Through Sean's Eyes

from my second novel, Through Sean's Eyes, Copyright 2015. This is chapters 1-4. This novel is unique in the way it's told, following a detective as he reads a suicide note, which is Sean's life story

Chapter One

    

     Nassau County’s second precinct was already bustling at eight a.m. when Detective John Hoyt walked up to his desk, just as he had mostly every day for the last twenty-odd years. Phones rang constantly in the background, chatter stayed at the max. There were whistles and shouts, suspects and perps either crying or shouting pleas of innocence from the benches or chairs in which they sat tethered, the silver cuffs clinking and clanking.

 Hoyt peered down at his desk, an old, rugged piece of metal with a scarred wooden top. He stared at the stacks of folders and papers that covered the scratched and coffee-ring stained surface, taking a deep breath as he removed his jacket and placed it on the back of his chair. The chair squeaked as he rolled it back, and when he sat, the chair groaned in protest from his significant bulk. He was not, he knew, what he once was physically, though his mind was sharp, probably better than ever.

With a deep breath he cleared off some of the paperwork, stacking older folders on top of newer ones, and then slid his computer keyboard closer so he could check the weather on his ancient Microsoft POS. “Sunny my a*s,” he mumbled, reading the results of his search of the day’s weather. “S’what they said yesterday.”

He glanced out the window, at the light snow falling from a gray sky, and he wondered why he bothered to check the weather at all. His aching bones could sense an approaching storm better than any meteorologist could with their fancy degrees and expensive computers. Another deep breath and he spent the next ten minutes putting the finishing touches on a report from the previous week. He was overdue on several, and the stack of case files on his desk seemed to grow faster than a toddler.

The printer was slowly spitting out his report when Janice Hendricks, his long-time friend and partner, brought him a cup of coffee and two donuts. She leaned on his desk and took a big bite out of hers, crumbs of chocolate snowing down onto her pants leg. Brushing it off, her mouth full and chocolate coating her teeth, she said, “We just…” She put her finger up as she finished chewing, the digit large and stubby with chipped pink polish. She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her sleeve, then started again. “Sorry,” she said, moving her tongue around the inside of her mouth. “We just got a call. Probable suicide.”

“Suicide?” Hoyt asked, rubbing his red- rimmed eyes. “Why they calling us on this?”

She pointed that same stubby finger in his face and, now mid-bite of a jelly donut, said, “Listen, John�"�”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I know, I know. You don’t make the calls.”

She nodded. “Twenty-five years we spent together on the job, I thought you’d have figured that out by now. Captain said we're up, Hot-Stuff. Finish your donuts and we’ll hit the road." She patted his stomach. “Not that you really need ‘em.”

Hoyt raised his middle finger at her, but Janice was quick to offer, “I’ll show you where to stick that, honey.”

He smiled. “Oh yeah? Bend over.”

Janice brought her hands to her chest, feigning surprise. “You mean, you’d do that? For me?” She shook her head, adding, “Well, I’d need some flowers first. Maybe dinner. At least lunch. And you’d have to kiss me. But you wouldn’t know what to do with something this fine.” She then proceeded to turn slowly, striking random poses to a chorus of whistles from the detectives around the room. Even a few of the cuffed gentleman couldn’t help but smile. She finished with a curtsy.

     Hoyt just shook his head. He glanced at his partner, thought of their long history together, feeling a reciprocated affection for the woman that was so rare in his life these days. He looked her up and down as she answered a call on her cell phone.

Janice was a large woman in every sense of the word: Big boned, standing at five-foot-eight, she weighed somewhere between one-ninety and two-ten. Today her black hair was a mess of curls, spilling down to a set of shoulders that many NFL linebackers would envy. Her bright brown eyes were set above a large, scarred, flattened nose, the result of the constant fighting during her childhood in Brooklyn. She didn’t take s**t back then, definitely doesn’t take s**t now, and, just like the rest of her, Janice had a big mouth. However, along with her many large features, she also had a big heart. An advocate against bullying in schools and life in general, Janice would stand up for anyone in the right, or stand up for friends, even when they’re wrong. She was a great person to have on your side, and the last person Hoyt would want to have against him.

