Authors Note: This is a story I have been trying to write for over two years. It is very personal and may express view-points that are contrary to your own, I ask your indulgence. The topic defies rational thought and easy conclusions. Regular disclaimers apply, don't own em, wish I did, making no money on this.
Is murder always black and white?
It was nearly 8pm when Mike slid into the passenger seat of the LTD. Steve was already behind the wheel, but like Mike, his thoughts were a galaxy away from San Francisco. They sat there in silence until Steve finally turned the key. Neither spoke when he pulled into traffic or when he parked the big American sedan next to the curb at DeHaro Street.
Steve never turned to Mike as he opened the door, staring defiantly ahead. Mike slammed the door.
He climbed the steps and entered his sanctuary. Jeannie was out for the evening and Mike was glad. He only wanted to share the last few hours with one person. After tossing his coat and hat on the couch, he went to the kitchen and put on the coffee pot. It was going to be a long night. He dug in the drawer by the fridge until he found his yellow legal tablet and pen.
Dear Helen,
How I wish you were here with me tonight, my love. I long desperately for your embrace and counsel. Steve and I responded to a call about five o'clock over in North Beach. We were headed for the barn, but when a patrolman called for assistance, I picked up the mike and answered, much to Steve's annoyance. As we pulled up to the house, I had no idea that this was going to be one of those cases, the ones that make me question, well, question everything.
The room was frozen in time. It looked a lot like your Mother's old place, overstuffed furniture with Bullion fringe and those little crocheted cotton doilies on the arms. There was a picture of the Sacred Heart on the wall next to a collection a first communion and wedding photos. An old record player filled the air with the voice of Enrico Caruso. I don't know which opera he was singing, but it made the room seem more like the set of a TV melodrama than a crime scene.
On the couch was an old woman. She was in a black lace dress, the kind the Italian widows wore to church back in the day. She had an orchid corsage and a placid expression on her face. It looked like she was asleep, peaceful, smiling. An old man in a black serge suit sat next to her. He was gently arranging a lock of grey hair that had slipped out of her upsweep. His action was tender, loving. Tears slipped down his face, but they weren't tears of sadness, he looked serene.
"She's finally free." He said as he turned and drained the wine from a delicate crystal glass. Its mate sat on the coffee table with a few drops of crimson liquid glistening in the bowl.
Mike put his pen down and got a cup of coffee. He looked in the fridge out of habit, he was not even remotely hungry. He sat back down and picked up the narrative.
Steve went into the kitchen. He was gone only a moment before he came back in with an empty prescription bottle, Phenobarbital. He had a wine bottle in the other hand. It wasn't too hard to put the pieces together. The uniforms had already called for an ambulance, but I was pretty sure it was too late for the woman. I walked over to check her pulse, but the old man wouldn't let me near her. He said something in Italian as he held her hand possessively. Steve and I stood there, looking at each other.
There was a disturbance in the entry to the house and a harried looking middle-aged woman burst into the room. The old man looked up at the latest arrival and smiled. "I'm glad you made it Marguerite. I had no idea they would come so quickly. Can you please tell them to go away for now? They aren't needed yet, this is private, just for us, for Mama and me."
She looked at the pill bottle in Steve's hand. "Papa, what did you do?"
"It's way past time for us to sleep. You know it. She's been gone for several years now and I, well, I can't live without her. God forgive me, but I don't care what the church says. Padre Nostro never meant for us to live like this. He already took her, what's left is an empty shell. Please say goodbye to the bambinos. Let them know how much Nona and Nono love them." He set down his glass, kissed he wife on the forehead and closed his eyes.
Steve moved to check on him, but the woman put a hand on his arm. I looked at her and saw pain and anguish in her eyes, but also saw resolve. Steve told her we had to do something to help them, but she just shook her head.
After what seemed like an eternal standoff, we heard the siren as the ambulance pulled up. Marguerite refused to let anyone care for her parents, and I let it play out. I let it happen. I could see that Steve was getting agitated, unwilling to stand by and do nothing to save these people. I shook my head. He was incredulous at my inaction, he didn't understand. Hell, I didn't understand. It was our duty as Police Officers and my duty as a Catholic to stop this, but…
Eventually, she went to her parents and kissed them goodbye. It was too late by then, the attendants confirmed. While we waited for the bodies to be removed, we sat in the small kitchen. Marguerite made a pot of coffee.
Mike picked up the tablet and shut out the lights. He was unable to continue with the narrative. Walking upstairs he dropped the pad on the bed and undressed. What had he done? Or more precisely, what had he failed to do?
He dialed the phone. As he expected, no one answered. He resumed writing.
"Have you ever heard of Alzheimer's Disease?" Marguerite asked us.
