Signal to Murder

by Rhone Sonnier

  I have never observed the lady with the guitar or the one with the baby carriage progress beyond their present locations. When they rise from their respective benches, they always reverse course and stroll back in the direction from which they came. I am sure that they do not know each other; they never look at each other or speak. In fact, my observation is that they intentionally avoid eye contact with anyone in the park.

  All of these activities seem quite normal and nothing appears to be unusual or out of the ordinary this morning.

  I make more progress in my morning awakening as I continue to admire my friends. With increasing awareness, I realize my need of their combined companionship. I sense that they have become a significant and vital part of me, of my life. I search my memory, but I still cannot and do not recall the dog’s name.

  Once more I recall Francis, the old one, telling me to never leave my apartment without him and or the red dog. The old one repeatedly says, “Danger lurks around every corner and that danger has your face on it; you face that danger in your apartment and it increases when you venture outside.” I believe Detective Hernandez said something very similar.

  I am becoming more acutely aware of my surroundings. I watch the duo, old man and dog; walk to the pet island so that the red dog can take care of his business before returning home. When the dog is ready the duo leave the pet island, walk to and through the crosswalk, and disappear below me as they walk into our apartment building.

  I gaze into the park and see the lady with the baby carriage and the lady with the guitar move along the path toward the bench that Francis vacated and the two women walk toward the bus stop. I do not believe that this has been their normal custom. They do not appear to know each other, but have performed the same action.

  As the bus approaches the bus stop, I see the lady with the baby carriage walking parallel to the approaching bus to her left. She comes to a stop and bends over to check her baby just before she reaches the entrance to the crosswalk. The bus blocks the woman from my view as it comes to a full stop. The lady with the guitar has stopped to strum her guitar and check the strings.

  There is a sudden darkness and clouds have covered the warm morning sun. It will rain very soon. The darkness increases and becomes more ominous.

  The lady with the guitar remains in my sight and she has begun moving from the opposite direction toward the lady with the carriage. She is moving ever so slowly toward the bus.

  I, Sevan, my name as I recall it leave the window and continue my martial arts practice expecting my companions, the old one and the dog, to enter through the apartment door at any second.

  Chapter 4

  Guitar Lady

  It is a sunny April morning in Rockford, Illinois, and I am sitting on a park bench in Forest City Park strumming my guitar very softly so as not to disturb others, or draw attention to myself. I say softly to myself, “I have to constantly remind myself where I am; I have had to move so many times during the past years.”

  To my left on the same path and up from me, I notice an old man and a red dog at a park bench. I remember that I have seen them before and that visiting the park in the morning must be routine for them. The man and dog are peaceful; I am not. I can see the young man up there in his second floor apartment window. He has stopped his exercise and seems to be in a daze. I question myself, “Is he thinking or just staring into oblivion?”

  I see many birds flying around in the park and hear their chirping and singing, but the sights and sounds do not lift my spirits.

  I cannot believe what is happening to me. I contemplate my present situation as I sit on this park bench, and I reflect upon my past in California. My life in California has propelled me into this current dilemma.

  I look down at my Gibson guitar and realize that the guitar needs new strings and a professional tuning. I cannot afford these luxuries; I have had to buy a $700.00 gun and pay for firearms and target practice at a firing range. I do not feel that the training or firing range practice were necessary; I have known how to handle guns for a long time. My father taught me to shoot a handgun and rifle when I was a very young girl.

  Now that this lunatic enemy is blackmailing me, I have had to spend much of my money on the gun and firearms training. The blackmailer claims that if I had not already known how to use a gun he would not have been interested in using me as a hired killer. I think, “Me, a hired killer, no, no, no.”

  How this deranged one found out about my skill with firearms is unknown to me. I know that friends and I have shared such information with each other; or possibly I must have had a big mouth and mentioned it in a bar. Bar hopping is not a vice I am proud to admit to, nor do I think it wise in my peculiar situation.

  Once more details of my being blackmailed go through my mind. I am being blackmailed, and the blackmailer is forcing me to spend funds that I cannot afford to spend. I believe that the blackmailer is a man, and he is giving me no choice but to yield to his demands. Purchasing the gun and taking firearms and target training at a specified firing range were some of his instructions. The evil one, the blackmailer, was not sufficiently satisfied when I told him that I was already fully proficient in handling and firing firearms. He insisted that I have more certifiable training.

  After completing the training at the specified range, I was told to place my certificate of completion in an envelope and tape the sealed envelope under a certain bench in Forest City Park. That park bench is the one that I am currently sitting on. The blackmailer retrieved the envelope before my next visit to the park.

  Several weeks ago, I had an anonymous telephone call and the voice on the other end of the phone said that he knew who I was and that I was wanted for murder. The voice had a satanic sound; the utterances were raspy and guttural. I told the caller that I did not know what he was talking about. He said rather roughly, “Stop playing games, I know that several years ago your boyfriend, Fernando, was found dead in his apartment in Los Angeles. I also know that he was last seen alive entering his apartment with you.” He continued, “It was reported in the news media that a witness saw you and Fernando enter his apartment, and then the witness overheard a rather heated argument between the two of you. The next day a friend went to visit Fernando and found him dead.”

