Thread of Doubt

by Jeff Shelby

  “You have a number or address?”

  He hesitated. “Not sure she'll be cool with me giving you her info.”

  “I'll take care of that,” I said. “And, I promise, I'm not gonna just show up at her door. I'll call first like I did with you.”

  He thought for a moment, then pulled out his phone, scrolled through the screen, and recited a phone number.

  “She lives up by State, I think,” David said. “She's going to grad school. Not sure if she'll talk to you. She and Patrick. Oil and water. Hatfields and McCoys. That kind of thing.”

  “Were they serious?” I asked.

  “Serious about fighting,” David said, with one eyebrow raised. “That seemed to be mostly what they did. Erin's cool, but she could be a serious downer, too. Totally different than Patrick. And seemingly always pissed at him about something.”

  “Last question,” I said. “And I really do appreciate you talking to me. I know this sucks.”

  “Yeah,” he mumbled. “It does suck.”

  “Do you think he killed himself?” I asked.

  He stared at the asphalt for a moment. “It sort of looks that way,” he said. His voice was a little gravelly, and he coughed once to clear it. “If you'd asked me last week, I would've said no. No way. But now?” He looked up. “I guess he could've just screwed up if he was using again, tried to do too much or something. It could have been an accident. But the one detective guy last night said there was a note.”

  “Did you think he was using again?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know,” David said. “I didn’t think about it, I guess. I was too focused on being pissed off about money and being broke.”

  I didn’t blame him. The members of the band had done their own sacrificing for Patrick’s dreams, and it was easy to see how tempers could flare and resentment could build in tense situations like that.

  “I just don't want to think that he killed himself, that this was intentional, because it's so fucked up and now I feel sort of guilty about everything,” David continued. “I feel like we should've known or whatever. But...I guess, yeah. I think he killed himself.”

  It was a reasonable conclusion.

  “And I'll never get why,” he said, his eyes focused on something past me. “I'll never get that. I'll never get why he didn't come talk to us or just get pissed at us, or whatever. I can't believe he did it, but I'm not sure there's anything else to believe.”

  I watched David walk back to the insurance office and I had the same thought.

  I wasn't sure there was anything else to believe.

  FOURTEEN

  After a brief phone call, Erin Collier agreed to give me her address and to talk to me. She sounded wary on the phone, but after I explained that I'd talked with Patrick's mother and the members of his band, she relented and said I could come over.

  Her apartment was several blocks from the San Diego State campus in a building that looked nearly brand new. Four stories high, painted a pastel yellow, with lots of glass and small balconies, it was part of the ongoing effort to make the university area feel more welcoming and less sterile. For decades, it had been nothing more than a commuter campus composed of large stone buildings that inspired nothing. But the school had gotten its act together and after much fundraising and planning, it was starting to transform itself into a place people might want to go rather than a place they ended up.

  Erin's apartment was on the third floor, and I opted to use the steps after seeing two guys trying to wrestle a dolly loaded with boxes into the elevator. She answered the door almost immediately. Her blonde hair was piled high on top of her head, her cheeks flushed like she'd just finished exercising. The black yoga pants and gray tank top she wore seemed to confirm this. She was small, just over five feet tall, but had broad shoulders and a compact physique that reminded me of a gymnast's.

  She shook my hand firmly and invited me into the apartment. It was light and airy, decorated with the kind of furniture normally associated with a college student's home: inexpensive and easy to put together. Futon couch, IKEA bookshelves and coffee table, a simple dining room table with four chairs. A closed MacBook rested on the table, along with a notepad and pencil.

  “One of the guys told me you're a grad student?” I said, taking a seat on the futon.

  She sat down in the chair next to the glass slider that led to the balcony. “Yeah.”

  “Studying what?”

  “Mathematical concepts.”

  “That sounds out of my depth.”

  She folded her hands into her lap. “I've always liked math. It makes sense to me.”

  “What do you do with a graduate degree in mathematical concepts?”

  “Not sure yet,” she said. “Maybe research, maybe teach. I'm going to get my PhD and then we'll see.”

  “That's great.”

  She didn't react, just stared at me. Her face was free of make-up, and she looked tired, worn out.

  “I'm sorry about, Patrick,” I said.

  Her jaw worked to the side and she swallowed. “Me, too.”

  “Were you...surprised?”

  She looked down at her hands for a few seconds. “I am shocked that he's gone, yes.”

  “How long were the two of you together?”

  “Depends on how you define together. We've known each other for five years. Or knew.” She waved a hand in the air. “Whatever it is I'm supposed to say now.”

  “So it was off and on?”

  “More off than on lately,” she said.

  “How'd you meet?”

  She leaned back in her chair and swiped at a strand of hair that had come loose. “We had a class together, right before he dropped out. He asked me for notes, but he just wanted an excuse to talk to me.” She paused. “He told me that; I'm not just assuming it or putting my own spin on it.”

  “Sure.”

