The killer poet, p.1
The Killer Poet, page 1
The Killer Poet
YOSHE
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1 - The Beginning of the End
Chapter 2 - Secrets
Chapter 3 - The Discovery
Chapter 4 - Little Girl Lost
Chapter 5 - Split Personality
Chapter 6 - The Dirty Work
Chapter 7 - On The Low
Chapter 8 - Chance Meeting
Chapter 9 - Can t Change The Past
Chapter 10 - The Complete Package
Chapter 11 - To the Grave
Chapter 12 - Precious Moments
Chapter 13 - Paper Chase
Chapter 14 - The Boiling Point
Chapter 15 - The Heat is On
Chapter 16 - Lies, Lies, and More Lies
Chapter 17 - Law and Order
Chapter 18 - Bad News
Chapter 19 - A New Attitude
Chapter 20 - All Fall Down
Chapter 21 - No Turning Back
Chapter 22 - Regrets
Chapter 23 - Danger Emerges
Chapter 24 - The First Forty-eight
Chapter 25 - Deception
Chapter 26 - A Harsh Reality
Chapter 27 - Growing Up Too Fast
Chapter 28 - Betrayal
Chapter 29 - It s Not Only Business, It s Personal
Chapter 30 - Unwanted Celebrity
Chapter 31 - Evil Lurks
Chapter 32 - Catch Me If You Can
Chapter 33 - Game Over
Chapter 34 - The End of the Road
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
The Beginning of the End
It was early in the morning and the streets of Brownsville were practically deserted. Twenty-year-old Prince Poet Washington exited the gypsy cab in front of his building in the Langston Hughes housing projects. He attended a house party the night before, devouring shots of cognac and chasing the shots down with a Corona or two. Standing in the lobby of his apartment building, Poet slowly began to feel the side effects of the Hennessy that he had consumed earlier. As he wobbled toward the elevator, a wave of nausea came over him. While Poet stood against the wall trying to regain his senses, he was alarmed by an unidentified man who ran out of the staircase. The man brushed by Poet, almost knocking him down.
“Yo, man! Watch where the hell you’re goin’!” Poet yelled loudly.
The man turned around, uttered a quick apology, and sped out the door but not before Poet noticed a dark scar on the right side of the man’s face. Poet watched as the man ran outside and made a quick turn onto Sutter Avenue.
Pressing for the elevator, something about the man s hastiness made Poet uneasy. He figured that the man had been up to no good, but he was too tired to care.
The elevator seemed to be taking forever so the hungover Poet grudgingly walked up the flights to his seventh floor apartment.
When Poet got to the fifth floor stairwell, he heard a whimpering noise. The sound made him pause for a moment, as he silently prayed that he hadn’t run into any criminal or sexual activity. Poet slowly peeked around the brick wall. He saw a teenage girl lying on the floor of the staircase, half-naked and bleeding. Although her body was fully exposed, she was hiding her face.
“Oh, shit!” Poet announced, covering his mouth. “Who did this to you?” he asked the girl in amazement, while cautiously approaching her.
The girl attempted to sit up and gradually uncovered her blackened eyes. Poet assisted her by propping her up against the graffiti-marked brick wall. All she could see was Poet s silhouette through her swollen eyes.
“It was that man,” she whispered. “It was the light-skinned man with the scar on his face.”
“What s your name, baby girl?” Poet asked, looking at her with empathy in his eyes.
“Erika,” she meekly replied.
Suddenly, Erika began crying uncontrollably. Poet felt his face flush, embarrassed at the girl’s half nakedness. He removed his hooded sweatshirt and helped her put it on. It was then that he noticed the other bruises all over her body. Her panties and jeans were in the corner of the staircase in a messy heap.
Light-skinned man with a scar on his face, he thought.
Poet s thoughts went back to the man who almost knocked him down in the lobby a few minutes before.
At this point, Poet didn’t know whether to just walk away from the victim or call the police himself. He did not want to be blamed for or even questioned about what had obviously occurred in the staircase. But Poet s conscience wouldn’t allow him to leave the distraught girl s side. He knelt down to comfort her as she immediately recounted what happened to her.
