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September 21
May 2
March 24
March 23
Homeless feel betrayed by verdict
March 19
March 17
March 16
March 14
December 10
November 28
Jeffrey John Hubert: Time slips away on streets
Beat on street among Denver's homeless is one of fear, defiance
Richard Steinmetz: Wary life among the 'clowns'
John Bryant & Katherine Livingston: Manhole cover for a bed
Keith Williams: Scars of street life
November 26
November 25
November 23
Murder suspect, 16, put in adult jail
LoDo not paralyzed by murders
November 22
Homeless shelters fill fast
November 21
LoDo rebirth disrupts street life rhythms
November 20
November 19
FBI profilers may help solve murders
Death takes many forms for homeless
'We have nothing to be afraid of'
November 18
New killings spread fear in homeless
November 15
November 12
November 10
November 7
November 5
October 31
Men felt lure of streets
October 30
October 29
October 28
Police ponder connections in four downtown slayings
October 27
October 24
October 9
October 7
September 30
September 18
September 9
After 2 recent killings, homeless men say danger is nothing new to them
By Carla CrowderDenver Rocky Mountain News Staff Writer
Dale Sudduth's not scared. He already has a broken foot. "It got ran over." Crow's not scared either. He's got a massive leg burn, caused when his coffee-can fire tipped over one night as he slept. The dangers of homelessness weigh heavy on these men every day. Kids throw rocks at you. Cops kick up your tent and ticket you. On check day, the mean transients rob you. Now this. Bodies of two more homeless people found dead in a field Wednesday. The latest gruesome discoveries bring the number of slayings of Denver's homeless to seven. This time, authorities say the bodies were decapitated. Still, 24 hours later, a number of men on the streets insist that fear isn't lurking over them -- not any more than it ever does in the alleys and fields and shadows near downtown. After all, their battered bodies and scarred faces have been through so much already. "We are not scared. That woman on the news got it wrong. We are not, not, not scared," said Glen Brown, 45, as he leaned against the wall of the Denver Rescue Mission on 23rd Avenue late Thursday. Why the confidence? "Because we have nothing to be afraid of." Nothing new, anyway. "They've been killing homeless people for years," Brown said, referring to constant violence on the streets. Besides, the man next to him, Bill Burton, chimed in, "There's more of us than there is of them." And so, on the night after news spilled out about the decapitations, homeless men found safety in numbers. In shelters. Or just on their own, clinging to the same ragged edge of life they've always had. Sudduth, 52, a frail man on crutches because of the broken foot, came across a discarded chair in an alley off 23rd Avenue. Its cushions gave him comfort. And for a few moments two passing transients, Mitchell Gonzales and a man who identified himself only as Harry, gave him company. The trio met earlier Thursday. Theirs was a temporary friendship forged by vodka, grape Gatorade and a Dumpster to lean on. In the wake of the killings, Sudduth appreciated the company, even though he was, by far, the calmest and most sober of the three. He was also the weakest and most vulnerable, his broken foot heavy and aching, was wrapped in a cast. A white hospital bracelet still encircled his bony wrist. "To be truthful about it, you try to be around somebody as much as you can," Sudduth said. He'll hobble to a shelter later, probably. But, like the others, Sudduth insists he's not scared. "I was born here in this town. I grew up right here. This is my hood," he said, leaning into the filthy chair. Downtown Denver's skyline twinkled to the south. Down 23rd at the Samaritan House, a man who identified himself only as Crow, was seeking shelter for the night. Not because he was scared of a killer on the loose, but because of his injured leg. It happened Oct. 20. He was camping under a bridge, as usual, and had made an oil fire in a coffee can. It fell over and burned him. "Still hurts," Crow said. It's this pain that troubles Crow. After all, he's been numb to fear of violence for years. "Spiritually callous," he calls it. "You're always under some kind of stress. That's the reason a lot of people drink. It helps you sleep. It alleviates that fear." Crow carries a green stuffed frog, a bright splash against his dull, worn clothes. He picked it up off the street. "It'll be my mascot for the night," he said. Samaritan House is full, but they offer him a voucher to stay at a local motel because of his injury. Darwin Flotta doesn't want a voucher. Or a shelter bed. The killings sadden him. And he's worried about a couple of friends he hasn't seen in a while. But he'll push his King Soopers cart to the same spot as always, between the Wynkoop and Wazoo's, two popular LoDo nightspots. Flotta prefers his booze straight from the Wild Irish Rose bottle he keeps in his cart, beside the sleeping bag and next to the yellow plastic mop handle he uses to grab aluminum cans. He thinks the handle could be used a weapon, perhaps. But at well over 6 feet tall, Flotta isn't too worried about attackers. He says he always feels "threatened." Sometimes, he moves two or three times a night. Things like this have happened before. Same fear, different day. "Once a guy put a knife to my throat. He wanted me to take drugs with him. Methamphetamine," Flotta said. But this is his life. Flotta believes the latest killings were between people who knew each other. That's what he's telling himself as he pushes his cart past the Soiled Dove, another upscale LoDo bar. For now all that's on his mind is finding a comfortable place. "I'll sit down, go to sleep when it's dark, wake up when the sun gets in my eyes." November 19, 1999
Dale Sudduth's not scared. He already has a broken foot.
