BITTY SMITH FELT EXCITEMENT as he prepared for a new and wonderful life. This would be the most important Saturday night of his twenty-one years. His expectations swelled like a flower bursting into full bloom in a stop-action video.
Standing before a cracked bathroom mirror, Bitty stretched on his toes to get a better view at himself. He parted his hair with care and adjusted the rolled collar of his polyester sweater. Cheap aftershave lotion stung his face, and a swish of mouthwash left his breath fresh.
Ready for the ninety minute drive, he grabbed a duffle bag with all of his possessions stuffed inside, and snapped up a bundle of papers crammed into a file folder. Slinging his jeans jacket over his shoulder, he headed for the front door of his shabby two-room apartment. He shut the door behind him for the last time.
As long as he could remember, loneliness shadowed his daily existence. Though a woman bore him, one of twins, he had no mother, only a wretch who couldn’t afford an abortion or so he imagined. The State of New Mexico became his, and his brother's, protector, and foster care their extended family. He hoped to put all of that behind him as he began a new and promising future.
His five foot three inch frame slipped into the ancient 1969 VW Bug. After miles of deserted county roads, he grew bored and let his mind wander. His memories of childhood were vague–a kind of day care existence among strangers. At age six, separated from his brother, he was placed with foster parents who argued often, drank too much, and mostly ignored him. The State paid them five hundred dollars a month for his upkeep until the man ran over an elderly woman on the street, got arrested for DUI, and went to jail for vehicular homicide.
The second family to accept him consisted of a stern father, an overly affectionate mother and six other foster kids ranging in age from two months to sixteen years. The seven dependents netted the family a monthly income of $3,500. In this environment he got the name Bitty because of his less than magnificent size. He learned about child abuse when the woman bathed him daily for hours at a time. He didn't know the name for what she did to him, but he knew he didn't like it.
An oncoming car flashed its bright lights and dashed by with horn blaring. He must pay attention to his driving. This was no time to change his luck, which had turned good two weeks ago when he met beautiful Allen Lee. So handsome with dark consoling eyes, jet-black hair, skin with a constant tan, strong hands and shoulders–oh my, those shoulders!
Allen Lee became his friend and he hoped tonight more than a friend, and why not? eH
Didn’t he pay attention to him? Wasn’t he fascinated by his life and loves, ordinary as they might be? For hours they talked, and Allen asked all kinds of questions while taking notes on his laptop computer and sometimes speaking into a recorder in a strange language he promised would protect Bitty’s privacy. Allen wanted to know everything about his years in foster care, his two former boyfriends (one brutish, the other slovenly), where he had worked, and on and on. No detail was too trivial or ordinary.
Allen Lee had explained that his interviews with Bitty supported his research into the success or weakness of foster care. As a writer his work had to be grounded in true-life experiences. But Bitty knew this relationship had become more than a writing assignment. This was something wonderful. Something Bitty had dreamed of all his life. He sensed the warm glow of affection that grew each time they met. Sometimes Allen Lee would express sympathy for the hardships of his youth, and touch his hand, holding it for a longtime. Those were moments of splendor. When Allen urged him to vacate his apartment and move in with him, he knew he would never be lonely again. He knew the companionship, support, and yes, love, he had yearned for all of his life would finally be his.
As Bitty entered the driveway, he noticed the glow of light from the living room window and imagined Allen eagerly waiting by the door.
EVERYTHING WAS READY for Smith. Much time, thought and careful planning had been put into this romantic liaison. It was now time to harvest the benefits of this charade.
When the headlights of the little car flashed by the front window of his rented ranch house, Allen knew Bitty had arrived five minutes early. If Bitty Smith was anything, he was punctual. Within seconds, a knock sounded at the door. He waited until the third knock before greeting his visitor. Pretending a warm greeting, he turned the doorknob.
“Bitty, I’ve been waiting for you. Come in.”
Bitty looked both nervous and elated as he entered carrying the dog-eared bundle of papers he dropped on the first chair in the living room. Allen fingered the paper file, purposely ignoring his guest. As the minutes passed, he saw Bitty glancing at him, his face flushed with growing excitement.
“How was the traffic?”
“Okay. Not a lot this time of night.” He turned to see Allen sorting through the paper files. “Everything you asked for is there.” In the yellow light of the table lamp Allen's sexy muscles flexed under a tight T-shirt.
“Good. Did you stop the newspaper, cancel phone and mail service?”
“Sure, I did everything just like you said. I paid the rent with the money you gave me and quit my job. It felt good to put all that behind me.” He moved tentatively forward. “I want you to know how happy I am to be here with you.” Closer now. “Being with you is all I can think about.” Making body contact, Bitty reached up and encircling his lover’s neck. “Oh Allen, I’ve come home.”
Allen’s powerful arms reached around him and they kissed, softly at first, and then Allen Lee consumed Bitty’s lips clamping down hard with his teeth, while shoving a six-inch blade of Damascus steel into his back. At that instant Allen felt shock waves of what he knew was agonizing pain flood through Bitty. Held tight by Allen’s arms, the little man's feet lifted off the floor and his scream choked back against his tongue. His body trembled as if it were a rag doll shaken by a vicious dog. Allen Lee's cold eyes stared into Bitty's face, as he watched life dim, then fade away.
HE HAD LIBERATED Russell (Bitty) Smith’s soul for the greater good of Allah, Praised Be His Holly Name, but he was stuck with the body. Given the advances in forensic science, disposal had to be carefully thought out. Cremation would need specialized containment facilities not available, and decomposition in acid posed liquid disposal problems. Given his geographic location in a semi-arid land, his plan was simple: remote burial in the vast Chihuahua Desert.
He carried the small limp body, facedown, into the bedroom and laid it on the tile floor. The handle of the stiletto remained upright, serving as a cork in Bitty's back. Cutting the shirt from the body he removed the stiletto, then slapped the wound with a piece of moleskin effectively sealing off escaping blood. He put the knife aside for cleaning later. A small purple mole on the right shoulder, a birthmark that might serve as identification, attracted his attention. He burned it off with a butane lighter. Removing the teeth needed a greater effort. Using a pair of pliers and a screwdriver, he ripped out the teeth, piling them in the bathroom sink. Facial features are the most common way to identify a body. A few dozen swipes of his knife resulted in an unrecognizable corpse. Then, Allen carefully placed each hand of the body in a bowl of acid long enough to dissolve the fingerprints. When done, he removed all clothing with gloved hands, and starting at the head, cleaned Bitty with household bleach. As he worked, he solemnly bowed his head and repeated a prayer for the spirit of his sacrificial offering–an American infidel.
“For Bitty Smith, I bear witness there is no God but Allah the Magnificent and Muhammad his messenger.”
Between each repetition he bowed and touched his forehead on the floor facing east toward Mecca. When finished with the ceremonial washing, he rolled Mr. Smith in a white linen sheet, neatly aligning the arms and legs. He then turned the ends of the cloth over and tucked them inside the folds of the cloth, as required by tradition.
“For Bitty Smith, may the peace, mercy and blessings of Allah the All Worthy be upon you.”
He rose from the floor no longer Allen Lee, but, as Russell Smith: Social Security Number 333-45-9942, Birth date: August 1, 1995, a registered voter in Lea County, New Mexico.