My Column Murder

By Michael Julius Green

You, we, me are the artwork of magnificent creativity. The only replicas of our forms would be twins, triplets, or quadruplets, and etc., etc. To be who you are is displaying to the world that individualized piece of art which you truly are. To copy . . . is a form of flattery, but we were designed to be

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Julius Green
• Release date: Apr 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781960075932

Book preview

1.png

MY COLUMN MURDER

Copyright © 2023 Michael Julius Green

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Authorunit

17130 Van Buren Blvd., Ste. 238,

Riverside, CA 92504

877-826-5888

www.authorunit.com

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in the work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

ISBN 978-1-960075-92-5 (Paperback)

ISBN978-1-960075-93-2 (Ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

You, we, me are the artwork of magnificent creativity. The only replicas of our forms would be twins, triplets, or quadru-plets, and etc., etc. To be who you are is displaying to the world that individualized piece of art which you truly are. To copy . . . is a form of flattery, but we were designed to be so much more. African Americans, Asians, Blind, Caucasians, children, Chinese, Deformed, Diseased, Elderly, Females, Gypsies, Handicaps, Homeless, Homosexuals, Indians, Italians, Japanese, Males, Obese, People, Puerto-Ricans, Short, Slim, Tall, Young and the Entire SPECTRUM of the World. Don’t be afraid of the ART form that you are . . . EMBRACE IT . . . yet . . . VISUALIZE THE WORK! Through EACH other and above all . . . OURSELVES

Michael Julius Green

Michael Julius Green born the first of Irish twins (He on January 5, 1964 and a sibling on December of that year) served in the United States Army from 1981-1988 with an Honorable Discharge… currently serving the first city…of these United States…

Main Gazette

NY

I was sitting at the bar—no, I was sitting at the bar drinking. I was sitting at the bar getting loaded after a tumultuous day at the office. As my next drink was set before me, I noticed a person entering the room among the crowd. This person decided to sit next to me.

The bartender poured me another drink (you know what I like . . . a shot of Tequila, and Corona as a chaser), which seemed to embrace the glass as the drink cascaded into it. Excuse me, are you Monroe James, the writer for Main Gazette? My answer, One and the same, who happens to be the same as the one you speak of. The smirk on his face from my reply was one of disgust and smugness. With that said, his next remark not only astonished me; it sobered me up. I gazed at him for what seemed to be an eternity that happened to be frozen inside of eight minutes (everyone’s been at that point in their life) that made even my newfound neighbor stare back at me with a quizzical look.

What are you hoping to gain or acquire from me? were the words that I spoke from deep within but with not a missed sincerity. His head lowered as he whispered to me that a revelation had come to him that begs him to not only ask for forgiveness but to somehow seek it.

As we discussed his name, where he came/hailed from, and all the other particulars, I offered him a drink; and he accepted by asking the bartender for a scotch and water. Finally, he decided to tell me what it was that made him seek me out. His name: Fredderrick Bartholomew. Age fifty-eight, with the physique of a bear and movements of a tortoise. He was never married and had no children. Fredderrick moved his mother in with him, whom he felt very disgusted with.

It was eleven ten, and Fredderrick explained that he needed to be home before half past that hour and he would eventually contact me tomorrow. I somewhat nodded but asked for his number, and Fredderrick stated no but questioned me for mine, and I in exchange gave him my card (for I wanted to keep this as a working relationship). I observed him walking toward the front door, and right out he went. Wow, I thought, what a nut. Returning to my drink, I decided to down it very slowly until the glass was drained.

Going home, I just wanted to get inside of the single home that I owned and light the fireplace. Take my mind off of the day’s events.

The fireplace is glowing, and I am thinking of how I came to be the person that people either turn themselves in to (before the police) or just leave information to for certain drug raids, robberies, and murders that have been unsolved or to known whereabouts of the person/persons who’ve committed them.

Now this person (the guy who came by my side earlier) wants me to listen to a convincing story that only he knows the details of. What story in my mind could be worth my time or effort? Maybe he’s not sure of himself or needs to tell a priest and not me. I can listen, for all the good that will do. The fire becomes embers, and I am sound asleep on the couch.

It was morning, and I needed to clean myself up before work. After finishing my bathroom routine, it now became a challenge of what to wear. Placing my hand on the brown suit, I laid out a blue tie along with a white shirt. My socks were next, and I decided to match them up with the suit. Upon going downstairs, I discovered that a pressing engagement was to take place at 9:00 am, and for some reason I needed to be there.