Almost twenty-five years they’d been a team, and a great one at that. They had the highest consecutive success rate in the precinct, and remained among the top investigators in the state. And Janice was the closest thing Hoyt had to family�"� at least, family that would speak to him.

     They continued their routine of back-and-forth bantering after Janice finished her call, and then she moved on to allow Hoyt some time to finish his coffee and donuts. He watched her leave as he sipped his coffee, the strong and bitter liquid burning his tongue and throat as it went down. He thought of the call they were about to go on, thought of the person that took their own life. He wondered if it was a male or female, if they had a family and would be missed. He wondered what could have been so wrong in their life that drove them to such a drastic decision, a decision with no turning back. “What was it that drove you over the top?” He asked himself. “What made you feel that things were so bad that you had to end it all?”

     Though he had asked Janice why they received the call, this was far from the first time he had been called on for such a thing. It was, he knew, simply protocol. They would go down to the scene to ensure there was no foul play involved, check with the medical examiner to make sure it was exactly what it appeared to be. Then, case closed. They would go back to work on recent homicides or, the way things had been going the past couple years, there would be a new murder soon. This was not the Long Island he grew up on.

In his fifty-nine years of life Hoyt spent twenty- nine of them on the job, and as of late he felt more ready than ever to retire.  Just a few more months and he would be done. Nine months, fifteen days, he thought. But who’s counting? He knew plenty of detectives his age or older, with the same amount of time on the job, and he knew they dreaded the day they were forced into retirement. In fact, he once felt the same way. He knew that the others would find some way to stay on the job, some way to stay with the chase. Some would become private investigators, thinking their life would reflect that of Phillip Marlowe or Sam Spade. But not Hoyt.

The past year Hoyt had been reconsidering his decision to stay on, wondering why he didn’t pull the pin and get out with twenty-five in. He had no final plan on what he would do when the day came, how he could utilize his skills in another profession. All he knew was that he would still need to work, not just for the income, but to stay busy. And God knows alimony and child support is no joke. What was the saying about divorce? Oh, yeah, Hoyt remembered. Ripping your heart out through your wallet.

But any job would be better than this.

The job weighed on him, as if month by month, year by year, stacks of bricks were roughly thrown upon his shoulders, and with each passing day more were added, mortar sloppily applied, loading him with a constant, ever-growing weight on his back. And it was rapidly becoming more of a burden than he could bear.

     On the job, as a detective, he knew he was supposed to remain objective in order to do his work successfully. But these were people, human beings, and he never could understand how others could see the things they saw on a daily basis without a profound effect on the soul. Sure, he loved the chase, enjoyed the mysteries that came along, and he loved solving the problems, putting the pieces of the puzzle together, followed by the resulting slap of his cuffs on the guilty as he brought them to justice. But they were taught not to personalize the victims, trained to be an emotionless robot. Perhaps that was necessary, but Hoyt could never manage it. Maybe it wasn’t the fact that they weren’t supposed to personalize them, but just that he couldn’t help it. He didn’t like that “John Smith” became “The Deceased” or, simply, “The Victim”, or that the killer, rather than going by their name, became simply “the perpetrator” or “the suspect” until they were in court. Sure, the documents would say their name, but while on trial they became “the defendant”. Then, in prison, they became a number. To many cops it became nothing more than a case number, and eventually both the victim and the perpetrator became a statistic, a number used by politicians to show that they were tough on crime.

But Hoyt couldn’t help but view the victims as the people they once were, couldn’t help but often think of the lives shattered due to their death. Hoyt did his best to compartmentalize the daily burden of his work in order to do his job well, and he understood the need. But as he’d lie in bed, whether awake or asleep, he would see the faces of the dead from the past twenty-nine years. The last few years especially. With the rise of heroin and prescription drug use, the body count was at an all-time high. And many of the dead, as well as their killers, were just kids. It was them that especially haunt him, would always haunt him. It was because of this that he had been teetering, unsteady on the razor’s edge, unsure of which way he would fall when it was all said and done. But of one thing he was certain: though he had not yet reached his breaking point, he was beginning to fracture.

Or perhaps, he realized, he already has.

