perfidy

When my mom and I moved to Medina, we lived in a duplex on Howard St. Behind our house, facing Jackson St., lived Steve Cepec. His family was a disaster. I don't think I ever saw his dad sober, or not shouting at something. His mother was passive, aggressive, and mean.

Last spring, my mom called me and said, "One of your classmates is accused of murder."

"Is it Cepec?" I asked.

It was.

Steven Aaron Cepec is up for murder charges that could bring him the death penalty. He apparently killed his 73-year-old neighbor over a debt, and was caught fleeing the scene. He attempted to commit suicide in jail by swallowing screws. That failure cost the county a quarter million in medical bills.

He was on parole at the time of the murder. He'd served some years for burglary. And I knew when we graduated that he would come to a bad end. I'm kind of surprised that it took this long.

I always sort of liked Steve. Didn't trust him - my mom caught him stealing from our garage once. He tried to be a bully, but didn't seem to have the heart or the courage to do it right. Once, he hit me in the arm at recess. I wasn't a tough guy, and maybe it wasn't his best effort, but I was stunned that it didn't hurt all that much. I laughed. Steve never hit me again.

Steve was a good guy to have around when the neighborhood started the annual buckeye wars. Buckeyes falling from the trees make good weapons - we never were able to determine whether the small, hard smooth naked buckeyes or the spiky but soft buckeyes still in the husk hurt more. Steve had a good arm and a good eye.

In sixth grade, I sat next to some weird fruit-bearing plant that Mrs. Buckloh had in her room. Its small red berries were bitter and foul smelling. One day, Steve asked me to give him some. I looked at him, silently asking, "What happens to me if I give them to you?" He pointed at the seat behind him, occupied by the sleeping bulk of Richard Martin.

Richard was the living embodiment of every stereotype of West Virginia you've ever heard of, plus a few you haven't. It seemed the only word he knew was, "Quee-it." His lawn was mostly dirt because his dad would pay him $10 every time he mowed it, no matter how often he did, or how little the lawn needed it. When we asked him if he was a homo sapiens, he always replied, "No I never!"

Richard was sleeping in his desk, head slack back, mouth open, a thin weezy sort of snore drifting out. I gave Cepec a handful of berries. Cepec aimed, while teacher droned on in the background. The first berry bounced off Richard's forehead. He stirred, slightly.

The second berry bounced off his chin. Bracketed! The third berry hit the corner of his mouth and rolled off the side. But the fourth berry, nothing but net. I think it went straight down his throat. Richard coughed, explosively. The berry hit some girl in the face. Richard fell off his desk, arms flailing as he screamed, "Cepec, Quee-it!"

It was one of the better days in sixth grade.

At the time, my mom was one of four college graduate women working at the bakery at the local grocery store. Mom told me once that Steve came in one day, back to the bakery in the back. He said hi, grabbed a quarter donut from the sample plate. Mom said he paused, and said - matter of factly, maybe a bit sadly, "Your boy's really smart. Isn't he."

Mom said thank you, and he left.

Shortly after that, mom got a better paying gig working for the state gov, and we got a house in a different neighborhood. I didn't see as much of Steve.

I think Steve was not destined by fate to be a murderer. Some people clearly are. He was weak of will, but so am I a lot of the time. He wasn't terribly bright, but then so are a lot of people. His parents were fucked up, but so are many others. Had he been raised better, he might have done alright.

But that didn't happen. And Frank Munz is dead.