Why Murder

                                                    Why Murder?

                                                   By Roxanne Lien 

A cup of coffee, my cat, and soft jazz are the ingredients I require for writing. Given this lovely, calming recipe, my family, friends, and readers always ask, “Why is there a dead body in all your stories?” They know I’m a peaceful woman; I never fight; I flee, and my heart and soul gravitate toward beauty, not evil. So why is there always a dead body after I write a few pages? Again, the question, “Why murder?” I didn’t have to search too deep for the answer; it was no great mystery to me. It was a man.

He had been a passenger on my flight when I moved to Washington, D.C., in the 1970s. His name was Charles Blake, and he was involved in the dirty and tainted money used by Washington’s power brokers to lobby and influence politicians. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him. I marveled at how the doors of influence opened for him in New York and Washington. Endless invitations to exclusive parties and galas arrived at his home in Georgetown like junk mail came to mine.

One evening, while attending a party at the British Embassy, I watched as he persuaded a young valet employed by the Ambassador to come and work for him. From then on, Vincent drove me to and from National Airport in the Lincoln town car. He made the martinis when I returned from the airport, and when it was time for my next flight, my uniforms appeared, cleaned, and pressed from the dry cleaners, and my shoes shined.

I fell for the glamorous lifestyle, Vincent’s pampering services, and the spacious and well-appointed Georgian house on N Street. It beat my walk-up studio on the third floor with no air conditioning.

Being young, I had no experience with older men, especially conscienceless con men. I’d only been in Washington for a few months when we met; I was 25. For a girl from Wisconsin, the world of power and prestige was like a big shiny diamond, and I soon found my values and dignity compromised. In other words, I sold my soul.

I don’t particularly like diving into the dark details that ended our relationship, except to say it left me more mentally than physically scared. The control, jealousy, and shaming started almost immediately, but the physical abuse didn’t come until I tried leaving. Men like Charles Blake don’t let you go, but if they do, they make sure you leave as damaged goods.

My friends think the relationship with Charles is why I never married, but marriage and children had never appealed to me. My independence and 70s feminist values were just two of the many problems in our relationship. Controllers like to control; when they can’t control, they punish. At least, that was my experience. I will leave the labels narcissist and sociopath to the clinicians, except to say that no matter the labels, he was a destructive human being, and he played with people through manipulation and indebtedness.

But I choose to stay, and I take responsibility for allowing the unhealthy relationship to continue. I had intuitive warnings but ignored them, hoping he would change. I also had warnings from others about his character, I remember being at a party on Capitol Hill, and Congressman Andrew Davison approached me privately and said, “Get away from him; everything Charles Blake touches turns to shit.” But by then, I was addicted to the lifestyle and money. I didn’t listen.

 The dysfunctional merry-go-round of our relationship was disorienting, and every time I found the courage to leave, generous gifts and flowers arrived with long letters begging for forgiveness. I always wonder why I never ask Charles the million-dollar question. “If you love me, why treat me like this?”

When I finally did leave, it was an evacuation. Charles was in New York for meetings and had taken Vincent with him. My father flew my brother to Washington to help me pack my things, and we flew home a couple of hours later.

I felt like I was running for my life. Charles’s abuse, stalking, and stealing of my mail had reduced me to extremes of deep anxiety, fear, and no self-esteem. I went home to my parents in Wisconsin to heal, and the airlines gave me emergency relocation, allowing a transfer to San Francisco to take hold within the month. I’m afraid my case was far from the first time a passenger-turned-lover had threatened a flight attendant’s life, and it wouldn’t be the last.

For many years, when the phone rang, I thought he had somehow gotten my number or was afraid he would show up on one of my flights. Charles Blake’s evil and threats lived in my mind every day; a woman never forgets her abuser.

Is it any wonder that several times a year, I googled his name, followed by the word obituary? I figured I could escape his psychological hold if his carbon footprint had disappeared from the earth. But evil is hard to take down, and it has been forty years since I walked out of his life, and he is still alive and well in Washington, DC.

So let me answer the question of why murder and share my dirty little ‘literary’ secret with you. Since Charles hasn’t died naturally, I make him my victim on paper. In every one of the mysteries I write, he is the casualty of a murder. I give little clues to his identity in every story; no one else could identify them, but I know, and he would know if he read them.

He is now my murder muse, and as such, Charles is no longer my psychological tormentor. I’m hoping he lives to a ripe old age because even though a cup of coffee, my cat, and soft jazz start the pen across the page, one should never underestimate the power of one’s muse.

So, to those who still wonder, why murder?

Why not?