Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The week began with a funeral. No one knew that it would end with one, too.
But here we are, sweating profusely through our black jackets and shirts despite the heavily air-conditioned interior of the funeral home. The weather is entirely unfitting for the grave occasion: on the one day that the Nevada sun should be covered in clouds it beats down as relentlessly as ever. Yet I barely notice it. I feel nothing but my grief, sitting quietly in my chair. I feel cloaked, surrounded, almost clothed by my sadness. It is overwhelming, and it is spilling over.
The ceremony is small, intimate. Warrick would have liked it. Everyone gets up and tells their stories about the man behind the green eyes and mocha skin. There is laughter intermingled with the tears, and the moment is bittersweet. My pain is momentarily blotted out by a particularly funny story told by Doc Robbins, but it reappears quickly with sudden audacity, quickly, sharply and without warning. When it is my turn to speak, I remain motionless until Gil nudges me softly, and says, "Cath, it's your turn."
I walk slowly to the podium, and I am aware of every sound in the room. There is the scuffling of impatient feet against the tiled floor, the weary sobs of Greg that are just barely audible. His stoic façade faded long ago, and his tears are a testament to our loss. Even Tina has shown up, but she has the grace to stand in the far back. Even though the divorce was a nasty one, she is shaken, I know. Her tears shine brightly in eyes. These are tears unshed.
My speech isn't long, but I hope it speaks to the kind of man Warrick is, was.
"I was going to tell a story, like most of you," I say, rocking almost imperceptibly back and forth. "But everything I thought of was not enough to truly capture who Warrick Brown really was. He was different than anyone I've ever met. He was courageous, passionate, and fiercely intelligent. He loved so much and was the greatest friend, because he listened when you needed it, and talked when you were lonely. But most of all," I choke on my words now, moisture pooling just beneath my eyes, "Warrick was a good man. A great man. He will never, ever be forgotten, as long as everyone here lives. Because Warrick isn't the kind of man you forget. He's the kind you love when he's around and miss when he's gone."
As I walk down from the podium, I feel dazed and listless. To add to my pain is the nagging truth that no one wants to accept. Warrick's case will never be solved. Despite all evidence pointing to the Undersheriff, the DA's refusal to press charges leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Warrick delivered justice. He lived for justice. But he can't be given the justice he deserved? That hurts almost as much as his death does.
Later in the boiling afternoon, I stand outside in a beautiful cemetery bedecked in willow trees, hanging vines, and fragrant, blooming flowers. I am flanked by Nick and Gil, and I feel a reassuring strength surrounded by them.
As Warrick's casket is carefully lowered into the ground, I reach into my pocket to feel for the cool metal of my gun. I haven't decided whether or not to use it yet. But if I do, Undersheriff be damned, because I won't feel remorse with my finger on the trigger. I won't say goodbye to Warrick until I provide him with the closure that he would have wanted. Warrick deserved much, much more than to die so quickly. And I deserve more than to lose someone who I loved so dearly.
I know that I will fight for the justice that we both deserve.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.