If you were to ever venture to the corner of the Post Road and Main Street in Dakota, Illinois, you would see a man sitting on a wooden bench.

In his hand would be a bottle of some sort of liquor, the label hidden my a brown paper bag.

Some people assume he's homeless, choosing to spend what little money he has left on alcohol that numbs his brain.

If anyone cared enough to stay until two in the morning, though, they would notice him climb into a black car and drive away to who knows where.

The man's behavior was ritualistic, almost a religious practice, seeing as how he showed up precisely at 5:00 every Sunday.

Once a month, though, this pattern was broken. Another man would approach the man on the bench. This new guy was tall and had long, but not unkempt, brown hair.

Their conversation would start off quiet, the tall man trying to comfort the other, sitting next to him and patting him on the back. Exactly an hour later, the soft words would turn into a shouting match, waking everyone in the neighbor hood.

Then the tall man would walk away angrily, leaving the other staring longingly after him. And when it got quiet again, you could almost hear him crying.

For as long as this had been going on, no one knew who they were. No one seemed to care.

Not even when the man was lying motionless on the bench the night of December 24th.

He was first noticed by an old couple out for an early morning Christmas walk. The sight of a man sleeping on a bench when there had been three inches of snow the previous night struck them as odd, and nervously went over to investigate.

The man on the bench was surrounded by three empty bottles of vodka and a small pocket knife. His eyes were open, but clouded over and a small stream of vomit trickled from his mouth.

Blood fell from his exposed wrist, staining the once pure snow crimson.

A note lay beside him, which the couple decided to open, hoping to find some sign of a family member's address or phone number.

It read

Dear Sammy...