked, “Did any of you guys see anything?”
“Didn’t say you saw anything, but you could have heard something. Maybe someone mentioned a name…”
“No, officer.” Reggie offered curtly.
The detective offered his badge for Reggie’s closer inspection. “I’m Jewel, Michael Jewel, Detective, First Grade.” He did not offer to introduce his partner.
Then the attention turned to Asia as the detective said, “Ma’am, if there’s anything you know you need to talk to us. This was an ugly crime and we want to take this psycho off the streets.”
“Meaning he’s a street person, Officer Jewel.”
Jewel let his eyes rove over Asia’s plump form, he liked a woman with some meat on her bones. “I’m sorry, you have the advantage. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t offer you my name, Officer.”
Irritated with losing control the detective said, “Well, Ma’am, if you have nothing to hide, you won’t mind giving us your name, will you?”
“What would I have to hide? I’m just a writer here.”