“I was goin’ to the store for my Auntie and this man was downstairs in the lobby, waitin’ for the elevator,” the traumatized girl began. Poet picked up on her Southern accent as her voice trembled with fear and sadness.
Poet gave the victim his undivided attention as she continued. “I didn’t pay him no mind until he grabbed me and pulled me in the staircase. I tried to fight him off, thinkin’ that if I screamed he was gonna kill me. I realized that he wasn’t gonna stop when he punched me in my face a couple of times. Then he pulled out a knife and cut my clothes off me. After that, he forced himself on me. I told him that I was a virgin but he wasn’t listenin’ to me. I kept tellin’ him over and over again that I was a virgin but all he did was just told me to shut up and then he held the knife to my throat and ... and ... Erika trailed off and her eyes seemed distant.
A few seconds later, her body began trembling as if she was having convulsions. The frightened Poet ran out of the staircase to the nearest apartment and asked a neighbor to call 911 for the girl.
Within seconds, Poet returned to Erika’s side to check on her. She was still trembling and staring into space. She was unaware of her exposed vagina and the dried-up blood that was smeared on the inside of her almond-colored thighs. Seeing her in the state that she was in, it was then that Poet made the decision to hunt down the rapist himself.
In a fit of rage, Poet ran back downstairs and went outside. He frantically looked up and down Sutter Avenue, hoping that the mysterious man with the scar on his face would reappear before the police came. Poet was unsure of what he was going to do or say if he saw the man. He grew angrier by the minute as he thought about his two younger sisters, Porsha and Precious. He couldn’t help but think that the teenage girl could have easily been one of them.
Poet was overcome with anger. What made him even more upset was that the rape had occurred so close to home. He had grown weary of living in the projects and was tired of feeling as if he was trapped in the crime-ridden neighborhood that most likely bred the vermin who had committed the heinous act. The rage that Poet was experiencing had him so amped; it actually made him want to kill somebody.
Poet looked at his watch and cursed to himself after seeing the time. “It s six-twenty in the mornin . It s too got-damn early for this bullshit,” Poet said with a loud sigh.
Coming back to his senses, Poet decided to walk to the store for a pack of Newports. Seeing the rape victim, Erika, lying in the stairway with bruises all over her body and virgin blood all over her crotch had blown his high. He figured that if he smoked a cigarette or two, it would help to calm his nerves.
When Poet arrived at the window of the bodega on the corner of his block, he just happened to notice a familiar-looking person walking down the street. Then there was a funny feeling in his gut. If his memory was correct, the man looked like the same person who had almost knocked him down in the lobby and the one who had raped Erika. Poet couldn’t remember the clothes that the man was wearing but curiosity got the best of him. He just had to see if the man strolling down the street was really the person who Erika had described.
Poet saw several squad cars and an ambulance racing down Rockaway Avenue, toward his building. He lit a cigarette, then casually strolled across the street and began following the light-complexioned stranger. Poet walked behind the man for the next two blocks, still not sure if he was the person who raped Erika. When the man turned the corner at Blake Avenue near where he was standing, Poet noticed the scar on his face. The man fit the exact description of the man who Erika had described. It was then that Poet knew that the man was his guy.
“That’s him!” Poet whispered to himself. His heart began to beat a mile a minute.
Poet noticed that the rapist began picking up the pace, as another squad car raced down the street. To Poet, that was definitely the sign of a guilty man.
Poet lagged closely behind the suspect. A block later, the man slowed down, obviously unaware that he was being followed. Poet slowed down too, and checked the inside of his jacket pocket. He wanted to make sure that the 9 mm he had on him was cocked and ready with a bullet in the chamber. When the man finally stopped to take a breath, once again Poet was able to catch a glimpse of the scar on the right side of his face.
