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Chapter 1 of the story of Robert Ramos, Life and Death of a Journalist...continued.

(part 5)

© 2005, Mark Murphy
Not to be reproduced or resold without the express written permission of New England Press.
All rights reserved.

I tore out the front door of my house in Somerville...the one that is my job, and made my way to Davis Square, where I could catch the subway back to my house, such as it is. It's not fair to call it a house—it's really a studio apartment, packed with the few belongings we still had from 3 previous moves, starting in 2002...we like the place. Built in 1918, our place looks as though it still has the original spring-loaded light switches used when the place was built. They hadn't been replaced, and they still didn't need to be. I still didn't have the connection that my brother in law was really dead; I didn't want to believe that, yet I was being forced to. This was nothing to play a joke about, and my wife didn't do such things. I had every reason to believe he was indeed dead. Curses!

Me and my ESP! I had been thinking about death more than usual in the weeks leading up to this announcement. I felt the aura of death strongly...but didn't quite know who it would be. I thought of Robby in that time, but didn't believe it would be him. It was almost too strong not to pay attention, but I knew those feelings. Most times, they didn't amount to anything. It did, once before, and I'm not likely to forget it...until either I die or Alzheimer's erases my memory. I had walked past Hi-Fi Pizza, a small rinky-dink pizza joint in Field's Corner, and saw several small drops of blood on the sidewalk. Almost at once, my cousin Ricky came to mind, and I could see him, in front of me, lying on the sidewalk...shot. I almost dismissed the sight in my mind's eye...until my grandmother told me that my cousin Ricky had been shot in front of Hi-Fi just the other night.

My wife was waiting in the hallway, visible in the second floor window. I went up, via the stairs and met her there. We walked back into the apartment together, and she showed me what she had seen. I was amazed...I still am, even though over 4 months has elapsed since his death. There were at least a dozens of stories about his death that had circulated to a number of countries; to France, Indonesia, Australia, Africa, and to the U.S. And of course, the Philippines. Some were simply rehashed stories and not worth too much, except fluff pieces. There was one of special interest, run in the Philippine press. It was there we learned of what were most likely his final moments...

He had been waiting in the public market at Cabuyao for his ride home. He had already received threatening phone calls, stating that his life would soon end. He lived somewhere in the vicinity. Just where he lived neither one of us knew. He had just crossed the road when the scooter appeared. One of its rider drew his gun and fired twice; one bullet tore through his cheek and obliterated his eye; the other went in the back of his head.

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