Disclaimer: I don't own Jim, Blair, Simon, or any of the other fine characters that inhabit Cascade, Washington. They are the property of Pet Fly, Inc., and I am borrowing them for some nonprofit fun only.

Notes, timelines, etc: Pre Sentinel Too, but after Megan's arrival. This is in multiple first person points of view, an experiment for me. Feedback is always appreciated.

Warning: Death Story! Not Jim or Blair, but still a far cry from a happy little tale. Rated PG-R for language and violence.

I Didn't Intend...

by Mele

**Justin won't have his new shoes for baseball.**

Strange, all the things I could…should…be thinking about, and that's the thought that my numb mind keeps coming back to. That my son won't have his new shoes.

That my son, and two daughters, may not have their FATHER any more is far too scary a thought for me to consider here in the dimness of a jail cell. So, shoes are safer to think about. Safer to obsess about. The benign sentry against the far more frightening concepts being forced upon me.

Words tumble through my memory, rendered foreign by the circumstances under which they were spoken. "Reckless." "Unsafe." "Intoxicated." "Murderer." Breath tests, blood tests, urine tests. More tests than I've had since graduating from high school, my mind gibbers back at me with hysterical cheer. I wonder what they make of the results.

I wasn't drunk.

I wasn't high.

I wasn't speeding.

I was just doing my job.

And so was he.

Now all I hear is how I killed a cop, a good man, a fellow officer of the highest order. I've been questioned several times, by different officers. The same questions every time, couched in different words. The same anger, masking the same pain, in every pair of eyes.

There is nothing I could say or do that would alleviate that pain, regardless of any guilt, or lack thereof, on my part. They don't realize that yet, the pain is too fresh, to big, too fucking NOW to let rational thought through. So, while my mind hides behind the thoughts of Justin's nonexistent baseball shoes, theirs hide behind the thought that one Charles Martin Gerkins will pay for the death of their fallen comrade.

And the sad truth is, I've had enough pain in my own life to understand theirs. I'm not unfeeling, I'm not uncaring, I'm not a monster. I'm a husband and father who was in a very wrong place, at the very worst time, and a young man paid with his life. And now nothing will ever be the same again, for far too many people.

A son is gone. A brother is gone. A future father, perhaps, is gone. A man who'd devoted his life to helping others is gone, so how many future lives may be changed or lost because of what happened this fateful day?

I set out for work this morning planning on dropping by the Big Five store to get my son some special, spiked shoes for baseball.

I didn't intend to kill a man, least of all a good man like Henri Brown.

TSTSTS

Blessed relief at last! The darkness of the loft is a welcome respite for my battered nerves and emotions, and gratefully I sink into a lotus position in the middle of the open living room, savoring the familiar, mildly conflicting impressions of safety and openness. Closing my eyes I focus on finding my center, ignoring the gritty feel in my eyes from my earlier tears, and the dull ache in my abdominal muscles from the violent dry heaves I'd had earlier.

Oh, man, and I thought it was horrible seeing the dead bodies of people I'd never known. I still remember how the memory of Susan Frasier's frozen look of horror had haunted my dreams for months after the whole Lash case had been relegated to the 'closed' files.

I've got to say, it's a million times worse when the corpse wears the face of someone you knew, someone you liked, someone you shared a history with. I wonder how long it will be before I can remember Henri Brown without flashing on the ruined visage I glimpsed this overcast afternoon as Jim searched desperately for a sign of life. Even when I close my eyes now I can see that one dark eye sightlessly staring out at us, somehow accusing, as if to ask why we were all fine and well, when he ended up dead.

