A Letter To Clark Street

With the bronze illumination of the setting sun flowing in through the rear window, I turned slowly onto Clark Street. The wheels of my car had traversed this same turn thousands of times, with little to no variation. Creeping along past the rows of cute, Virginian homes, I noticed a few familiar figures. There solemnly stood Mr. and Mrs. Maddox, Mr. Franklin, and Ms. Harriet, all conversing quietly in front of my quaint abode. Mr. Maddox, known to neighbors as Pete, noticed me soon after. Motioning to the others, he scuttled out of the drive and into the street. The rest followed. The sound of the squeaky brakes rose, and so did my curiosity. I was half surprised to see Pete walk up the open door of my car with a soft look on his face, for once.

"Evenin' Sean. Did'ya hear 'bout that odd fellow Darren down the street?" There was a slight chuckle before he continued in a more serious tone. "They say he's been charged with a double-homicide of some girls from Culpeper. Poor thangs." He gestured towards the undercover police vehicles parked a few houses down.

It was clear that the scruffy man had expected more of a reaction out of me, or some sort of surprised gasp. The truth was, I wasn't the least surprised.

"Awe, well, I's sure you has. It's spread all over the damn town in 'bout an hour" he said in a matter-of-fact voice. It was then that petite Ms. Harriet noticed Pete and I, and made her way over in a nervous waddle.

"He was such a quiet man." she said upon arriving, "Didn't expect nothing like this at all! He only seemed a little different, don't you think, Sean?" There was a touch of pity in her words, which was clearly to Pete's chagrin. He rolled his eyes.

It was only now that I realized I hadn't said a word since arriving on this worried scene. I was deep in thought, juggling ideas and memories inside my head. So deep was my thinking, in fact, that I ignored the commotion which ensued at the sight of the convicted neighbor Darren being dragged out in handcuffs. I only looked up in time to see the crazed face of that stranger-turned-murderer, and the uninterested look painted on it. I shuddered.

I knew from the day he moved in that something was different about this character. He had ignored my knocking on his door, when I planned to give him a warm welcome to Clark Street. From that moment on, I kept a particularly keen eye on him. That was when things got weird. When I finally heard his voice for the first time, I wished immediately I had never. The slight stutter, the strangely-placed emphasis, and the uncanny charisma which inevitably drew you in. Everything he said was in a slow, smooth, and deliberate fashion, always with some hidden purpose or agenda. Every word twisted, molded into some creation of evil intent. It was clear to me how some clueless girls could fall into the traps of his dialect.

His slicked-back hair, with long, greasy locks, made him appear neat, yet maniacal. There was some eerie aura around his dark, beady eyes and cleanly shaven face. The way he conversed with the unsuspecting mail-lady gave me uncomfortable feelings and judgement for him rose up within me. I suspected some villain-like intention behind everything he did, yet my good-nature did not let the words of allegation ever leave my mouth. I accused him secretly, reported him silently, but never had the guts to publicly raise a red flag.

So, as my eyes followed the police vehicles containing that murderous lunatic, rolling down the avenue, I felt some semblance of guilt. My brain made me believe there was some way to blame myself for the death of two innocent girls. Yet I knew there wasn't.

As the last sliver of the golden star slipped behind the horizon, I drew in a deep breath. Along with the rest of Clark Street, I would eventually forget the murder, and the story of the two victims would be lost to time. But I wasn't convinced that the memory of such a deranged, demented human could ever leave my mind.

Now from this cold cell I write.

I write so that I do not forget my dearest neighbor, Sean. The only one who knew, the only one who could have made a difference. Of all the stupid people I found on that doleful street, he was the least stupid.

But alas, he was just not brave enough. I imagine he is sitting now, feeling that beautiful mountain of guilt. If only he would have told someone, and warned them about me. Rising suspicion would have brought about caution. Maybe, just maybe, the lives of those two lovely ladies would have been saved.

But probably not...

Darren S. Leonard, #2334.

Central Virginia Correctional Unit, Cell 38B, 2/23/21.