Leaving out the garage, I turned up the street to make my way toward downtown. Traffic was a little congested, but with the everyday commute and patient timing, I was soon parking the vehicle in the office parking lot. It felt like an adrenalin rush as I stepped into the elevator, to the acknowledgment of a few people whom I recognized. Going to the sixth floor, I realized that I had several more minutes before the meeting. Grabbing a cup of black coffee and walking toward the destination, my colleagues were assembled for what would be an interesting meeting.

The editor in chief walked through the door first, followed by his staff and all the other principal people. I decided to take a seat near the window. Why, you say? I do my best thinking when looking out into a sea of whatever that cannot truly see me. He started the session off with Good morning, and ran past some topics. When the editor came to his subject matter, I had a tense feeling gripping me like none I’ve ever known before.

There is a murderer out there that calls himself Cereal. At first we all looked at each other with What’s wrong with that? He goes on to explain that it’s not the serial that we know but the spelling is of the box of cereal that kids and adults eat. The room was flooded with laughter, but he was not laughing. As he paused for a moment of silence, he continued with This guy has been giving the police fits. It seems he kills prostitutes one night and crosses over to kill either a gay man or transgender the next. Sometimes not directly after the one, but at least before the week is out.

Now came the real news. The killer has left a note just like this for all newspeople throughout the city that his next victim will be one of us. The letter reads as follows:

It is time for you to take responsibility of your inappropriate action whether you be the lead anchor to the weather reporter, you are now within my justifiable sights.

Signed,

Cereal

P.S. the clippings of genitalia is for the bits of cereal eating for my ugly perverted demonization.

The silence in the room was one to the liking of a library. No one moved. Even the editor in chief stood still until the question finally came, How do we not know that this isn’t some sort of hoax? Looking out into the gathering in the room, the chief spoke firmly as his eyes rested on the face from which the question came. Because the person gave the police specific details that were not made known to the news media. Only the killer and the authorities know. So you better best believe that this is real. If there are no more questions, this meeting is adjourned.

Departing the room to the disbelief and questions among the coworkers we all thought about how routines can no longer be the same, the editor stopped to turn and said one last word: Whatever you do, please, please be careful. Standing up, I engaged in some conversation about what we just heard. There seemed to be a panic that filled the room, but no one knew exactly how to act versus react. We walked out the conference room still talking about this morning’s notification. I walked toward my office by passing my secretary, who first greeted me as I did in return and then informed me of a phone call. With everything happening, I almost forgot I uttered aloud. Reaching for the phone on my desk, I pushed the button to release the caller from being on hold. After exchanging pleasantries, I was informed to meet them at the pastry shop at 110th, near FD Blvd. I told them fine. It was also asked of me that I am not to tell a soul and that nothing would happen to me. The next words were the ones that started the chills up my spine: I can get you the cereal killer. When he got to that word, he spelled it out just like this morning’s note. After hanging up the phone, I explained to Traci that if she does not hear from me or if I am not back by 2:30 pm, call my cell and notify the police that my last known whereabouts was 110th Street at a pastry shop. Traci looked at me with that look of unknown fearing innocence. I cannot explain it now, but you and I know what’s going on, but I have to have this person trust me, but I need to trust you to do this just in case.

Without a reply, I headed for the elevators. The way I went gave me access to the front entrance of the building, and I walked right into a waiting cab. Mr. James, was the hello/question I received upon entering the vehicle, as I replied the greeting of hello and my direction of destination. As I sat back in the seat, my mind wandered to what this person could actually want of me. In my mind I had done no wrong that I knew of. Or was I being singled out for helping out those criminals (who by the way were not criminals before turning themselves over to me—only after a court of law justified them as such) that only were given commuted life sentences? Could this be my judgment?

Before realizing any of the particular sights, we arrived at the directed place. Stepping out of the taxi, the driver asked if he should wait and I explained to him to return to the office and I’ll catch the el train. Upon walking into the shop, I decided to have something while I waited. To my surprise, he was already there. We ordered and placed ourselves in a booth.

The first words were, I apologize for bringing you down like this, but I have to tell someone of this. I wish to know if I can trust you. I looked at him and said, You’re the one the police are seeking and I am here in your company, and you wish to know if you can trust me? Our order was being placed in front of us, and we both remained quiet until the waitress left. Fredderrick placed his face in his hands and softly whispered, I can’t do this. I reasoned with him that it is best if he tells me why he did what he did.

