by Ed Marohn
I stumbled out of bed. The pain in my head punished me for the three or more bottles of wine I’d shared with Charles last night. The last time I had a hangover was after Katy’s funeral, the result of hunkering down in some small tavern outside of Charlotte and drinking myself senseless with scotch. The concerned bar owner had found me passed out in the small restroom and called a taxi to take me home. I’d never drunk excessively since—until last night.
Groggily, I headed to take a shower. Afterward, delaying getting dressed I put on my bathrobe. Then I took some aspirin and made a latte with three shots of espresso. In about an hour of sitting quietly in the dark, eyes shut, listening to Joan Baez CDs and sipping my latte, I started to feel human again.
Eventually I cooked a breakfast of eggs and bacon, then I settled into my lounge chair, coffee mug in one hand—my second latte. My eyes wandered. Dust motes floated lazily in the streams of light with the reverence found in a church cathedral on a bright Sunday. I hadn’t been in church since my return from the war; the Vietnam killing fields created a distaste for organized religion.
I needed a distraction and reached for the book on the end table. John Updike’s Toward the End of Time dealt with the strange character Ben Turnbull. As a psychologist I enjoyed analyzing Ben’s depression and despair as he strives to deal with his mortality, ever dwindling at age sixty-six, a lonely man. I disliked Turnbull’s chauvinism, but I had empathy for his depression and loneliness.
As I read, my mind wandered sporadically to Tom Reed. His revelations still bothered me. Finally putting the book down, I stood up and went into the kitchen and cleaned up the breakfast dishes, then headed to the bedroom to get dressed.
In my jeans, a red-and-white striped Rugby shirt, soft brown leather loafers, and dark blue socks, I walked out of the bedroom just as the phone rang. I went to the phone in the living room and scanned the caller ID: Rock Hill Police.
Confused, I answered the phone.
“Doctor Moore? This is Sergeant Wilson, Rock Hill Police. We’ve a suicide, and per the business card found in the apartment, we assume you were his psychologist. I’d like to talk to you to validate the suicide.”
I felt my heart pounding, knowing. “May I ask the name of the person?”
“Sorry.” He chuckled. “I suppose there is more than one nut, I mean patient, that you deal with. The name is Tom Reed.”
I pulled the handset away and stared out the window. Had I misread his condition from yesterday’s first therapy session, failing to diagnose him as suicidal? “It can’t be,” I said.
“Um—I’m sorry, but his identity has been verified. It’s Tom Reed. I’m here at the scene now. . .”
“I’m sorry. I meant . . . could I see him?” I asked.
“Well, we could talk at the station, but hey . . . it could speed things up if you came here. You OK with a dead body? And I don’t want you disrupting the scene while the ME and CIs investigate.”
“I’ve seen death in Vietnam. Can you give me his address since I’m not in my office?” I took a deep breath and waited.
As he rattled off Reed’s address, I jotted it on the notepad by the phone and said goodbye. I grabbed my car keys, locked the door, and took the elevator down to the building’s parking garage, retrieving my Toyota Highlander.
Saturday morning traffic wasn’t too bad, and I sped out of town on Interstate 77, heading south to Rock Hill, South Carolina, about twenty miles from Charlotte. Rock Hill had a high population of tire workers from the Continental Tire manufacturing facility in Charlotte.
I learned yesterday that Tom Reed worked for the tire company for about twenty years as a tire builder, controlling his drinking, starting to slowly change his life. Working in the plant and assembling tires seemed mundane and tedious to me, but for him it meant consistency, a positive in his life. The strenuous twelve-hour shifts kept his mind focused, tiring him, usually blocking war demons when he slept. His PTSD probably would never be cured, but he at least had a better life than the turbulent years he experienced immediately after returning from Vietnam.
His VA file also told me about his small apartment in a forty-unit complex and that he enjoyed the quiet of a small town versus the growing Charlotte metropolis. He spent free time fishing on the nearby Catawba River, enjoying the outdoors and its isolation. Reed dated occasionally, but he had no serious connection, and for him that was OK. He was realistic enough to know he had issues that required his full attention.