  “We started dating,” she continued. “I liked him. A lot. He was good-looking, smart, and the music thing was attractive. It was cool, different than what I was used to. And everything was fine. At first.” She paused again, and folded her arms across her chest. “Then he started doing heroin.”

  “And how did that start?”

  “I genuinely don't know,” she said, shaking her head. I never got a straight answer out of him, so I don't know where it came from or even why he really tried it. It wasn't overnight. I’d found some pills once, but those were prescription, so it didn’t really ring any alarm. But then...I realized he was just acting differently. Then I found some of his...stuff in a drawer and I confronted him. He didn't lie or try to cover it up or anything. He told me he was just using occasionally, that it was all recreational. Which I called him on because I knew that no one just casually sticks a needle in their arm.”

  “How did he react?”

  She smiled, but it seemed like it hurt. “That was the first time we were off.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  “We split for maybe a month,” she said, the pained smile gone. “Then he showed up at my door and said he was clean. I didn't really believe him, but he kept showing up and we just fell back into our...thing. And he did seem clean. Until he wasn't again.”

  “So it was a pattern,” I said.

  She nodded. “Oh, yeah. Until last year. He finally seemed to have kicked it. He came out of rehab totally different than I'd ever seen him. He was serious, he was rested. He was just...different. In a good way. It felt like I could finally breathe again. He was like the guy I always knew he could be, which sounds stupidly cliché, but it was how I felt. I thought he'd gotten over the hump.” She folded her hands together in her lap again. “But then...then it just got weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  “Well, for one thing, he wasn't getting along with the other guys,” she explained. “And I'd never seen that. There'd never really been much crap between them, you know? They really got along. Patrick sort of led and they followed and everyone was cool with that.”

  I nod
ded. That aligned with what they'd told me.

  “But they were arguing,” she continued. “And it was sort of Patrick against them. And Patrick, you have to understand. He wasn't a guy who liked conflict. He wanted everyone to get along. He wanted them to be the band that didn't...conform to what everyone thought a band should be. But, it was like all of a sudden, they were all on different pages.”

  “Over what?”

  “It was the direction, I guess,” she said, sort of shrugging. “Patrick had this clear vision of where they needed to go and how to go about it. He was totally clear on that. But the other three, they disagreed.”

  “You mean signing with a label versus staying independent?”

  “You know about that?”

  I nodded. “They all mentioned to me the money issues,” I said. “That they were pretty anxious over not having any and it had become a sore spot.”

  She shifted in her chair. “Well, that's what I mean that it sort of got weird.”

  “I'm not following.”

  Erin took a deep breath, then exhaled, like she was trying to gather strength for something.

  “Money,” she finally said. “Patrick had money.”

  FIFTEEN

  Erin excused herself for a minute, then returned with a glass of water. She didn’t offer to get me one. She took a sip from it, closing her eyes as she did so. When she reopened them, she focused her eyes on the glass, almost as if she thought it might talk back to her.

  “So Patrick had money,” I said.

  She blinked, then nodded. “Yeah. Like, he went from having me cover his electric bill and needing gas money to taking us out for dinner. Which doesn't sound like much, but we never ate out. Ever. He didn't have the money, and he bristled at the idea that I might pay, especially when he was having to borrow money from me to pay his bills.”

  “I take it he didn't get a job?” I asked. “That wasn’t the source of the cash flow?”

  She shook her head. “No. He refused to get a job because he was spending every waking minute working on songs. He said it would just get in the way and he needed his head to be clear. The other guys, I think they've all had some kind of part-time jobs at different times, but not Patrick. I know he sort of thought they couldn't commit to working if they really wanted to get better as a band, so he really didn't want anybody working.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “So, all of a sudden he had a little cash?”

  She clasped her hands together in her lap. “Not a little. A lot.”

  “Like how much?”

  “Like enough to pay me back,” she answered. “Enough for us to go out to dinner. Enough to pay for gas. And he was in the shower one morning and his wallet was on the nightstand.” She thought for a moment. “I didn't want to look, but I couldn't help it.”

  I waited.

  “He had six hundred dollars,” she said. “Cash.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “Not right then,” she said. “I was too shocked. And I was embarrassed that I'd looked in his wallet.”

  I nodded.

  “But I did a couple of days later,” she said. “He was kind of vague, said some friends that owed him had paid up.”

  I watched her for a moment. “But you didn't believe him.”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. It didn't make sense. He'd never had money to lend to anyone. I knew it was a lie. I mean, he'd stayed on track and he'd been super disciplined. It drove me nuts that everything was about the music, but I also sort of appreciated that. He was totally focused. And it wasn't a pipe dream. He was good. So was the band. So it wasn't like it was some sort of fantasy.” She wrinkled her brows. “But for him to go from having not even two cents to having hundred dollar bills in his wallet...” Her voice trailed off.

  It was easy to see that Erin cared about Patrick. Her confusion seemed genuine over what she'd seen. And she didn't seem to want to admit the obvious.