     His dedication to the job, to the victims and their families, cost him much more than his sleep. His fifteen-year marriage deteriorated because of the endless hours on the job and the after-hours of self-medicating.  Both his ex-wife and seventeen year old son won’t speak to him, both agreeing that he chose the job over them. And perhaps, in a sense, they were right. But they couldn’t possibly understand. He did what he did for them. Not just to put a roof over their heads and food on the table, but to keep them safe. But how could they possibly know or understand? Sure, they watch the news, they see the murders and atrocities across the world on the television, but in the back of their naïve, innocent minds, Hoyt knew, they believed what every victim had believed: It won’t happen to me. And their belief in that didn’t bother him.

They just didn’t understand.

They didn’t understand that with every murderer he put away he slightly decreased the chances that it could happen to them. And they didn’t understand that if he didn’t care about the victims, who would? His problem, he knew, was that he cared too much.

     “Hoyt, move your fat a*s!”  Janice shouted from across the room.

Hoyt jumped at the sudden noise, broken out of his thoughts. He was glad for the interruption, though, and finished what was now cold coffee. Taking a final long, deep breath, he stood and put on his coat, grabbed a donut and headed out into the cold March morning.

                          #

Chapter Two

 

     It was cold, even for mid-March on Long Island. With the temperature already a couple degrees below zero, a slight breeze would occasionally appear from nowhere, and with it came an unexpected bite on any exposed flesh in which it came in contact. It had stopped snowing, though tons of the white stuff was piled high against the curbs and on the sidewalks. The sky was the kind of gray that was taunting, promising more snow to come in the near-future.

As Hoyt marched over toward the Crown Vic, he wished he had worn his long-johns, and he berated himself for forgetting his knit cap. Already he could sense that this day would be long one.

     Janice had already started the vehicle, a beastly V-8 the color of diarrhea, and Hoyt was glad to find the heat blasting, circulating around the cracked, brown leather interior. Taking in the scent of stale cigarette smoke and gun oil as he rubbed his hands together for warmth, Hoyt glanced at Janice, wondering what was going through her head regarding the victim they were about to see. She was the closest of anyone Hoyt had ever met on the force that shared his feelings for the victims and their families, but she handled her emotions well, hiding her thoughts from the others behind a tough façade. And Hoyt understood. Being a woman on the force was difficult enough. To break down and cry over a victim, to even share such thoughts, would be a form of career suicide.

Suicide. The word stopped Hoyt’s thought process, bringing him back to the here-and-now.

He had recently been finding himself tuned out, vacant, his mind void, a static, as if his brain was an old television stuck on white noise until someone came along and adjusted the antenna.

     “Where’s it at?” Hoyt asked, blowing into his hands.

     “Plainview,” she replied, glancing at him. “Off Woodbury Road. Landlord made the ID, said his name is�"� was �"� Sean Cook. White male, age twenty-six. Apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.”

     “Twenty-six,” he said, shaking his head. Just a kid.

     The ride took about fifteen minutes, mainly because of the icy roads, and they spent the majority of the time People Watching. The game was simple. They would see a driver or a pedestrian and switch off telling one another where that person was heading, where they came from, and what happened earlier and throughout that person’s day. Sometimes they would act out a scene in real-time, specifically if their target was a male and female pair. It was especially fun when they’d catch someone on a cell phone. If it was a male, Hoyt would pretend to be him while Janice played the person on the other end of the phone, or vice versa.

While cruising down Woodbury Road, just a few blocks from their destination, they spotted a woman chatting away on her cell phone. She seemed to be paying more attention to the call than her driving, her shiny red BMW slightly swerving back and forth as she yelled at the unfortunate person on the other end of the call. There was a red bow on the car’s roof, which the woman was apparently too busy to take off as she set about her tasks. Janice saw the perfect opportunity for their game and jumped right in.

“What is wrong with you, you b*****d!” Janice mocked as the woman yelled. “I asked for another Mercedes, not this piece of s**t! You might as well have gotten me an oxcart!”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Hoyt replied, his voice soft. “I thought you would enjoy a red BMW to go along with the white, blue, black, and gray ones. You already have the Mercedes in every color, including red. For now, why don’t you take the American Express Black Card and go to Bloomingdales. Buy whatever you want. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. I promise, Sweety. We can get whatever car you’d like.”

