The Road from Ruin: Part XVI
North wind today, shearing through the clipped Palms and causing the plastic bottles to spin out of the recycling bin and bounce around on the patio. A Raven has trouble keeping course, hovering tentatively above the street, trying hard not to veer toward the lake. I look through a dirty window and can see the single story house where five people were murdered a couple of years ago. It is less than a block away from where I’m staying. Somehow, the place still has curb appeal.Current owners, whoever they may be, show off a jet ski on a trailer on the gravel lawn out front. Taking up residence in killing fields left by others seems not to be a concern to them.
The sun bleaches the façade now, rendering the property into a peculiarly remote kind of monument and any looming sense is now sufficiently subdued by the shadow accents. A Google search on my I-Phone leaves me callow. Why nothing clicks about Brian Diez, the man who shot up a birthday party one August night before abducting two children and killing himself at another location in Lake Havasu, I know not. I stare at his mug shot. Spin it around on my phone. Still nothing clicks. There’s no in depth coverage in the news reports either, just the usual “They were such nice people.” neighbor talk and not much more.
I’ll never remember the names of the dead, selective amnesia being the best of all remedies to cope with such a collateral inconvenience. I’d e-mail a flower to the gunman’s grave if I could. Can’t blame it on a hardened heart though, just a mere inability to fully adjust to the carnival. I’m forced to ride a Tilt-A-Whirl through some collective psychopathic mind the best I can, all the while praying not to get thrown off into the snake pit where the likes of Sherriff Joe Arpaio awaits, blasting his pistol in celebration of its grand opening, welcoming carnage, domestic and otherwise, like some Jackal with hives, hoping his mayhem operation gets nationally franchised along the way and the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval to boot.
They never said why Diez snapped but the case is all closed up now and I shouldn’t fret about it any longer. I’ve wasted an entire afternoon doing so. I’m sure the realtor that sold the house here on Opossum street is thankful too, blood money being nothing to brag about these days.