“I don’t know, but we need to figure it out.” The victim is wearing dark slacks. A white shirt and a sport coat. Looking up, keeping my beam poised, I circle. Sure enough, in the small space between the lapel hems of the jacket I see a dark stain on the shirt.
“Get some photos of the scene and the victim, will you? We’ll take a closer look once the fire department gets him down.” I motion toward the woman standing near the door. “I’m going to talk to the daughter.”
“Sure.”
I leave Glock to his work and make my way toward the woman. “Ms. Harrington?”
She’s frantically blotting her nose with the tissue, which is now shredded, and tossing uneasy glances at her father’s body. She watches me approach, her eyes huge and owlish. “My God. I can’t believe he’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
She closes her eyes and I notice a single fake eyelash stuck to her cheek. “I can’t believe he would do something like this.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard those words. The family members of most suicide victims are shocked initially. Only after they’ve had ample time to reflect on the things the victim said or did in the weeks and months preceding their death do they realize the clues were there. They just didn’t see them until it was too late.
“I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.” I offer my hand and we shake. “Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”
“Sure.” But her eyes keep flicking from me to her father’s body. “Can you guys get him down from there? I can’t stand seeing him like that. His neck … God.”
“We will as soon as the fire department gets here with some equipment and lights.” I motion toward the workbench twenty feet away, and we start toward it. “They’re on the way.”
I stop at the workbench and turn to face her so that her back is to the body. “When’s the last time you saw your dad?”
“Oh gosh. A week ago Sunday, I think. We met for lunch up at LaDonna’s Diner.”
I pull out my notebook and make a note. “Were you close?”
She digs into her purse, pulls out another tissue, and dabs at her eyes. “I don’t see him as much as I used to. But when I was younger, we were close. He was a good dad.” She chokes out a sound that’s part laugh, part sob. “He doted on the grandkids.” Her face screws up and she begins to cry.
Comforting the bereaved is not one of my strong points, but I’ve done this enough times to muddle through. I set my hand on her arm and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Was he depressed?”
“That’s what makes this such a shock. He wasn’t. Not at all. I mean, he didn’t get down in the dumps. He didn’t have that kind of personality. He was strong.… I mean, not that depressed people are weak, but…”
“Did he have any health problems?”
“He’d slowed down in the last couple of years. Complained about his knees sometimes. Oh, and he had a little thing of skin cancer removed six months ago. But nothing since. He was healthy as a horse.”
“Any issues with drugs or alcohol?”
“Never did drugs. Far as I know, he never drank too much.”
“Has he been under any stress lately?”
“He never mentioned anything.”
“Any deaths in the family recently? Or anyone he was close to?”
“No.”
“Any financial problems?”
“No. He hit it big with the Maple Crest development back in the late ’90s, so he was pretty much set for life.”
“Did he have many friends, Belinda?”
“He used to hang out with some guys his age. They’d visit or play poker or go out to dinner.”
“Do you know their names?”
She lowers her head, presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know.”
I suspect at least part of the display isn’t grief, but guilt because they weren’t as close as they’d once been.
“Did he have a girlfriend?” I ask.
“Not that I know of. But he was kind of secretive about … personal stuff.”
Movement at the door snags my attention. Deputy Frank Maloney with the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department lugs in a large fluorescent work light. An orange extension cord is looped around his shoulder like a rope. I reach into the pocket of my jacket, pull out one of my cards, and hand it to the woman. “Mrs. Harrington, if you think of anything else that might be important, will you give me a call?”
“Of course.”
I nod toward her father’s body. “You don’t have to stay for this. And if you’re not up to driving, I can call a family member for you or have an officer take you home.”
“Thank you, but no.” She shakes her head. “The least I can do is be here for him through this.”
As I start to walk past her, I think of one more question. “Mrs. Harrington, do you have a key to his house?”
“Yes, I do. Why?”
“I thought he might’ve left a note.”
“Oh.” Her face crumples. “I didn’t even think of that.”
“Is it okay with you if we take a look inside?”