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Wednesday, April 03, 1996 Page: 1B
It will never go away
An open letter to someone out thereOne week has passed, and it will not go
away. People are still talking about what you did late last Wednesday night,
about how you callously and cold-heartedly ran down a bright young woman and
her two dogs in Hanover Township — and left them to die.
You left them, in the gutter of a dark, dirty street. Cold, alone, badly
hurt.
You left them, without as much as a second thought.
Tired and drunk, you went home to bed.
I’ve thought a lot about you lately, loser. I’m referring to you as loser
because I don’t know your name, at least not yet. Someday, though, everybody
will know. Bet on that.
I can see you.
You left wherever you were that night, staggering and bleary-eyed,
pathetic, from another night of drowning your troubles in a bottle. Wired, you
took your keys from the counter and stumbled out the door to your truck.
The music turned up loud to keep you awake, you pulled out of the parking
lot and hit the gas hard, your blood polluted with alcohol.
Just like any other night.
But this night would be different. Radio blaring, windows down, you
struggled to stay alert as you turned onto West End Road.
You began to drift.
Then you saw them.
Hit the breaks — NOW — you thought, instantly sobering up.
BAM! Too late.
Bull’s-eye!
You sped away.
Holy s—!
Your mind raced.
Nobody saw it. Nobody saw it.
Somebody had to have seen it.
You cut a bloody swath, loser. Lisa Kotch, a petite dentist who I’m told is
adored by everyone that knows her, still lies in a hospital, the most serious
of her injuries a fractured skull incurred when her head slammed against the
cement pavement, courtesy of your reckless actions.
Lisa’s best friends, adopted greyhounds “City” and “Arnold,” suffered
severe cuts, bruises and broken bones from the impact, which left your truck’s
front panel mangled. City’s recovering likely will be long and costly, as will
Lisa’s.
Thankfully, miraculously, none of your victims died.
And you went home to sleep.
It will go away. It will go away.
It will never go away.
There are so many tracks to cover. So many lies to remember.
Surely, somebody noticed your banged-up vehicle (cops say it’s a Ford
Bronco). Better check closely for dog hairs, or fibers from Lisa’s coat, or
blood.
You told somebody, too, didn’t you loser? Maybe it was the guy that worked
on the truck. Or the good drinking buddy from the bar. Someone knows.
Not to worry. They won’t talk.
After all, friends …. never …. talk.
It was late at night, so the neighbors couldn’t possibly have been up when
you got home and immediately surveyed the damage. Angered, you slammed your
fist on the hood. Bumper’s gonna cost a fortune.
But what about that guy on the street corner, right up from your house. He
seemed to be staring at the truck as you passed. The same way that the cops
appear to stare you down as they cruise the streets.
No, that’s just the imagination working overtime.
Everything’s going to turn out OK. It’s a been a week already, and they’ve
got nothing.
Face it, you’re going to get away with it. You’ve pulled it off.
Give it another week or so and life will be back to normal.
It’s got to be.
It will never be.
Getting the picture, loser?
Justice doesn’t necessarily have to end with you in jail.
Life can be hell enough at times.
And life, for you, is starting all over again.
Sleep well.
Jerry Kellar