Meaning In Tragedy

Chapter One

The storm clouds turned the sky a bleak shade of gray. The rain pounded against the hot ground creating a smooth autumn mist. Detective Oscar Reed pushed open the door of the police car and plopped his feet into a puddle. Getting soaked at that point, was an inevitability.

His trench coat had seen better days. He tightened it around his waist to guard his dress shirt and silk tie. He tucked his head down and tried to embrace the down pour. A cold wind burst through the air marking the shift in the fall climate.

He'd been called out to examine a body and begin an investigation. He didn't really see the point of investigating any deaths that took place in the slums. Poor people kill poor people. Enough said. Was there really any point in finding out what happened or how someone died? No one with any self-respect would've wound up in this part of town. Most of the police had already turned their backs on this part of Greenville, but for some reason, this body was worth examining.

He approached the yellow tape marking off the crime scene. Once he got a glimpse of the body collecting rain next to the gutter, he began to understand why he'd been called out to investigate. The body was sprawled out on its side with the feet outstretched toward the road. It looked like a young man. His jeans had holes in them, and his black sweatshirt was decorated with a trendy design. It's like he was just a kid. A kid who had a home, with parents who were freaking out.

Any leads yet on who the victim was? Detective Reed asked the other officers with little enthusiasm.

Not yet, Officer Johnson responded. He only had a few fake I.D.'s on him.

Detective Reed crouched down for a closer look while pulling a pen out of his shirt pocket. The kid had jet black hair. He brushed a few locks of the wavy hair out of the kids face to reveal an assortment of piercings. All the rain couldn't hide the gaping hole in the kid's neck. Oscar slipped on his gloves and peeled back the kid's sweatshirt to find a blood stain the rain hadn't washed away.

It's clearly a gunshot wound. Detective Reed said. He moved to the other side to examine the exit wound. Have we found the bullet yet?

No, Officer Johnson replied. We're thinking it may turn up in the autopsy.

Detective Reed looked the body over again. He could see pieces of the neck dangling out the other end. There was certainly an exit wound.

I don't think they're going to find it in the autopsy. That exit wound looks like the bullet passed right through him.

What does that tell us?

That means we need to look around to see where the bullet is. It can tell us what kind of gun this was.

He didn't mean to be so helpful. He searched around anyway. In this pouring rain, the bullet could have been washed away by now. It could be miles away, washed into a gutter, or so he hoped.

Detective Reed was hoping to close this case as soon as possible. There were too many connections to powerful people in this part of town that didn't need to be exposed. He wanted to save everyone the hassle and pin this crime on the first drifter he could find. Still, he reenacted the scenarios over and over again in his mind. How the kid might have been shot for his body to land in that position, and where that bullet may have gone.

While the other officers on the scene took out their flashlights and scoped the perimeter for any remaining evidence, especially the bullet, he played along. His pulse quickened because he wanted to find it first, not to solve the mystery.

Oscar splashed around in the puddles nearby. He acted like he was scanning for clues, but he was really hoping to wash away any remaining evidence left behind.

He wanted to kick the bullet down the nearest rain gutter, making the crime harder to solve. He wanted to reach a dead end on this case so it would all be over. Greenville had secrets that he wasn't ready to expose.

Chapter Two

The smell of coffee steaming from a paper cup and flickering fluorescents were all part of my morning ritual. Sometimes I would let hours pass staring at a blank computer screen before entering in the data. Writing obituaries isn't for the faint of heart. It took me months to get past my fear of death. It was in the offices of the Greenville Tribune where death became my life.

I had ambitions to become a front-page journalist. I didn't expect to start there. But I certainly didn't expect to be assigned the death and records section of the newspaper. Funeral homes practically do all the writing. It's my job to make it print ready, edit a few words, and make sure each column fits in the right place.

My motivation declined as I realized what my position entailed. Excelling to show that I am the best obituary writer only encourages the editor to keep me in that position. Failing to produce any good work shows that I'm really not qualified to work for the paper. I was striving for mediocrity.

After wasting away several moments of the morning, I sort through the mail and email looking for legitimate obituaries from funeral homes and churches. Every now and then I would get fake obituaries sent in from family members or friends thinking they're playing a funny joke. Not real original if you ask me.

I had grown used to reading about deaths from the elderly. Occasionally I'd have some middle-aged deaths to report. This particular day, I came across a name I couldn't forget: Blake Walker, 17 years old. He was just a kid.

My thoughts about losing a kid that age carried me away. I had dreamed about being a father once. I was just barely old enough to even think, I could have a kid the same age as this Blake Walker. Now was not the time to get swept up in the memories of the past.

Still, I studied the picture of him that his mom included with it, and read the announcement over and over again.

Blake Walker died Oct. 13, 2019. He was 17 years old. He was survived by his parents, Jordan and Sharon Walker.

Memorial service will be 2 p.m. Thursday, Oct. 17, 2019 at Grace Memorial Funeral Home in Greenville.

It was short. I had seen some before with kids. I think what bothered me the most was the lack of any real information about him. There is no real requirement to publish an obituary for the newspaper. But if the funeral home, or the family, is paying for it, then they usually have something more to say.

What was his cause of death? Who was he before? Why did they leave out those details?

Maybe it was my thirst for adventure or my desire to be a real journalist that motivated me to seek further information. Something inside needed to know.

