by Susie Bright
She turned her head away from me. “We thought you were going to expose us! We just went a little crazy.”
“Me too.” I placed the muzzle of the Ruger to Natalie’s temple and fired. Her body slumped awkwardly against the guardrail.
I took my cell phone, a burner I’d bought at Target in Watsonville, and tossed it over the railing in Chet’s general direction. After placing the gun near Natalie’s body, I removed my leather gloves, revealing vinyl ones underneath, and put them on her hands. My right glove was likely coated in gunshot residue, and I’d already filed off the Ruger’s serial number. It was the perfect crime, although honestly, I didn’t care about getting caught. In fact, I’d never felt so alive.
* * *
On Sunday, I discovered that the pedestrian bridge where Elizabeth died had become a memorial—flowers, cards, and numerous trinkets had been left in her honor. Not being family, I didn’t know when her body would be laid to rest or where, so I brought a bag of donuts, a chocolate milk, and a Sunday newspaper for the both of us.
Bizarre Murder-Suicide Linked to Graduate Student’s Death
Stephanie Williams, Staff Writer
UC Santa Cruz police have confirmed that two graduate students were found dead on campus in an apparent murder-suicide on Friday night. The bodies were discovered near a pedestrian bridge located on campus. Officials confirmed that this is not the same bridge from which Elizabeth White reportedly fell, but would offer no further comment as that investigation remains ongoing.
The victims were male and female, both in their late twenties. Their identities have not been released.
Body of UC Santa Cruz Professor Found in Home
Julie Chan, Staff Writer
Christian Malory, a UC Santa Cruz literature professor, was found dead Saturday in his home on Escalona Drive. The cause of death has not been released.
Elizabeth White, whose death from an apparent fall on November 11 is still under investigation, was listed as one of Malory’s teaching assistants for the fall semester. Police would neither confirm nor deny a connection between the cases.
I couldn’t read another line. Elizabeth was more than just a teaching assistant to me. She was my mentor, my friend, and my one true love.
I was such a mess when I signed up for her discussion section in Professor Yamamura’s Pacific literature course. I’d escaped to UCSC after fleeing an abusive relationship back home. When I told her one of the novels had triggered my PTSD, Elizabeth was sympathetic. She represented everything that was kind and decent and wonderful about the world. When I heard she’d be teaching “Jane Austen and Popular Culture,” a course she’d designed herself, I immediately signed up the following semester. A few days before the final exam, Elizabeth invited me to her office to discuss my clunky, overlong term paper on the homoerotic overtones of Emma, Pride and Prejudice, and my all-time favorite, Mansfield Park. After she submitted final grades, we began spending more time together, although always in secret.
Over the Christmas holiday, we were inseparable. I told her about being a lonely, depressed teen, plagued by self-destructive impulses and suicidal ideation. She told me about being adopted and abandoned. About the racism she encountered—from colleagues, from professors, from people she’d dated.
“We can’t let them win,” she said. “We won’t let them win.”
Of course, all good things must come to an end. Elizabeth broke up with me a few months later. Even though there was little disparity in our ages, she was adamant in her reasoning: I was a student; she was a teacher. It was simply inappropriate.
The breakup drove me into a deep depression. That’s why I was at the health center that day. To get treatment. That’s why I wanted to talk to her so bad. Sure, Elizabeth didn’t say hello that day, but I figured we’d see each other again.
And then I read the Sunday paper.
In front of her memorial, I fumbled through my purse and pulled out the Jane Austen figure I’d swiped from her apartment. It would look nice next to a framed photo that had been taken from her graduate student profile page. No one knew that I was the one who’d bought that figure for Elizabeth as a token of gratitude for all her help. For all her love. Frankly, I was amazed that she’d kept it.
“I didn’t let them win,” I said aloud through my tears, confessing all I’d done.
TREASURE ISLAND
by Micah Perks
Grant Park
Welcome to Good Neighbor!™
Choose a Neighborhood: Midtown
Choose a Category: Crime and Safety
Add Subject: “We’re in This Together!”
