No Place to Hide

Every time there’s a murder of major proportions in L.A. or its environs, a killing of such shocking circumstances that it rattles our sense of security, somebody moves away.

In the 25 years I’ve been here, I’ve heard the phrase “I’m getting the hell out” after every homicide that either seemed to place our personal safety in jeopardy or stunned us by the nature of its brutality.

Murders next door, murders in mass numbers or the murder of children fall into those categories.

Old ladies bought 12-gauge shotguns when the Night Stalker haunted the Valley, and we all cried in grief and rage when little Stephanie Kuhen died on Isabel Street.

Sadly, on the other hand, we’ve learned to tolerate gang killings and an occasional robbery-murder as the price of life in the big city, but when murder falls outside the category of acceptable risks it’s pack the bags and head for Portland.

I’m here to tell you today that there is no place to hide.

You’ll find crime in Portland as well as in places like Chico, Phoenix and Palm Springs. Blood runs in Fresno and San Diego and San Bernardino. Screams pierce the starry nights of San Rafael, Red Bluff, Eureka and Placerville.

And horror bloodies the pride of cities which, a moment before, had borne a national title of being safe. A case in point is Glendale.

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You will recall that only last month Glendale, with its diligent police force and community involvement, was named one of America’s safest cities.

It was the only one in Los Angeles County to be so named, a fact greeted with justifiable bombast from those glad that they didn’t live in L.A.

The safe-city rankings were compiled by Morgan Quitno Press, which publishes annual reports dealing with urban crime based on statistics released by the FBI.

There just aren’t as many murders, rapes and robberies in Glendale as there are in most other cities of comparable size, if you believe the statistics.

As a result of the ranking, I heard a good deal from Glendalians who said that since I wrote so much about violence, I ought to say a few sweet words about safe, comfortable, sunshiny Glendale.

I had been about to do just that. I’d been wandering through Glendale on successive days, meandering down its main streets, through its Galleria and into its neighborhoods. I found it safe, comfortable, friendly and, well, just a little boring.

I was about to conclude after talking to a lot of people that maybe its very boredom is what makes it so safe and desirable when suddenly, shockingly, Glendale wasn’t boring anymore.

The arson murders of a mother and her six children, allegedly committed by the family’s father, stunned the community like a bomb blast and smothered it in a shroud of grief from Los Feliz Boulevard to Cumberland Road.

And those who roared with pride over their garden of urban safety fell suddenly and strangely silent.

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I’m not here today to point with derision at a place where suffering is so intense or to revel in the irony that the juxtaposition of safety and violence presents.

The murders make Glendale no less safe than it was. The killings, unlike those committed for turf or profit, were intensely personal and not likely to set a pattern that will continue.

But we are reminded by the nature of horror that safety is not a 100% guarantee anywhere. It never will be.

And yet, once more, I heard from those who, understandably shaken by the killings, are getting the hell out. One is moving to Mendocino and another to a place nestled in the mountains called Susanville.

I guess I don’t blame them in a way. I’ve been tempted too. But just about the time I’ve decided to move, a child is kidnapped and murdered in the place I’ve wanted to go, or a family is wiped out by ex-cons driving through.

What we’ve got to do is not run from the horror but turn to face it and to realize at last that it is an unacceptable element in today’s society. We’ve got to take the streets back. We’ve got to take the nights back.

It was a public information officer of the Glendale Police Department, Chahe Keuroghelian, who said in so many words that no matter where we go, trouble’s going to catch up, so we might as well make things better where we are.

If, by the sweat of our brow and the nature of our courage, we can turn a city into paradise, so much the better for us all. I don’t know of anyone who’s going to want to get the hell out of heaven.

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(Al Martinez can be reached through the Internet at al.martinez@latimes.com)