Current Shareware 1994 January/SHAR194.ISO/articles/s_m1193.zip/NOTE

Text File | 1993-10-31 | 9KB | 144 lines

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 ░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Notes From All Over. . . ░░░░░░░░░By Rick Dawson
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        Pedersen rubbed his eyes and looked down at the note on his
   desk for what had to be the twentieth time since he got back to the
   station.  The lab boys had the original; the blood spatter wasn't
   going to be of any real interest in this case, he was sure.  The
   medical examiner's assistant had summed it up pretty well this
   morning on the dam after he'd examined the body, and Pedersen
   doubted that Richmond was going to have anything more to add other
   than official paperwork with the Commonwealth's seal across the top.
   "No need to worry about DOA, this kid's DRT, Dan", Ellsworth had
   said to him as the rescue squad bagged the remains.  One of the
   newer volunteers on the squad, a 20 year old biology major at the
   university up the road, had overheard the remark and waited until
   Pedersen was alone to ask him what it meant.  "Dead right there,
   kid, dead right there", Dan had answered, not bothering to look up
   from his note-taking.  He sensed, rather than saw, the kid's
   reaction - the half-step back, the you callous bastard, that was
   somebody with feelings, friends and family, and you guys crack jokes
   about them!  glare in the eyes, the blaze of anger bright as the
   strobe the lab techs used to take high-definition pictures of the
   scene.  Kid, if you only knew how little I care anymore, he thought
   in retort.

        This had been an unusually heavy week for suicides.  There was
   the 82 year old lady at the nursing home who'd saved her pills for a
   couple weeks to make sure the dose was toxic.  A 43 year old
   cigarette company middle manager who'd recently lost his job to
   corporate restructuring only weeks after moving to Gill's Point was
   next - the family had wanted to call it a murder, but the tentative
   cuts on the wrist and neck, followed by the single thrust into the
   heart said it all to Pedersen's trained eyes.  He'd been followed by
   the 28 year old addict they found off of Dupuy, and now this one
   this morning.

        All of them had left notes behind.  The justifications and
   rationalizations, the pleading for someone to understand that was in
   vain, all of it landed on Pedersen's desk eventually.  The
   grandmother's note at least made some sense.  Written in barely
   legible script, it said "I'm not willing to try to cope with the
   pain any longer.  Tell Marcia and Jeff that Gandma loves them both,
   but that she can't take the pain anymore, and I'll see them in
   Heaven." The diagnosis had been confirmed by the family physician;
   cancer had spread like wildfire through her system before it had
   been detected, and at her age it didn't make sense to do much more
   than make her comfortable with meds.  Kevorkian would have done her
   some good, but the right-to-lifers had jumped into playing God on
   this issue too, he thought disgustedly.  The cancer merchant's note
   was full of regrets and recriminations: "I'm sorry it had to be this
   way, but after losing the job, this seemed like the only way to get
   the bills paid." was the sentence that stuck in Pedersen's mind from
   that one.  Christ, this guy's thinking about money instead of people
   - you can sell a house and get another job!

        The addict's note was a confused, rambling affair.  Penciled on
   a sheet torn from one of those gregg-ruled green pads, it had
   skipped from subject to subject.  A few things in there were being
   investigated - the kid had written ". .  .if there's a hell, I hope
   that they send my dad there in pieces for what he did to me!  If it
   hadn't been for him, none of this would have happened." Since the
   girl had been a local, and the family still lived in the area, this
   one was being checked out - the girl had two other sisters who'd
   left home underage and hadn't been found yet.  You shoulda stuck
   around, kid, he thought at the time.  Some time in treatment, a
   crackerjack lawyer and you could've been on TV with all the other
   victims, whiners and wierdos.  He had forwarded the note without
   comment to CPS; maybe they would have some luck with the loose ends.

         The note from this morning bothered him in a way he hadn't
   been able to pin down.  The victim was a 38 year old male caucasian.
   The i.d.  gave an address in the mid-section of town, and a cruiser
   had verified it as the right residence.  Neighbors, curious about
   what the cops were doing in the neighborhood, had volunteered that
   the victim indeed lived there.  They were able to find out that he'd
   recently separated, and that the loss seemed to weigh heavily on
   him.  The kids were with the mother custodywise, and in a local day
   care.  The history they had on the guy didn't make much sense: a
   former addict and alcoholic, he'd evidently been off the sauce for a
   few years and hadn't relapsed.  There was a history of child abuse,
   sexual abuse, emotional abuse, but from all accounts that wasn't
   playing out in his life currently - the neighbors spoke well of him
   as a father and a husband.  There was one thing, though .  . .  when
   the officers had talked with the wife around 10:30 or so, she had
   said the reason they had split up was his refusal to give up the
   computer.  "It was another addiction, and finally I gave him a
   choice of either it or us, and he pointed towards the door.  I
   figured a few weeks or so and maybe he'd snap back to reality." It
   had taken the better part of an hour to get that statement - she was
   highly distraught, and a counselor from the mental health clinic had
   to be called.

        Pedersen sighed, rubbed his eyes again, put his glasses back on
   and picked up the note.  I don't get it.  Why would someone who'd
   beaten the odds against making it this far in life kill himself over
   a goddamned computer?  Why couldn't he ditch the box, patch it up
   with the old lady and get on with the business of living?  The
   photocopy didn't have any answers.

   ==============================================================================
   BBS: The Dead Zone BBS
   Date: 09-07-XX                     Number: 12491
   From: Clark Denton                 Refer#: None
      To: All                          Recvd: No
   Subj: Termination Notice             Conf: (16) Chit-Chat
   -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

   Just a short note to say goodbye.

   Due to circumstances, I will be logging off permanently.  A few
   weeks back I made a serious error in judgement, and I cannot live
   with the consequences of that decision.  To those of you with whom
   I'd struck up conversations, know that I'll miss you.  I finally ran
   into an addiction that I couldn't give up any other way than the way
   I've chosen.  In lieu of flowers, please turn off your modems
   Saturday for the day and spend time with someone, not something.  «
   Clark

   » ---
    SLMR 2.1a  Religious Error: [A]tone, [R]epent, or [F]ry?
   * Dead Zone BBS* Col.  Hgts, VA * (804) 526 - 6471 14.4 connections
   * *CPRelay (tm) v2.06 DEADZONE (#733) : NetRelayer (tm)
   _____________________________________________________________________________

        As he got up to leave, Pedersen picked up the note and tossed
   it into the trash.  There's something bizarre about sending a note
   like this all over.  What in hell could he have been thinking about?
   Must be a nerd thing I wouldn't understand, he thought, as the light
   blinked off and the door closed behind him.  In the fading light
   coming through the windows, a CRT glowed on the desk, the cyan
   cursor gave up trying to blink in time to Pedersen's beta waves, and
   the disk drive clicked dryly, hungrily.  Not this time, perhaps.
   Maybe it'll be a telecommunications program, or Windows' Solitaire,
   but no matter; there is time.

                                  -end-
                     Copyright (c)1993 by Rick Dawson

            Rick Dawson is a freelance writer living in Virginia.
            He may be contacted via P&BNet in any conference or
            use your modem to dial [phone] and leave a message.