“You old, fat b*****d! And this is only a six series! What? I don’t deserve more of the seven series? And I’m sick of these German Pieces of s**t anyway! I want a Mercedes! The convertible that looks so pretty!”

“Sweetheart, Mercedes are German cars as well. And the car I just got you is a convertible. But it’s March, darling. Who drives with the top down in the dead of winter?”

We approached a red light and the lady held up two fingers for one reason or another, which Janice picked up on right away. “You never listen to me! Now I want two cars! Two! A Mercedes and… and that car that James Bond drives! An… an Aston Martin! Or maybe a Bentley. And if I don’t get two, you know what’s gonna happen to your fat a*s?”

“No, darling, I don’t know. Please, please enlighten me.” Hoyt could barely suppress an anticipatory laugh from his thoughts of what nonsense Janice would think of saying.

“You’re gonna be paying me two million dollars a week in alimony!”

Janice maintained speed, parallel to the other car. The woman in the BMW continued to shout, but suddenly her face dropped and her expression softened. Hoyt decided he would fill in why. “Okay, sweetheart,” he said. “Now it’s my turn to tell you something. Actually, I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” Janice said, her voice suddenly sweet.

“Yup, a surprise. Go in to the glove compartment. Pull out the envelope. I’ll wait.”

Janice paused a beat for effect. Then: “What is this s**t? Divorce papers? You want a divorce? Hah! That’s just perfect! I’ll sign as soon as I can get my pen. There was no Prenup, jackass.”

“Honey, you underestimate me.”

“No, you fat f**k! You underestimate me! I only married your fat a*s for your money. I’ve been cheating on you since our honeymoon.”

Hoyt laughed, his mind connecting the dots to a similar story he had heard from another detective, giving him the idea of what he was about to say. Janice made a left, the lady in the BMW moving out of sight, but Hoyt finished it up anyway. “Well, beside the fact that this conversation was recorded�"� which, with all you’ve said, would ensure I don’t have to pay you a dime �"�I have pictures of you cheating with everyone from the gardener and plumber, to my boss and my brother in law. I’m sorry, but you won’t be getting a cent out of me.”

“Sweetheart, you know I was just joking about all of that. Ha-ha-ha. Funny, right? That was funny? Right? Wait, why aren’t you laughing? Honey? Baby, are you there? F**k!”

     Janice made another left, turning onto the block that Sean Cook �"�the victim�"� lived on. Both of them were cracking up from the mock conversation, tears actually coming out of Janice’s eyes. The things they often came up with never failed to bring well-needed laughter, some levity to such a serious profession. Janice especially. She was amazing at improvisation, whether it was a quick joke or for something on the job, Janice could always be relied on for that. The game was a necessity, often breaking up the monotony of the slow days and stake-outs, or to give them a reprieve during the mind-numbing investigations.

Janice slowed the car to a crawl as they cruised down the block, scanning for house numbers. They arrived at a small four-square home, three patrol cars lining the curb in front of them. Janice said, “B******s always get the best parking spots!”

Hoyt shook his head and laughed, but quickly turned serious when his mind returned to the reason they were there. Suddenly stabbed with guilt for laughing, Hoyt chastised himself for joking on his way to such a horrible event. A young man took his life, and Hoyt was joking around outside of his home.

     They climbed out of the car, the Crown Vic squeaking, rising slightly from the combined four-hundred-plus pounds suddenly taken off the suspension. Hoyt saw a local news van parked across the street, a cameraman and an attractive blond he recognized standing on the driveway at the crime scene- taped border. The snow was up to their ankles. On the other side of the tape, standing in about a foot of snow, was a patrol officer who, upon spotting the arriving detectives, went wide-eyed for a moment before averting his gaze. Hoyt correctly assumed that the man had given some information he wasn’t supposed to in order to get some credit with the blond. Or the cameraman, perhaps, depending on which team he played for. Regardless, this infuriated Hoyt, and he made a rapid bee-line for the now visibly shaken officer.

When Hoyt was just a foot away from the officer, he stared the man down for a moment before turning to the reporter. “Hello, ma’am,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m alright, Detective…”

“Detective Hoyt, ma’am.”