Not wanting to make a scene, I distracted myself by falling back on my most reliable escape; into academia. I went with Megan to stand by Rafe as they removed his partner's body; I murmured the proper and expected words of condolence, while the main part of my mind was obsessed with identifying all the little rituals that nearly every society has regarding death. The offering of support to the bereaved, the covering of the deceased, the occasional murmur of a prayer. A casual observer would be able to tell at a glance there was fatality, if he knew the signs to look for. The lack of conversation, the averting of everyone's gaze from the demolished vehicle, the nearly physical aura of solemnity over the entire scene. Oh, yeah, death, the greatest mystery of all, is treated with awe, reverence, respect and fear in pretty much every culture.

These thoughts allowed me to remain at the scene and…well…mentally together, until Henri's body was removed, the suspect he'd been pursuing caught, and the trucker who hit him arrested. I stood there essentially useless, but at least not hindering anything, until, in the space of a single breath, all my control simply vanished. One moment I'm standing calmly beside Jim with my hand on his back, grounding him while the trucker is questioned; the next I'm across the street throwing up what felt like a week's worth of meals into the bushes, until it settles into dry heaves and Jim's hand is on my back in wordless comfort. Then the shakes hit, nearly taking me to my knees with their unexpected power, sobs further abusing already battered abdominal muscles. My ex-Ranger, covert ops trained detective roommate held me close until I began to settle down at last, then he handed me his handkerchief and gave me a few minutes to pull myself back together. I was so embarrassed by that display I couldn't meet Jim's gaze, even as I muttered my thanks.

After I'd straightened up, and my stomach finally quit threatening to exit my body via my mouth, Jim told me quietly that he needed to go to the station for a while, to process Josephson, the drug dealer the bust had been meant to nab, before everything went so bad. In the end they still got him, but he price of that arrest was so damn much higher than anyone had expected. Jim asked if I'd rather go home, and though I would have liked to redeem myself after that display I'd put on, I just nodded, feeling too wrung to even answer. In a semi-daze I allowed the unfamiliar uniformed officer to take me back to 852 Prospect, where I made my way here to the loft and this familiar spot on the floor on autopilot.

I don't know how long I've been sitting here, but finding my center is proving to be an impossible task, my mind and memory are determined to return continuously to the events earlier, replaying over again like an old time record stuck in a groove. Oh, man, Jim's going to be home soon, I need to pull myself together. He's told me time and again about the dangers, warned me repeatedly about the risks and why we have to be careful, and I swear I thought I understood.

I didn't understand shit.

Death has a face now.

The face of a friend, a man who just a few hours ago had no reason to believe he wouldn't be around to collect his retirement fund in twenty years or so. He didn't know he was down to mere hours. It happened so fast. That sounds so clichéd, but it did. And if it could happen to Henri, then it could happen to anyone. Simon. Joel. Me. Jim.

It could happen to Jim.

I can feel a panic attack starting to build and desperately slow my breathing, fighting for control. I'm not stupid, of course I knew Jim could be killed on the job, but I hadn't really KNOWN it, if that makes sense. Both of us had been shot, kidnapped, beaten up, and had our lives threatened in some creative ways, but somehow the thought that we could actually DIE just didn't sink in. We're the good guys. We aren't supposed to die. But Henri did. And so could we. We could get up one morning and not live to go to bed that night. Oh, man, I need to quit putting off doing things. I need to find those articles I set aside to read later, research I figured I would do next week, a call to Naomi I keep forgetting to make. I have to get this stuff done! I may not have a next week, or a tomorrow, to do them in.

The sound of the elevator stops my frantic thoughts, and I realize Jim is finally home…unless…unless it's Simon coming to tell me something's happened to him…

I'm frozen by that bleak idea, staring with a desperate, pathetic hope at the front doorknob as it turns. My heart nearly stops when the door opens to reveal Jim, looking tired, unhappy, and so much older than he had a few hours before. But in my eyes he's never looked better, and I bite my bottom lip hard to hold back a sob of relief at the sight.