Post Message: Log Date, November 15, 2017
I’m a seventy-two-year-old retired middle school assistant principal who has lived in Grant Park for forty years. Since the Emeline Street “needle exchange” invaded our neighborhood, we’ve seen our streets taken over by crack addicts, tweekers, panhandlers—the whole basket of deplorables, to borrow a phrase. How many of us have posted about bicycle theft? Stolen mail? Keyed cars? Garbage rifled through? Dirty needles?
I’m going to post each day for the next month a record of the incidents I witness in our neighborhood. I will present my log at the next city council meeting on December 15. I urge you to do the same. We’re in this together!
Welcome to Good Neighbor!™
Choose a Neighborhood: Midtown
Choose a Category: Crime and Safety
Add Subject: “We’re in This Together!”
Post Message: Log Date, November 16, 2017
11:00 a.m.—Apparently white male, medium height/build, UC Santa Cruz Banana Slug sweatshirt, yelling obscenities in park across street, per usual. FU**, COC* SUCKER, etcetera. You’ve heard it. Pacing across entrance, per usual. For the hearing impaired, this apparently strung-out individual hollers in the park approximately three times a week. You know him as the Screamer. I go out on my second-floor balcony to document.
The Screamer screams, “I see you, sir! Yeah, you, there on the balcony! Staring is very rude! It’s rude to take photos of strangers!” I continue to take photos [attached here], though blurry because, distance. Screamer then screams, “Fu** you! Go ahead—call the cops again!”
11:05 a.m.—I call the cops.
11:35 a.m.—Cops arrive (surprise, surprise)! Talk to Screamer. Screamer leaves park, heading toward McDonald’s, as is his habit. Does he scream at McDonald’s? Anybody know?
2:30 p.m.—School bus drops pupils off in front of park, per usual. Three apparently Hispanic males, ages approximately eight or nine years old, stuff candy wrappers into neighbor’s “Little Library.” I go to balcony, take photos of them. Yell down, “Pick up those wrappers!” They scream, “El diablo viejo!” (Google translation: little old devil man) and run toward Button Street.
2:35 p.m.—I call the cops, report incident.
3:00 p.m.—Cops have not responded, per usual.
3:15 p.m.—I descend, which takes some time due to bum hip, retrieve plastic bag and “trash grabber” ($6.47, Amazon Prime, you can read my review, three stars because the sharp tongs are dangerous), exit house, open gate, cross street to neighbor’s “Little Library” (a glassed-in cabinet painted a glaring aqua, plunked onto a post).
I grab candy wrappers, deposit in bag. Open neighbor’s gate, covered in multiple strings of bells, so jingle jingle jingle. Knock on door of this neighbor, a “writer” who “works” from home. (“Writer” always takes morning tea on his porch in his pajamas and at five p.m., takes cocktail on porch, still in his pajamas. You’ve probably seen him on your way to and from actual work.)
Conversation:
Me: (holding out trash bag) “Three juvenile delinquents stuffed this trash in your ‘Little Library’ again.”
“Writer”: (apparently Asian male, apparently in his thirties, in pajamas, per usual): “Okay.”
Me: “I’ve warned you before that your so-called ‘Little Library’ attracts vagrants.”
“Writer”: �
�Books attract vagrants?”
Me: “Have you been to the downtown library? It’s basically a homeless shelter.”
“Writer”: (taking bag) “Thanks, Mr. Nowicki, I’ll take care of it.”
(NOTE: “Writer” is not on Good Neighbor!™ even though I have invited him by e-mail multiple times.)
I have looked “Writer” up on Amazon and he has one book of short stories published seven years ago, titled: Miraculous Escapes. Only two reviews, both three stars, #3,053,049 in Books. He has placed two copies of his own book in his “Little Library,” but apparently no one has ever taken it out. Apparently, no one has ever taken a book out of the “Little Library” at all, although he checks it daily. Am I right? Have any of you taken advantage of the “Little Library” or is it just a receptacle for trash?
5:00 p.m.: “Writer,” still in pajamas, exits house, puts on rubber boots he always leaves by door (despite my warnings that it will attract thieves), nails my plastic bag to fence beside “Little Library” with cardboard sign, “Put Trash Here.” Drinks cocktail on porch.
