Let me dedicate a song to you

Whilst driving Sweetpea Beelzebub around to get her to sleep, I passed the Shell gas station where my friend Margie was killed in 2003. A man robbed the store and shot her in the face, twice, when she asked him to please let her keep her “grandma” bracelet.

The night this happened, I drove by the Shell on my way home, and there were police cars and crime tape around it, and I remember thinking there must have been a robbery, I hope Margie wasn’t working, that would suck. I would normally stop in and grab something and chit chat with her if she was on shift, and I was planning to do it that night.

Selfishly, I’m glad someone else got there first. I’m glad it wasn’t me who found her.

The news played the security footage, up to the point right before the killer shoots her, over and over, asking for help in identifying the man. It was brutal. I felt sick. I felt angry. I couldn’t understand, and it hurt all the more because she always reminded me a little bit of my mom.

I hated that man. Hated him.

I moved out of the city less than a month later.

When I finally came back, I made myself walk into that Shell station, because I wasn’t going to let the past rule my life. I made my purchase and wondered if the clerk behind the counter even knew that they were standing where the blood of my friend once filled the floor. It was surreal.

I had never heard anything further about it, and tonight I searched to see if there were any answers. I found out her case was closed, and then I found out the name of the man who did it. Then I saw his face. Then I searched the state inmate system, and saw he was serving a sentence of life without parole.

This is a case where he should have gotten the death penalty. I’m not a big supporter of rushing to the death penalty, for other personal reasons, but I believe that when you have blatant, unarguable evidence, that a human being perpetrated an obvious act of evil against another human, then the death penalty should be an option. He shouldn’t still be allowed to be here. I don’t care about the argument that killing him won’t bring her back. That’s not the point, and it’s a stupid argument. Nothing can bring her back.

I’m glad he was caught, though. I’m glad her case was solved. I hope that son of a bitch has a hellacious time in prison, although, unfortunately, I think he’s more likely to be the cause of someone else’s hellacious time.

While I normally refrain from wishing direct ill on someone, as it is against my spiritual beliefs, I hope he dies, painfully, and aware that he’s about to die. I wish someone could make him feel everything Margie felt, staring down the barrel of that gun that night. I hope she felt no pain, but if she did, then I hope he feels something akin to that too.

Justice rarely exists, but one can hope.

I love you, Margie.

 

  • S.L.
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