Why Were We Left Alive? Doug Coates   © Copyright 2026 Doug Coates

Book Cover for The Killing by Reginald Smith II Available at Amazon.

Charles looked at the thermometer on the garage wall, noting it was already seventy-five degrees at 9 am. It was going to be a scorcher today with unusually high temperatures and humidity that could make breathing difficult. What choice did he have but to cut the grass this early? The forecast of more rain that afternoon prompted him to mow the lawn right away, so the grass wouldn't be too tall in two days.

Across the street from their little wood-frame house, my grandparents, Charles and Marie, rented out a small two-bedroom house. Their neighborhood had declined over the last decade, and they were among the few fortunate people to own a home, let alone have another to rent.

Fifteen minutes into his mowing, he spotted a young couple walking in the street towards him. He didn't recognize them; they were just two of the many transients in the ever-changing area.

The couple walked slowly; ‌sweat rolled off their faces. No surprise, neither wore a hat nor sunglasses, like Charles. Perspiration nearly soaked his T-shirt, and he often wiped his brow with a red handkerchief. Their tattered clothes and greasy, unkempt hair suggested they were homeless.

She looked him in the eye and seemed almost apologetic for interrupting his work. The man appeared to be about the same age and stood there quietly, looking at the ground.

He couldn’t tell if the couple was looking for a specific house or just walking aimlessly. They stopped and waited for Charles to shut off the mower. He wiped his brow, glad for a brief break. Maybe they wanted directions somewhere. They stood about five feet apart, and Charles said hello first. My grandfather was kind to most people, but always guarded.

The young woman responded, “Uh, excuse me, sir, you got any clothes left over from your garage sale here last week? I want me some new pants and maybe a shirt or two.” Her language was coarse and uneven, as if she struggled for the right words. She was in her early thirties, maybe. Charles didn’t remember seeing them the previous week.

“Yes. I have some women's clothing here, should you be interested?” He gestured towards his garage. She nodded affirmatively and mumbled, "Yassir!"

Once a month, my grandfather would place the ‘garage sale’ sign at the end of the driveway and leave it up for 2-3 days. They didn’t park their car in the garage during the summer months because they left the tables up with clothing on them. That, of course, meant that Charles set out the clothing, priced it, and did it all over again a few weeks later. Fifty cents here, fifty cents there. They never made that much, for all the work required. Marie, who required a walker to move, spent a significant portion of her day inside, sitting in her recliner. Sometimes, Charles would roll her out to the garage in a wheelchair so she could rearrange clothes or change the prices, etc.

It was apparent that the strangers hadn't showered recently, either. Charles wondered if life had always been difficult for them. But if they could find some nicer clothes, that would be a start. He felt sorry for them and briefly considered not charging for any clothes they found. “Follow me to the garage,” he told them.

Muttering something like “Okay,” the pair shuffled behind Charles to the garage. He glanced towards the house and saw Marie looking out the window at them. She had a scowl on her face; she distrusted any strangers entering her yard, especially if she wasn’t out there to monitor them. Charles still couldn't say that he'd seen these two before, but somehow they knew there were clothes for sale at his house.

The man complained about the hot weather. He was polite, and there was almost a gentleness about him as he spoke. “You got any man’s clothes?” he asked. The man’s language was just as coarse as the female’s.

"I believe there are some short-sleeved shirts, gym shorts, and work pants available." My grandparents often took gently used clothing from relatives and friends to supply the garage sale.

“Let’s get out of the sun for a little while, and I have cold water in,” Charles said.

Charles realized the couple had never introduced themselves. It wouldn’t be too long before he knew their names all too well. He looked back at the house and gave Marie a dismissive wave with one hand. His gesture showed that he had everything under control.

Marie glared at him, but he wasn't about to go inside and hear her complain about the strangers. She’d demand that he wheel her outside. He needed to wrap this up and get back to mowing; it wasn’t getting any cooler outside. After several minutes, the woman selected a few items and held them up against herself to check the fit, while the male stranger found a few that probably fit him as well.

Charles, with his simple and kind nature, offered the small bathroom in the back of the house for trying on outfits. He led them out of the garage to the back door.

Standing on the top step, he grabbed the storm door handle and then felt something being shoved forcefully into his back. Feeling pain and taken by surprise, he cried out, "Hey, what's going..." but couldn't turn around as the man pinned his shoulder up against the door frame, and Charles labored to catch his breath.

“Shut up, old man!” he spoke with a harsher, more emboldened voice than earlier. “Get inside and keep your mouth shut,” he commanded. Marie heard the commotion from the living room and demanded to know what had happened.

