Saturday, May 26, 2007

It's All About Choices - Part 5...

I found myself sitting at my neighbor's dining table
with two investigators from the sheriff's department.
They had a tape recorder on the table and were informing
me that the interview was being recorded for their

I remember them asking: Did I live at the house?
Did we/I own any guns? Did he have any enemies?
Did he ever threaten suicide?
I truthfully answered 'No' to all those questions.
I don't remember what else they asked.

Next, I remember sitting on the neighbor's porch steps,
looking toward our house, when the back door opened
and saw two EMTs carrying a gurney with Michael's body
in a body bag. A uniformed deputy followed, carrying a
gun that I was later to learn was a .410 shotgun,
the gun he used on himself while sitting on the sofa in
the living room.

I walked to the waiting hearse (not ambulance).
I asked them to let me see my husband.
One of the investigators said that would not be a good
idea. I argued. He stood firm in his refusal.
Eventually, a long time later, I appreciated his judgement.
I numbly watched the hearse pull away.

I remember one of the investigators smiling at me and saying,
"You're really taking this rather well."
I glared at him and sarcastically apologized for my lack of
public hysteria. He stopped smiling.
I turned toward the gate and started to open it.

The investigator said I could not enter the property or the
house until the investigation was complete and as long as
the crime scene tape was in place.
I asked how long that would take and was told it could be
several days to more than a week.
I told them there were four cats and a dog in the house that
needed fresh food and water. NOW.
The lead investigator handed me his business card and said
that after they left I should make sure the tape did not
look like it had been disturbed. I thanked him.

As the officials got in their cars and began to leave, some of
the neighbors gathered around me. I began to hear what they
knew of Michael's last week. And, how he was found that day:

A long-time friend of ours had called Michael to ask if he could
get him a gun suitable for killing rats that were living in the
friend's girlfriend's tool shed. One of our neighbors was known
to brag about his large supply of guns. Michael got the gun from
the neighbor. For the reasonable sum of $50.

The long-time friend was too busy to pick up the gun for several
days. Michael asked the helpful neighbor to show him how to
load and shoot the gun in the woods. Helpful neighbor complied.

According to these neighbors and friends, Michael spent his last
week drinking, bitching about me and shooting in the woods.
No one called me because, they said, they were afraid I might
come back out of sympathy. I recall my therapist telling me, several
months later, that if I had gone back then it might have been our
murder/suicide instead.

It was the helpful neighbor and one other neighbor who became
concerned about Michael when he had not been seen or heard
from by noon that Saturday. They entered the house through
the back door, walked through the kitchen to the living room.
He was sitting upright on the sofa, slouched down a bit so the
back of his head was not in view. They had an idea of what they
were going to find as they walked to the front of the sofa.

Michael positioned himself in such a way that the top of the sofa
kept his brain and skull from splattering on the glass-front
bookcase that was about two feet behind him. Considerate, eh?
They said the entry hole was just to the right of center in his
forehead. Brain matter had run, like toothpaste, down his right cheek.
They called 911. They went to the neighbor next door, who then
called me.

The neighbors tried to talk me out of going in the house. They offered
to go in with me. I politely refused both offers.
I ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and walked up the
driveway to the back door and walked, slowly, inside.

Somehow, I managed to take care of the animals before I let myself
look at the sofa. I could tell where his head had rested.
A dark red, wet stain was on the back cushion scattered with bits
of bone, skin and brain. I remember trembling.
I don't remember the drive back to my apartment.
I had a long list of people to call.


Anonymous said...

Oh, my dear Jean, you are a stronger woman than I. I pray that as you write this tragic tale that you are able to take away any power that remains for Michael to hurt or haunt you. I hope you had people around you to help you through that awful time.

Jean said...

Sparrow - mostly, just me.

kdzu said...

But now, you have us. And you can call on us if you need anything......even just to talk, or vent.

Jean said...

Larry - I know... and I thank you.

boneman said... it over, yet?

No more smart aleck replies till y'get it all out and gone, girl!

Trust me on this one lil thing....
if y'leave him behind fer good, y'all won't miss nothin!

So, as a matter of changing the subject, did y'go to the big blogger thingie yesterday?

Jean said...

Berry - not quite yet, but soon.

I didn't know about the blogger thingie.

Chickie Carmarthen said...

I don't know if I could've gone back in there...

Ambulance Driver said...

Suicide is the most selfish act a person can commit. It is the ultimate "f**k you" to anyone and everyone who ever loved that person.

Yet if we look back on their memory with only bitterness, what does that make us?

I pray time will heal your wounds, and that the scars don't obscure what it was that you loved about Michael in the first place.

Living Dees Life said...

honey you got more courage, bravery, stamina, all of the above and thensome than i could ever have.

Jean said...

Chickie - I had no other choice.
Moving back in, however, took almost two months.

AD - I refuse to hold onto the bitterness any longer. Time to unwrap the wounds and let fresh air complete the healing.

Blaez - my dear, you'd probably surprise yourself.

Scott from Oregon said...

I hope you can set this to sail now...

Jean said...

Scott - the wind is picking up...

Anonymous said...

You are a very strong person. May God continue to give you strength and healing.

When you talked of the body bag, memories raced through my mind. My husband died at home. I could not bear to see the men place his body in the bag, but I do remember sitting in the kitchen and hearing the bodybag zipper being closed. To this day I hate the sound of zippers being zipped.

Jean said...

Thank you, Bonnie.

I had the same reaction, for a long time, to the sound of a beer can being popped open.