Stiletto killing

“Where did I put my tiara?”

Since: Dec 11

Columbus, OH

#1 Jun 11, 2013
A man stabbed to death with a stiletto high heel allegedly wielded by his girlfriend spent the last three and a half years as a top researcher in women's health issues at the University of Houston.

Professor Alf Stefan Andersson, 59, had been studying hormones in women's reproductive health since December 2009 at the university's Center for Nuclear Receptors and Cell Signaling.

"He was a talented biochemist and a good friend. He shall be sorely missed," Dr. Jan-Ake Gustafsson, the center's director, said in a statement.

The University of Houston also released a statement, saying it was saddened to learn of Andersson's death.

"Our hearts go out to his colleagues, family and friends during this difficult time," university officials said.

Andersson's girlfriend, Ana Lilia Trujillo, 44, was charged with murder.

Houston police were sent to a Museum District high-rise in the 1700 block of Hermann shortly after 3:30 a.m. Sunday to investigate reports of an assault in progress inside the victim's luxury condominium.

Trujillo answered the door and Andersson was found dead from multiple stab wounds to the head, Houston police said. HPD homicide detectives questioned Trujillo.

She admitted killing Andersson but said it was in self-defense because he had attacked her, said officials with the Harris County District Attorney's Office.

Trujillo was detained at the scene and later taken into custody.

Harris County records did not indicate if Trujillo had an attorney.

She remains at the Harris County Jail with bail set at $100,000.

According to Harris County criminal records, Trujillo has been arrested in recent years for driving while intoxicated and theft.

“Where did I put my tiara?”

Since: Dec 11

Columbus, OH

#2 Jun 11, 2013
Ouchy. See Spook you don't necessarily need a gun.

Hubby happy that the only footwear that I don are tennies or flip flops.

“Where did I put my tiara?”

Since: Dec 11

Columbus, OH

#3 Jun 11, 2013
They cannot kill a Spook

Taylor, MI

#4 Jun 11, 2013
GlitterSucks wrote:
Ouchy. See Spook you don't necessarily need a gun.
Hubby happy that the only footwear that I don are tennies or flip flops.
He needed a gun to shoyot that crazy broad before she beat him to death with a shoe.

“Where did I put my tiara?”

Since: Dec 11

Columbus, OH

#5 Jun 11, 2013
They cannot kill a Spook wrote:
<quoted text>
He needed a gun to shoyot that crazy broad before she beat him to death with a shoe.
DSW vs. the Powder room...
Big Johnson

Columbus, OH

#6 Jun 11, 2013
My favorite scene from one of my favorite novels --

"I won't see my work killed," Pris said.

Barrows said, "Maybe you will."

In a heavy voice the Lincoln said, "Miss Pris, I do think Mr. Rosen is correct. You should allow him and Mr. Barrows to discover the solution to their problem."

"I can solve this," Pris said. Bending down, she fumbled with something under the table. I could not imagine what she was up to, nor could Barrows; all of us, in fact, sat rigid. Pris emerged, holding one of her high heeled shoes, brandishing it with the metal heel out.

"Goddam you," she said to Barrows.

Barrows started from his chair. "No," he said, holding up his hand.

The shoe smashed down on the head of the Booth simulacrum. Its heel burst into the thing's head, right behind the ear. "There," Pris said to Barrows, her eyes shining and wet, her mouth a thin contorted frantic line.

"Glap," the Booth simulacrum said. Its hands beat jerkily in the air; its feet drummed on the floor. Then it ceased moving. An inner wind convulsed it; its limbs floundered and twitched. It became inert.

I said, "Don't hit it again, Pris." I did not feel able to stand any more. Barrows was saying almost the same thing, muttering at Pris in a dazed monotone.

"Why should I hit it again?" Pris said matter-of-factly; she withdrew the heel of her shoe from its head, bent down, put her shoe back on again. People at the tables around us stared in amazement.

Barrows got out a white linen handkerchief and mopped his forehead. He started to speak, changed his mind, remained silent.

Gradually the Booth simulacrum began to slide from its chair. I stood up and tried to prop it so that it would remain where it was. Dave Blunk rose, too: together we managed to get it propped upright so that it would not fall. Pris sipped her drink expressionlessly.

To the people at the nearby tables Blunk said, "It's a doll, a life-size doll, for display.
Mechanical." For their benefit he showed them the now-visible metal and plastic inner part of the simulacrum's skull. Within the puncture I could see something shining, the damaged ruling monad, I suppose. I wondered if Bob Bundy could repair it. I wondered if I cared whether it could be repaired or not.

Putting out his cigarette Barrows drank his drink, then in a hoarse voice said to Pris, "You've put yourself on bad terms with me, by doing that."

"Then goodbye," Pris said. "Goodbye, Sam K. Barrows, you dirty ugly fairy." She rose to her feet, deliberately knocked over her chair; she walked away from the table, leaving us, going among and past the other tables of people, at last to the checkstand. She got her coat from the girl, there.

“Paper Or Plastic?”

Since: Nov 11

Albakoikee

#7 Jun 11, 2013
Big Johnson wrote:
My favorite scene from one of my favorite novels --
"I won't see my work killed," Pris said.
Barrows said, "Maybe you will."
In a heavy voice the Lincoln said, "Miss Pris, I do think Mr. Rosen is correct. You should allow him and Mr. Barrows to discover the solution to their problem."
"I can solve this," Pris said. Bending down, she fumbled with something under the table. I could not imagine what she was up to, nor could Barrows; all of us, in fact, sat rigid. Pris emerged, holding one of her high heeled shoes, brandishing it with the metal heel out.
"Goddam you," she said to Barrows.
Barrows started from his chair. "No," he said, holding up his hand.
The shoe smashed down on the head of the Booth simulacrum. Its heel burst into the thing's head, right behind the ear. "There," Pris said to Barrows, her eyes shining and wet, her mouth a thin contorted frantic line.
"Glap," the Booth simulacrum said. Its hands beat jerkily in the air; its feet drummed on the floor. Then it ceased moving. An inner wind convulsed it; its limbs floundered and twitched. It became inert.
I said, "Don't hit it again, Pris." I did not feel able to stand any more. Barrows was saying almost the same thing, muttering at Pris in a dazed monotone.
"Why should I hit it again?" Pris said matter-of-factly; she withdrew the heel of her shoe from its head, bent down, put her shoe back on again. People at the tables around us stared in amazement.
Barrows got out a white linen handkerchief and mopped his forehead. He started to speak, changed his mind, remained silent.
Gradually the Booth simulacrum began to slide from its chair. I stood up and tried to prop it so that it would remain where it was. Dave Blunk rose, too: together we managed to get it propped upright so that it would not fall. Pris sipped her drink expressionlessly.
To the people at the nearby tables Blunk said, "It's a doll, a life-size doll, for display.
Mechanical." For their benefit he showed them the now-visible metal and plastic inner part of the simulacrum's skull. Within the puncture I could see something shining, the damaged ruling monad, I suppose. I wondered if Bob Bundy could repair it. I wondered if I cared whether it could be repaired or not.
Putting out his cigarette Barrows drank his drink, then in a hoarse voice said to Pris, "You've put yourself on bad terms with me, by doing that."
"Then goodbye," Pris said. "Goodbye, Sam K. Barrows, you dirty ugly fairy." She rose to her feet, deliberately knocked over her chair; she walked away from the table, leaving us, going among and past the other tables of people, at last to the checkstand. She got her coat from the girl, there.
Who paid for the drinks ?

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