His reply taught me the lesson of looking a gift horse in the mouth. What are you saying? he answered. It’s my twin brother. He is doing these terrible things. Fredderrick sat there with tears welling up in his eyes, and I don’t know what to do. Please, whatever you do, he asked, do not tell the police. It will crush my mother’s heart. Crush her heart, I said. What about myself, my coworkers, and all the other newspeople that have been alerted throughout the city? I can’t speak of this for them, but please, please, you have to allow me this one favor. Favor! I yelled as a couple of patrons looked on. I then lowered my voice and said, I owe you nothing. You do, he replied, if you don’t want to be that newsperson who makes the obituary section of the paper their employed by.

With this said, I focused more on him now than I did the entire time of our paths crossing. What do you mean by that? was my nervous, scared, but angry words of reciprocation. My brother has a list of newspeople that have angered him in one way or another. So? I said. So he stated that my name is on that list and he doesn’t know whether to eliminate the entire list or send out a message to your colleagues by making an example of one. As the entree in front of me grew cold, I for the first time in my turnthem-in career wanted to not abide by my rules, just damn the torpeedos and go full steam ahead. (My rules, you’re wondering? Well, they are to gain complete trust and loyalty as well as discretion from your subject, and above all else, keeping their confidence to give them something pure and honest to believe in, for this may build on the trust between you and them.) Because trust . . . can go a mighty long way.

Okay, okay, I answered to him. I ask you to allow me to meet with your brother though. Fredderrick looked at me as if I just fell off the turnip truck and plumb bumped my head. He then pulled out a miniature tape recorder and played back some of our conversation. It was then that he informed me that he was a lawyer and he had enlisted my services (unknowingly to me) for the sheer result of my you do the crime, you will only do the time (at least you’re alive) convictions. As I stood up to pay the bill, he said, Don’t worry about that, I’ll take care of it. My next question was one that even shocked me: Is he crazy? Anger swelled up in Fredderrick, and the look of defiance was about him. With a very agile and soft-spoken voice he said, No, my brother just needs a little help, that’s all. A little help? was my question to his subtle answer. In my mind, the words What a family portrait they’ll make. Mom being Lizzy Borden, brother being a cross of Jason and Freddie, and Fredderrick being Lurch with a working brain, and the title the Dysfunctional Family snap snap. That thought was cleared from my head as the words Are there any more questions, Mr. James? If not, you may leave me. I thought to myself, This arrogant Son of a Bitch. Leaving the shop and heading toward the nearest el station, I stood on the platform waiting for the train to deliver me back to the office. I thought that it was time to call Traci and tell her that I am alright. Finishing my talk with her, the train was pulling up to the platform; and as the doors opened, I stepped right through them to place myself in a seat next to the window. It was time, I thought, time to reflect and be thankful to God that it wasn’t my time. Walking back through the front entrance, a lady approaches me with a warm hug and a smile: You may not know me, but you helped spare my brother’s life and I deeply thank you. It was not my doing. I am only an instrument of help. (I always say this to not only humble myself but to let the loved ones know that there is a God.) How is your brother? was my passing thought for something to say. He’s okay and as well as could be expected. I departed from her company and stepped into the elevators. Now the other thought came rushing into my head. Just as there is good, evil always comes to remind you of the bad. Last week a family member of the deceased whom this woman’s brother killed hurled insults and slurs at me along with mucous. That’s why to me there are those times that good/ bad may not walk hand in hand but along the same path.

Stepping out of the lobby into the corridors and finding my office, Traci tells me that calls on line 1 and 2 are on hold for me. I pick up line 2; it’s Ron Roam, who’s a sportscaster and good friend of mine. He asks me about the news that seems to be the topic of the day, and we kick it around for a minute. What are you up to tonight? Ron asks and replies that we should meet up at Felt’s for something to eat and conversation. Sounds like an idea. I’ll see you then. I pick up line 1 and I am admonished for making this person wait so long and who do I think I am. As I regain my composure, I explain to my friend Lisa that Ron was on the other line and wishes to meet us for dinner. She goes on about her day and asks me about mine. I tell her that it’s been an interesting event of a morning. Right now, though, I have to go, but later tonight I would like to ask a question of you. Lisa agreed to listen and stated, I will answer as long as it has nothing to do with a case I am on or involves the office. I told her that it would not have anything to do with either. Ending our conversation with I love yous, I went to the front door of my office and asked Traci to come in and close the door.