I mutter something about being sorry that dinner isn't ready yet, heading any unwanted questions off before they can be posed, and hustle into the kitchen as Jim sinks tiredly onto the couch. The thing is, I really had intended to have a good meal ready for him, it was the least I could do after failing him so thoroughly earlier. I was slicing the chicken for stir fry when it occurred to me that Henri had missed the last poker night, when I made this recipe for the first time. Now he'd never get the chance to try it. And without warning, tears were again streaming down my face as I threw the knife into the sink and dashed to my room to hide my emotional display from my stoic roommate. He's going to think I was a total wuss, with no control over myself whatsoever.

I didn't intend to lose it so completely, but I'd never really dealt with death before.

TSTSTS

I could hear the kid's heartbeat from the ground floor; too fast for my peace of mind, which means he's still upset. Well, of course he's still upset. Sandburg feels everything so damned intensely; everything is full-speed, full-strength with him. Nothing by half measures, which is one of the things I admire about him, though I'd rather walk barefoot on live coals than admit it.

I wonder sometimes what it would feel to be like Sandburg is, to experience life so deeply, to involve youself so completely. Most of the time I envy him his enthusiasm, his almost naiveté, and I wonder…not when I lost mine, but instead if I ever had it. Until something like this happens and the very core of his world is shaken, and the feelings he's experiencing so intently are sorrow, grief, and pain. I have to admit at times like these, I'm almost glad I have that distance from my feelings. Makes it much easier to deal with.

I open the apartment door and find Sandburg standing just inside, a look of dreadful expectation on his too expressive face. A blind person could have seen the relief that flared in his eyes when I walked in, and I would have paid good money to know what he was thinking just before I opened the door. Who…or what…had he been expecting to walk in?

I don't ask, though, as I hear his heart rate begin to fall toward normal again, and he mutters about making dinner. Suddenly my exhaustion catches up with me again, and I'm glad to let the kid cook while I rest for a while on the couch and try to come to grips with this day.

I may not feel emotions as strongly as Blair does, but my senses sure try to make up for it. The smells at the scene will be etched in my memory forever; the pungent reek of the fuel mingling on the pavement did nothing to blot out the overwhelming stench of Henri's blood. I knew before I touched him that there was no hope, but everyone was watching, and for their sakes I felt for the non-existent pulse. I didn't find the familiar beat of life, but instead a nearly imperceptible thrum of blood flowing away from extremities, toward the lower points of the body, where it could flow free from the confines of the skin that had contained it since conception. It was such a subtly final feeling that chilled me to the bone, a feeling only intensified by the sight of the one eye that stared sightlessly from the half ruined face.

Of all the possible scenarios for today's bust, this was not one we'd considered.

We'd been working on the Josephson case for a week, painstakingly gathering evidence, laying the groundwork for the bust. The man was a master of evading arrest, we were determined to bring him down once and for all. I was the lead detective on this one, but Henri and Brian were working right along side me, and we'd planned the actual bust right down to the minute. Everything except the damned trap the prey laid for us, resulting in him having enough time to get into his getaway car and roar out into the busy side street. Henri recovered too fast for his own good, and before any of us had even made it to our feet H was in the car and racing toward the street in pursuit. Then the sound of the crash…

God help me, but I figured he was dead when I heard the collision; the hiss of airbrakes, the scream of tearing metal, the almost musical tinkle of breaking glass. Grant Street was a major thoroughfare for trucks making deliveries in the industrial district, and with the speed limit being 45, they move along at a good clip.

I listened to a couple of the questioning sessions with the driver, and I know he had no chance to avoid the collision. I feel sorry for the guy, really. The cops that questioned him, they were just shy of hostile, which I can't really blame them for. Henri was a popular guy, he had a lot of friends on the force. And this man's truck was the force that turned a guy who was second only to Sandburg in popularity amongst the ladies into what looked like a reject from Nightmare On Elm Street. It would help morale if they could find someone to blame, but the man sitting in that solitary cell isn't the right one.

