A man, estranged from his wife, attacks her when she comes to pick up their kids from his house. The mother strives to remain calm, even after being stabbed with a box cutter, so that her four young children won’t be traumatized.
Her one son tries to stop his dad and gets shoved against a wall. Her oldest daughter — 10 years — tries to call the police and her father knocks the phone out of her hand. He drags their mother, bleeding and still trying to make sure her children are all right, into the back of her own pick up truck.
The daughter, taking charge of her siblings, runs to a neighbor’s home and calls 9-1-1. By the time law enforcement arrives, the man and woman are gone.
The next day, the man walks out of the wilderness and stops at the first house he finds. He’s dirty and covered in blood. He asks for water and a telephone.
The woman’s blackened body is found later that day in her charred skeleton of a car.
The justice system being what it is, the man who has been offered a deal refuses it. He pleads not guilty to her murder in spite of the fact that his own children witnessed the attack and the body has been found.
Moving stuff, hunh? It’d make a great story . . .
Well, it’s the true tale of Nova Bjorn Ochoa Delgado’s last hours of life. She was murdered near Farmington, New Mexico this summer.
Here’s the thing: I know I could write this as a true crime; the family would most likely give me permission. It’d probably sell well, too. I’m great at nonfiction AND Toni (see yesterday’s post here on Murderati) is right about many audiences wanting more gore.
I could make good money off of it . . .
I just don’t want to.
The whole thing is too horrid for me. I can’t get past the mother desperately trying to keep her cool so that her children wouldn’t have even worse memories. I can’t fathom what scars these kids will deal with for the rest of their lives. I cannot, for one minute, understand a man who’d do something like this. Frankly, I don’t want to spend any time near his mind.
This past weekend, our Tae Kwon Do community held a benefit for Delgado’s children. She was a student at our sister do jang in Farmington. We had to do something to show our support for those kids, for her siblings and family. We had to find a way to quell some of our own horror.
I met her oldest daughter and her parents. The reality was just a handshake away.
Watching the aftermath of this tragedy unfold, I realized I do have limits. There are things I simply will not write about.
What about you, Murderati readers and writers?
Do you have taboo subjects, ones that are just too close or too horrible to pen or read?