The homeless man lumbered to his knees, scattering the damp twigs and leaves. He spread out the old sleeping bag on top of the debris, making up his bed for the night. His nearly white beard and bedraggled clothing belied his age – fifty-five on his next birthday. At least he thought so, but sometimes his memory played tricks on him. January 15 or 16, he wasn’t sure.
Shrugging carelessly, he ransacked his backpack for a cigarette, lighted it, and relaxed against the tree trunk. When the dark figure suddenly loomed over him, he peered up, surprised but not afraid. Not much scared the old man anymore.
“No smoking in the park,” the voice growled.
“Hey, I know, man. And I ain’t supposed to sleep here neither.” What a tight ass. A man couldn’t smoke nowhere anymore. Clearing his throat, he hawked up a huge lump of mucous, spitting it carelessly in the direction of the creek.
The interloper remained disapprovingly silent.
The bum rolled the unfinished cigarette on the edge of his backpack, shrugged and squinted up at the sky through the striated leaves. Nearing dawn, he judged. “I’m leavin’ anyways,” he offered in the subservient tone that worked best in a situation like this.
The figure raised an arm in a dismissive gesture. “Get up.” A flashlight beam pointed at the homeless man’s eyes, blinding him. “Get out.”
Scrambling to gather his tattered sleeping bag from the ground, the hobo reached for his backpack.
“Leave it,” the voice instructed, impatience a ragged edge in the silence.
Confused, the man rose on unsteady feet. “Come on, man,” he whined. “I ain’t doin’ nothing wrong, just gettin’ a bit a’ shuteye. I won’t come back, I promise.”
The residents of this one-way street, bordering the east side of the park, often patrolled the area after dark. City ordinances clearly prohibited entrance after sunset, and residents were possessive about their parks. His confronter could be one of them ... or anyone. “Please, man, gimme a break.”
If the hobo heard the soft pleading in his own voice or wondered how he’d gotten to this point in his miserable life, he had no more than a moment to ponder the consequences of his years on the street.
It happened in a flash.
The knife struck deep into his gut, angled upward so that it bypassed the ribs and nicked the heart. The attacker pushed the blade deeper, a deadly gush of blood blanketing his hand. The bum felt only the weight of pressure and a faint surprise as he crumbled to the ground.
In the distance, water from the creek babbled like a friendly child, the October wind ruffled the tree branches, and the killer mumbled low in his ear as the man’s life ebbed from his scrawny body. “A reminder not to sully the park.”
After a few minutes of staring down at his victim, the killer stood straight, roused from his stupor as surprise then shock, replaced fury.
My God! The knife had appeared in his hand before he realized it, the jab thrust before the thought existed, the deed done without conscious intent.
Done. Over. Finished.
He stood another long moment, confusion battling common sense.
What compulsion had brought him here to the wide, dark expanse of Ryder Park? What had made him leave his car several blocks away and enter the area on foot? He hadn’t searched out the homeless man, didn’t even know him, but the sight of the filthy rags curled beneath the tree had disgusted him, and provoked an anger so deep he felt like a stranger had attacked the man.
Suddenly, white, hot rage had boiled up inside him, a pressure cooker gone mad.
He’d meant only to roust him, warn him off, but something had snapped inside him. It wasn’t personal. He hadn’t planned to kill the man.
Had he?
Reality bathed him with chilling sweat while he looked around the park. Agitation skittered down his spine. Like an automaton, he reach for the man’s backpack, swung it over his shoulder. The sleeping bag was sodden with blood. No help for that.
He scuffed damp leaves over most of the bag, digging up dirt and debris around it. Then he rolled the body over and over, edging it toward the creek bank.
He stared down at the figure. He needed to shift focus on this, he thought, calculating the risk of remaining too long against the swift practiced wound to the chest. Couldn’t have the police looking for a skilled person.
He bent over the dead body, reached for another weapon. First, a vicious blow to the head, shattering bone and cartilage. After pausing only a moment, he finished the job, each blow of the stick a determined strike, each knife slash to the cooling flesh a shameful thrill of pleasure.
While it was harder work than he’d imagined, he felt more alive than ever before.