Gone Unspoken

            by Abe Leiman

 

            Matthew Wright had a bad habit. Well, it wasn’t really as much of a habit as it was an obsession. A passion, maybe. A hobby? Hmm. Well it was all these things, but it was really just a sick pleasure more than anything.

            And so here he was, creeping down Euclid Street on a Monday night at 2:30 A.M. He wore dark colors and a heavy backpack. He fished around for something in his backpack as he walked at a brisk gait. Ah-hah! He pulled out a thin, brown pellet rifle.

It was a stretch to call it a gun, and even more of a stretch to call it a weapon. Matthew was in a pretty residential area by this point, and was ready to begin the night’s festivities by unloading his box of steel pellets into the homes of his fellow citizens.

            Now one thing must first be cleared up. Matthew was, as most everyone would wholeheartedly agree, far from crazy. He led a life like anyone else of his age and background; he was 26 years old, finishing up his graduate studies at the university, and engaged to a lovely woman named Molly, who was most likely fast asleep back at their comfortable Berkeley Hills duplex at this point. Matt had just always just gotten his kicks out of destroying the property of others. He was not morally corrupt in any other ways; in fact, he was quite the gentlemen and good samaritan, aside from these tendencies to methodically and stealthily ruin his fellow man’s property and possessions. As far as his friends and family knew, he was the kind and generous person he usually made himself out to be. He loved his family and friends, studied and worked with great diligence and dedication, and was always (during the day at least) willing to lend a helping hand to a neighbor. However, once the sun set, something came over him. It always had, ever since he was about 15 years old. It was like a man turning into a werewolf, as Matthew Wright transformed from an upright young man into a little conniving vandal wreaking havoc upon his whole town. If anyone were ever to find out what he was up to every week, they would probably try to get him psychiatric help. He understood this very clearly. He knew that what he did was not a normal, practical, or even logical thing to do. He was aware that he quite possibly did have some sort of underlying psychological problem. He never knew for sure, and never cared to find out.

            Tonight was looking good. The night was clear, the tree-lined street dimly lit by a few fading street lamps. He had his procedure down perfectly. After doing this for over ten years, Matt had long since realized that if he wanted to keep up a hobby like this, he would have to do everything perfectly, tracelessly.

            FWAP, FWAP!  The first two pellets of the night were fired. A large crash followed, as a whole window pane on an old Victorian house on Bayview St. shattered, as Matt had used marksman-like precision to take out two adjacent corners of the window.

            Damn, I’m good, Matt thought to himself.

            Matt stood there, right in the sidewalk, knowing that he had plenty of time before the police would arrive. That was the best part, too, watching these clueless police officers show up to a house, only to find the work of Matthew once again; sometimes it was paint, sometimes bullets, maybe even toilet paper if Matt was feeling humorous that night. Matt was usually watching these pathetic “detectives” from a tree or a nearby rooftop. His system of conduct was simply more full-proof and thought-out than that of the Berkeley Police force. Few could pull off what he could.

            He swung his backpack around his shoulder, and opened it back up to find a new means of vandalism. Screwdriver, bushido blade, can of Cobalt Blue house paint. He snagged the can of paint, and zipped his backpack up. He proceeded into the driveway of this estate, already hearing the shouts and footsteps from within the house. He dumped out the whole can of paint onto the driveway, and watched it drip down the incline in a designless pattern. Matt was no artist, and was never even into graffiti. Paint was always still his favorite though. He imagined the confusion, anger, and work that the owner of the house would go through. This sadistic sentiment was not what Matt thrived off, however; what really got him going was thinking about the scrutiny and hard work of the police force on cases like this, only to come up with the conclusion that it was just those “goddamn North Berkeley teenager hoodlums causing trouble again”. Haha, Matthew chucked to himself. He could already hear sirens, and was feeling tired. He would have loved to stay for the police action, he really would have, but was just feeling too tired tonight. He walked through the back roads towards his house, as he heard the sirens get louder and louder, and eventually stop.

            He awoke the next morning to the scent of blueberry pancakes and bacon. Molly knew him too well. He hopped out of bed and ran downstairs to greet his beautiful fiancee and get a good breakfast inside of him. Molly was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. He noticed she was reading The Classified section. His heart skipped a beat, but he crept up behind her and kissed her on the cheek.

            “Oh, hello, dear,” Molly said, giggling. “Would you look at this nonsense; apparently there’s someone in our own neighborhood who’s been going around ruining people’s  property. The police suspect it’s been the same criminal for years, but they can’t catch him even after undercover stakeouts and those police dogs. Two men are being put on trial today, at least. Oh, Matthew, what is wrong with people these days?”

            “A question I often ask myself, my dearest. You’d think the police force would be able to catch the guy by now too, wouldn’t you? I mean, come on, no matter who is doing all this, the man is only human.”

            “I suppose, it’s just all so silly in the first place. What a childish thing for one to be spending their time doing. I’m so glad I ended up with such a gentleman as yourself.”

            “Ah-hah, you know me too well,” Matthew said, this time out loud.

            “Let’s just hope that bastard never comes near our house or does anything to us.”

            This resonated in Matt’s mind. He was left speechless for a moment. He had never really considered such a twisted and risky mission. It clicked though, when he heard those words. It clicked on a number of levels. Doing such a thing would put away any of Molly’s suspicions about what he did, he rationalized. Plus, he would be able to see firsthand how the Police Department dealt with all his crimes, and if they were anywhere near being on to him yet.

            “I would just go crazy if I didn’t feel safe in my own home. There is nothing I value more than the comfort of my home and loved ones,” Molly continued.