  I knew that what he said had been reported in the news, and I knew that I was the prime suspect or at the least a person of interest in Fernando’s murder. I also knew that I had not killed Fernando. I panicked the morning I heard about Fernando’s murder. The news report said that Fernando had been killed and that the police were trying to locate his girlfriend. I had no evidence or proof that I had not killed Fernando. I was home alone; without a witness. I knew that if the police apprehended me and took me into custody I would be convicted of murder.

  Many people knew that mine and Fernando’s relationship was rocky. Our relationship was strong at first, but deteriorated after I found out that he was involved in drugs and internet gambling. I also found out that he was running around with other women. Fernando had become unreliable at work and the band was suffering. I told him that either he stopped the drugs, gambling, and other women or we would have to stop seeing each other. One night after work we had a heated argument at his apartment. I left him, alive, in his apartment, and went home. The next day, I heard about Fernando’s murder.

  I was terrified. I could not and would not go to my parent’s home. My Father had a gambling and drinking problem and when drunk, which was most of the time, was verbally and physically abusive to my mother and me. That home situation caused me to get out on my own as soon as I could. I have worked very hard to support myself so that I would never have to rely on my Father again.

  I left an environment to get away from addiction and abuse, and I swore to myself that I would never be in a relationship with anyone who was abusive or controlled by addictions. I made this clear to Fernando the last time I saw him. He became furious and the argument escalated. Fernando struck me, and I left.

&nb
sp; After learning of Fernando’s death and that the police were looking for me, I decided that my only alternative was to leave Los Angeles as soon as possible.

  I packed quickly, took my Gibson guitar leaving several other guitars that I cherished, drew what money I had out of the bank and caught a bus to Las Vegas. I figured I could pick up some work in local lounges, and stay under the police radar until Fernando’s killer was caught.

  I had taken music classes when I attended middle school and high school in South Los Angeles. My music was an escape from my unhappy home life. Some friends and I formed our own band in high school and played for local community events. After graduation I began playing with other bands, eventually working for many years with a local club band. We stayed busy playing in night clubs around Los Angeles.

  I, Guitar Lady, that is what the blackmailer calls me, continue to contemplate my current problems as I sit on the park bench in Forest City Park.

  It has been several years since Fernando’s murder and his killer has never been found. I know that the police still want to question me and consider me the prime suspect in his murder. There is no way, no way at all, that I can clear myself. I cannot contact family (not that I want to) or friends, and I can never go back to Los Angeles.

  I have moved frequently during these past several years, played in many dives, and lived in many cheap motels and apartments. I thought that moving frequently, changing my appearance and staying out of the spotlight would be enough to protect me from being discovered.

  In this social internet environment of Twitter, e-mail, and or Facebook, realization of my vulnerability escaped my attention.

  While I was working with the club band in Los Angeles, I was barhopping one night and met a new female associate in a local bar. We got to talking about boyfriends and dating. I told her that my work schedule prohibited relationships. After a few weeks of friendship she placed my name, personal information and picture on a dating site. The picture that was placed on the site was of a much younger me, Guitar Lady, but my features are easily recognizable to anyone with a good eye for faces.

  When I found out what my friend had done, I was furious. I told her to immediately remove my profile from the website and to ensure that there was no personal information left active anywhere. She said she had not meant me any harm, but had wanted to help me have a better social life. I now know that she did not thoroughly follow through with or honor my request. Some of my personal information and picture was left active, somewhere.

  I had no close personal relationships over the years until a handsome, bi-lingual Hispanic American joined our band. Fernando and I immediately felt a strong connection to each other. He played the keyboard beautifully and sometimes after practice we would linger and play favorite Latin and American tunes.

  Fernando was so handsome that he was beautiful. He was physically large for a Hispanic male standing six feet tall and weighing one hundred and eighty pounds. His blue black hair curled closely to his head and his black as coal eyes were framed by the longest curly eyelashes I had ever seen. Fernando’s olive complexion was flawless and his facial features chiseled perfection. I felt fortunate that he was my boyfriend; I was envied by girls that frequented the bars where we played.

  I had begun to fall in love with Fernando when his taste for drugs, internet gambling and womanizing came to my attention. I was devastated when I heard that he was dead, but I knew that I could not stay in Los Angeles and take a chance on being convicted of a murder that I had not committed. I was sure then, and I am sure now, that one of his less than savory associates either killed him or had him killed. There are many unsavory characters involved with gambling syndicates. After leaving Los Angeles, my first stop was Las Vegas. After arriving in Las Vegas I started playing short gigs in clubs; I realized immediately that I should not get into socializing, especially in bars.

