Next in the packet was an evidence inventory and I saw nothing unusual here. After this I found the witness statement. The witness was Park Ranger Stephen Pena, who was assigned to a one-ranger substation and information booth at Bear Lake.
Witness stated he did not have a view of the parking area while working in the booth. At approx. 4:58 P.M. witness heard a muffled report he identified from experience as a gunshot. He identified the origin as the parking lot and immediately went to investigate the possibility of illegal hunting. At this time there was only one vehicle in the lot and through the partially fogged windows he saw the victim slumped back in the driver’s seat. Witness ran to the vehicle but could not open the door because it was locked. Looking closely through the fogged windows he determined that the victim appeared to be deceased because of the massive damage to the rear of the head. Witness then returned to the park booth where he immediately notified authorities and his supervisors. He then returned to the victim’s car to await the arrival of authorities.
Witness states that the victim’s vehicle was within his sight no more than five seconds after he heard the shot. The car was parked approx. 50 yards from the nearest forest cover or structure. It is believed by the witness to have been impossible for someone to have left the victim’s car after the shooting and gotten to the cover without the witness seeing him.
I returned the statement sheet to its place in the packet and glanced through the other reports. There was a page titled Case Report that detailed my brother’s last day. He reported to work at 7:30 A.M., had lunch with Wexler at noon and signed out at 2 P.M. to go to the Stanley. He did not tell Wexler or anyone else whom he was going to see.
Attempts by investigators to determine if Sean had actually gone to the Stanley were unsuccessful. All waitresses and busboys in the hotel’s restaurant were interviewed and none recalled my brother.
There was a one-page report in the file summarizing Scalari’s interview with Sean’s psychologist. Somehow, maybe through Riley, he had found out that Sean was seeing the Denver therapist. Dr. Colin Dorschner, according to Scalari’s report, said Sean was suffering from acute depression brought about by job stress, in particular his failure to close the Lofton case. What was not contained in the interview summary was whether Scalari ever asked Dorschner if he had thought my brother was suicidal. I wondered if Scalari had even asked that question.
The last sheaf of papers in the package was the investigating officer’s final report. The last paragraph was Scalari’s summary and conclusion.
Based upon physical evidence and the eyewitness account of the death of Detective Sean McEvoy, I/O concludes that the victim died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound after writing a message on the inside of the fogged windshield. The victim was known by colleagues, including I/O, and his wife and psychologist Colin Dorschner to be emotionally burdened by his unsuccessful efforts to clear by arrest the Dec. 19 homicide of Theresa Lofton (case no. 832). It is believed at this time that this disturbance may have led him to take his own life. DPD psychological consultant Dr. Armand Griggs said in an interview (2/22) that the message—Out of Space—Out of Time—written on the windshield could be considered a suicide-style farewell consistent with the victim’s state of mind.
At this time, there is no evidence conflicting with the conclusion of suicide.
Submitted 2/24/I/O RJS D-II
Clipping the reports back together, I realized there was only one thing left that I hadn’t looked at.
Grolon had decided to go to the cafeteria to pick up a sandwich to go. I was left alone in his office. Probably five minutes passed in stillness while I considered the envelope. I knew that if I looked at the photographs they would become the lasting image in my mind of my brother. I did not want that. But I also knew that I needed to see the photos to know for sure about his death, to help disperse any last doubts.
I opened the envelope quickly so as to not change my mind. As I slid the stack of 8 x 10 color prints out, the first image that greeted me was an establishing shot. My brother’s detective car, a white Chevy Caprice, alone at the end of the parking lot. I could see the ranger shack up a low hill from it. The lot had been freshly plowed, a four-foot embankment of snow around the edges.
The next photo was a close-up of the windshield from the outside. The message was barely legible, as the steam had dissipated from the glass. But it was there and through the glass I could also see Sean. His head was snapped back, his jaw up. I went to the next photo and I was inside the car with him. Taken from the passenger side front, his whole body visible. Blood had worked its way like a thick necklace around his neck from the back and then down over the sweater. His heavy snow coat was open. There was spatter on the roof and back side window. The gun was on the seat next to his right thigh.
The rest of the photos were mostly close-ups from various angles. But they did not have the effect on me I thought they would. The sterile lighting robbed my brother of his humanity. He looked like a mannequin. But I found nothing about them as upsetting as the fact that I had once more convinced myself that Sean had indeed taken his own life. I admitted to myself then that I had secretly come with a hope and that it was gone now.
Grolon came back in then. He looked at me with curious eyes. I stood up and placed the file on his desk as he maneuvered around it to his seat. He opened a brown paper bag and removed a plastic-wrapped egg salad sandwich.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You want half?”
“No.”
“Well, how do you feel?”
I smiled at the question because I had asked the same thing so many times. It must have thrown him off. He frowned.
“See this?” I said, pointing to the scar on my face. “I got that for asking somebody that same thing once.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I wasn’t.”
5
After viewing the file on my brother’s death I wanted the details of the Theresa Lofton case. If I was going to write about what my brother did, I had to know what he knew. I had to understand what he had come to understand. Only this time Grolon couldn’t help me. The active homicide files were kept under lock and Grolon would see more of a risk than a benefit in attempting to get the Lofton file for me.
After I checked the CAPs squad room and found it emptied for lunch, the first place I looked for Wexler was the Satire. It was a favored place for cops to eat—and drink—at lunch. I saw him there in one of the rear booths. The only problem was, he was with St. Louis. They didn’t see me and I debated whether it would be better just to withdraw and try later to get to Wexler alone. But then Wexler’s eyes stopped on me. I walked over. I could see by their ketchup-smeared plates that they had finished eating. Wexler had what looked like a Jim Beam and ice on the table in front of him.
“Would ya look at this?” Wexler said good-naturedly.
I slid into the wide booth next to St. Louis. I chose his side so I would be looking at Wexler.
“What is this?” St. Louis mildly protested.
“It’s the press,” I said. “Howzit going?”
“Don’t answer,” St. Louis said quickly to Wexler. “He wants something he can’t have.”