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.”
“Of course I do,” I said. “What else is new?”
“Nothing is new, Jack,” Wexler said. “Is what Big Dog says true? You want something you can’t have?”
It was a dance. Friendly patter designed to ferret out the basic nut of information without specifically asking for it and confronting it. It went with the nicknames cops used. I had danced like this many times and I was good at it. They were finesse moves. Like practicing the three-man weave in high school basketball. Keep your eyes open for the ball, watch the other two men at once. I was always the finesse player. Sean was the strength. He was football. I was basketball.
“Not exactly,” I said. “But I am back on the job again, boys.”
“Oh, here we go,” St. Louis whined. “Hold on to your hats.”
“So, what’s happening on the Lofton case?” I asked Wexler, ignoring St. Louis.
“Whoa there, Jack, are you talking to us as a reporter now?” Wexler asked.
“I’m only talking to you. And that’s right, as a reporter.”
“Then no comment on Lofton.”
“So the answer is nothing is happening.”
“I said no comment.”
“Look, I want to see what you’ve got. The case is almost three months old now. It’s going into the dead case file soon if it isn’t already there and you know it. I just want to see the file. I want to know what hooked Sean so deep.”
“You’re forgetting something. Your brother was ruled a suicide. Case closed. It doesn’t matter what hooked him about Lofton. Besides, it’s not known as fact that it had anything to do with what he did. It’s collateral at best. But we’ll never know.”
“Cut the crap. I just saw the file on Sean.” Wexler’s eyebrows raised a subliminal amount, I thought. “It’s all there. Sean was fucked up over this case. He was seeing a shrink, he was spending all of his time on it. So don’t tell me we’ll never know.”
“Look, kid, we—”
“Did you ever call Sean that?” I interrupted.
“What?”
“Kid. Did you ever call him kid?” Wexler looked confused.
“Nope.”
“Then don’t call me it, either.”
Wexler raised his arms in a hands-off manner.
“Why can’t I see the file? You’re not going anywhere with it.”
“Who says?”
“I do. You’re afraid of it, man. You saw what it did to Sean and you don’t want it to happen to you. So the case is stuck in a drawer somewhere. It’s got dust on it. I guarantee it.”
“You know, Jack, you’re seriously full of shit. And if you weren’t your brother’s brother, I’d throw you outta here on your ass. You’re getting me pissed. I don’t like being pissed.”
“Yeah? Then imagine how I’m feeling. The thing of it is, I am his brother and I think that cuts me in.”
St. Louis gave a smirking type of laugh meant to belittle me.
“Hey, Big Dog, isn’t it about time you went out and watered a fire hydrant or something?” I said.
Wexler burst out with the start of a laugh but quickly contained it. But St. Louis’s face turned red.