Refusing to give way to the sudden aggressive actions, Charles tried to turn around again, but the man pressed harder on his back with a gun, and he struggled to breathe. As he stumbled forward through the door, the woman forced her way in and stood next to him. She pressed her gun into the side of his head and shouted, “Keep moving, shut your mouth. Do what you're told.”

As they walked the short distance to the living room of the tiny house, Marie reacted with fear, seeing her husband with one arm firmly pinned behind his back by the aggressive male stranger. She yelled obscenities at the pair, and the woman ran up to my grandmother, crouched down so her face was inches from Marie’s, and pressed the gun teasingly against Marie’s mouth.

“You keep your mouth shut, too, woman.”

But Marie ignored the black woman’s demands and continued yelling at both of them. She was stubborn that way and would let no one tell her anything, much less ‌shut up! The woman spun around and hit Marie on the head, but luckily, it wasn't with the gun. “Ol’ woman, I told you to shut up!”

While Marie moaned in pain, the young woman turned towards Charles, got in his face, and shouted, “Listen, man, tell her to keep it shut now! I will shoot her and then you! Don’t bother me none at all; I done it before.” A broad grin stretched across her face, showing her uneven, discolored teeth. He nodded in understanding.

“So, you’ll both be real quiet then, huh?” She patted him mockingly on the cheek and emitted a villainous laugh. The change in the couple’s earlier demure behavior occurred so quickly; they now exhibited pure evil and terror.

Charles looked at his wife with pleading eyes and begged her to be quiet and do what they said. After all, they both had guns. The man had pushed Charles hard into his chair. He winced at the force used against him. He feared they would never leave the house alive. Only after hearing the woman's voice change and seeing the pistol did recognition strike him. He had seen their faces in the newspaper. The police accused them of carrying out many robberies and murders.

In the Tri-State area over the spring and summer, witnesses spotted a young black couple near each of the several crime scenes. Their operating method remained consistent: they would observe individuals and families holding garage sales or advertising vehicles and boats for sale. They feigned interest and returned often a week later to commit their crimes.

Stolen items included cash, clothes, jewelry, food, and sometimes even the victim's car. According to the police, there was no familial link or common thread among the victims. Through fingerprints left at the scene, the police had identified the suspects, both from out of state, and Charles knew their names but didn’t dare to say so. So far, only two victims from the ten crimes associated with the couple have survived.

The woman found a cloth belt in the bedroom and stood before Marie. She grabbed both of Marie’s arms, forced her hands together, then bound the belt tightly around her wrists. “Just in case you had thoughts of taking a swing at me, you old hag,” she jeered.

Marie spewed more obscenities at the woman. The woman took a small rag and forced it into Marie’s mouth. “Ol’ woman, I told you to shut up!” She smacked Marie on the side of the head again. "I'll shoot you right here if I have to tell you again," she threatened, aiming her finger at Marie's eyes. At seventy-three years old and in poor health, Marie would not put up much of a fight. Her eyes widened, and she resigned herself to her confinement; tears ran down her face.

Next, she had to tie Charles’ hands, and she spied the portable alarm clock plugged into the living room and ripped it out of the outlet. The large analog numbers—12:32 p.m.—burned themselves into his memory. Everything happened quickly, as if they had practiced this routine. He questioned whether other victims had also observed the time of day during their assaults.

She had found a dirty sock in the laundry basket and stuffed it into his mouth, even though he had been quiet and submissive. He could no longer speak and was sure the duo would kill him and his wife of thirty-five years after they finished ransacking and stealing.

He couldn't move, couldn't speak, not even touch and console Marie. Charles was so angry. What made them believe they had the right to barge in and seize their meager possessions? There was very little cash on hand, no expensive jewelry, and no advanced electronics.

The intruders’ anger and verbal abuse were exhausting. He had no fight left in him and never expected to die by violent means. Did anyone, he wondered, especially the other victims allegedly at the hands of this horrible couple?

They dashed through the house at a furious pace, opening drawers, cabinets, and closets, tossing items onto the floor. They filled several plastic bags with various items and set the portable black-and-white TV ‌by the front door.

Inside Charles’s wallet was just ten dollars, and the man angrily threw the wallet aside. It infuriated him that these old people didn't own any credit cards. He missed the large jar full of quarters on the closet floor.

A pocket watch and penknife given to Charles by his grandfather were now in the other man’s possession. The female criminal found the couple’s car keys hanging in the kitchen. 

Looking out the window, she confirmed that the sole car belonging to my grandparents, a 1970 canary yellow Chevrolet Biscayne, was in the driveway. They had a nice ride to pack their loot and leave town!