I told her no and Steve shook his head.
"Well it's been around for a while, first documented in the early 1900's. Most of the time the Doctor says someone is senile, but this is different. It's insidious. It takes away who you are. Not just getting older, worse. We noticed a while ago that Mama was getting a little forgetful. We chalked it up to age, but later..."
Marguerite stopped and took a deep breath. "Papa was right, she has been gone for some time. She didn't know who I was, or the kids. We couldn't call her Mama any more, it upset her because she didn't remember having children, so we called her by her first name. It just wasn't right.
Today was their anniversary, 65 years. 65 years together. He never gave up on her. Loved her, took care of her. Washed her, fed her, changed her diapers, she was like an infant, an adult infant. Sometimes she would get violent, she panicked when he was out of sight but he kept going; never stopped caring for her. He's 87 years old, but he wouldn't get help or put her in a nursing home, he loved her so much. Even though he never complained, he was trapped. This was supposed to be their golden years, after a lifetime of hard work."
Marguerite got up and turned her back on us, swearing in Italian. She brought the coffee pot over and refilled our cups before sitting down again. "I think he lost his will when she didn't even remember him anymore. She just knew he was somebody safe. Oh my God, I have to call Tony and Raymond."
"Who?"
"My younger brothers. Tony lives in Tacoma. Raymond is in San Diego. They haven't been home in a while, they haven't seen how bad Mama is, was, whatever. They'll never understand." Silent tears traced her face.
We were quiet for several uncomfortable moments. Finally, Steve spoke up.
"Why did you stop me? I wanted to save him." he asked Marguerite, looking at me the whole time, the accusation clear in his eyes.
"So you could put him in jail for murder? No, it's what he wanted. In his mind, he was freeing her. At least now, wherever they are, they are together, and she is Mama again."
"But he poisoned your mother and himself."
Marguerite raised her voice in agitation. "You really don't get it, do you Inspector. She was already gone. He adored her. He couldn't bear to be separated from the woman he loved so fiercely, for so long. You've never loved someone like that. It was mercy, not murder."
Mike dropped the pen and swept tears from his own eyes. He had seen many tragedies in his years as a cop, but never had he encounter a scene that made him question the nature of murder.
Mike dialed the phone again. Still no answer. He continued.
My dearest, is there really a shade so grey in the act of murder, where it could be considered an expression of love? If I had few less miles on me, like Steve, if I hadn't loved you the way I did, I would have never even questioned that this was a murder. But now, I don't know.
When you got sick, it was your body that failed. Despite the pain, I never lost you until the very end, when you were finally released to your eternal reward. If I could have spared you the pain I would have, but at least you were still you. I could still see the love in your eyes. I can't imagine what it would be like to lose someone and still have them there, day in and day out, and not see that light.
It devastated me when you died, but I had Jeannie to care for and somehow we made it, even though we were broken for a long time. I could hang on to the time we had together and remember. But this poor old man lived with that devastation every single day. His beloved trapped in her own head, there but not there. His love was so strong for so long, he finally had no choice but to set her free.
Steve and I had a tremendous row on the way back to Bryant Street. He called me an accessory to murder, although I don't think he really meant that, and then he stopped talking all together. Maybe he was right and we should have interceded. Did I do the right thing? I don't even know how to word my report, did a crime actually occur?
Mike dropped the pen and tablet on the night stand. Usually the act of letter writing was cathartic, galvanizing his thinking, but relief didn't come tonight. Mike knew there were no easy answers to this question. He dialed the phone one more time and listened to it ring unanswered. He turned out the light.
Sleep, when it came in the wee hours of the morning, was fitful at best. Most of the night, Mike stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, contemplating his own actions, or more precisely inactions, and feelings. He prayed for guidance, trying to understand the events of the day, not knowing how to clarify his own conscience and the conflict with his partner.
When the sun finally crept over the windowsill, he showered and dressed, but he didn't head to the office. He left a note on the door for Steve, who still wasn't answering his phone and walked to St. Theresa of Avila on 19th Street for 7 am Mass. The cool morning air did wonders for his physical well-being, but he was after something more soul-soothing at his Parish church.
Mass held no comfort. He waited at the rear door of the church until Father McBride exited the sacristy.
00000
It had been another long shift, but it had not been occupied with murder and mayhem. The day was populated with avoidance, silence and forced courtesy between Mike and his partner. His attempts to talk to Steve, and complete the report of the previous day's incident were aborted before they began. Driving his own car today had spared him the silent ride home. He still had a lot to think about.
Jeannie had left him a platter which he ate robotically, not even tasting the food. After rinsing the dishes he went upstairs and picked up the unfinished letter, returning to the kitchen.