Twenty minutes later I pulled into Reed’s apartment complex parking lot, drawn by the flashing strobe lights of two Rock Hill police cruisers, askew, driver doors open, parked front to front, serving as barriers. I glimpsed the gray ME van parked by an entrance to the apartments.
Questions and concerns about Reed occupied my mind, but I was distracted as an approaching cop stopped me, right hand held high, palm facing me, his other hand languishing on the pistol holster strapped on the left side of his wide utility belt.
I introduced myself through the open car window, and he shouted my name to another policeman standing by the open door of the building next to the ME van. He nodded and checked off something on his clipboard. Instructed to leave the car parked where it was, I got out as the officer held the car door open for me. Young but serious looking in his starched tan uniform with razor creases on his pants, the cop then stepped behind me while nodding and pointing to his colleague with the clipboard. I walked the forty or so feet toward the clipboard officer.
“Apartment ten, down the hall to your right, sir,” he said. He studied me for a second as I passed him, brawny like his partner. The muted light in the hallway seemed to harbor ill will, but I proceeded, looking at the apartment numbers to the left and right of me as I passed the closed doors. The hall resembled a dark tunnel with a light at the end. Sadness engulfed me as I walked forward looking for number ten. I felt the dark and dank of another place, another time: the tunnels of Cu Chi in Vietnam, where I had tried to save one of my tunnel rats—a short, young soldier, badly wounded from the exploding mine he’d tripped.
The memory hit me. I hesitated and stopped, confused, my feet frozen, chilled by a cool breeze passing by. Regaining my will, I forced myself to take the steps, heading for the open door on the far right, a guiding light emitting from the apartment, leading me to the death scene. In Nam, the light at the end of the tunnel meant safety as I pulled on the dying grunt behind me. Ironically, I again headed to death. Passing apartment nine, I turned toward the open door of number ten.
Standing in the living room by a small TV on an old-style foldable stand and talking into his cell phone stood an overweight man in a brown suit. I assumed this was Sergeant Wilson. He glanced at me and held up his hand, mouthed for me to wait. The heavyset Wilson stood shorter than my six feet. My full head of brown hair with some strands of gray countered his receding brown hairline—balding, in fact. I guessed him to be in his mid-forties, but his appearance made him look older. Cop life, with its stress, long hours, bad eating habits, booze, and little to no exercise, was taking its toll on him. While he talked, he ran his hand through his thinning hair.
Hanging up, he walked over to me and asked, “You Doctor Moore?”
“Yes. And you’re Sergeant Wilson?” I offered my hand. He took it.
“The body is in the bedroom. He has a neighbor who goes fishing with him, and they’d planned to get out early this morning. He knocked on the door for several minutes and knew something was wrong. He got the super, and then they found the body on the bed. There weren’t any signs of a break-in. The door was locked.”
I followed the cop into the bedroom where the ME was closing his medical bag. He straightened up from the bed.
I looked at Reed, his body face up on the bed, still in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, chalky stuff around his mouth, his blankets and sheets tousled on the bed and the floor. His body looked very rigid, tense. His fis
ts curled tightly.
“Doc, this is John Moore, the deceased’s psychologist.” Wilson pointed to me.
We shook hands. I asked, “Are you certain of suicide? Doctor . . .”
“It’s Ted Mahone. Yes. The preliminary exam indicates suicide. There’s a suicide note on the dresser and empty bottles for Lorazepam and Paroxetine tablets on the floor. The empty vodka bottle indicates he drank heavily while downing the pills. I will confirm during the autopsy how many he took, but the prescription bottles were dated a week ago, with each holding a ninety-pill count. Those amounts would have easily killed him. The white powder around his mouth also indicates he chewed some of the pills in addition to swallowing them. He definitely went overboard. Also, as his psychologist, you should read the note to verify his state of mind for me.” He looked at Wilson, who nodded, then continued. “Of course, it goes into evidence.”