As Poet prepared to approach the rapist, he began to feel a little anxious. Beads of sweat formed under his New York Yankees fitted cap. Poet gripped the gun in his right hand and began to mumble under his breath. He watched the tired suspect closely, as he attempted to get his own nerves together. His murderous instincts were kicking in and his adrenaline was off the charts. Poet had never killed anyone before but he realized that once he pulled that trigger, there was no turning back. “Thou shalt not kill” was one of the Ten Commandments that he said that he would never break, unless someone messed with his family. On that particular day, he considered the rape victim, Erika, a family member. Poet silently asked God for forgiveness because a life was about to be forsaken and it sure wasn’t going to be his own.
Poet quickly walked up to the suspect. “Yo, what’s up?” Poet asked with a frown on his face.
The man looked nervous, as if he didn’t know what to do next. Poet’s heart skipped a beat after hearing more sirens in the distance.
“What you mean, young’un?” the man replied with a smirk on his face. “You know me from somewhere or you got some of that shit on you?” he asked, referring to drugs.
“I don’t have nothin’ on me but this!” Poet exclaimed, putting the gun in the rapist s face. The man jumped back.
“What the fuck? I ain’t got no money on me, homeboy! I just smoke the shit, I don’t sell the shit!” he said with a fearful look on his face.
Poet chuckled. “Motherfucker, does it look like I would be out here robbin’ you for some fuckin’ crack rocks, man? You know what you just did to that little girl in the staircase back there! I’m the dude you almost knocked over while runnin’ outta that same buildin , homie!”
All of a sudden, the suspect s body began to quiver. His eyes went to the gun in Poet s hand. The rapist thought he had made a clean break. Rape and sexual assault were nothing new for him and Erika had not been his first victim. Being that Erika was walking alone so early that morning, he figured that she was one of the many teenage runaways who frequented the area. He had managed to get away with raping a few other young women for the last couple of months without so much as a police report from the victims, and now this.
The scar-faced suspect was also an unregistered sex offender, who thought that as long as he stayed off the radar, he could get away with his offenses. But this time he was wrong. It looked like he was finally about to pay for his perverted indiscretions.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, homeboy! I wasn’t even in the—” the man began.
The suspect couldn’t even finish his sentence. Poet held the gun tightly in his hand and grabbed the willowy man by his jacket. There was an abandoned building at the corner, not too far from where they stood. Poet forcefully dragged the frail suspect by his jacket collar toward the dilapidated structure.
“Come and take a walk with me, my dude! We have some things to discuss!” Poet ordered, looking over his shoulders.
It was six-forty-five on a Saturday morning. With the exception of a few cars passing them by on the one-way street, no one was in sight.
The man made a futile attempt to wrestle away from Poet s strong grasp but he knew that he was no match for the younger man. Plus, Poet s mind was made up. The man was as good as dead and he was the Grim Reaper. This one was for Erika.
Poet yanked the rapist into the building with his strong hand still wrapped tightly around his collar. Once they were inside, the rapist immediately began to wrestle for his life. Poet punched the man in the face and dropped him with one hard hit to the jawbone. Poet looked down at the ingrate, who was writhing in pain on the dirty floor. He felt victorious as the self-proclaimed crackhead begged for his life.
“I’m sorry, man! Lemme go and I’ll turn myself in! Or ... or you could call the police yourself!” the rapist pleaded with tears in his eyes.
Poet sucked his teeth and kicked the man in his ribs. He smiled as he listened to the perp howl in pain.
“Motherfucker, I’m not callin’ no five-o!” Poet exclaimed, referring to the police. “Jail is too good for your perverted ass! And do you honestly think I should let you live while that girl is out here sufferin’ for what you did to her? Do you think that I should let you live so that you can rape or kill somebody else? You must be a fool!”
“Please, man, please! I just need help, man! I don’t want to die!”
“Nah, you have to die, my man,” Poet whispered, as his lips trembled and tears dropped from his eyes as the realization of what he was about to do hit him. “I got sisters and a mother and I’m not about to let your punk ass live another day so that you can hurt them, too. So before I put one of these hot ones in your ass, tell me: why did you rape her, man? Why?”
