Compassion

Ramon told the police officer that Deanna had been stabbed, kidnapped and possibly killed by her thug of a boyfriend.  Although not a witness, he heard it from other homeless people and pointed to a shabby, abandoned garage at the end of a filthy alley.  Upon entering the delapidated shed, a scrawny feral cat bolted and the police officer recognized the pressurized arterial spurting of blood that had jetted its signature zig-zag pattern on the dingy wall like funky graffiti.  Detectives were summoned and the crime lab processed the bloody scene.

Deanna was well known to the police--a big, burly, brassy bitch.  She took pride of her reputation and wore it well.  One officer, thinking she was quite cool, was overheard commenting on Deanna's potential murder being a "victimless crime."  The offensive comment was off-the-chart unprofessional.


For years, homeless Deanna claimed ownership of the intersection where she would protect her turf with brute force.  At 40 years old and 280 pounds, her foul mouth backed down from no one and she would throw down with man or woman with her punches delivered with purpose.  A newcomer challenged her and was promptly hit in the face and knocked on his ass.  He stood, swung and knocked Deanna on hers.  They stared, and without a word, a truce was called and he walked away.  Deanna plopped back down and the Queen of Colfax continued to reign.

She was a "person of interest" in a murder at a park where a broken glass bottle was the weapon.  She bounced in and out of jail like a ping pong ball.  Jail staff loved her as she worked hard and kept other inmates in line.  Her jailhouse exit weight was always much heavier than her entry weight, but, it didn't take long for food to become scarce and liquor abundant after returning to her throne.

After the bloody garage was processed, a flyer was made and circulated for Deanna as police searched for clues.  Weeks passed with no new information and one day Deanna was back on her perch, chugging booze and challenging passerbys.  Police contacted her where she raised her shirt, and her huge sagging bosoms, to expose a nasty, but healing pink scar.

"I ain't no snitch," Deanna snarled through all her broken teeth.  "Don't worry 'bout it!"

"We've been looking all over for you because of what happened in the garage," the police officer told her while she scratched herself, indifferent to the officer's comment.

"Well, I'm fine...dint even go to the hospital.  It's been taken care of...forget about it!  Now git, you're botherin' me, " Deanna hissed to the cop.

"Look at this flyer...where is he right now?" the cop asked while pointing to the boyfriend's picture that was beside her photograph on the flyer.

"It's been taken care of...that's all I know," replied Deanna as she turned to ignore the cop.  "Wait, give me that," she demanded while reaching for the flyer.

Her filthy fingers with crusted fingernails gripped the flyer as she intently read how police were concerned about her welfare and wanted anyone to call if they had any information.

"You did this for me?" Deanna was skeptical.  "Why?" she asked while returning the flyer.

"Because you're a fellow human being.  It doesn't matter if you're the Michelle Obama or Deanna, you'll get the same service from me," replied the cop.

Tears streamed from her rummy eyes, cutting channels through her grimy face.  She used one hand to run fingers through her matted hair while the back of the other wiped her face from tears and snot.

Compassion.  It can bring out the best in even the roughest of characters.