This is driving me nuts. I understand the other officers' need to find a scapegoat; I want nothing more than to find the one responsible for H's death and pound the shit out of him. Josephson is the only one with any real guilt in this matter, and he's being guarded carefully against retribution, just as Gerkins is.

I glance up as Blair's heart rate spikes again, in time to see him throw a something in the sink and run into his room. I can smell the faint salt of tears, hear the soft sound of suppressed sobs, and I'm reminded again that I'm not the only one affected here.

And suddenly I recognize where my emotional barriers came from, the events that helped build that shield until it is nearly impenetrable. I don't know if my younger roommate has had any up close and personal experiences with death, but I have. Too many to be comfortable with. Starting with Bud, when I was just a kid. Finding his body, my grief tied up with the pain of my father's betrayal. Then Peru, and my men. Henri's body looked good compared to the carnage after the helicopter crash, and even though my memories of that time, especially the days alone before Incacha, are sketchy, I can remember the grief, guilt and pain vividly enough. That's when the wall became a fortress, only solidified by the deaths that followed. Jack. Danny. Lila. Veronica. More coats of armor, until my feelings are guarded like a virgin at a rock concert, to use a Sandburgism. I'm protected from the pain, I know how to deal with it, intimately.

My best friend is the defenseless one in this situation, and I knock carefully on the French door of his room, waiting for him to acknowledge me. I can't help Henri, I can't avenge his death, but I can help my friend make his way through the minefield of grief that follows death-especially violent, unexpected, senseless death.

I didn't intend to be so experienced in this, but it seems life had different plans for me.

TSTSTS

'You call this a report, Brown? Darryl could have done a better job on it in the first grade!' my voice echoes in my mind, relentlessly reminding me of the last time I saw Detective Henri Brown alive and well and whole. Four hours later I got the call advising me of a fatality in my unit, and an hour after that I stood on the front steps of a modest split level home in the suburbs and tore a family's life apart.

Now scarcely forty-eight hours later, a day before the scheduled funeral services, I sit at my desk behind my closed office door and regret things I can't change. Oh, I've lost men before, more than I care to think about. When I was a detective I lost a partner in a shootout. I've seen my share of violent, senseless death, but this one was a capper. Maybe Brown was still muddled from the explosion that allowed Josephson to escape; it wasn't enough to kill, according to Taggart, but enough to slow the officers down so he could escape. That's the only explanation that makes any sense, that he was still not thinking clearly, and that's why he didn't check before roaring out into the street directly into the path of an oncoming diesel truck.

It was hell trying to explain to his family without making it sound like it was Brown's own fault he got killed. The elder Mr. Brown stood there with his arm comfortingly around his wife's shoulders while a light in his eyes died at my news. His wife was sobbing before I even started, and I wondered how long she'd been expecting, and dreading, this day. I wondered if Joan had imagined getting this sort of visit? Did Darryl have nightmares of being told of my death?

I've been keeping a weather eye out on the officers under my command, and I have to say I'm proud of them. Joel Taggart has been a Godsend; the man has an almost eerie ability to read people's emotional states, and his calm, caring ways get even the more reticent ones to open up to him. I've always felt that if he wanted to give up police work, he'd make a hell of a shrink.

Megan is doing okay, not great, but hanging in there. She's so new, she hadn't had a real chance to get to know Brown, but I noticed she's got good timing in asking questions about him, giving others a chance to share their memories, release a little of the emotional pressure, as it were.

Jim and Blair are doing okay, it seems. The kid looks a little ragged around the edges, and I'm guessing he's not sleeping real well, but that's to be expected. Jim and I talked yesterday about it a little, how it's the kid's first close death like that, and I know Jim's doing all he can to help. And though I wouldn't say anything to him, I'm keeping an eye on Ellison as well; sometimes he forgets he's not quite as tough as he thought he thinks he is.

So, by and large, the officers of Major Crimes are doing better than I had dared to hope under the circumstances, with one obvious, and quite expected, exception.

