“Perfect.”
As I went back into the newsroom I checked the overhead clock and saw it was half past eleven. The timing was good for what I needed to do. At my desk I made a call to a source at the cop shop.
“Hey, Skipper, you going to be there?”
“When?”
“During lunch. I might need something. I probably will.”
“Shit. Okay. I’m here. Hey, when’d you get back?”
“Today. Talk to you.”
I hung up, then I put on my long coat and headed out of the newsroom. I walked the two blocks over to the Denver Police Department headquarters, flipped my press pass at the front counter to a cop who didn’t bother to look up from his Post and went on up to the SIU offices on the fourth floor.
“I’ve got one question,” Detective Robert Scalari said after I told him what I wanted. “Are you here as a brother or as a reporter?”
“Both.”
“Sit down.”
Scalari leaned across his desk, maybe, I guessed, so I could appreciate the intricate hair-weaving job he had done to hide his bald spot.
“Listen, Jack,” he said. “I have a problem with that.”
“What problem?”
“Look, if you were coming to me as a brother who wanted to know why, that would be one thing and I would probably tell you what I know. But if what I tell you is going to end up in the Rocky Mountain News, I’m not interested. I’ve got too much respect for your brother to let what happened to him help sell newspapers. Even if you don’t.”
We were alone in a small office with four desks in it.
Scalari’s words made me angry but I swallowed it back. I leaned toward him so he could see my healthy, full head of hair.
“Let me ask you something, Detective Scalari. Was my brother murdered?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“You are sure it was suicide, right?”
“That is correct.”
“And the case is closed?”
“Right again.”
I leaned back away from him.
“Then that really bothers me.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you’re trying to have it both ways. You’re telling me the case is closed, yet I can’t look at the records. If it is closed, then I should be allowed to look at the case because he was my brother. And if it’s closed, that means that, as a reporter, I can’t compromise an ongoing investigation by looking at the records, either.”
I let him digest that for a few moments.
“So,” I finally continued, “going by your own logic, there is no reason why I shouldn’t be able to look at the records.”
Scalari looked at me. I could see the anger working behind his cheeks now.
“Listen to me, Jack, there are things in that file better left not known, and certainly not published.”
“I think I’m a better judge of that, Detective Scalari. He was my brother. My twin. I’m not going to hurt him. I’m just trying to make sense of something for myself. If I then write about it, it will be to finally put it in the ground with him. Okay?”
We sat there staring at each other for a long moment. It was his turn and I waited him out.
“I can’t help you,” he said finally. “Even if I wanted to. It’s closed. Case is closed. The file went to records for processing. You want it, go see them.”
I stood up.
“Thanks for telling me at the beginning of the conversation.”
I walked out without saying another word. I had known Scalari would blow me off. I went to him because I had to go through the motions and because I wanted to see if I could learn the location of the file.
I went down the stairs that mostly only cops used and into the office of the department’s administrative captain. It was fifteen minutes past twelve so the desk in the reception area was empty. I walked past it, knocked on the door and heard a voice tell me to enter.
Inside, Captain Forest Grolon sat behind his desk. He was such a large man that the standard issue desk looked like child’s furniture. He was a dark-complected black man with a shaven head. He stood to shake my hand and I was reminded that he topped out above six and a half feet. I figured a scale would have to have 300 on its dial if it were going to take his full measure. I shook his hand and smiled. He had been a source of mine since I was on the daily police beat six years earlier and he was a patrol sergeant. We had both risen through the ranks since then.
“Jack, how’s it going? You say you’re just back?”
“Yeah, I took some time. I’m okay.”
He didn’t mention my brother. He had been one of the few at the funeral and that made it clear how he felt. He sat back down and I took one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Grolon’s job had little to do with policing the city. He was in the business end of the department. He was in charge of the annual budget, hiring and training. Firing, too. It had little to do with police work but it was all part of his plan. Grolon wanted to be police chief one day and was gathering a wide variety of experience so when the time came he’d look best for the job. Part of that plan was also to keep contacts in the local media. When the time was right, he’d count on me for a positive profile in the Rocky. And I would come through. In the meantime, I could count on him for things as well.
“So what am I missing lunch for?” he said gruffly, which was part of the routine we played. I knew that Grolon preferred meeting me at lunch when his adjutant was out and there was less chance that he would be seen with me.
“You’re not missing lunch. You’re just getting it late. I want to see the file on my brother. Scalari said he already sent it to get filmed. I thought maybe you could pull it and let me look at it real quick.”
“Why do you want to do that, Jack? Whyn’t you let sleeping dogs lie?”
“I’ve got to look, Captain. I’m not quoting from it. I just want to look at it. You get it now and I’ll be done with it before the microfilm folks even get back from lunch. Nobody will know. Except you and me. And I’ll remember it.”
Ten minutes later, Grolon handed me the file. It was as thin as the year-round residents phone book for Aspen. I don’t know why but I had expected something thicker, heavier, as if the size of the investigative file bore some resemblance to the significance of the death.
Inside on top was an envelope marked PHOTOS which I put to the side of the desk without opening. Next there was an autopsy report and several standard reports that were paper-clipped together.
I had studied autopsy reports often enough to know that I could skip the pages of endless description of body glands, organs and general condition and go to the last pages, where conclusions were written. And there were no surprises here. Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head. The word suicide was circled below it. Blood scans for commonly used drugs showed traces of dextromethorphan hydrobromide. Following this entry a lab tech’s notes said “cough suppressant—glove box.” It meant that other than a shot or two of cough syrup from a bottle kept in the car, my brother was stone cold sober when he put the gun in his mouth.
The forensic analysis report contained a subreport labeled GSR, which I knew meant gunshot residue. It stated that a neutron activation analysis of leather gloves worn by the victim found particles of burned gunpowder on the right glove, indicating he had used that hand to fire the weapon. GSR and gas burns were also found in the victim’s throat. The conclusion was that the barrel had been in Sean’s mouth when the gun discharged.