Sixty Year Old Revenge

February 28, 2008
By Emily Piekarski, So. Plainfield, NJ

I am 40 years old and live with my mother, Martha. There is something wrong with that. Every man I take home is scared off by my crippled old mother. It’s not that she is just crippled; it’s that every man she sees, she thinks it’s the man who killed her mother 60 years ago. Every man, every boy, every man-like creature scares her. She has the image of that man 60 years ago who come into her house and killed her mother while she hid in the closest. I hated that man, not because he killed my grandmother but because he created my psycho mother.
She wasn’t always like this. For most of my life she was normal. She married my dad, Jon, when she was 23 and had me when she was 24. I was the only child they had, but I liked it that way. I was the center of attention, until my dad died. When I was 30, my dad had a heart attack and died a week later. Ever since then, my mother has been crazy.
The case was put with the other unsolved cases or better know as the cases that nobody cares about anymore. It was in that little dark room with one light because you don’t need light in a room if nobody goes in it. I know I had to get the case and try to figure out who killed my grandmother before I kill my mother. I know that the killer was probably died, dying, or in prison for another crime he committed, but I had to get that tan folder into the big room with more than one light for the solved cases.
“Hi, my name is Addie. I am wondering if I would be able to look at an old unsolved murder case file.”
I was at the 51st Precinct in New York City. That was the police station that investigated my grandmother’s murder. (What a great job they did). I thought that if I looked up some facts about the murder I could convince my mother that they found the killer.
“Hello, I am afraid you can’t have an unsolved file without the consent of the court.” Some tall man in a police uniform was talking to me. According to his ID tag, his name was Smith. This Smith man was standing between me and my outlet to life.
“There is nothing I can do, except get a court order? Then can you please tell me how to get one.” I stood there wanting for his response, thinking about what he was thinking about. Was he asking himself why I wanted to see a sixty-year-old case file because if he was I would have told him reason: so my crazy mother would get me live my life. He didn’t ask. Instead, he told my briefly how to get the court order.
“Thank you. I’ll be back as soon as I get it.” I left mad and hungry. I went to get something to eat before I went over to the court house. When I got to the court house a 20-something year old women told me where to go. I followed her directions, which led me down a long hall way. At the end of it were two closed doors. I had no clue which one was the one I wanted, so I took a guess and knocked on the one to the left.
“Hi, I am looking for the place where I can get a court order.” Luckily, I picked that right door.
“You are in the right place. Hello my name is Mr. G. I’m the person you are looking for. You must plead me your case, and I will make my decision. Please come and have a seat.” I followed him into the office and sat down on one of the big, brown chairs. I told him the situation. He listened without saying a word until the end.
“Okay, I understand. I am going to give you a court order, but you must not show anybody, not even your mom the file.” He wrote out the order and handed it to me.
“Thank you very much.” I took the piece of paper and ran out of the office all the way back to the police station.
“Hi.” I said out of breathe, “I’m back for my case file. I have a court order for it right here.” I showed the Smith man the order. He looked at it and then headed to the dark room in the back. He returned with the thinnest file I had ever seen. I took it without saying anything and walked out.
I had a lot of work to do. I went to the, Luke’s, local coffee shop to read over the case. It wasn’t as complicated as I would have thought. Sixty years ago, a man came into my grandmother’s house and beaten her to death. Nobody heard anything and the only witness was my mother, a five-year-old who blacked out during the murder. The only thing that she remembers is the face of her mother’s killer. Unfortunately, she can’t describe it. She can only tell who the person is when looking at him. The police put the case in with the unsolved ones one year after the murder. They never had any suspects or any other witnesses. Nobody ever called saying they knew something either.
I couldn’t start where the police started. They interviewed neighbors, friends, family, and anybody who might have helped. I knew that most of the people were probably dead and sick so I didn’t go to the any of them. I read the interviews and found only one thing of interest. Her neighbor remembered seeing a man come to the door of my mother’s home at least once a week. He would stay for about an hour or two than leave. I don’t know why nobody thought about checking out the guy. I guess it was because 60 years ago women didn’t have affairs and nobody thought my grandmother would. I thought otherwise. My mother told me that my grandmother loved my grandfather dearly, but there was a weird connection between them. I decided to call up the neighbor.
“Hello, is Mrs. Winters still living here?” I asked the lady who picked up the phone.
“She still lives here but is in the hospital right now. She is 89 you know,” the lady on the phone said. I told her who I was and if I was anyway possible if I could speak to her. The lady told me to go to the J.F.K. Hospital at four o’clock that day, she would meet me there. I showered and got ready to meet her there.
I walked up to the desk in the lobby to ask where Mrs. Winters’ room was.
“It is straight down the hall, but I’m afraid you can’t go in without being family,” the nurse said. There were too many people getting in the way of my happiness. First the cop, now her. I knew there was no way of getting inside, so I sat down and waited for Mrs. Winters’ daughter to arrive. Ten minutes later she walked in.
“Hi, sorry I’m late. If you would like, we can go in now.” I followed her down the wall to room 123. We stepped in. To my surprise, Mrs. Winters did not look like she was 89. Her hair still was brownish with a tint of grey. She had many two wrinkles, but besides that she was young looking. I introduced myself and explained why I was there.
“I remember that. I always wondered why they didn’t talk to the man that went over every week. I knew something was going on between the women and him, but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want the woman’s name to go down in vain.” She talked very slowly.
“Do you know the man’s name?” I asked.
“Um, he once introduced himself to me. He called himself Tom, Tom Doh. Yes that was his name Tom Doh. I remember it because I thought his last name was funny.”
“I must go. Thank you, you have been the most help I have gotten yet.” I walked out with I big smile on my face. I went to the library to look up anybody named Tom Doh. Surprisingly, I found six people (Who would have thought?). I went to the one whose birthday was around my grandmother’s. He was still alive, but it didn’t say where he lived. I went to the phone book to look up his address. It was 1459 Pit Drive. I stared at the address not believing what I saw. I couldn’t be, but yet it was. It was four houses over from where I lived.
I didn’t know my neighbors well, so I didn’t know who lived in that house. I saw him before but never talked to him. He seemed like a nice guy. I guess I was wrong. I started looking at Tom’s background. He had been arrested for assault. I knew that this was the man that killed my grandmother, made my mother deathly afraid of men, and made my life living hell. I had to get revenge. I had to get my life back and I only knew one way.
“Hi, this is Addie, your neighbor from down the street. I was wondering if you would like to have a picture of your house printed in a magazine. I work for a real state agency, and they like to put beautiful houses like yours in there magazine. It doesn’t mean that your house is for sale. It will just be there to show the kind of houses we sell.” I was making everything up, but he didn’t have to know that.
“Why, I would love to have my house in a magazine. Can I be in the picture?” That is what I wanted him to ask. I would take the picture and show my mother. I know if it was the right man, she would freak.
“Yes, you can. I will be over in about an hour. Thank you.” I hung up. An hour later I walked over to his house and took the picture. He loved it. I went back home to show my mother. She freaked, so my plan worked. He was the man who killed my grandmother. Now, I just had to close the case.

“Breaking news. A man was murdered in his house this afternoon. Police say there was a note on his body reading, “Thank you giving up your life so I can have one.” The mystery is that he was killed by a bit mark in his neck. A human bite mark.

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