I spoke with Fr. McBride this morning after Mass. He is a young pup of a priest, probably about the same age as Steve. He is a bit of a hippy, but he has a good heart and a gentle manner. For someone so young, he seems wise and is easy to talk to. I felt more comfortable speaking with him than with Old Father John, who is about as approachable as a stone tablet.
I told him about what happened. He was very clear on the point that sins had been committed: murder, suicide. He also spoke of the value of human life from conception to a natural death. Despite this, he was also sympathetic to the desperation this family felt, reminding me that we serve a merciful God. He gave me quite a bit to think about.
He said that when we take situations like this one into our own hands, even with the purist and most loving intentions, we deny the opening God gives us to grow closer to Him. This family had the opportunity to sacrifice, serve and love, without any thought of reward. I guess, in a way, that's the purist type of love. The kind that fills your soul with grace.
I know - I know, that sounds all noble, and maybe a little hard to take, given how long they had struggled, but it certainly gave me food for thought.
He also used your illness as an example, asking me if I had the right to end your life, because I loved you and you were in pain. I argued the point that it was different, but the more we talked, the more convincing he was.
After contemplating the ins and outs of the situation, I still don't think I have an answer. Was the old man guilty of hubris? Yes. Was he acting out of love and desperation? Also yes. My bigger problem right now is: how do I fix the situation with Steve? We need to talk it out, but if I don't even know how I feel, how can we get to a place where we are actually speaking again. And from a legal standpoint, how do I write this report. Do I spare Marguerite and her family any more anguish? Or do I report how she stopped us and we let her parents die?
Mike left the tablet on the table and grabbed a beer. San Francisco was playing the Dodger's and it was just the distraction he needed from his current conundrum. After watching LA's Don Sutton mow down his beloved Giants for several innings, he turned off the television in disgust. Even baseball had deserted him as a distraction. He was about to head upstairs when he heard a key engage the front door lock.
Jeannie breezed in the door with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. Mike loved having her home for the summer. He hugged is daughter.
"I'm surprised you're not watching the game." Jeannie commented as she hung her jacket in the closet.
"I couldn't stomach the carnage, Sutton was unhittable tonight." he said with the first laugh he had let loose in two day. His daughter always brought some light back to his soul, even on the darkest of days.
"I'm going to make some tea, care to join me?" Jeannie asked before heading to the kitchen.
Mike half considered taking her up on his offer, but he wasn't in the mood for pleasantries, even with Jeannie.
"No, I think I'm going to call it a night." Mike responded, bidding her good night and mounting the stairs.
00000
Jeannie entered the kitchen and put the kettle on the range top. Grabbing a mug and some herbal tea, she perched on a kitchen chair, waiting for the water to boil. She saw the yellow legal tablet on the table and was about to push it aside, when she noticed the salutation and froze.
The legal pad was in her hands, ready to be stashed in the drawer where she recalled seeing it before, but curiosity got the better of her and she read the letter. When she got to the end, she was chagrined at violating her father's privacy. Heat spread across her face as shame washed over her. She felt a 12 year old who had gotten caught reading someone's diary.
As her embarrassment ebbed, she was struck by another feeling. She was proud. Proud of the compassion and care her father showed to total strangers and the depth of his love for his fellow humans. Noting that the tablet was full of letters, she was amazed at the breath of her father's self-reflection in the guise of conversations with her late mother. It was a trait she hardly ever associated with him or people of his generation.
Jeannie felt compelled to help her dad but was at a loss as to how to do it without revealing her intrusion. Somehow she need to get Mike and Steve together so they could hash out their differences. She thought about her mom and how she always managed to smooth the rough spots in her relationship with her father, recalling how downright sneaky her mom had been when she needed to be. What would mom have done?
00000
Dawn intruded into Steve's Union Street apartment. It had been another sleepless night. He too had been struggling with the moral ramification of the events in North Beach. While he was normally the first person to understand that nothing was black and white in this world, this case had shaken him and his understanding of his relationship with Mike. How could his partner stand there and let people die?
The alarm clock was an unwelcome intruder to the uneasy doze that had finally overwhelmed the detective around 4 am. It had been set extra early, so he could get a swim in and try to clear his mind. Giving that up as a bad idea after two sleepless nights, he shower and was dressing when he heard the morning paper slap up against the apartment door. Steve finished the Windsor knot in his fashionable paisley tie and made for the door, scooping up the paper on his way to the kitchen.
He laid the paper on the table while he made coffee. As the percolator sung its morning anthem, he noticed a small sheet of lavender paper taped to the front page. In Jeannie's tidy handwriting was an invitation to breakfast at one of Mike's favorite joints, Carmen's, on Pier 24. He shuddered at the recollection of his partner downing a bowl of steaming chili at 6 am.
