Posts Tagged ‘murder’



It could have been my son,
I thought, as I read the front page story.
Police had arrested a woman in Chesterfield
For murder in the overdose death of a friend.
The cops said the 19 year-old woman
Invited the young man to her home
For a party with booze and pills
And a recently bought stash of heroin.
Their night of unbridled ecstasy ended
With him shaking on the living room floor.

Cops said the young woman
Was too scared to call for help,
Waiting until her friend was still
Before calling 911,
Hoping, I suppose, no one
Would hold her responsible.
But evidence uncovered in the next few weeks
Unveiled email messages in which
She bragged she had just scored some smack
And invited her friend over to party.

Wow, I thought,
That could have been my son.
Then I got a phone call.
“Hey, Dad,” my daughter said,
“Did you read today’s paper?
That girl, she used to live with Matt.”

Jeez, I thought, and read the story again.
Hailee, the girl’s name was Hailee.
I remember seeing her once when
I stopped at the house where I had let my son
Crash as he attempted to get back on his feet.
“That’s Hailee,” Matt said,
Pointing to a lump under a blanket
On a stained couch in the filthy living room.
He told me he was just helping her 
And another roommate kick drugs.
When he saw me glance at an empty vodka bottle
Sitting on the kitchen floor,
He quickly added, “Oh yeah,
All we do now is a little drinking.”

A few weeks later, I checked Matt into a halfway house
After he was attacked by the other roommate,
An ex-con skinhead, during a night of drugs and booze.
He threw a TV at my son and was later arrested
For assault and parole violation.
The next day Matt decided to burn and cut himself
Just to see if he could feel something real.
He’d finally hit his bottom.

Hailee moved out while Matt detoxed
And we closed up the house.
I  hadn’t thought of her
Until the news of her arrest.
The homicide happened a month
After my son got straight and,
As I read the story for the third time,
My phone rang again.

“Dad, did you see the paper?”
My son asked when I answered.
“Damn, that could’ve been me.”

                                                 By David Allen



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David Allen
803 Avalon Lane
Chesterfield, IN 46017

crime 3


Damn, my chest hurts,
motherfucker must’ve popped me
with a 9 millimeter.
Getting capped with a .22
wouldn’t feel this bad.
Where’d he come from?
And why?
I thought I left all that
gangbanging shit.
Man, got me a little boy
a good woman, a job –
left that crack street scene.
What happened?

God, it’s cold.
Wonder when someone’s gonna come
take me to the hospital?
What’s that?
Shit, took ‘em long enough,
Dude could bleed to death.
Least, the pain’s gone.
Damn, it’s cold!

Where am I?
Must be on my back,
alls I can see is
that bright streetlight
just outside my crib,
the light I useta shoot out
just for fun when I was I hangin’,
gotta keep our bidness in the dark
away from that bright light,
that inner city
halogen yellow.

Shadow standing over me
squats, feels my wrist
pulls my eyelids up.
That shoulda hurt,
but didn’t. Shadow shakin’ his head.
Hey, c’mon, do somethin’
about that hole in my chest!

I can’t seem to talk.
Mouth’s fulla blood, vomit
metallic taste, like some
piece of aluminum foil
stuck to my chewing gum.
Can’t move my lips.
Damn, it’s cold.

Shoulda changed my underwear,
what’ll Momma say about that?
Cops’ll laugh.
God, it’s cold.
Shhhh! What’s that sound?

No sound.
Someone turned the volume off.
That can’t be right,
all kindsa sounds just a moment ago.
I heard those sirens,
shoes on concrete, running
that hurried, excited chatter;
some woman screaming,
the young dudes, the crack runners from the corner
those newbies I had working for me,
they were here,
I heard them talkin’ ‘bout
some dude got capped right in front of his own house.
I remember that talk now,
One said: “Hey, it’s that gone-straight gangster
Hey, the Crips capped Norman!
He dead!”

Nah, I’m still thinkin’.
Stuff still going on in my head.
Damn, it’s cold.
Hey, there’s my boy!
Hey, junior!
Oh man, he’s bawlin’.
I can’t hear him, but I see his pretty mouth
all contorted, tears runnin’ down his…
Oh, Normie, baby
Daddy’s gonna be….
Man, don’t take him away.

Shadows coming close,
somethin’ being put over me.
Shit, it’s a sheet.
Man, why?
Come on now, stop jokin’.
Get me to a hospital
Damn, it’s cold.
Least the pain’s gone. Hope no one
sees I didn’t
change my underwear.


By David Allen

NOTE: Norman was a former crack dealer and gang member in Fort Wayne, Indiana, back in the late 1980s. I was a cop reporter for the afternoon daily newspaper and covered his story, starting with his cleaning up and becoming a leader in working with the city’s growing gang problem to his murder.



“Hope springs eternal,” now there’s a lie
I’ve seen the infernal work of the pedophile
sadist, the lifeless little girl carefully posed
naked in a rain-swollen ditch,
legs spread, teeth marks on thighs,
satanic signs carved into prepubescent breasts.

I wrote the news stories
that ruined your meals.

They should post large notices
at the entrances of all maternity wards
and the foot of every birthing bed:
“Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”
This world you inherit is the most horrible,
most horrific of all of Dante’s rings of hell.

By David Allen