I moved to Las Vegas, Nevada in 2004 to start my life over with my oldest son, help my mom out and get on my own feet after leaving Colorado in a hurry.

I had no idea in retrospect why I chose to be so stupid and live in a place where buried bodies in developing communities were dismissed and just picked up by the coroner "whenever they could get there" due to the number of remains, bit and pieces constantly "found", from the "old days".

Houses built on the remains of others (especially unsettling death) in some cultures are highly frowned upon, and for good reason. Not in Vegas' they make their own rules.

It is quite literally a place completely full of sin and terrible people, hence "Sin City" being the nickname it's so proud to boast.

I'm not saying that there is not any good there. I am saying that that city is a beacon for broken, destitute, lonely, and souls who have nothing left to lose, nothing to fight for and their morals have long faded away into self-destruction and devastation.

No one actually takes any of that seriously though, I mean debauchery for a weekend; what can that possibly hurt for anyone?! Right?

The bright flashing lights somehow elude you to think it's like a type of heaven that goes "ka-ching, ka-ching" a lot, and it's not. The payouts are simply 'bait', they know you will put back in the machines. Noisy yes, that city has a way of drowning out the most beautiful voices, dulling the stars and the brightest of souls. It was a bad decision now that I think back on that move in general.

My mom was there on a quiet side of town, so a safe place to start over dominated any thought of all of that evil, and I went anyway. Thinking that I was the cream and would rise to the top of that crop. I picked a hell of a field to grow in that was for sure.

Shortly, after I got there I met a guy who worked graveyard shifts and was so hard to spend time with but he was funny and captivating; I loved being around him. At the time.

So, in order to spend more time with Jose, I started going with him on his night shifts as a security guard all around Vegas'. We went to all kinds of job sites, shopping centers, parking lots, festival sites, raceways, events, newly constructed neighborhoods with no tenants or laid cement, medical center drive-by checks, and even quick ten-minute presence stops in apartment complexes; a majority of the time we were alone in the truck because "watching" was his job, not so much securing.

I learned about Las Vegas, the streets, and my way about very quickly doing this with him and I saw a lot of things; mainly that life wasn't as kind to everyone as it had been to me and I had had it pretty hard then too. So that was saying something. He started working this motel gig on the shady side of town off of Boulder Hwy.

Basically, (short story): He got caught having me with him and they gave him the crap shaft' shift in the ghetto. And there I was again, so we didn't learn our lesson.

This motel was the daily/weekly pay scale type motel set in a five-story castle-themed building from a defunct fairytale land for crackheads, thieves, and such. It even had these cheeky castle turrets built onto the side of the building corners with plywood. And had a "castle-like" faux stone paint to make it look more like a genuine castle.

The building was a dirty white and dark purple trim color for paint that had some serious sun bleaching and peeling from the years. This "no-tell" motel had some serious stories to tell behind the peeling wallpaper, the carpet could write volumes of non-fiction short horror stories and bleached-away blood stains. This place was where broken fairytales and dreams came to retire and die off, not so peacefully.

Full of neglected souls, needy drug addictions, and women who knew what any man wanted and sold it cheap. The type of men that hung around this shady place happened to be sketchy as well; hiding secrets behind paper-thin walls and smoke-riddled curtains.

I stayed in the security office while he did rounds and was with Jose in the cruiser or office so I felt as safe as one could be in the slums of Las Vegas, Nevada.

There was a room right near the security office that an older man stayed in from the time I had been coming around. I always saw him while he sat in his chair right outside his door and smoked. I remember him calling it his apartment yet it was more like a weekly motel room he had gotten far too comfortable in over the years.

He stayed there for so long that he knew the last ten owners and his way around the property better than anyone else did. I remember a tenant had a leak in her room, and he said "it's the kitchenette sink pipe" to the plumber when he showed up. It was, he knew the issues and quirks of the motel he had stayed so long.

The older gentleman was from down South somewhere, you could tell by the way he spoke and his drawl. His manners were on point and he called me "Miss Allie".

He was always saying how his great-great-grandma was a slave in the plantations and how he was a slave to the government now. How disappointed she would be with him. He was one of those conspiracy-type theory guys as well. Always blaming some agency or group for creating some type of hysteria.

After a while, I was comfortable and would sit out with him while Jose was on his rounds around the motel. We got to know each other pretty well and even started to eat dinner a few times together a month. He would drink his cognac and smoke his stoogies' while telling me stories of his old times all over the world, in the war, and his past adventures in his life.

He said he had been in Vietnam and the things he said he saw were nothing but sheer nightmares he'd never repeat. He didn't think that the government had any right to do that dirty to anyone for any cause and that he was enslaved to "just" kill other humans. I would always politely listen and not all of his stories were droning conspiracy files of bad war times. He would tell me about his wife and daughters he had back when, how much he loved them, and that he missed them dearly.

One day, I went to ask him what happened to his daughters but Jose came around the corner mid-conversation and Mr. Lattiere never had time to say. The only reason I was so curious was that they had absolutely nothing to do with him, not even a Christmas card or birthday call.

I didn't think anyone actually deserved such cruelty and disdain. After all, he was their father, right?

I would bring him leftovers I made from home from time to time on Tuesdays as I knew Jose would be scheduled for that job so it would be easier for everyone to eat. You could tell that Duke enjoyed his make-shift family too. He'd tidy up and set out chairs before we'd even arrive.

About six months had gone by, I started calling him Duke rather than "Mr. Lattiere" at his request. He was like an uncle I never had growing up; was always respectful, helped the other tenants, was friendly to everyone, and was definitely 'The Watchman' type of motel complex. I swear that man logged more hours sitting in that chair than he did sleeping in his bed daily.

Jose and I started to hit the rocks, we were not getting along, and breaking up was about the only option he and I had at that point.

I stopped going over to see Duke as much because I knew Jose would be there and I didn't want to be involved with him again in any way shape or form. I had gone and spent some time one evening for dinner with him and he acted just the same with me as he had when Jose was around. But life got in my way and I didn't go back to visit with Mr. Lattiere after that last dinner.

About four months went by and I got a call from Jose, I didn't answer it the first time he called and he didn't leave a message. A couple of hours later he called back and again, I didn't answer. He left a message telling me to call him back as soon as I could and that he had something important that he wanted to tell me. When I called him back I was expecting a half-ass schpeel to get back together.

He just said "Mr. Lattiere was arrested at the motel this evening. I didn't get much information but the Marshall said he was wanted for several missing women from Nevada all the way to North Carolina. They are asking for your information as you were his friend and if you would be willing to talk with them".

"Can you repeat that?", was all I could say.

I was standing there like I had been encased in stone, I could not believe what he had just told me. I remember saying "the old guy next to the office, "Duke"? I felt ill in my gut.

"No way he could've done that", I said.

I agreed to speak with law enforcement but I never showed up and never returned their calls for follow-up.

I don't know why I didn't talk to them, I guess I just didn't want to know how close I'd gotten to being gone, again.

Through a simple internet search with his real name on the warrant, I found that was public record for all to access. Plus what I saw on the local news I was able to find out that he legitimately was being accused of murdering women in different states and was being questioned regarding the whereabouts of several more women he had been genetically linked to their cases, crime scenes, or was last seen with them. I could not believe that I was that close to the devil's handmaidens, twice now.

You would have thought that I had some sort of fetish, or a special type of radar, a serial killer magnet, or some ability to spot them and vacate their presence but rather it seemed quite the opposite as if they were attracted to me in one way or another.