Welcome to Good Neighbor!™
Choose a Neighborhood: Midtown
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Add Subject: “We’re in This Together!”
Post Message: Log Date, November 17, 2017
5:45 a.m.—Woken by bells on gate of “Writer’s” house. Jingle jingle jingle. I open curtain. Individual in hoodie, apparently young adolescent male, caught in act of stealing “Writer’s” rubber boots. I run downstairs (really gimp downstairs because of bum hip), take up trash-grabber by door, exit house. Thief still in “Writer’s” yard. I brandish trash-grabber aloft from across street, yelling: “Drop those boots!”
Thief does not drop boots. I limp across street, open gate, hit boots out of perp’s hands with trash-grabber. I yell “Writer’s” name because in rush forgot phone to call cops.
Thief makes to attack me, but trips on fallen rubber boot, grabs onto trash-grabber on way down. Why? No idea. I yell for “Writer” again.
“Writer” (exiting house, in pajamas, long hair loose like wild man of Borneo): “What’s going on?”
Me: “Call the cops!”
“Writer” looks down. I look down. Thief’s hood has fallen back, revealing an apparently mixed-race female, late teens or early twenties, short dark hair, multiple piercings and whatnots in ears and nose, one big brown eye, holding other eye with both hands. Blood seeping through fingers. Apparently Thief hit trash-grabber with eye.
Thief: “My eye, my eye! This old man attacked me.”
Me: “I apprehended this criminal stealing your rubber boots.”
“Writer”: (ignoring me, to Thief) “Are you okay?”
Thief: “Something’s wrong with my eye.” (Blood dripping down face onto sweatshirt, will definitely stain if not washed immediately.)
“Writer”: (dialing 911 on his phone) “We need an ambulance.”
Me: “Are you crazy? She’s probably faking. Do you know how much an ambulance costs? Over a thousand dollars. Do you have insurance?”
“Writer”: (finally paying attention, hangs up). “I’ll drive you to the emergency room. My car’s just right here.”
“Writer” helps Thief to feet. Half-carries Thief to car (Prius, keyed on both sides). Drives away, silently, because: Prius. Leaves rubber boots on sidewalk. I gather them up, line them back up on his porch, all ready to be stolen again.
10:00 a.m.—Prius returns. “Writer” goes around to passenger-side door. Helps out Thief, who is wearing eyepatch like pirate. “Writer” and Thief enter “Writer’s” house.
11:10 a.m.—I am questioned by police. Officers P. and S. accuse me of assault with a weapon on private property. Say I’m lucky the “victim” is not pressing charges. I express outrage.
Officer P., apparently Hispanic, bald, says, “Maybe you should choose your battles, sir. You’ve called 911 twenty-two times in the past month.” P. and S. smirk at each other.
I express outrage that the neighborhood has been allowed to become like the movie Falling Down. Question officers if they have even seen the movie Falling Down with Michael Douglas. (You should rent it on Amazon Prime, $3.99, I gave it five stars—story of regular man fighting back against falling-down neighborhood like ours.)
Officer S. asks me if I’ve seen Rear Window, his favorite movie. I ask officers if they are arresting Thief. Officer S. says, “You mean the female victim?”
Are there any witnesses to what actually occurred at 5:45 a.m.? Private message me.
Welcome to Good Neighbor!™
Choose a Neighborhood: Midtown
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Add Subject: “We’re in This Together!”
Post Message: Log Date, November 18, 2017
9:00 a.m.—“Writer” and Thief taking tea on front porch. Thief still wearing eyepatch. Thief is pale, likely tweeker, with bruise on cheek. Bruises easily due to drug use?
There is 98 percent likelihood Thief will rob “Writer” blind, kill him in his sleep, etcetera. I am predicting this now.
(I suggest some of you walk by and take some photos for evidence of this future crime. I don’t want to reveal house number, but I’m sure you all know the residence. The one with the overgrown front yard, jasmine and morning glories, etcetera, choking everything, weeds growing onto sidewalk through the white fence which is broken off and tilting in places, front porch painted purple, that “Little Library” hammered onto a post by that gate with those bells all over it.)