Lynn Jameson smiled, the practiced smile of a television personality, albeit local television, and Hoyt understood why the officer would try to win some points with her. She was, after all, a beautiful woman. But still, the officer’s actions went against protocol, and the man could lose his job for giving out information to the press without permission. Without Hoyt’s permission. One must consider the family of the victim in such situations, and clearly this officer had been thinking of other things. Thinking with the wrong head, Hoyt’s father used to say.

He briefly wondered if he was taking out his own feelings of guilt for his actions on the other man, but realized it made no difference. The officer was wrong regardless, and Hoyt now had to try to find out what this reporter knew. If she knew there was a body, Hoyt would have to urge her to hold off on the broadcast until the family was notified.

It was time for damage control. Preemptive damage control.

“Okay, Detective Hoyt. Would I be able to get a statement from you?”

“Sure thing, ma’am,” Hoyt said, his smile wide. “What is it you would like to know?”

She pulled a tape recorder out of her coat pocket, struggled to press the record button with her gloved fingers. When she managed to hit record she said, “Well, I’m wondering what kind of Detective you are, meaning your division.”

“I’m from Robbery/Homicide.”

“Robbery/Homicide?” She made a quick glance to the officer standing behind Hoyt, and he caught the surprise in her expression. She was obviously told it was a suicide, and this was confirmed when she spoke. “Well, then, I’d like to know why a homicide detective is here for a suicide. Is it something more, Detective? Any foul play?”

Hoyt did his best to keep his expression neutral, but he was furious at the officer. “Well, ma’am, as you can see, I just arrived this minute, so I don’t know much yet. But it’s simply protocol to send a homicide detective in to make sure the initial reports are correct.”

She nodded, but still seemed unconvinced. Hoyt had to play this carefully. He leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, as if he were about to supply her with a goldmine of information. But all he said was, “Listen, ma’am. I promise I will personally give you the relevant details when I am through. You have my word on that. But I have to ask you to do me a favor.”

She looked at him, head cocked to the side, her mouth a thin, flat line. She spoke in the monotone of someone who knew what was coming, and was not happy about it. “And what would that be, Detective?”

“Well, I’d like to ask you to hold off on your broadcast.” She was about to speak, but Hoyt cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Please, just hear me out. The victim’s family must be notified before this story hits the airwaves. Usually the family’s information is quite easy to find, and it will only take a couple of hours.”

“Detective, this is my story. I’m not standing here in the freezing cold all morning just to�"�”

“Ma’am, please. Just put yourself in the victim’s family’s shoes. Imagine you’re watching the news, sitting with your whole family over lunch, and you see your son, or your daughter, or boyfriend, or your whatever’s house on the news. And that’s how you find out about their death. You understand where I’m coming from?”

“Yo, Hoyt,” Janice called from the porch of the house. “Stop flirting with the babe and come do your job.”

The reporter smiled at the statement, and, again, Hoyt smiled in return. “Okay, Detective,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll give it a couple hours.” She pulled a card out of her back pocket. “If you notify them sooner, give me a call.”

Hoyt briefly glanced at the card, and then placed it in his jacket pocket. “Thank you very much, ma’am. I owe you one.”

Again, she smiled. “Yes you do.” She pointed a skinny, manicured finger at Hoyt as he began to back away. “And I’m expecting all the details first.”

“You got it, ma’am. You have my word. Thank you.”

Hoyt stared down the officer again as he passed, making a show of diverting his eyes to the man’s nameplate. Davidson. The man was shaking, and Hoyt knew it wasn’t from the cold. “If I catch you by that reporter again, you’re gonna be gone quicker than she would have turned you down for a date.”

The man shook his head vigorously, and Hoyt walked toward the house.

The house was a four-square, its yellow paint faded with age. The walkway could barely be seen due to the un-shoveled snow, discernable only by the deep-set footprints made by the officers and the landlord that discovered the body. The wrap-around porch was painted brown, the railing covered in a thin blanket of snow that drifted down to the ground as Hoyt used it for balance as he climbed the steps. This gave him an idea, and Hoyt turned around after he reached the top step of the porch. He yelled, “Hey, Davidson!”

The big-mouth was chatting away with another officer, and he quickly turned around, his expression returning to one of alarm. “Yes, sir?”