I explained what transpired in the moments of my departure and told her that she could not say a thing about it to anyone. I said to her, This one will be the one I let you turn in. Traci was so excited. You’re giving me my first criminal. Traci, I replied, if you’re going to be an attorney, the first thing you should always remember is your client is innocent. Unless they themselves tell you otherwise. Traci was a secretary by day (to pay the bills), but at night she was a law student. I thought it would give her some added clout if her fellow students could rub elbows with a little fame.

Somewhere in the city around 145th and Fredrick Douglas Blvd, a person is watching from the darkness of two towering buildings as some working girls try to past the time. Child, one female says to the other, I’m going home. It’s no action out here tonight. Yeah, girl, I think I’ll do the same. Just at that moment a car pulls up and asks for the company of the better looking one of the two. As the one who stated it was time to go home gets in the vehicle, they pull off to handle their business. Still undecided about her next move, the one left standing starts walking towards home. Out of the corner of her eye, fear creeps in, but it is too late before she could scream; or even as early as her body hits the pavement, she is dead. Except for that brief noise of flesh covered with clothing hitting the sidewalk, while the removal of her thong is attended to so the very tip of her clitorous could be sliced off to be devoured, the street continues its quietness.

The food never tasted better as I chatted up the meal with Ron. He brought Julia along, and with her work in the city forensic department, along with Lisa’s, we always found ourselves in conversations that are/were thought provoking. Lisa looked at Ron and myself with the next question, Well, gentlemen, what about today’s message? Looking at Ron and me, he answered, What are you talking about? Now you guys can play coy if you want, but I was informed just before leaving the office that the press is being stalked, which leaves me to ask this question: do you or do you not feel that your lives are threatened? Julia was the only one at the table with a puzzled look. All Ron and I could do was look down into our half-empty plates and pray and believe we would be all right. Lisa’s first words after the long silence was, I don’t believe you two. You’re just going to sit there like Jack and Ass debating on which end is which? She then explained to Julia the situation that was placed on our doorsteps that morning, and she along with Lisa excused themselves and went to the ladies’ room.

Well, I said to Ron, what’s next, ass? He stated, I don’t have a clue to what you’re talking about, and I am Jack, for the record. We both laughed and knew that the problem facing us was critical. Mine more than anyone knew. Just as the women were coming back to the table and we stood to portray the gentlemen that we wanted/needed to be, my cell phone rang. Excusing myself, I answered the call. After expressing hello, I saw Julia get up from the table with her cell phone. The voice on the other end stated that a woman was just killed, and when they went looking for their brother he was not in his home. I asked him, Is there somewhere we could meet? and he said, Sometime tomorrow. As he spoke I nodded in Julia’s direction as she left in a hurry to pursue what I assumed which was verified to me on the phone.

Hanging up the connection on the phone, I made my way back to the table and it was explained to me what just happened. Ron left to accompany her for the ride, Lisa stated. Now Mr. I-want-to-be-turnedin-by-Monroe-James, what’s on your mind? At first I wanted to tell her everything, and before I knew it,

What if you said something and it was taped? Like what? A confession of murder? Robbery? What? Someone asks you to trust them and allow them to be the one to bring this person to you and tapes your agreement. What can happen? Well, she stated, provided that you knowingly do not know the identity of the person or whether or not it’s a family member, you would be okay. But, and this is a big one, if this person commits another violent act and you say nothing to the police, you would be considered an accessory maybe even an accomplice to murder or a violent crime.

I was done, and the fork was the only utensil needed for the tasting. Being the lawyer that he was, he knew this beforehand; and I, with the day’s event, involved myself in something that a second grader would’ve said: Let me ask my mommy first. Lisa asked me if my situation had anything to do with the threat of the newspeople. I lied. (What do you want from me, blood?) It was a question that was asked of me from Traci.

She just nodded her head in my direction, and we left it at that. The bill came and she paid for it (because it was her turn) and we left, leaving the tip on the tabletop. Getting in the car, we engaged in a nice, meaningful conversation. Entering the house through the garage, it was our time. Leaving that area to enter the house, we went straight upstairs.

