“I don’t know.”
Another officer took a picture of the note.
“There’s no sign of a struggle. No sign of robbery. Everything is orderly. It appears to be a suicide, but I want to order an autopsy, if that’s okay with you?”
Jesus, now they want to desecrate her as well, he thought.
“We can get a court order.”
“Fine!” Gene felt the acceptance of defeat.
The police left and Gene went to the hospital, where Catherine was confirmed dead. He signed some papers and returned home to find a house as empty as a forgotten dream. He began pacing the room with an empty mind. He felt like a shell with nothing alive inside. He was aware of the silence; the emptiness. He felt like the roads in his friend’s neighborhood—dying, becoming less road. He felt the meaninglessness of his own existence; the pointlessness of going on. He wondered if this was what Catherine felt in her desperation to leave this world.
Tears welled up and he reached for his comfortable old recliner and collapsed into it. He couldn’t control his emotions any longer. Tears streamed down his cheek, and he felt dead. Catherine was his wife, partner, coach, confidant, and lover. Everything that gave his life meaning revolved around her. Now she was gone, and he couldn’t care about anything else anymore.
Night wore on in insufferable certitude. Hour after hour passed with no relief from the pain of his loneliness. He couldn’t sleep; couldn’t feel tired. He’d pace the house, then sit, and then pace some more—all with no thoughts, plans, or understanding of all that happened. His mind wandered in a journey that had no destination.
As the first rays of light streamed through the living room curtains, Eugene sat back in his chair and began sobbing. Why couldn’t she just come to me? I could’ve helped her. Eugene reflected on the other morning; that terrible morning. Catherine wanted to tell Gene something, but couldn’t. Why? He tried to understand what Cassandra and Catherine told him, but Gene still couldn’t put the pieces together. Anger began to replace his thoughts as he stood up again. Once more the tears freely flowed as he began shouting. “CATHERINE! WHY DID YOU DO THIS? I NEED YOU. I CAN’T GO ON WITHOUT YOU. WHY? WHY? WHY?” He collapsed onto the rug near the chair and pounded on the floor. All emotional control was gone now. “Please come back. I need you!”
Eugene sprawled out on the floor, crying, his mind emptying again as he felt the will to go on drift just out of his reach.
Chapter 5:
The Face of Evil
“Wismar here. I’m afraid I have some bad news, sir. Catherine killed herself with a drug overdose.”
“Shit, I knew she would. She thought boozing it up would turn me off; that I’d leave her alone. Shit! All it did was make me angrier.” The man began to smile. “Look, I found someone else—early middle age; nice looking. Found her in jail doing time for extortion.” The man began grinning; his gleaming white teeth shone through the wrinkles around his mouth. “My little sweetie. I’m going to love fucking that cunt.
“I remember that last night with Catherine. I picked her up and she comes over all shit-faced. I just wanted to kill her. Hell, if she didn’t do it herself, I would have. I wanted to do it especially hard. You should have heard her scream, Wismar. Then she started shouting Sulke’s name—’Gene! Gene!’” he said in falsetto voice. “I just pounded her even harder. She’d scream some more and then began whimpering, ‘please stop,’ and then calling that bastard’s name. I plunged in harder still. I started screaming at her to shut up, but she just kept screaming, and pleading with me to stop. I just laughed and screamed right back at her. I swear to God, Wismar, I wanted to split her in two. She was nothing to me—just a plaything. This new girl is going to be my wife. And I’ll fix it so that no matter what I do to her she’ll love it.” He burst into a broad laughter. “Imagine that, Wismar. No matter what I do she’ll scream for more. She’s going in for treatment right away.”
“Glad to hear it,” Wismar said. “I told you that’s what you should have done with Catherine from the beginning.”
“Treatment is expensive, but I realize that now.”
“You’ll need to treat Sulke as well.”
“Why?”
“He’ll make trouble for you.”
“According to O’Reilly he’s no threat.”
“I don’t know. If he ever finds out you’re behind his wife’s death….”
“I have clean hands. She chose to drink. I’m not responsible.”
“All I know is that women seem to die when you finish with them.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Take Anna. I got the police report. Good job. Road rage. Police say she cut some hot head off, and he shot her. Nobody saw anything. It’s under investigation, but I don’t suppose it will go anywhere.”
“You think you know so Goddamn much, Wismar.”
“All right, all right. Look, what do you want me to do with Sulke? If you aren’t going to treat him, I could have him arrested. Murder. He talks, you know—I mean about his marital problems. Everyone knows she drinks. He even told a co-worker he just had a terrible argument with Catherine right before she killed herself. I could make it look like he did it—used the pills and booze to make it look like she committed suicide. There’s a bunch of witnesses I could bring in—you know—establish motive. I could get his prints on the bottles. A sympathetic jury and judge, and bye-bye Mr. Sulke.”
The man listened with interest. “Yeah, that would fix it. See what you can find out.”
The upstairs alarm clock had been ringing when Eugene awoke on the living room floor. His clothes were disheveled and his face was still moist when he slowly climbed to his feet. The alarm buzzed like a swarm of bees as Eugene ascended the stairs to the master bedroom. He stared at the bed from the doorway, almost afraid to enter. The alarm blared away relentlessly, telling him it’s time for work. Work was the farthest thing from Eugene’s mind as he stared at the bed; the alarm still beckoning. He slowly walked in and turned it off, sitting on Catherine’s side of the bed.
No tears christened his cheeks nor moistened his eyes now. He felt dead as he stared into nothing. Then he directed his attention to the nightstand next to him. A lamp, a glass, a book, an empty bottle of gin and a half-empty bottle of pills stood watch over Eugene’s shattered life. He stared at the pills, and after awhile, picked them up and stared at them some more. As he began to unscrew the cap, the downstairs phone rang. Eugene stopped and turned toward the door. He put the bottle down, slowly got up and then descended the stairs, making his way toward the kitchen. He stared at the phone until it stopped ringing. He turned around and started for the stairs again only to stop when his pocket phone rang.
“Son,” his mother said, “I just heard what happened. Oh, you poor boy. The hospital called and said she’d killed herself.”
Eugene listened, but said little.
“Come over, son. I’ll make you some breakfast and coffee. Are you going to work?”
“Uh, no, mom; I guess not. I hadn’t thought of it.” Eugene’s voice was cracked and rough.
“I’ll make you some bacon and eggs, and brew some coffee.”
“That’s okay, mom. I’m just going to stay home today. I have to make funeral arrangements, anyway.”
Eugene’s voice gave him away. She was worried. She didn’t like the sound of it. “I want you to come over right now. You shouldn’t be alone. I’ll make the funeral arrangements. I’ll let your father know.”
“No, mom. I’ll be all right.”
“Eugene, I insist. This is your mother talking to you. You come over right now. I’m starting breakfast this minute and if you aren’t here in fifteen minutes I’ll call a cab and come right over.”