Liz worked in Hygrade, the local deli just down the street from my house. Frequently I would visit the deli, sometimes for lunch or sometimes just to strike a conversation with Liz and keep her company on the slow days. We talked about everything from school, to family, to our high school relationships. At the time, she was moving on from a relationship with a character whom she called Carlos, to a new relationship with a boy from our school. She was even bringing this new boy to the senior prom.
On the morning of June 5th, 2005, my father and I stopped at the deli to get breakfast before an early baseball game. Knowing that Liz worked Sunday mornings, I was surprised to find that I didn’t see her anywhere.
Later that morning the police found Elizabeth Butler’s dead body - raped, stabbed, and bound - in the backseat of her father’s car in the deli parking lot. “Carlos”, whose name and age were changed to deceive Liz, had murdered her in an angry, jealous rage.
My father explained to me what had happened after the baseball game, and immediately I denied it. It was impossible to grasp the idea that such a close friend since the 6th grade, the big sister role in my life, was gone. As the hours passed however, and I began to hear more and more about what had happened, including seeing the story on the nightly news, I was forced to accept the reality of the situation: Liz was dead; there was nothing anyone could do about it. What was almost impossible to fathom, though, was the thought that my father and I had passed the car in which Liz lay only moments before she was found. Constantly I ask myself if things would be different if I looked out the car window at the right time or if only five minutes earlier we had left the house and passed her car.
The police contacted me several days later to ask me about Liz and perhaps learn more about her character. Standard stuff. I explained that Liz and I were close and she had shared with me many things including the discouraging characteristics which ‘Carlos’ possessed. Not much I could tell them would be of incredible help.
On the morning of June 5th, 2005, my father and I stopped at the deli to get breakfast before an early baseball game. Knowing that Liz worked Sunday mornings, I was surprised to find that I didn’t see her anywhere.
Later that morning the police found Elizabeth Butler’s dead body - raped, stabbed, and bound - in the backseat of her father’s car in the deli parking lot. “Carlos”, whose name and age were changed to deceive Liz, had murdered her in an angry, jealous rage.
My father explained to me what had happened after the baseball game, and immediately I denied it. It was impossible to grasp the idea that such a close friend since the 6th grade, the big sister role in my life, was gone. As the hours passed however, and I began to hear more and more about what had happened, including seeing the story on the nightly news, I was forced to accept the reality of the situation: Liz was dead; there was nothing anyone could do about it. What was almost impossible to fathom, though, was the thought that my father and I had passed the car in which Liz lay only moments before she was found. Constantly I ask myself if things would be different if I looked out the car window at the right time or if only five minutes earlier we had left the house and passed her car.
The police contacted me several days later to ask me about Liz and perhaps learn more about her character. Standard stuff. I explained that Liz and I were close and she had shared with me many things including the discouraging characteristics which ‘Carlos’ possessed. Not much I could tell them would be of incredible help.
Such an incident is one that no seventeen year old high school student should ever need experience. Still, during the weeks, months, and years that pass by, I am able to notice the affect that Liz’s life and death have had on me. I wish one could say that Liz died for a valiant, honorable cause, but this is not the case. Liz was killed because of the inherent cruelty that exists among all of mankind. Every morning, however, whether it be through the bracelet I put on celebrating Liz’s life, or the picture of Liz and I on my computer, or seeing Liz’s younger sister playing with mine, I am reminded that people exist in the world that do in fact mean harm. I feel it is my responsibility to keep my close friends safe, something I was unable to do with Liz.