Poet aimed the gun directly at his head and the rapist began to wail loudly. He looked at Poet s tearful eyes and he knew that it was over for him. At that moment, he figured that he might as well go out with a bang and confess to his crimes.
“Okay, okay, I took the pussy because I wanted to!” he shouted, with saliva shooting out of his mouth. “That little bitch wanted me to give it to her! She was the one walkin’ around with them tight-ass jeans on and that fitted shirt on with her titties lookin’ all ripe and juicy! To me, all of them bitches wanted it! All of ’em! Fuck ’em all! I ain’t never like bitches no way, always teasin’ and fuckin’ with my mind, tryin’ to get in my pockets and take my money ... Bitches ain’t worth a sh—”
The rapist s confession was drowned out by the sound of Poet s gun going off. The bullet ripped into the rapist s right leg. He screamed in pain but it didn’t stop him from talking recklessly.
“Fuck you, you bitch motherfucker! I shoulda raped your momma, too!”
Before the rapist could say anything else, Poet shot him in the head three times. Poet watched in awe as the rapist fell backward and his blood and brains soaked into the rotted wood of the rickety floor. Poet stood there for a few moments, as if his body were frozen in place and his hands were stuck on the gun. He felt a weird chill go down his spine as he looked at the smoking weapon that he held in his sweaty palm. Poet was having mixed feelings about what had just occurred, unsure if he should be hailed as a hero or a murderer. After all, he did just take someone s life.
Poet walked to the doorway. He looked to the left and the right to see if anyone was walking by the building before he stepped outside. Dogs barked in the distance but he hoped no one had noticed the sounds of gunshots.
After making sure that the coast was clear, Poet walked out of the raggedy structure. And he didn’t dare look back. He seriously hoped that by the time the police found the body of the rapist, the man would have made a nice meal for the rats in the old building.
Poet nervously shoved the murder weapon into his jeans pocket as he walked down Rockaway Avenue toward his building. Unable to relax with the evidence on his person, he decided to ditch the murder weapon into a nearby sewer. After shoving the gun into a garbage-strewn sewer at the curb of his block, Poet breathed a sigh of relief. He had made a decision that would change his life forever. A gun that he carried for his own protection was now the physical evidence in a murder. Poet walked home with his head held down, thinking about the consequences of what he had done and how much of hypocrite he had become.
It was 7:05 A.M. by the time Poet arrived back at his building. Scores of reporters, police, and EMT personnel cluttered the lobby but he managed to slide undetected by all of the paparazzi. Before walking into the staircase, Poet caught a glimpse of Erika, the young victim, being carried out on a stretcher. He made sure he stayed as far away from her as possible. Once they carried Erika’s battered body out of the front door, Poet ran all the way up to seventh floor and practically ran inside his house, locking the door behind him.
Poet tried to tiptoe into his bedroom when his mother, Cheryl, suddenly appeared in the doorway of her bedroom. Cheryl Washington was raising three children on her own and the last thing that she needed to do was worry about them being in the streets at all times of the night. Unfortunately, her son, Poet, was her biggest concern.
“Poet, why are you just now coming in this house, boy?” she asked. “It s after seven o’clock in the morning! Where have you been, mister?”
Poet sighed. “C’mon, Ma, I was at my homeboy s crib! We went out last night and I had one too many drinks so I just crashed on his couch until this mornin’,” Poet explained.
Cheryl put her hands on her ample hips. The constant sounds of the police sirens had her nerves on edge.
“Prince Poet, do you not see all of the damn police officers and EMT workers downstairs in the lobby of this building? And why didn’t you call me to let me know that you were going to be spending the night out? What the hell do you have a cell phone for, Poet? When I got up to pee at about six this morning and I realized that you were not in this house, my heart dropped all the way down to the bottom of my feet! Then when I called you and your phone went into voice mail, I thought that I was going to die!” she said, putting her hand to her chest. “I’m not gonna allow you to come in my house at all hours of the morning, Poet. I won’t allow it!” she yelled.
