My Friend, The Murderer

morgansmith 001Morgan Smith is a lovely, intelligent, talented young woman who would stand out in any crowd.  She is kind, considerate, polite, warm, loving; she is interesting; she is sincere; she is all the things we hope for in a  friend, in a wife, in a mother, in a daughter.  Had things turned out differently, it was only a matter of time before Morgan’s talent and ability thrust her far above the human landscape. So what happened on her way to the park?  Why did Morgan pause one night at the crossroads of her life and instead of taking that wide, smooth path that opened into a sunny, flower-strewn future, why did she choose instead the opposite direction, a narrow, rocky ledge teetering above a precipice?  What drove Morgan to do what she did?

The subject matter of my first, and perhaps last, true crime book—Toledo Blade–was a murder; actually, the subject matter was an abduction, rape and murder.  That book was fairly clear, fairly cut and fairly dried.  There was very little gray middle ground in that book; no, it was black and white, good and bad, victim and victimizer, the innocent and the guilty, no ambiguity.

If I ever do another true crimer, it won’t be so easy.  There is nothing open and shut about this one. Under similar circumstances, any one of us might react in a similar way, i.e., we might take a shotgun and blow some hated person to their rightful station in life–Hell.  Also, had we done something like that we too, like the subject of this story, would certainly find ourselves spending the rest of our lives rotting in prison.

Morgan (above) is in her mid-thirties.  As a middle school student in metro New York, she was one word away from the National Spelling Bee in Washington, D.C.  The pretty teen was considered a “brain” in high school and was largely ostracized and tormented by her lessers because she refused to enter peerdom and conform to convention.  Then came a devastating change in family dynamics.  Drugs made their foul appearance and the downward spiral of yet another promising white child began.  

Morgan left home, became a pole dancer in several cities, including New Orleans, threw in with a slime-ball drug dealer (white) and soon became a heroin addict.  Somewhere in all this mess, she managed to be married twice, have two beautiful white daughters, kick the filthy heroin out of her life, pursue her self-taught education, and become an accomplished graphic artist. Unfortunately, Morgan maintained her fatal attraction for the father of one of her children, so much so that she actually became his registered slave.

Anyway, cutting to the chase, one day another woman slid in between Morgan and her “master” and because of repeated in-her-face taunting and harassment by the newcomer Morgan one night snapped.  Grabbing a shotgun purchased a few weeks earlier she tracked down the other woman one night outside a home where a party was breaking up and ambushed her.

Clearly, Morgan is not your typical murderer.  She is extremely intelligent, an expert on English grammar, a lover of Shakespeare and classic literature, a curious young woman who is full of warmth, wit and good cheer.  I like Morgan.  Over the months, we became friends.  It will be very hard wielding an unbiased pen when writing her story, if I ever do. Unlike anything else I have written, Morgan’s story will be nine parts biography, one part true crime.  A&E did something on her but is was bogus.

BTW—Drugs?  Morgan could have been just about anything she wanted to be and not doing life without parole if not for her easy access to drugs and a cesspool culture that encourages it.  Like Muslim countries, I favor the death penalty for drug importers, drug suppliers, drug dealers, and any other slimy sleaze who poison our kids.  Death for death. That sounds fair to me, for that is what occurs when our white youth get hooked on the poison.  Public beheading for the first offense also sounds just the ticket to me and a punishment to fit the crime.  If I sound pissed off, it’s because I am.

Bummer-Little did I realize when writing about my close encounter in Englewood the other day, that some poor rudder would be killed in an accident very similar.  Up at St. Pete (about two hours north of this sand bar), a cyclist was pedaling through a cross walk when a car ran over him and squashed him like a wild squirrel.  He was 58.  For all intents and purposes, we bikers are mostly merely absolutely and positively invisible to the motoring public, much like a darting squirrel.  Any biker who assumes the opposite is biking on borrowed time.

Meanwhile–Someone needs to take the batteries out of Sunshine State seniors’ golf carts.  Seems more Florida fossils die on golf courses than all other causes combined—lightning, alligators, pit bulls, more than post office parking lot accidents, more than bingo hall heart attacks, more than torture and beatings in nursing homes, more than really bad Elvis performances, more than all combined.  Up in the Florida Panhandle (we Southies call the area “Ohio”), an 86-year-old woman was tearing up the sidewalks at the local country club, doing at least 3 or 4 MPH in her high performance, fuel-injected golf cart.  No, this accident did not involve another golf cart, nor did the driver take a corner too fast. Nope, none of that.  What happened here was that a wheel slipped off the concrete causing the cart to roll over. For a normally healthy person such an accident would be a trifle, hardly worth commenting on back in the club house.  For someone barely able to move even on a good day and for someone with two feet already in the grave, being “ejected” at that great velocity is all it takes. Mercifully, no mention in the report if the woman was wearing a seat belt, football helmet, body armor, or any other such stuff.  Alas, the lady is now 86 and forever.