This “Writer” not your typical Santa Cruz hippie, though, because Asian. “Writer” bought house fifteen months ago. At first I thought he would help us save the neighborhood, because Asian. At my middle school, Asian children were always best behaved, neatest handwriting, etcetera, but this “Writer” has long, shaggy hair that looks like birds could make nest in it.
To describe “Writer,” hard, because he doesn’t look like actor I can think of, because so few Asian actors. Maybe like Bruce Lee if Bruce Lee wore a woman’s wig to play a washed-up “Writer.” More like pre–washed up, because never famous. I wish Bruce Lee lived in neighborhood, he’d keep everyone in line with his karate chops.
Imagine he’s mooching off his family—the “Writer”—not Bruce Lee. Probably his parents are immigrants who worked all their lives running a small business, a souvenir shop in Chinatown, to put him through the best schools, and this is how he repays them, living off their money pretending to write. Parents never visit, as far as I can see. Probably better for them not to observe how he’s living, probably give them heart attack.
10:00 a.m.—Thief, still with eyepatch, wearing “Writer’s” large rubber boots, is weeding “Writer’s” overgrown yard. So she nabbed the rubber boots after all.
11:00 a.m.—Still weeding. Has filled three trash bags with green waste (Thief looks like that actress with short hair, good face, what’s her name? Just Googled it: Audrey Hepburn. Like Audrey Hepburn playing thief/tweeker. I wish Audrey Hepburn lived next door, but just crazy dream because she would have moved out long ago due to crack addicts, etcetera).
12:00 p.m.—Thief examines “Little Library.” Takes out a Babysitters Club Mystery. Makes me think! Either this book is much too young for Thief or Thief is much younger than I first thought.
Is Thief a runaway? Situation suddenly takes on new, ugly light. Perhaps it is Thief who is in danger from “Writer,” not other way round.
Did “Writer” put a Babysitters Club Mystery in “Little Library” to lure underage girl? Possibility of statutory rape raises its depraved head. Consider calling cops, but will gather proof first.
1:00 p.m.—With my copy of Treasure Island I make my way to front gate of “Writer’s” house. Shake gate with bells to get her attention. Call to Thief, “If you’re going to read, which may strain your one eye and cause blindness, at least don’t read trash. Here’s a classic.”
She comes down off purple porch. Stands
on other side of gate. Undernourished in ratty T-shirt, though no apparent needle marks on arms or signs of that popular cutting hobby either. Close up, she is not so much Audrey Hepburn, more like very pretty lollipop with long neck and round face with huge eyes.
Thief: “You’re a tough old geezer. You remind me of my grandpa.”
Me: “Where is your grandfather?”
Thief: “Dead.”
Me: “What about your parents?”
Thief: “Same.”
Me: “How old are you?”
Thief: “How old are you?”
Me: “Seventy-two.”
Thief: “You don’t look a day older than seventy-one, ha-ha. Seriously, I could give you a makeover. I have about two-thirds of a degree in cosmetology.”
Me: “Very funny. What is your name?”
Thief: “Jim.”
Me: “Jim?”
Thief: “Jim. It’s my nickname. Jim Hawkins.”
Me: “Why were you reading that Babysitter book?
Thief: “I put it under the leg of a rickety chair.”
(Alert: See attached photo of “Jim Hawkins” that I took from second-floor balcony. Runaway in danger? If anyone recognizes her, private message me.)
1:45 p.m.—Correction: Jim is an alias. I realize from googling that girl gave me the name of the main character in Treasure Island, “Jim Hawkins.” Perhaps secret message. Jim Hawkins taken captive by pirates. This person is clearly educated. Have strong feeling family is not all dead, and may be looking for her. This young person may be being taken advantage of by lecherous older man.
1:50 p.m.—Decide to call cops. Express my concerns re: runaway, statutory rape, etcetera.
3:11 p.m.—Officer P. knocks on “Writer’s” door. “Jim” answers. Officer P. speaks. “Jim” takes out what appears to be an ID. Officer examines briefly and returns (could be fake). Officer P. and “Jim” look over at my house and laugh. I drop curtain.