Charles dreaded what they planned to do next. He was helpless as he watched them ransack their home.

She hadn’t eaten in several hours and searched the refrigerator, filling a bag with several things to take on the road. Courtesy of KFC, she found a few remaining pieces of fried chicken. She ate one chicken leg and handed another to Charles, who was hungry as she was. He devoured it. She found a six-pack of beer that my aunt had dropped off the day before, along with other groceries. Finding an opener, she offered one to her partner, then took a long swallow from her bottle. Sure tasted good, and she set the partially empty bottle on the table; she’d take a couple more for the road. He finished his beer in short order.

They hurriedly made two trips, each putting their loot in the car. The woman walked out of the bedroom, holding two pillowcases. Charles and Marie would not witness the precise instant they fired the fatal shot. He had read in the paper about several other crimes allegedly committed by this couple, and the murder scenes were similar and gruesome.

Marie squirmed and growled, albeit muffled, as the woman hovered over her, pulled the pillowcase down over her head, and tucked it into her shirt collar. Even through the cloth, the woman’s breath was hideous, smelling like gutted fish carcasses left out in the sun, inches away from Marie’s face.

She succumbed to her situation, unable to see, move, or hear. Charles underwent the same process. Their captors controlled their fate, leaving their world completely shuttered. He wouldn’t even be able to see his wife for the last time before they executed him.

Unfortunately, the pillowcases were dark blue and offered no light whatsoever. What was the couple doing now? These were probably the last few minutes of his and Marie’s lives.

Charles wished that he and Marie had been bound under a single sheet or cover. At least they could look at each other and be together. Waiting for the sound of a gunshot was beyond horrifying.

But nothing else happened until... The man bent down close to Charles’s left ear and said, “We are leaving, old man.” His tone was elevated, and he snarled his words. “You move out of this chair before we're gone, and I will come back inside and kill you both!” Charles wondered if the other victims had been told the same thing. Did they think they'd be safe from harm? And then, BANG–the last sound?

He sat frozen, glued to his recliner. Was this a trick? He wished he could see something that would give him a clue. The man took the car keys from his partner; she didn’t drive, grabbed another beer, and walked out. They slammed the storm door, but the front door remained open.

Charles heard the familiar sound of his Chevy’s engine starting, with its noisy muffler echoing. It stalled once, as usual, then restarted with a roar and stayed running. Charles silently chuckled at a thought: what if the killer never drove a vehicle with a manual transmission? However, the driver threw it into reverse, stomped on the accelerator, and you could hear the gravel flying about. The tires screamed as he thrust it noisily into first gear, then second, and sped away. 

Obviously, the driver did fine driving, but Charles couldn’t tell if he turned down a side street or continued down Elm Street. Were they really gone? He heard Marie muttering underneath her pillowcase. 

Charles waited for what seemed like an eternity. They might have doubled back to check if Charles moved too soon. Waiting was stressful. He had to free himself and Marie.

He couldn’t wait any longer, and after twisting and turning his wrists, he freed himself of the cord, pulled off his pillowcase, and removed the sock from his mouth. Carefully, he looked out the window to make sure they were gone, then untied Marie’s restraints and removed the rag from her mouth. Immediately, she launched a verbal attack on the now-departed criminals.

He hugged his wife and exulted because they were alive. “The police have been looking for that couple; they killed almost every person they robbed, but left us alive, thank God!”

Hoping they hadn’t cut the phone line, he hurried to the kitchen and called the police. My grandparents repeated their story to the police, the FBI, reporters, my mother, her siblings, and anyone who would listen. He ended each story by shaking his head and asking, “Why were we left alive?” Later that same week of the assault at my grandparents’ house, police in Western Indiana found the couple sitting quietly in the bleachers of a park watching a Little League baseball game. Charles’ yellow Chevy, bearing Ohio plates, thus tipping off local police, was in the parking lot. The ensuing trial and imprisonment of these two evil people never revealed the answer to Charles’ question.

I only began writing short fiction and non-fiction stories a year ago, after retiring. Two months ago, I won second place in the Clermont County Library Winter 2026 writing contest with The Prayer’s Plant Farewell. My previous writing experience includes writing grants for various non-profits I worked for as part of my job. In 2014 and 2020, I wrote and published two children’s books, respectively: Pitching for Success: Character Lessons, the Joe Nuxhall Way, and Riley’s Winning Catch: Good Character Prevails. My tenure with the Joe Nuxhall Miracle League as treasurer and board member gave me insight and knowledge to write those books.