Cross-Over Murders by Frank F. Atanacio Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-One

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The crowd of immigrants gathered around the small stage located near the Mummy Pond at Seaside Park. It was used for concerts and short plays, but the immigrants used it that day as a rally call to help each other from becoming victims of the Cross-Over Murderer.
Roman Deharte walked out onto the stage and said briskly, “Thank you for coming!”
The fact that he lost his brother to the murderer, and he tried to take his own life because of it drew no comments from his audience. They were too busy trying to unravel the events that led to a stalking murderer. They were just trying to stay alive to work another day. They had families to support, and bills to pay. Deharte knew it, and he wanted to let it be known.
“This rally,” He continued. “Is to help us open our blind eyes!”
“Blind eyes? We have families!” Someone shouted from the crowd.
“We can get back to helping our families, if we stay alive!” He shot back. “What good is being dead going to do for your family. If anyone can answer that, I’m open to suggestions. If you cannot then please keep your comments to yourselves until I explain the new turn of events!”
“We came to this country to make money, not hide from a killer,” shouted someone from the left side of the crowd. “It doesn’t matter if we die.”
“The police don’t see it that way,” he shouted back. “They have removed us from North and Madison so they can catch the killer and protect us from being a victim.”
“If we don’t work, we’re victims!” Someone shouted from the center. “I’d rather work and take my chances then not work and starve!”
“I asked you guys to come here because it’s difficult to lose a loved one!” He shouted. “I lost my brother and I feel it weighing heavy on my heart. I know you may not care for your own lives, but think of your family. Think of your wives, and children. If you die, they’ll feel what I felt.. They may even try to kill themselves, like I did. That’s the chain reaction you’ll start if you don’t listen today!”
“What about our bills?”
“Your bills will just simply have to wait!”
“They can’t!”
“Oh yeah, they can,” Deharte shouted back. “They can because if you die, they’re going unpaid anyways. So don’t give me that crap. Let the police officers do their job, so we can feel safe doing ours!”
“Are they paying you for bringing us here?”
“No one is paying me,” he felt insulted. “I came here for my brother. I came here for your brother, and your sister. I came here for your mother, and your child. I came here for you!”
“It still doesn’t pay our bills!”
“Damn your bills!” Deharte shouted. “How can I make you people understand. It’s not safe out there. We need to protect ourselves, and we need to stay alive. The work will be there, you know the contractor will fall behind and perhaps give us over-time. We just need to know that we can work without worrying about losing our life. Is that too much to ask for?”
“It has to be too much!”
“We will just move away from North and Madison,” someone else shouted. “We’ll go to Norwalk, or Danbury!”
“The police here in Bridgeport has contacted those cities, and told them of the murderer. They too have cleared the streets until the murderer is caught,” Deharte offered. “It’s left up to us to respect what they have set in place.”
“The streets will never be safe,” shouted someone from the crowd. “What makes this so different?”
“Because we are targeted!”
“Targeted?”
“They want us dead because of what we’re doing,” he said with authority. “We work to feed our families, and pay our bills, and the murderer thinks this is stealing from them. They think we’re taking food out of their mouths. We are being targeted, that’s what makes this different! What do I got to do to make you believe what I’m saying will keep you safe?”
“We’re targeted everyday!”
“But not like this!”
“It’s still a chance I’d rather take!”
“I wish I can say or do something to make you understand how serious this is,” said Deharte. “I wish I knew the right words to tell you why I’m trying to help protect you. I wish someone could help me get through to you guys!”
A Latino male in his early thirties walked up onto the platform stage. He was wearing a landscaper’s tee-shirt, and a straw hat. His face was dark, and his eyes bloodshot. He had something to say, and Roman Deharte was not going to stop him.

“Papa, is everything okay?” Deharte asked.
“I can,” he said.
“You can what?”
“I can help get through to these guys.”
“How?”
He turned to face the crowd. “Does anybody Remember Pablo, and Manual?”
The crowd moaned and jeered.
“The police found them...”
They cheered.
“Wait,” he said as He raised his hands to get their attention. “They found them buried alive in a grave.”
A calm washed over the crowd as they just stared intently at the landscaper. “I too felt like you people did. I too worried about my bills, and my family, but I was there when they dug out Manual and Pablo. I was there when I saw their faces frozen in fear. They would not have chosen to die like that. They would not have chosen a death so brutal. Pablo lost two fingers, probably trying to dig himself out of his own grave. I want to tell you, that’s not the way anyone of you would want to be remembered. Do as Roman suggests, and please wait for the end to this. It’s worth it. Trust me.”
The crowd was still silent.
“I’m sorry to be the one who brings this type of news,” He continued. “But I want all of you to know that it isn’t worth it. I don’t want to be the one coming here to explain to everyone how you died. Think about it. Respect what the police are trying to do. It’ll be worth it in the long run.”
The crowd remained silent.
“Thank you,” Deharte said as he placed his hand on the landscaper’s shoulders. “Thank you for being strong.”
The landscaper nodded.
“This may help save lives.”
“I hope so.”
Roman Deharte turned to the crowd. “So we wait until they catch this killer!”
The crowd nodded reluctantly. They had no choice. The landscaper’s news really hit home. They didn’t want to be the dead ones.
Roman Deharte bowed his head and closed his eyes. Thank you God.