"It got ran over."
Crow's not scared either. He's got a massive leg burn, caused when his coffee-can fire tipped over one night as he slept.
The dangers of homelessness weigh heavy on these men every day. Kids throw rocks at you. Cops kick up your tent and ticket you. On check day, the mean transients rob you.
Now this. Bodies of two more homeless people found dead in a field Wednesday. The latest gruesome discoveries bring the number of slayings of Denver's homeless to seven.
This time, authorities say the bodies were decapitated.
Still, 24 hours later, a number of men on the streets insist that fear isn't lurking over them -- not any more than it ever does in the alleys and fields and shadows near downtown.
After all, their battered bodies and scarred faces have been through so much already.
"We are not scared. That woman on the news got it wrong. We are not, not, not scared," said Glen Brown, 45, as he leaned against the wall of the Denver Rescue Mission on 23rd Avenue late Thursday.
Why the confidence? "Because we have nothing to be afraid of."
Nothing new, anyway.
"They've been killing homeless people for years," Brown said, referring to constant violence on the streets.
Besides, the man next to him, Bill Burton, chimed in, "There's more of us than there is of them."
And so, on the night after news spilled out about the decapitations, homeless men found safety in numbers. In shelters. Or just on their own, clinging to the same ragged edge of life they've always had.
Sudduth, 52, a frail man on crutches because of the broken foot, came across a discarded chair in an alley off 23rd Avenue. Its cushions gave him comfort. And for a few moments two passing transients, Mitchell Gonzales and a man who identified himself only as Harry, gave him company.
The trio met earlier Thursday. Theirs was a temporary friendship forged by vodka, grape Gatorade and a Dumpster to lean on. In the wake of the killings, Sudduth appreciated the company, even though he was, by far, the calmest and most sober of the three.
He was also the weakest and most vulnerable, his broken foot heavy and aching, was wrapped in a cast. A white hospital bracelet still encircled his bony wrist.
"To be truthful about it, you try to be around somebody as much as you can," Sudduth said.
He'll hobble to a shelter later, probably. But, like the others, Sudduth insists he's not scared.
"I was born here in this town. I grew up right here. This is my hood," he said, leaning into the filthy chair. Downtown Denver's skyline twinkled to the south.
Down 23rd at the Samaritan House, a man who identified himself only as Crow, was seeking shelter for the night.
Not because he was scared of a killer on the loose, but because of his injured leg.
It happened Oct. 20. He was camping under a bridge, as usual, and had made an oil fire in a coffee can. It fell over and burned him. "Still hurts," Crow said.
It's this pain that troubles Crow. After all, he's been numb to fear of violence for years.
"Spiritually callous," he calls it.
"You're always under some kind of stress. That's the reason a lot of people drink. It helps you sleep. It alleviates that fear."
Crow carries a green stuffed frog, a bright splash against his dull, worn clothes. He picked it up off the street. "It'll be my mascot for the night," he said.
Samaritan House is full, but they offer him a voucher to stay at a local motel because of his injury.
Darwin Flotta doesn't want a voucher. Or a shelter bed.
The killings sadden him. And he's worried about a couple of friends he hasn't seen in a while.
But he'll push his King Soopers cart to the same spot as always, between the Wynkoop and Wazoo's, two popular LoDo nightspots.
Flotta prefers his booze straight from the Wild Irish Rose bottle he keeps in his cart, beside the sleeping bag and next to the yellow plastic mop handle he uses to grab aluminum cans.
He thinks the handle could be used a weapon, perhaps. But at well over 6 feet tall, Flotta isn't too worried about attackers.
He says he always feels "threatened." Sometimes, he moves two or three times a night.
Things like this have happened before. Same fear, different day.
"Once a guy put a knife to my throat. He wanted me to take drugs with him. Methamphetamine," Flotta said.
But this is his life.
Flotta believes the latest killings were between people who knew each other. That's what he's telling himself as he pushes his cart past the Soiled Dove, another upscale LoDo bar.
For now all that's on his mind is finding a comfortable place.
"I'll sit down, go to sleep when it's dark, wake up when the sun gets in my eyes."
November 19, 1999
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