I was the only one who witnessed the murder, but I couldn’t tell a soul. I cannot speak English, you see, and I am illiterate in my own language as well. I tried my best to communicate with the police, but I was very young and gave up hope easily.
The police didn’t really pay attention to me anyway. I suppose they thought I was too young to be trusted, but I was all they had. They referred to me as “trash from Chinatown.”
I remember trying to sleep the night after the murder, but I couldn’t. Those images burned into my mind; I saw them under my eyelids, playing like a slide show over and over again: Mrs. Brea, staring with empty eyes at her husband, blood filling her cupped hands as, drop by precious drop, she collected her life liquid flowing from the wounds in her chest. Her eyes would always stare blankly now.
She had been so kind to me, even though it was for such a short while. She picked me up off the streets in some crowded part of town. I had been abandoned, but that was common in the ghettos of Manhattan.
I had only been living with the Breas for a week when I first noticed the tension. Mr. Brea always came home late from work reeking of booze and smoke. He ignored me for the most part, except when I first came home with Mrs. Brea. The couple argued then, and he wanted to take me back to the ghetto. The arguments came frequently afterwards. I tried not to listen.
After a week and a half of watching Mr. Brea stumble home drunk, I noticed a new smell on him, as did his wife. At first I couldn’t quite place it, but I soon realized that the smell was woman’s perfume. Not Mrs. Brea’s. It was then that Mrs. Brea made her decision.
He came home late the next night, as usual. One whiff of him, and I could tell that he was dangerously drunk. His eyes were bloodshot and his clothing disheveled. Mrs. Brea was waiting for him by the door, holding me at her side, a suitcase in her hand.
“What are you doing?” he said softly. He swayed as he stood in the doorway and looked at the two of us in disgust.
“I’m leaving you, Daniel. I’ve had enough.” Mrs. Brea paused and looked down at me. “I had hoped that he would bring some joy back into our ives, but you ignore him, just as you do me, and I’m sick of it.”
Mr. Brea stepped forward menacingly, a growing look of rage on his face. “How dare you!” he bellowed. “After all I’ve worked for, this is how you repay me? I’ve saved so much, waiting…”
His wife cut him short, “Everything we save you go off and spend, you moron! You buy booze and cars, and the rest you blow on that sleazy secretary! I’m through with you.” She turned to grab her coat.
Mr. Brea immediately lunged forward and sruck his wife hard on the back of the head. We both fell to the floor. I stood up, somewhat dazed, and watched in horror as Mr. Brea dragged his semi-conscious wife into the kitchen. Blood ran down her neck.
I crawled after him, forcing my legs to move. The man was fiercely beating his wife while she did her best to fight back. He dragged her through the side door into the garage. Drawn like a magnet, I followed, hiding under the car.
I don’t think Mr. Brea intended to kill her. He couldn’t be capable of murder, could he? But kill her he did. In his fury, he grabbed a screwdriver off the wall near the workbench and stabbed her once, twice, thrice. Mrs. Brea didn’t make a sound.
Then began that haunting stare. They both stood still for for what seemed like an eternity, and then she crumpled to the floor.
Mr. Brea seemed stunned as he stared at his hands. Then he sagged to the bench and held his head in his palms. No tears would come to me. It had been barely two weeks, but already I saw Mrs. Brea as my mother. None of this seemed real.
Finally, Mr. Brea stood up, still drunk, and I could see that a plan was forming in this alcohol-filled mind. He was going to hide the body!
It was then that he noticed me. Had I unconsciously made some sound or movement? He walked slowly toward the car and then crouched down, sneering at me. I backed away, my eyes growing in fear, a whimper rising in my throat.
“Just what are you doing under here, you dog? Just what have you seen, you little Chinese rat?” He leaned forward. “Well, I don’t think you’ll ever tell, do you?” He grinned wide, showing his stained teeth. The stench of his sweat and breath filled my nostrils.
After pulling me out from under the car, Mr. Brea locked me in the basement. I don’t know how long I was imprisoned in that dark cell, trying to erase the past few days from my mind. I had almost given up hope of ever escaping when the door finally opened and light flooded down on me. I was lifted from the floor by strong arms. Noise surrounded me as I was carried out of the basement.
Policemen were scattered throughout the house. They seemed to be nonchalant, just checking up on the house. The policeman carrying me brought me to the sofa and set me down gently.
“Hey Ed!” he called to a man writing in a notepad. “Found this little guy in the basement. Must have locked himself in by accident or something. What should we do with him?”
The man glanced at me then shrugged. “I thought the couple lived alone. I guess he should be taken to relatives while Mr. Brea goes in for questioning.”
The first cop thought for a moment. “Relatives, huh? I guess he should be taken to Mrs. Brea’s sister. She lives on the other side of the island and Mrs. Brea was supposed to stay with her after she split from her husband, so the sister says. She called when Mrs. Brea didn’t show up. I guess she didn’t know about this guy either.”
Ed finished writing in his notepad. “Everything seems fine here, Al.” he said. “Besides this Chinatown escapee. Mr. Brea said that his wife left him two nights ago, but we’re takin’ him to the station for awhile.”
After some discussion, it was decided that I be taken across the island to live with the sister until further arrangements could be made. As we stepped outside and crossed the lawn, I noticed that something was different. On either side of the door were two new flower beds filled with recently planted roses, growing red as blood. When were these planted? Then it hit me.
I tried to tell the officers everything, but they couldn’t understand my childlike gibberish. If only I could speak English, I could avenge Mrs. Brea. But growing up in the streets of Chinatown, I didn’t hear it spoken much. The officers thought I wanted attention and wouldn’t listen to me.
We arrived at out destination. I immediately wanted to leave, to show the world what Mr. Brea had done. But I couldn’t. I lived at this new house for two months before she abandoned me. I roamed the streets again, returning to Chinatown.
And so for the past three years, I’ve lived with the knowledge of the murder. I never saw or heard of Mr. Brea again and can only assume that he was never charged with anything I am the only witness, but no one listens. They never will. If only we canines knew the language of humans.