I picked up the phone and called the contact number listed for the parents. With every ring, my mind started to spin out more and more possibilities for what could've happened to this kid.

Hello? A tired woman's voice answered.

Is this Sharon Walker?

Yes, who is this? Her patience was fading fast.

This is Carl Manning of the Greenville Tribune. I introduced myself.

I thought I made it clear already, that I don't want to speak to the press.

If I was intrigued at first, my level of interest was only elevated by her insistence that she wanted the press out of this.

It's not that ma'am, I pleaded. I write the obituaries. I was wondering if you had any more information you wanted to provide.

"It's not like he was involved in any extra-curricular activities. I've got the time of the funeral listed. All are welcome to attend. What more do you need?"

I wanted to ask her for the cause of death, but she was reluctant enough to speak with me. I didn't want to upset her any more.

I suppose I could make do with what I have. I'm sorry some of the other journalists were so rude to you before.

It's okay. I understand they have a job to do, sometimes at the expense of people's lives.

By the way, who spoke to you before? Maybe I could straighten him out.

It was Adam Thornburg. He called us several times, even came by the house. By the time he actually wrote a story, it was completely disrespectful.

I'm sorry to hear that. I'll go speak with him right away.

Thank you.

Adam Thornburg was one of the most respected rising journalists on the paper. I felt honored just to have some reason to speak with him. If what Mrs. Walker told me turned out to be true, he could be heading for a libel case soon.

I marched down the hall to Adam's desk. He was leaning back in his chair while talking on the phone. It looked like it could've been an important conversation. Every so often he would start writing down notes, then return to the computer for something. Before long, he glanced up and saw me standing there. He kept holding up his first finger, indicating that it would be just a moment longer.

After he hung up the phone he glanced me over from head to toe before leaning back into his chair. What can I do for you?

Do you remember speaking with a Sharon Walker?

I may have. I'm a journalist. He chuckled. I speak with a lot of people. Is she cute?

This is serious. She said you ambitiously pursued her to get a story. When it was all said and done she said the story dishonored her family.

Is she suing the paper?

Well... no, but--

Then it's not a problem until there's a real lawsuit. He started shooing me away from his desk.

Listen, I'm writing an obituary and I was wondering, since you wrote the story on her, if you'd have any more information about this Blake Walker case.

He started mouthing Blake Walker, looking toward the ceiling. You're writing an obituary on this Blake Walker?

The kid died two days ago, it couldn't be that hard for him to remember the whole situation. "Yes, please, can you help me figure out how he died?"

The article just came out in today's paper. If she has a problem with it, have her take it up with the editor instead of going to you. It's the job of a journalist to seek out the truth. That's all I did. The truth isn't always flattering.

I walked away from his desk without a formal dismissal. I could only take so much of his pride. I grabbed the latest copy of the Greenville Tribune and searched for the story by Adam Thornburg. It didn't make the first page, but I did find it on the third page. It was a short article titled: DEATH AND DARK PLACES. I read through the article. It didn't quote Mrs. Walker once.

Blake Walker, 17, was found dead at the intersection of 4th St and Mockingbird Lane. Police are still searching for leads.

It's an ongoing investigation and we can't say much, says Detective Oscar Reed. We believe a bullet passed through his jugular vein, but the bullet has yet to be found.

It could be a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could be the end result of making several bad decisions.

Blake ran with some rough crowds, Walter Jones, Greenville High School principle.

He was probably buying drugs out there. Everyone knows the sort of things he was up to. He just got what was coming to him. Kylie Dalton, one of his classmates commented.

Blake's death will remain a tragedy and a warning to other students not to follow down his path in life.

I could see why she would've been upset. If I were in her place, I wouldn't want that to be how people remembered my son. It may have been the truth, but was it worth reporting?

Suddenly the truth was becoming very important to me. It was more than just knowing, but being content in knowing that justice came from the truth. Mrs. Walker wouldn't be willing to speak with the press. After reading that article, I couldn't blame her. My best chance of meeting her would be going to that funeral.

Chapter Three

The flower arrangements were sparse next to the handful of class pictures and family photos. The casket wasn't unusually small. It had been a while since I decided to go to a funeral based on an obituary I had written. I originally started just to get a grasp on the job, and see the people I was writing about. I could always find some excuse as to why I was there. Plus, there were good snacks at the reception. After going to a few, I was too uncomfortable to continue. People were dying, and I didn't want to exploit it. I had to wake up to the fact that these services aren't about me or the deceased, it's about the ones left behind.

I arrived at Blake Walker's service twenty minutes late. I didn't want to draw attention to myself. There wasn't much of a crowd. I took a seat in the back, so I could pretend like I was never there if I wanted. In the front row there was a woman with sandy blond hair with a few gray roots. She was wearing a black dress that looked like it had been displayed in a thrift shop a few months ago. The way she bounced between drying her eyes and starring off into the distance gave me the impression she must be Sharon Walker.

The service was already in session, but close to being over. The eulogy didn't mention anything about heaven or eternity. Not everyone believes in that stuff, but I found the total omission to be odd. It seems to crop its way into every funeral and wedding service in America no matter what people believe. The fathomable exceptions would be when a person's system of belief is defined completely apart from it. I didn't hear much about the good things the kid did, or the character he developed over his life. It was mostly focused on how life is short and death is unexpected. The kid had his years ahead of him. It reminded me of a service I went to for