Julia had her work to perform. The victim was not only slit with precision on top of the voice box but mutilated with the vagina’s (excuse me) clitoris missing. The lead detective was cursing and using profanity as a new language. This one was like the others, Lt. Strom said, Only difference now, he’s leaving the underwear near the body instead of taking or keeping them. Maybe he lost his underwear fetish, joked two officers. Cut that shit out, yelled the detective, whose anger got the best of him as the detective’s partner, Detective Robyn Hudson, observed the crime scene with the diligence that made her peers nickname her the Tigress. She yelled over to him to come back to the body. Making his way to the scene, he glanced at the spot that his partner was shining the light at. Maybe it’s a coincidence or just me, but every victim, transgender or prostitute, has the letters bap carved on the thigh part of the legs. Yeah, came the reply, but what of it? The female looked at her male counterpart and suggested, If it wasn’t for the fact that the top of your head shows no mass hole or was sunken in, I would agree with the rest of the scientific world that you do have a brain. Julia, who happened to be in close proximity, chuckled. Whenever it’s a prostitute, the letters are on the right-inside part of the upper thigh. When it’s a transgender, the location is on the left-inner part of the thigh. Like I said, I’m ¬not 100 percent sure, but ninety-eight gets me in the ballpark. Julia walked to her side and agreed. The two compared notes of the lettering and saw that, like the others, it was made with a real thin cutting utensil surface. Both women looked at the other and quickly came to the same conclusion. A razor or scalpel, Robyn said to no one in particular. If I could only figure what is bap, Robyn said. Julia asked what she would be doing around ten thirty that morning? She stated in the office looking through some old files compared to new ones that can clue me in to this one. Stop by and we can compare notes. Okay, and I’ll bring my partner to just have something to do. They both laughed and continued the dialogue.

When a rat ran over the body, both women screamed, but the loudest scream was not that of the two women but that of Robyn’s partner. His scream was so loud that it made the women stop their yelling and laugh along with the other officers who were doubling over from this.

In my office, I am glancing at some of the prestigious awards given to me through the years. I pay close attention to the plaque with two mounted six-shooters and the wording Bring ’em back alive. I wonder to myself the question, am I wrong for intervening in police business? Or am I a target for these people who have a bull’s-eye on their heads? Traci steps into the office to inform me that I have a phone call. Picking up line 1, my speaker advises me to meet them around 125th near FD Blvd. There’s an old house, third one from the corner. I’ll meet you there in an hour. The phone went silent, and I quickly grabbed my coat to make my way downstairs to a taxi.

Here we go again, I thought. Take me to the corner of 125th near Fredrick Douglas Blvd. You got it, Mr. James. Weaving in and out of traffic, I saw the billboard that read, Four out of ten men are abusive: are you one of the four? That set the cylinders in my head turning. How did he become this diabolical creature? How long did the brother actually know of this? How long has this been a secret? With these questions, it was time to find answers for all or the majority. Turning onto 125th, I stepped out of the vehicle and was asked if I wanted them to wait. I said yes and walked over to the dilapidated building, and he stood there with his back to me and said, "This is where the madness began for us. We were about three or four when we started to understand what it was that our mother did for a living. We saw, but at that age we really didn’t truly understand. Different women would come to the house, and we had so many aunts—I didn’t know who was who. One day my brother saw something that just petrified him. One of our aunts was standing in the bathroom taking a urination with the door opened. When he told me this, I assumed he was lying and ran up the stairs to see for myself. After viewing this, we both told our mother of what we saw.

Do you know what she said to us? I looked him in his eyes and stated no. His reply shocked me. That’s what you nosy ass bastards get for peeping, and she then laughed her drunken and drug induced self to sleep. The coldness of that day, filled with many more, fueled me to become the upstanding citizen you see before you. What of your brother? I asked. My brother was never the same. Around the age of six, two of my mother’s so-called women co-workers raped my brother, and this either helped or led him down that path that has him where he is at now. There was a time when my brother thought he was gay. He experimented with. I quickly interrupted and stated for him, are you really that ignorant or just an arrogant, unthinking, self-righteous imbecile? No one experiments—either you are or you’re bi. He excused himself, and with a cold and callous laugh he stated, You are correct. This laugh of his made me feel uneasy. I don’t know what it was, but remember when I called him a nut earlier? Well, now I felt like I was surrounded by the human waste that stays in the outhouse. Viewing him again, I asked the question, How long did you know your brother was this vile creature? He looked at me and, before I knew it, reached out to grab me and yelled, Don’t you ever talk about my brother in that manner!" My eyes grew as wide as saucers, and just as I yelled for him to let go of me, he did and begged for forgiveness. Fredderrick continued