Brian Rafe is not dealing with his partner's death at all well.

Jim and I discussed Brian as well, Joel was in on that conversation. We forget sometimes that Rafe is only slightly older than Sandburg is. Hell, he was still a uniform when Blair first showed up at Jim's side, still studying to take the exam to earn a gold shield. Sure, Brian's had experience, but not like this. This is his first loss of a partner, hell, his first loss of someone he worked closely with. He's looking alternately lost and furious, and I can't quite decide which is worse. Yesterday morning I heard the usual chatter of the bullpen drop away, and looked out to see Brian walk through the doors looking like he had no idea where he was or why he was here. That alone was enough to spook anyone who knows him, but he was wearing faded blue jeans and a Hank Williams T-Shirt, of all things, and that really got our attention.

Bless Megan for her quick thinking, she went right over and with a few words and some encouragement got Brian out of here and back to his place. She told us later that his family had been worried sick when he turned up missing; they hadn't even known he planned to go to work. Since then one of us has tried to be around the Rafe residence, in a show of support and brotherhood that does us all good.

I guess it if I had to find one positive note in this whole ugly mess it's that it has shown us just how devoted and tight this division really is. Sure, Sandburg could probably give a half day lecture on the 'Society Within a Society: The Infrastructure of a Police Division" or some such thing, but to me it boils down to the simple fact: we take care of our own. Rafe is ours. Henri was ours.

And I have to believe in time we'll be okay. I just wish I could shut off the voice of my memory in my mind.

'…could have done a better job on it in the first grade!'

I didn't intend those to be the last words I ever said to him.

TSTSTS

Goddammit all to Hell! What God did I offend that takes it out on me by tangling my tie in a knot? Shit, I don't have the energy for this…damn, I have got to calm down! Maybe those deep breathing exercises Blair had Ellison doing. Breathe deep…breathe deep…ah, Hell.

I've got to get some control here, I'm not going to break down in front of the entire police force, Henri would be mortified. And why do I care what H thinks anyway? He's the idiot that got himself killed. Real good move there, Partner. Real good. Just get yourself killed in one of the most useless ways imaginable. Why couldn't you have just looked? Huh? Would it have been so unmanly or something if you'd just slowed down enough to look before you pulled out? Idiot.

There, at least now I've got the tie on. Shoes…check. Pants…check. Shirt…check. Just need a jacket and I'm ready. Something's missing, what am I forgetting this time? Socks? Got 'em. Shorts? Present and accounted for. Oh! Hair. Brushing my hair might be a good idea. Okay, I'm doing okay here. I can do this, I don't need my mom getting all freaked out again. Who knew they'd get so excited over a Hank Williams T-shirt? It's not like I've never worn it. Okay, I've never worn it in public, but still…it wasn't that weird.

Okay, handkerchief in pocket, I think I'm ready. The guys, they're always teasing me about how nattily I dress, to use my dad's favorite term. Funny, but H was the only one who ever asked me WHY I dress this way. I still remember the look on his face when I was introduced to him as his new partner. I figured we'd make it maybe two weeks together, and Captain Banks told me a few days ago he didn't expect it to last a full week. But there was more to Henri Brown than met the eye, and he and I learned quickly not to jump to any conclusions. Guess it was our second long stakeout together when he asked me why I always dressed like I was going to be meeting the mayor for lunch. That's how he put it, even. More precisely; 'You look like you're going to Le Haute Cuisine for lunch with the mayor every damn day of the week. Or maybe you're expecting the President to stop by and shake your hand?' A couple of weeks before and I'd have probably blown off his question, but we were starting to get to know each other, so I told him.

Told him of the dreams my immigrant father had been raised with, dreams he passed on…pressed on…to his children, dreams his second son wasn't a good enough student to realize. I didn't want a career in law or medicine or finance, but in criminology. The suits were the compromise I reached between his dreams and mine.