  Each night when work was over I returned to my motel room. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months of loneliness. Loneliness eventually weakened my resolve to stay aloof, and I craved companionship with others. I unknowingly opened the door for the blackmailer to enter my life. I don’t know how or where, except for the internet dating site prank several years before. After a year in Las Vegas I moved, and have moved frequently and changed professions frequently since leaving Los Angeles.

  More than likely, the posting of my profile on the internet years ago has led to my being found by the lunatic blackmailer, and the blackmailer shattering forever the new life I have created for myself.

  The extortionist told me that he has someone watching me around the clock. I was told that one of the watchers is a police officer. I keep going over events and details in my mind, but can find no way out of the blackmailer’s grasp. I am despondent and distraught and feel like a fly caught in a spider’s web. Struggling and struggling and still remaining in the grasp of the diabolical blackmailer. I feel his web getting ever tighter and tighter. The web is strangling me, suffocating me, draining the life out of my body.

  When the blackmailer contacted me he said, “If you do not do exactly as I instruct, I will see that you go to prison for life or at minimum a sentence of thirty years. I will falsify evidence to convict you of Fernando’s murder. I already have enough physical evidence to contact the FBI.”

  The extortionist then instructed me to come to this particular park every morning, do everything exactly as instructed, and eventually I would be free. He even inferred that I might receive a sizeable bonus of cash if I made no mistakes in carrying out his assignment. Of course, I realize I am dealing with a blackmailer, his honesty undoubtedly questionable, but I have no choice but to cooperate fully.

  My tormentor has no mercy on me and neither will the law have any mercy on me; I cannot prove my innocence in Fernando’s death. Thirty years to life in prison is my only alternative to relenting to this sociopath. His voice alone scares the heck out of me. I grow cold and my thoughts and plans to try and disappear again stop abruptly as his voice literally chills me to the bone. The blackmailer speaks in his hoarse raspy voice and his threats of torture and death to my friends and or family (most especially my Mother) terrify me. He probably even plans to kill me.

  I moved to Rockford last year, and I choose not to work in lounges. I miss playing my guitar professionally. Occasionally, I visit a bar for friendly talk; I guess I will never learn to stay away from bars. I do not have the funds to purchase nice clothes; therefore the way I dress has hindered my ability to be successful in getting and keeping good paying jobs.

  Currently I work for a local landscaping company, weather permitting, and get paid by the hour. The wages that I earn are not great, but I work long hours and this pay helps me to cover my bills and have enough money for food and entertainment.

  I love being outdoors and routinely visit Forest City Park on mornings when I am not working. I find the park to be beautiful during the day and at night.

  The blackmailer finds it amusing that I am terrified at the thought of firing a gun to murder a person. He has told me that I will be required to shoot a person in order to save myself and or my family or friends from torture or death. I have also been told that I must not even consider running away from my deadly assignment. Someone will die. I know that I cannot escape this beast of a man. He is a vile and evil person; the worst human being I have ever had the misfortune of knowing.

  The lunatic often tells me that the person I must murder will be pointed out to me at the last possible moment. He says, “You will be given a signal to murder. At that time you must perform your task or face the consequences.” I must, whenever possible, rehearse daily no matter the weather conditions and be in the exact location assigned at the precise time. I am to casually check my watch and stay on schedule. I have been given strict orders to know the bus schedule.

  I must stay alert for the appearance of a security guard or police officer in a blue uniform that will be standing in a particular second floor window. This officer will
give a signal to murder from the window, proceed downstairs into the foyer behind the intended victim, and extend their Glock (gun) in the direction of my victim; but they will not fire their weapon. The victim will be caught in a possible crossfire. I must fire two shots and not more at my victim. If necessary, no more than two more shots may be fired at anyone interfering or about to fire a weapon at me. The blackmailer has emphasized over and over, “You must stay calm while slowly beginning your escape.”

  After I fire no more than two bursts possibly accompanied by two more in rapid succession (no more than four shots total) then I am to back up slowly toward the parked bus. The bus will have stopped at the street crossing and bus stop sign. I am not, under any circumstance, to turn and run from the scene. My guitar and gun must be thrown aside, and I am to get on the bus.

  I have been assured that my escape has been planned, and I will be assisted in my escape. Outer wear, a red wig, and sunglasses will be waiting in back of the bus for me to make a quick change of appearance. The bus driver will remember seeing me, but he will not observe that I have changed my appearance with a wig and other means, nor will he care. There will be no audio or camera devices working inside the bus.

  I, Guitar Lady, have been told repeatedly, drilled that I must get off the bus at the next bus stop and walk slowly back toward Forest City Park. I must arrive before the onslaught of police, firemen, and ambulances.

  My extortionist has warned me, that I must not turn from the incident under any circumstances. I must stand and observe and face the ongoing fracas. I must join in with other people who may be watching, and possibly answer police questions; however I am to avoid news media personnel.

  I do not understand this returning to the scene of my crime, but I must follow the evil ones directions or else suffer unbearable consequences.