What was this all about?
00000
Mike was surprised to see Jeannie in the kitchen when he emerged from his room. She was dressed for the day and was nursing a cup of coffee.
"Why are we up so early on a day off?" Mike inquired as he gave her a peck on the cheek.
"If it's ok, I'm going to need your car today. I have something to pick up and the bus just won't cut it."
"Sure, sweetheart. Why didn't you tell me last night? I would have gotten a ride to work."
"I found out after you went up for the night. Tell you what, how about I treat you to breakfast and drop you off at Bryant Street?" Jeannie said it quickly and then held her breath. She knew she was pushing her luck. Mike could spot a white lie a mile away.
Mike looked at his watch, happy to see he had ample time for his daughter this morning. "Sure, sounds like a plan. Where should we go?"
"How about Carmen's? It's been ages and you always say they have the beast breakfast in town."
"You sure? It's kinda out of the way."
"I'm sure." Jeannie replied as she rose to gather her coat and purse, not giving Mike any time to question her motives. She hoped that her early morning trip to Union Street produced similar results.
00000
Steve parked his city issued LTD next to the curb half a block down from the diner. The small eatery was always packed in the morning and today was no exception. He went in and was pleased to find a small table. Mike and he usually sat at the counter, but he figured Jeannie would prefer the minimal privacy a table would provide. He ordered a cup of coffee wondering what was so import that it had to be discussed a 6 am.
Luck was with Jeannie as a parking space opened up directly in front of Carmen's and she pulled in and turned off the car. She had seen the LTD up the block, and thankfully, Mike had been too engrossed in the box scores to notice. Mike came around and opened the door, slamming it behind her as she walked to the front door.
Steve caught sight of her immediately and waved her over before seeing that she had Mike in tow. Mike spied Steve but he was already committed to following his daughter to the table. When they reached the table for two, it was clear to both men that they had been set up.
"You two need to talk." Jeannie said as she turned and left with further comment.
Mike dropped into the seat across from Steve. He wondered how Jeannie had found out about the rift between the two partners, but that was a question for another day. The din from the restaurant was swallowed by the tension filling the space between the two men.
Fortunately the waitress chose that moment to arrive with coffee in hand and two menus.
00000
Steve pulled the LTD up to the curb at DeHaro Street.
Mike turned to his partner and gave him a tired smile. "Are we good?" he asked.
Steve returned the smile and responded with an equally tired voice. "We're getting there, Michael."
Mike gave Steve's arm an affectionate pat and turned to exit the car.
"Do me favor," Steve called before Mike slammed the door, "Ask your daughter if she has changed her major from Architecture to Psychology!"
Mike laughed and slammed the door. There was a definitive spring to his step as he mounted the concrete steps that led to his front door.
00000
Mike sat down at the kitchen table, pen in hand. Jeannie's little ploy had force him to face Steve and at least begin to work out the rift that had developed in North Beach two day ago.
Dear Helen,
Love is an interesting thing. I don't think we give enough thought to its powerful effect on our lives. Steve and I were forced to discuss the event I spoke of the other night, thanks to a very sneaky move by your daughter. She arranged for us to talk it out on neutral ground and I am thankful she did.
Seems I wasn't the only one losing sleep over this case and soul searching isn't the exclusive purview the religious. Steve isn't exactly the church type, (You probably would have considered him a heathen) but he can be a deep thinker when given the opportunity and the time.
He was as shaken by the event as I was. When it happened, he couldn't wrap his head around the fact that I let a man die. I didn't try to explain my action, at first. He talked himself out before I even said a word. I had no problem understanding his point of view, because I still question my inaction. The worst part was the disappointment in his eyes.
When he was through, I tried to give him a glimpse of the power of a lifetime of love. He's so young and passionate but he's never had an example of mature, long term love in his personal life. I hope you don't mind, but I shared how our relationship grew over the years and how I felt when you were sick and when I lost you.
In the end, I think we got to a point where we did something the kids call, "agree to disagree." I think he was touched by my story, but until he truly loves someone the way I love you, he can't understand murder as love. "Murder as love." That is quite the concept for homicide detectives to accept and frankly the jury is still out if I even believe it.
We are going to Roy tomorrow to discuss the report. Steve and I did manage to agree that the family had suffered enough and we didn't feel like any charges should be pursued against Marguerite. Funny, Steve has no problem empathizing with people in pain, love is just a little bit harder I guess.
I think we still have a ways to go to understand how we feel about this, and Steve and I will probably talk about it again at some point, but for now it's time to let it rest and move on to the next chapter.
Thank you for teaching me about love, my dearest and until we are together again,
All my Love, Mike
Mike put the tablet back in the drawer, went upstairs, and for the first time in several days, slept.