  “Was he using again?” I asked.

  She didn't answer immediately, instead taking a sip of the water.

  “It was my first thought, too,” she said. “And I was pissed at myself for thinking it. Because there were zero signs that he was. His behavior was normal. He wasn't disappearing without excuses. He was sleeping normally, at least for him. I mean, I was even checking his arms, which sounds awful and weird.” She shook her head. “I'd bet money he wasn't using again.”

  If anyone would've known if he'd fallen again, it seemed like Erin would've been that person. And there was nothing to be gained from lying about it now.

  But something else did occur to me.

  “Look, I don't want to...speak ill of Patrick right after he's died,” I said. “I'm not trying to be rude or invasive. I'm just trying to help my friend and his mother get some clarity.”

  “I understand.”

  “Is it possible that Patrick was dealing?” I asked.

  “Is it possible?” she repeated. “Absolutely.” She leaned back in her chair. “He told me he was.”

  SIXTEEN

  I sat and waited for her to continue.

  “He'd done it before,” she finally said. “He basically sold to other users he knew in order to make money to get his own. It was this stupid circle that he couldn't get out of.”

  “So it was when he was using?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “And that's why I was reluctant to ask him about it this time because I was positive he wasn't using. And it's hard sometimes with someone in recovery. You want to give them your trust, but it becomes this...thing. If you ask them if they're using, they get angry because you don't trust them. But if you don't ask, you drive yourself nuts wondering.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “But I finally decided I had to ask him,” she said. “Not if he was using. But if he was dealing.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He denied it at first,” she said. “But then when I pressed him, he finally admitted he was. He assured me he wasn't using and that all he was doing was just selling a little because he needed the money and it was the easiest way to get it.”

  “What was your reaction?”

  “I was pissed,” she said, frowning. “I didn't want him anywhere near that world again because I felt like it would just pull him back in.”

  “You told him that?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, nodding. “I told him I didn't care how much money he needed, I didn't want him doing it. It was stupid. So he told me he'd stop.”

  I shifted on the couch. “But I take it from your tone he didn't.”

  She shook her head. “I don't think so. He told me he wasn't, but he still had money. It made no sense. So I kept asking and he kept telling me I was crazy. But he wasn't outright denying it so that's how I knew.”

  “But you're sure he wasn't using again?” I asked.

  “Positive,” she said. “There were no signs. But it just became this huge thing between us. I'd ask him, he'd tell me he wasn't selling, then he'd get mad at me. We did that dance for a couple of months. Then I asked him one night again. He'd ordered all this Thai food and it cost like fifty bucks and I just couldn't believe he had the money and there was nowhere else he could've gotten it. And he really blew up at me that time. Just went off on how I was never going to trust him and all of this crap.” She paused. “That was two weeks ago, and I hadn't talked to him since then.”

  “I'm sorry,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said, nodding, tears in her eyes. “Me, too.”

  I felt for her. I knew what it was like to not get to say goodbye. There was no closure, just a regular circuit of nightmares, of what-ifs. It wasn't fun to live with.

  “I should go,” I said, standing up. “Thank you for talking to me.”

  Erin wiped at her eyes and stood. “You're welcome.”

  She followed me to the door. “You really found him?”

  I opened it and turned around to face her. “I did.”

  “And..
.and it looked like he did it?” she asked, her face screwed up with pain and sadness. “Like he killed himself?”

  “That's what it looked like and it sounds like that's what the police determined,” I told her.

  Erin leaned against the doorframe, her arms folded across her chest. “Patrick had a shit ton of issues. But that money I said I would've bet on him not using?”

  I nodded.

  “I'd bet the same money that he wouldn't have killed himself,” she said. She blew out a breath. “But I guess everyone says that, right?”

  I shrugged. “It's always a shock.”

  “Right,” she said, nodding. “Just the same, though. I think I'll stay out of the casinos.” She paused, wiping at her eyes. “Don't wanna lose the little I have left.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Traffic was heavy leaving the college area and Interstate 8 was nothing more than a slow trudge to the west. I did my best to get comfortable behind the wheel and then started to work over what I'd learned.

  Patrick's drug problem hadn't been watered down by his mother. It had been significant. Like so many people in their teens and twenties, Patrick had fallen victim to a drug that never truly released its hold on those who became hooked. It seemed as if he'd truly tried to get out from under it, but couldn't escape completely.

  A minivan let me slide over a lane to my left and I held up a hand in thanks.

  And no matter what approach I took to his death, it felt like suicide was the end result.

  Yes, he'd been trying to get things together in his life. He had apparently stopped using. He was focused on his music. He had a support system. There was plenty of evidence that he'd made progress.

  But there were also some things that didn't add up.

  The band was clearly in a state of turmoil. They had a definite disagreement on how they should move forward and it had fractured them. Their lack of money and avenues to get money had created a fissure, and from listening to the three remaining members, it seemed as if it was going to be a hard gap to close.