It was another year, and the better part of a six-pack of beer, before I confessed the other reason. And I knew I had a true friend and partner when he didn't share the embarrassing truth with the rest of the guys. Though he DID give me a complete set of Cary Grant videos for Christmas that year.

Ah, damn, why did I have to go and start thinking about that.

It's such a waste, such a fucking waste of his life, dying that way. He used to joke about how he was gonna go out in a "Blaze of Glory," singing that stupid Bon Jovi song, spinning some big story about the statues in his likeness and the Junior High School being named after him, and the whole bit. He was going to save the innocent, right the wrongs, protect the helpless.

He died because he was too confused to check the traffic.

Just a fucking waste.

Good thing Grandma can't read minds, or I'd be eating soap right now. Got to remember to not let the cussing slip. She'd never believe her 'Little Brian' even knew such words, let alone used them. Henri teased me about that too, my not cussing. Hey, Partner, you should hear me now. I wonder what the family'd do if I just walked into the living room and shouted "Fuck, fuck, fuck," at the top of my lungs?

Wonder if it'd make me feel any better?

Henri, I'm never going to forgive you for this, you know? Yesterday I heard my cousin Mike talking to my dad; he was wondering what the big deal was between police partners. Said I was acting worse than Uncle Chadburn did when his wife died. Dad fumbled that one a little, explained that in some ways it was sort of like a marriage, but I could tell - and I think Mike could, as well - that he wasn't really sure.

How can you explain that it's sort of like a marriage, but without the kissing and the arguing about money. Well, there were the arguments about who's turn it is to buy lunch, so I guess it's just without the kissing. Oh, but with the expectation that any given day one partner might die protecting the other. I guess offering your life in the line of duty isn't included in most marriage ceremonies. And the fact you don't get to choose your partner. Okay, so, maybe a cross between a marriage and brotherhood. Two strangers thrown together, forced to work side by side every day, it's inevitable they get to know each other, and care for each other. I couldn't imagine having a partner I disliked. I mean, spending eight to twelve hours a day in nearly constant contact with someone you dislike? Couldn't do it.

I can't remember any more when we crossed the line from coworkers to friends, but it was pretty quick. At least for me it was. And from friends, to best friends. People think the cement between partners is the life and death circumstances that can arise. That's not it. It's two weeks of daily stake outs, it's three days of court appearances, it's slogging from door to door questioning witnesses. It's learning, accepting, then depending on, your partner's talents and instincts to complement each other.

It's knowing every day you'll go to the station, and whatever the situation, your partner will be there for you.

Only, next week when I go back, you won't be there. And I have no idea how I'm going to deal with it.

I didn't intend to ever need another partner.

TSTSTS

Wow, look at this. This is nice, man. Whoa, even the Chief made it? Pretty impressive for a nobody detective in Major Crime, a division which features Jim Ellison, and his trusty sidekick, Hairboy.

Speaking of the 'Dynamic Duo', there they are, front and center. Hairboy's looking a bit worse for wear, and if Ellison's jaw muscle bulges out any further he can use it as a coat rack. Geez, you'd think the man liked me or something. I mean, you know, we got along okay and all that, even enjoyed each other's company at the poker games and all since Blair came along and turned him human, but I didn't think he'd be that upset.

'Course, if there's one thing I've learned, it's that I can't understand Jim Ellison. When I first met that hardass, I figured we'd get along fine as long as he didn't know I existed. Then Blair showed up, and suddenly Ellison found out how to smile. Hell, that's more than his wife accomplished. I don't think any of us who were in the garage that day Hairboy ate the Golden-laced pizza will forget the sight of big, tough Jim Ellison cradling his unconscious friend, having talked the semi-hysterical younger man down despite having a loaded gun pointed in his face. Guess that's what we all learned to expect from Ellison and Sandburg; courage, trust, devotion, compassion. I going to miss that, I really am. I get the feeling I was allowed to be a part of something pretty special.