“The note could help me understand,” I said, directing myself to Wilson’s quizzical look. “And Lorazepam is used to treat anxiety, while Paroxetine is used for treating depression, all of which Reed exhibited at our therapy session yesterday. And he shouldn’t have taken alcohol with the pills. Dangerous combo. If he was in a suicidal mood, overdosing with Paroxetine alone could have done it.”
Mahone nodded in agreement as we focused on the body. All the evidence pointed to Reed taking his own life.
“Interesting. You two are into these meds, I guess. Dr. Moore, go ahead and read the note, but don’t touch anything else, as we need to verify fingerprints,” Wilson said.
The ME said, “The autopsy should be completed by Monday evening.”
I nodded as Wilson grunted and returned to his notepad.
While he wrote, he said, “It has to be suicide. Hey, I know how you feel, Dr. Moore. You missed one. Hell, I’ve made bad calls myself—let a bad kid go because he acted sincere, then later he gets picked up for robbery again. You can’t win them all.” Wilson smiled.
“Hey, Sergeant, I’ve found something in one of the kitchen drawers,” a CI yelled from the kitchen.
I read the bagged suicide note quickly. The almost illegible scrawl stated: “I’m tired. Fucking shit won’t go away. It don’t mean a fucking thing. Goodbye, Vietnam.” And it was signed, Tom Reed. I felt a chill down my back. The suicide became real; his use of slang from the war convinced me. GIs talked that way over there.
Wilson walked past me, and I followed him through the living room and into the kitchen. A CI wearing latex gloves held up airline tickets. “These are for December 16, this coming Monday, from Charlotte to Nashville. They were bought two weeks ago.”
Wilson asked me, “Who was he going to see?”
“That would probably be his daughter. She lives in Nashville. Reed said he planned Christmas with her and her family. He didn’t seem suicidal yesterday.” I stood looking at the airline tickets held by the CI. Reed’s suicide occurred last night, even though he had planned to travel to see his daughter. What the hell spooked him to end his life? I stared at Sergeant Wilson.
“C’mon, Doc. He probably snapped last night so all his future plans were meaningless.”
Doctor Mahone came into the kitchen and said, “Wilson, we’re ready to move the body, so I will talk to you gentlemen later.” The ME walked out.
“Have you notified his daughter?” I asked, looking into Wilson’s heavyset face.
He pulled the waist of his pants over his beer belly, tucking in his shirt and straightening his tie. “No, not yet. Do you have her phone number? That would help. Also, I take it he wasn’t married?”
“I’m heading back to the office and will call you with the daughter’s number. And no on the marriage—he is a divorcee.”
Wilson gave me his business card. I shook his hand and walked out the door, retracing my steps to my car. Reed’s suicide suddenly felt like the sixty-pound rucksack I carried on my back in Nam.
It was almost noon when I arrived at my office. I lost my appetite over Reed’s death and skipped lunch. Confused on how I missed his suicidal tendencies yesterday, I knew I had to research his files and background as a professional psychologist.
I unlocked the door to the reception area that was mostly used by a temp to file health insurance claims; Sally and I preferred answering our phones or allowing the voicemail system to fulfill such secretarial functions. There I found Sally, her blonde hair gathered in a ponytail sticking out the back of a baby blue UNC cap, dressed in a pink university sweatshirt and blue jeans, typing on the PC keyboard, her coffee cup on the desk.
She looked up and said, “Why aren’t you home?”
I smiled. “Same question to you.”
She pointed to the PC. “Insurance claims to complete—money is always good.”
“What about our temp?” I asked.
“She won’t be in this week. The holiday.”
Nodding, I said, “I need to review some notes.”
“What’s wrong?” She turned to me, examining my serious mood.
“Tom Reed committed suicide last night.”
She stood up and came over to me. “Oh, John, you can’t beat yourself up over this. Something triggered the suicide. Nothing to do with you.” Putting her hand on my shoulder, she asked, “Are you OK?”