Hoyt, pointing his finger at the path of footprints in the snow, ordered, “Grab a couple of shovels and hit this walkway with your buddy. When you’re done with that, hit the sidewalk and driveway. It’s, uh… It’s important that the medical examiner has a clear path.”

Davidson’s eyes went down to his feet, then back up to Hoyt. “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice low, like a child told to sit in time-out.

Hoyt allowed himself a brief smile as he turned and walked back up to the porch. He opened the door, and the smell hit him instantly.

It was unmistakable.

The pungent aroma of death.

 

                             #

Chapter Three

 

The stench grew stronger when the screen door snapped shut behind him. Reaching into his pocket, Hoyt pulled out a small tube of Vicks VapoRub and placed a dab under each nostril. The smell was immediately replaced by the scent of eucalyptus. He put on a pair of latex gloves, a size to small, and then bent down and placed a pair of nylex bootees on his feet. He looked around at the drab interior of the small home, at the old, mismatched furniture sparsely placed about the room. An ashtray sat on a heavily scratched table, overflowing with ashes and cigarette butts. An old, faded black sofa sat on one side of the table, while a gray love seat, its fabric torn and dirty, sat opposite. A Laz-E-Boy recliner, its leather worn, sat at an angle, facing away from the door.

Hoyt could hear, though faintly, movement off to his right, but the home was otherwise quiet, the only sound being the dull thump of his covered boots as he slowly moved across the wood floor.

“In here, John,” called Janice, and Hoyt followed the sound of her voice down a small hallway, the ceiling and walls cracked and water-stained. At the end of the hallway were two doors. He saw Janice standing next to a uniformed officer in the doorway to his left. He pushed open the doorway to his right, hearing the hinges creak as it slowly revealed a bathroom. He didn’t expect to find anything of any importance there, and he didn’t, but he wanted a few extra moments to prepare himself mentally.

He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, steeling himself for what was to come.

Janice was speaking with the responding officer as Hoyt stepped into the room. The smell grew intense, even over the Vicks, and Hoyt saw the body slumped in a chair. He turned his attention elsewhere, anywhere, swallowing, taking a deep breath through his mouth as he took in the rest of the room. All these years, and the bodies never got any easier to look at.

A queen-size bed was to his right in the corner, the bed unmade, specks of blood and tissue on the white linen. A table with an alarm clock and lamp, the lamp’s shade also spattered with blood. On the floor, next to the bed, was a laptop computer, a cable snaking out of the back to a printer up against a wall. Next to the printer sat two twenty-five pound weights, and on the wall above was yet more blood spatter. Taking another deep breath through his mouth, Hoyt turned back to the body.

The body sat skewed in an awkward position, sitting in front of a dark brown desk, a large mirror centered between two shelves perched on each side. The shelves were stacked with books, mostly paperbacks, and through the mirror’s reflection he could see the young man’s void eyes staring blankly. Hoyt saw the man’s�"� the kid’s, really �"�right hand hanging limp a couple inches off of the floor, a large, chrome .357 Magnum revolver dangling from the kid’s finger�" which remained in the trigger guard�" it’s long barrel resting at the edge of a pool of blood on the floor. The now congealed blood pooled behind the wooden chair in which the body sat, a trail of the thick crimson substance seeping down in a jagged line to the floor.

“Hey,” said one of the uniformed officers in the room. “Look at the blood pool. Looks like a map of America.” He bent down closer, pointing with a pen he removed from his pocket. “Here’s Maine, and Texas. Wow!” He looked up, excitement from his discovery. “And see here, where the barrel spread it out? It’s Florida. Incredible.” He stood up, pleased with himself until he caught a look from Hoyt that made him freeze.

“Is that all, officer?” Janice asked, her tone implying the answer she wants to hear.

He looked from Hoyt to Janice and then nodded sheepishly. “Yeah.”

     “Okay, then,” Hoyt said. “Go out front and help Davidson with his assignment.” When the officer left, Hoyt shook his head and said, “Un-f*****g-believable.”

Janice shook her head and sighed as the partners continued to take in the scene.