Ah, there's Megan, at least she's not wearing that pink dingo fur coat she has. It's a shame I'm not going to get a chance to work with her more, I was just starting to figure out what she was talking about. I see Taggart is with her, that's good. Joel's one of the good guys, he'll keep an eye on here until she's settled, help Blair keep her and Jim from killing each other.

Where're my folks? Oh, there they are, talking to Simon. Man, when did Dad get looking so old? Heck, Simon looks older than I remember, too. And Mom…I wish she'd stop crying, I can't stand seeing her looking so sad. I didn't mean to hurt them so much, I'd tried to prepare them just in case something like this happened, but I guess you can't really prepare for something like this. Thank God they still have my two brothers; Jerry and Rob will take good care of them, and maybe Dad can take an early retirement with my insurance benefits. He and Mom could travel some, like he always wanted to. Do something good for themselves. It's not much, but all that I can offer since I can't go back and tell them now how much I love them, how much I appreciate how they raised me. God, I hope they knew without me saying.

Oh, Lord, is that Brian? Simon, you leave my folks alone-they're okay and you're needed elsewhere. My partner isn't doing so well, there. Can't any of you see it? Dammit, can't you see the strain around his eyes? Can't you see how rigid he is? Come on, guys, he needs you. That's it, Ellison, good. Yeah, get Simon over there too. Good. Look out for him, guys, that's the job I'm leaving you all. Look out for my partner.

I'm sorry, Bri, for how this all went down. I'm sorry I died before I could tell you how proud I was to be your partner, how big a part you played in my renewed enthusiasm for the job. I was close to premature burnout when I found myself partnered with a young man who wanted to grow up to be Dick Tracy, as he'd be played by Cary Grant. We were pretty much an odd couple, but that didn't matter, since it worked. You take care of yourself, Buddy. You show up here too soon and I'll kick that well-dressed ass of yours from one end of the hereafter to the other. You can count on that.

Simon better team him up with someone good, Rafe is easy to work with, but someone real aggressive would run him down too much. He needs someone outgoing, maybe a little outrageous, older preferably. Brian's a damned good detective; intuitive, hard working, courageous. The right partner and he'll shine, become the kind of cop he's capable of being; one of the best. I was really looking forward to seeing him shine, I wanted to be the one who brought out all the best in him.

Come to think of it, I wanted to shine myself. I meant to work until I was in my mid 40s, then retire and move someplace sunny and warm and dry. I wanted to find the woman of my dreams, maybe have at least one child, two at most. I fully expected to reap the benefits of converting my retirement plan to a Roth IRA, envisioning myself pulling all that tax-free income after reaching the minimum age required. I planned to read the newest Stephen King novel as soon as it was released in paperback, and was looking forward to the film version of The Green Mile. I was ready to make the final payment on my car next month, and had already talked to the dealer about trading it in at the end of the year. I have two suits at the dry cleaners I guess I'm never going to be picking up, and a brand new subscription to TV Guide I reckon won't be of much benefit. I bought tickets to next weeks Jag's game, and had arranged to go with Brian and the Delaney sisters, one of whom I plotted to kiss at halftime if I was lucky.

I didn't intend to die.

The end.

Author's note: This story was inspired by the tragic death of a local policeman. My hometown is very small, our police force consists of perhaps twenty officers. Last week one of our more veteran officers spotted a sheriff's car in pursuit of a suspected DUI, and pulled a U turn intending to join the pursuit. For reasons perhaps no one will know, he did not notice the big rig coming up behind him at the legal speed of 55mph. The police car pulled directly into the truck's path and was struck broadside, the officer killed instantly. Last I heard, the truck driver was cleared of any charges, but having been a truck driver myself, I know he will have to find a way to live with the knowledge that he contributed to someone's death. Perhaps that is why this particular situation has 'haunted' me, and this story was my way of working my feelings out.