“Not certain.” I spied the full coffee pot through the open door to the little kitchenette. “Is that fresh coffee?”
Sally nodded. “I’ll bring you a cup. Give me a minute.”
I thanked her and went to my office and sat down at my desk. What had I missed in yesterday’s session? The death scene, with the emptied bottles of antidepressant and anxiety prescriptions, and the empty booze bottle, conveyed a suicide. At my session, he showed no signs of suicide. Maybe Sergeant Wilson wanted to rush to close the case, which could cause him to overlook something at the apartment. The autopsy should resolve it in any case. And if it wasn’t suicide, then what? Murder didn’t make sense. Something pushed Reed to end his life.
Sally placed a cup of hot black coffee on my desk as I laid Reed’s file in front of me. I had just finished a quick review of my notes, plus the separate thick file that the VA hospital had sent to me before my session.
“Thanks,” I said. Sally pulled one of my session chairs to my desk and sat in it, studying me, not saying a word. Sally’s psychoanalysis technique kicked in as she observed me and my emotions.
I flipped through the files again, found the personal information sheets, and locked onto the name Jane Phillips, the daughter, and her home phone number. I dialed Wilson’s cell phone and gave him the number. He seemed busy, so the phone call was short.
To avoid missing key information, I again reviewed my notes and the evaluation forms used during the session on Friday. Reed’s nightmares, his drinking and drug use, his dysfunctional relationships, and his depression had impacted his life. However, we had only one session together, and I would have needed more time with him to fully understand his condition. An hour passed reading and rereading the two files and talking with Sally as she read and analyzed the same files.
Several times she looked up from her reading and shook her head. By Saturday afternoon, Sally stood up.
“I see no red flags that you missed his suicide,” she said, returning the notes to the folders.
“I can’t find anything either,” I said.
Still it nagged me. I was a professional. I should know when someone was suicidal. Was my personal vindication at stake?
“I didn’t mention yesterday that part of my funk came from Reed mentioning a name. A CIA agent named Todd Ramsey. I met Ramsey under less than desirable circumstances in the war,” I said.
“How does that matter?” Sally interjected.
“Reed said that Ramsey ordered him to execute a hundred Vietnamese villagers. Let’s see . . . also, there was a South Vietnamese Army colonel who participated in the inciden
t.”
“So seeing Ramsey recently triggered his nightmares and his depression. That is plausible.”
“Well guess what, I’m having bad dreams about Ramsey. This is haunting me. And was Reed’s sighting of Ramsey in the VA hospital the real reason for him committing suicide?”
Sally looked at her watch and said, “John, I have to go see my parents—I promised to be there for dinner. But first I have some errands.”
“Oh . . . hey, I’m sorry. Yes, please go. Crap, here I am holding you up.”
“Why don’t you join me?” she said.
“Thanks, but I’m bummed out.”
She patted my hand. “Don’t stew over this. Your notes make it obvious that you didn’t miss the suicide. He had a relapse last night and failed to call you for help.”
I frowned as she started to walk out of my office. Then she stopped and turned.
“You can’t continue obsessing over this. I know you. We both have baggage in our past that impacts us individually. But we still function professionally.”
“I know, Sally. I know . . .”
“Please listen, though. This is my tough love. You are focusing on what you think you did wrong with Tom Reed. What you need to look at is what drove Reed to kill himself. Get off your high horse about being the perfect psychologist. There is no such thing. The frigging mind is a mystery to all of us, no matter how long we study it.” She almost glared at me.
“I . . .”
“I’ll stay and skip going to my parents’ function if you insist on sitting there and beating yourself up. But you need to get over it!”
The silence became intense as she waited. It seemed an eternity passed with her standing halfway between the office door and my desk. I wanted her to stay but couldn’t ask her.
“You’re right,” I said.
“Well?” she said.
“I’ll wrap up now,” I said, shuffling and closing the files. “I have a phone call to make and then I am out of here. Please go on to dinner.”