There were images taped on the border of the mirror going all the way around, and as he stepped closer Hoyt saw that it was all photographs of eyes, dozens of eyes staring back at him. He realized he was avoiding what he did not want to see, so he immediately shifted his eyes to get it over with.

The left portion of the back of the kid’s head was missing. Just gone, vaporized, pieces of hair and skull and brain matter on the chair and floor and walls several feet away. The high-powered round was very effective. Hoyt followed an imaginary line, looking from the entrance wound to the exit wound. When he glanced up at the door frame he saw what he expected: a neat hole in the ceiling where the bullet struck after exiting Sean’s skull.

He looked back at the body. Even the entrance wound, usually much smaller than the exit wound, left a crater in the right side of his face, causing the entire bone structure to collapse into itself. It appeared as if there was an extra mouth where his right eye had once been, and that the mouth had swallowed the rest of the face.

Hoyt concluded from this alone that this was, in fact, a suicide, though tests by the medical examiner would put any possible doubts to rest. The cop part of Hoyt’s brain was satisfied, but the deeper, human side of him still had questions yet to be answered. Mainly: why?

Hoyt heard the screen door open and slap closed, snapping him out of his reverie. Footsteps approached, and a moment later two crime scene technicians appeared, each holding a small box containing their crime scene kits. The Medical Examiner followed behind them.

Hoyt was glad to see them, knowing he would get a brief reprieve from all of the emotions that enveloped him. They greeted Hoyt by name, and he nodded a solemn hello in return. They spoke to Janice for a few moments, and she confirmed their belief that it was a suicide.

Nothing more they could do in that room, Janice and Hoyt decided to head out and look around the house. All that was left was the notification of the family and next of kin. Hoyt quickly glanced around the room for an address book or a cell phone when he remembered seeing something that caught his eye, so he turned back to check it out. Inside the computer’s printer tray was a stack of paper, about an inch thick. Hoyt approached and carefully leaned in for a closer look. A thin sheet of clear plastic covered the pages, but Hoyt could see that the top of the page held an underlined sentence that said, “To The One Who Finds This”. Beneath it, Hoyt read aloud.  “If you’re reading this, then someone found my body…”

#

To The One Who Finds This

 

If you’re reading this, then someone found my body.

It’s funny, really, that even now, sitting in the low light at the very same desk I chose to die, I’m wondering who it is that found me. Was it Maryanne, the gossip-queen and nosey neighbor? Was it Don, the I-Need-The-Rent-Early-Because-Of-My-Cocaine-Problem landlord? Or, finally, was it some random, fat, balding cop that, even as he reads this, is thinking about when and where his next donut will be? There’s nobody else that would find me, nobody, even out of the three mentioned above, that would care. After all, my family is long gone.

Well, if it’s Gwen, I hope the discovery of my most likely headless corpse is sufficient gossip for all of the next month’s Bridge games; if it’s Don, the money-hungry, cocaine vacuum, I just want to say that there is no money anywhere in the house. I know that in all probability you won’t read this, if ever, until you already finished searching the house, but if for some unexplained reason you decided to pick this up first, I decided to save you the trouble. There is no money. I gave the cash, including all of this month’s rent, to someone deserving, someone who actually needs it: The homeless gentleman, Steve, who lives in the park down the street; Or if it was some donut-loving officer of the law, there’s a Krispy Kreme two blocks north of here, on Woodbury Road. And, as a present from me to you, (If Don is reading this, put it down here) the donuts are on me: In my right pocket you will find my last two bucks. You are the only one out of the three I don’t have a deep-seated hatred for, even though many police officers have made my life a living hell. Still, I don’t take it personal and have no animosity towards you or your co-workers. Enjoy the donuts.

Regardless of who found me, this is my suicide note. “Note” may not be the best word, actually, due to its size and structure, so let’s call it my suicide manuscript. Good, I like that. Has a ring to it, right?

I always wanted to be an author, to share my story with the world. And though that dream will never come true, I have decided to share that story now. Whether someone will actually read it, I don’t know or care. And no, the following will not be some “Woe-is-Me” story. I am now dead. Your pity does nothing for me. Unlike all I have read and heard by the authors of their life stories, my story will simply relay the facts of my life as I know them. I will neither omit nor embellish the things I have done, for better or worse. I wrote this for myself, though I want to help the people that will lead a life similar to my own, and to expose the people in positions of power that take advantage of the power they hold. If you don’t understand, keep reading. Then it will all become quite clear.