            “Oh, of course, dear...,” Matt dismissed her, too caught up in his own plans and ideas.

            “Matthew, maybe we should get something to protect ourselves. You know, like a gun or something. It’s not that I’m a violent person, but it feels almost like there’s a killer in the neighborhood. You don’t know who could be committing these crimes. Chances are he is armed, dangerous, and more than likely insane. Doesn’t that scare you, Matthew!?”

            “Molly, that is ridiculous. You do not need to go out and buy a gun. In fact, I am telling you to not do that! There was nothing about an assault or murder in the paper, was there? Now, listen here, we are safe, and I guarantee you that whoever is doing all this will not harm you. I promise, Molly.”

            “Oh, Matt, I just don’t know sometimes,” she said. Her voice was tentative and pithless. The two embraced for a moment before Matt said he had to run and get ready for work. He ran upstairs, ideas running rampant through his warped mind.

            As he stood in the shower, he thought about how he would execute such a dastardly deed. This was going to be his most difficult opus yet. He had to have every base covered, every action thought through and through. He had to account for every potential problem. Murphy’s Law would only work against him. He decided that, with the proper preparation, he would be able to execute the whole thing that night.

            When he got out of the shower, he sorted out what he was going to use. He crept down to the basement where he kept his means of destruction. He removed the floor panel, fifth from the back, and took a look at what he had in stock. More paint, lighter fluid, his old Remington, empty glass bottles, homemade plastic explosives, a bushido blade, and other various objects and instruments. Hmmm. Now he wanted to be able to do the deed silently and stealthily, undetected by his neighbors, fiancee, or anyone else in the area. He wanted to do something that was quiet enough for him to be able to put everything away and get back inside before Molly could catch him. However, he wanted to do something that was just loud enough to cause Molly to wake up, and for the police to arrive at the scene shortly. Hmmmm. He looked through the pile of things more, throwing aside rusty cans, saws, and gadgets. OO baby. Matt came upon an old nail gun he hadn’t used for years. This would be perfect. In addition to the nail gun, he grabbed Old Faithful, his regulation-sized baseball bat, and a few cans of spray paint. He placed them all in his black backpack, and left it here in his basement. He went about the rest of his day, waiting for night to fall.

            The sun turned into the moon, and Matt and Molly were sitting on the couch watching TV. They became tired, and went up to go to bed. They hadn’t spent much time with each other that day, for both of them were at work or running errands. Matt stepped over to the closet to grab something out of it. Right as he was reaching to open the closet door, Molly ran over to him yelling nervously, “Matthew, what are you doing?!” He replied that he was just grabbing his slippers.

            “Oh, let me grab those for you, dear,” her voice had lowered. “You go change your clothes.”

            Matt, a bit confused, didn’t think twice about it, due to the other things he had on his mind, and walked over to the bathroom. Over and over again, he ran his plan for the night through his head. The irony that he was about to secretly vandalize his own home didn’t even grace his mind.

            Any other conversation he had that nig

ht with Molly was thoughtless and mechanical. He couldn’t get his mind off what was to ensue in the approaching hours. Molly fell asleep by 11:30. Matt waited till about 2:00 until he deemed it safe to commence. Whenever he got caught by Molly as he was going out on a mission, he assured her that he couldn’t sleep and was going to do some work on his computer for an hour or so. If she caught him out of the house, he would say that he needed some fresh air and had to go on a walk. She always went back to sleep without another word. At 2:05, Matt crept out of his bed, and downstairs. Molly did wake up this time, but didn’t seem to go back asleep. She seemed restless. Matt didn’t bother comforting her, and walked quickly downstairs. He put on a black beanie cap, a black leather jacket, black dress shoes, and black jeans, and walked outside. Down to his basement he went. He walked to the back, and pulled up the fifth to last floor panel. He grabbed his black backpack, and ran outside.

            Matt decided to start it out with Old Faithful. He raised the bat up, and came down hard on his own mailbox. He attacked it again from the side. It fell over with a crash, and unread letters flew in every direction. He proceeded to his own home’s front door. He pulled out his nail gun and began blasting the door full of nails. The scene was surely becoming detected by now. He had to hurry about his business. He fired more nails at his living room window and the facade of his house. The final touch was the paint. He grabbed a can of Lime Green, and began spraying all over his property. The garage door was defaced, as well as his porch, front door, and gate. As his can was nearly emptied, there was a noise. Mathew turned around and saw Molly standing ten feet away from him. She was holding something. Mathew understood quite clearly what was about to happen. He knew that he could’ve ducked out of the way and saved his own life, but decided to accept his fate as it was handed to him. His life would have been ruined anyway. The shot killed him instantly.

 

 

            Matthew  Wright was gunned down by his own fiancee, Molly Cauldwell, on the night of Tuesday, January 3rd, at 2:25 A.M. Wright , a computer scientist, had recently become engaged, and was planning to get married within the coming months. Wright’s mother described him as a “kind and gentle man, who loved his family and had a heart of gold.”  His prized possession was a pellet rifle his mother had bought him  on his fifteenth birthday. Wright’s father, who worked for a vehicle demolition agency, died when Matthew was 6 years old. Cauldwell used a 12 gauge shotgun, which she had apparently bought that very day for  protection against a neighborhood vandal she had read about in the newspaper. Matthew suffered from one shotgun blast to the square of his back, killing him on the site. Police now have custody of Cauldwell, who is reportedly very emotionally distraught. We have not had a chance to speak with her for further details.