Two, maybe three, weeks ago I found out the homeless man I shared cigarettes with killed a woman three streets away from my home. I hadnāt known his name, he wouldnāt tell you if you asked, but weād interacted daily. He would show up and knock on the coffee shop window. I would don my winter apparel with two cigarettes in hand. Sometimes if he didnāt have his lighter I would share mine. I even gave him a bright pink lighter at one point, simply because he liked it. Eric Mullins brutally killed a woman heād spoken of many times to me. Eric Mullins also used to tell me about his time in war, and the way the United States was the last country on the planet. Lisa Rogers died of blunt force trauma to her face. One time Eric told me about the three thousand Muslims and immigrants that were living in his backyard. Eric Mullins handprint was found in blood on the wall at the crime scene. He walked with a cane, a dirty coat, and soot stained fingers. I always assumed the dirty fingers and black nails were from digging into the depths of cigarette piles to pull out any unfinished butts. Eric Mullins lied to the police. He told me, a few weeks ago, he and his girlfriend had gotten into a fight and she was real mad at him. Eric Mullins broke both of Lisa Rogersā arms in the struggle. It wasnāt long after this admission he came inside the coffee shop for the first time. Eric Mullins wasnāt homeless. Heād steal creamers, French vanilla, and despite the fact that I shouldnāt due to my job responsibilities I let him, this poor man who had forgotten reality along the way. Eric Mullins lived in a camper. I spoke to a police officer about Eric, who at that time had no name in my head. I think I was the only one who stopped to listen to what he said. Our first meeting was jarring, the next the same, until he was coming in for French vanilla and light conversations about topics such had his bounty hunting job and boar hunting. In my mind Eric was absolutely out of touch with reality. The longer I stare at news articles covering the crime the more I wonder if there was no mental illness, just pure stories from a lost man. I donāt sympathize with him. I resent him for this cognitive dissonance that clouds my brain. How could the man who used to try and cheer me up with strange faces in the window be the same man to brutalize a woman. How could I have handed him sugar packets and creamers after heād washed the blood from his hands some time just before. Thereās a weight on me and the more I learn the more it seems to grow. I was friends with a murderer. I was chatting with him the day after the crime. I anticipated his arrival, always bringing enough cigarettes for two. His hair is cut and washed, his nails are cut and clean, and the Eric Mullins sitting in the courtroom is a stranger to me. I didnāt know Eric Mullins, I knew the presumably homeless man with the cane who would tell you about Vietnam (heās 47, mind you) and ask for the white sugar packets.
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