As to why I have done this, I have my reasons. I once read somewhere, “Why go out with a question mark when you can go out with an exclamation point?” That sentence had a profound effect on me. So, the following should answer any questions one might have as to why I did what I did. And for the exclamation point? Well, the .357 I chose for the deed should cover that. I guess one could say that I went out with a bang!

The following is the story of my life, though I would call it more of an existence…

#

Chapter Four

 

“The following is the story of my life, though I would call it more of an existence…” Hoyt repeated the line to himself, flipping through the pages, before looking up and noticing the medical examiner for the first time. “Sorry, Fred,” Hoyt said. “We’re on our way out now. Let us know when you finish.”

The ME shrugged. “No problem, Detective. I’ll let you know as soon as I’m through.”

Hoyt nodded, then stepped toward the door. He froze, then turned back and looked at the crime scene technicians, holding up the papers in his hand when he asked, “You guys done with this?”

“Yeah, John. We’re good.”

“Thanks fellas.”

Hoyt gave them a slight nod and then followed Janice into the kitchen. He was distracted by Sean’s words, eager to dive back into the pages in search of an answer to his many questions; questions rarely answered in suicides.

“Hey, Sugar Lips.”

Hoyt looked up to see his partner staring at him questioningly. “Yeah, Jan. What’s up?”

“You okay?”

Her expression showed Hoyt that the question had a much deeper meaning then the words conveyed. He gave a half-smile that didn’t quite extend to his eyes. “Yeah,” he assured her. “I’m good.”

Her eyes seemed to bore into him for a few moments longer, her gaze attempting to read beyond his words. She nodded to the papers in his hand. “What ya got there?”

Hoyt paused for a moment, pondering what he had already read. “Answers,” he said. “I think I found the answers.”

#

After explaining to Janice the meaning of his statement he allowed her to read the opening of the “manuscript” for herself. She seemed disturbed by the young man’s words, her demeanor turning more melancholy than usual. Just as she was putting the papers down, the medical examiner and crime scene technicians walked past carrying the black bag containing the body of Sean cook. They informed the detectives they would be in touch, and then proceeded to carry the body out to their van.

Both of the detectives were distracted as they searched the small home for names and phone numbers of the victim’s next of kin, or any other family they could find. After finding no cell phone in the house at all, neither of them expected to come up with anything, believing Sean’s own words that he had no family. But they had to go through the motions. Neither was surprised when their search came up empty.

Janice asked, “What next?”

“I’m not sure,” Hoyt said, though in his mind he knew what he wanted to do. “Let’s head out. Wait for the ME to call and confirm.”

“Sounds good,” Janice said. “We can finish knocking on some doors in the Mendez case. That was in this area too.”

Hoyt nodded, though his expression seemed to say otherwise. “Okay. Sounds like a plan.”

Hoyt started to walk out, stopping when he noticed that Janice had not moved at all. “What?” he asked her.

Janice stood with her hands on her hips, her expression stern, a mother chastising a child. “You seem like you have something else you’d rather do.”

Hoyt raised his hand. “Come on, wha�"�”

“Don’t play games with me, John. We’ve been partners too long. I know you.” She pointed to the papers in his hand. “You’ve looked at those papers every ten seconds. Is that what you want to do? You want to look for answers, John?”

Hoyt stood still, unsure of how to answer, but knew she was right. She went on before he could speak. “John, I understand�"� You know I understand �"� but nothing is gonna bring this kid back. We have other cases that need our attention. We have an obligation to the victim’s families. We have a job to do.”

Hoyt held up in his hands in mock-surrender. “Okay, okay. You’re right.”

Janice smiled. “I’m always right, John.” She poked a finger in his chest as she strutted by. “Always.”

Janice walked toward the door and Hoyt quickly followed. He knew she was right, and he would do his job. He owed it to the families of the victims, and to the victims themselves. He would allow himself to forget about Sean Cook until they heard from the Medical Examiner.

If he wanted answers he would have to get them on his own time.

#

Author's Note

Please give me your input. Will post more upon request.