It’s time. It’s been almost six years. Six years since I found his body in a puddle of blood on the floor of my garage. Six years since my world came to both an abrupt end and an abrupt beginning.

It’s been almost six years and it never completely leaves my mind. It’s been almost six years of keeping all the emotions, questions, stories, rage and terror deep inside. Six years of pretending that I’m OK…strong…unaffected.

It’s time to be honest. I’m ready to push the letters that I wrote TO YOU out to others. I think I finally have come to the point where I know I won’t get answers to the hundreds of questions I have posed. You are dead.

And so here it is. Letter Number One.

To you… 

Three weeks and 3 days

It’s been three weeks, and three days since you decided to take your own life. Kill yourself?  Shoot yourself in the head? Suicide?  I don’t even know what to call it anymore.  In this short period of time, I have heard people call it many things.  I’m at work right now.  Can’t focus on what I need to do.  Inside, I’m still a mess.  Last night I had dreams about this. I dreamt that you sent me a text message that said, “I’m alive.  I’m with someone else.”  I dreamt that I tried to find you and it wasn’t you.  It was an imposter.  I shouldn’t be surprised.  Deep inside, I always thought this word accurately described you anyway.

Did you know that leaving me this way would permanently scar me?  Was it your intent that I find you, the trail of blood leaking out of your head, spreading across my brown carpet and onto my garage floor?  Is this how you wanted me to remember you? Did you imagine how I would react?  Did you want to see me cry, scream, fall to my knees, sob? You always accused me of having issues with showing my emotions.  Maybe this was your last attempt to pry those emotions out of me. Force me to scream so hard my throat hurt for a week afterward.  Force me to pull deep, wracking sobs from the bottom of my lungs.  I didn’t know I was capable of that.

I can’t erase the picture of you laying there, on your back, your left arm cocked slightly.  The gun (I think?) on the floor.  I thought you were sleeping, passed out because of the heat, had a heart attack, were just dramtically laying on the floor from exhaustion.  It was hot that day. I didn’t notice that you had no shirt on. (Odd detail that all the police officers noticed, but not me.)  As I walked into the garage, I was angry.  You told me you were going to move things out.  I expected you to be gone.  The bike was still there with it’s stupid banana and skull, capturing my attention as I opened the garage door.  Seeing you on the floor wasn’t totally surprising to me.  Finding you dead wasn’t really either.

I called out your name. Several times, as I walked closer to you. I remember having very fleeting thoughts that you might have had a heart attack and maybe I should move faster so I could check your pulse, start CPR (oh the irony of that!), call an ambulance. Be your savior once again. As I got closer (those few seconds are now in slow motion), I saw the blood and I knew what happened. Your face was gray. As I stumbled out of the garage, screaming, (Did I say, “Scott, oh my god, what did you do?” or was that my imagination?), I heard your voice in my head informing me in a matter of fact way that a person’s face goes gray right after they die. I remember thinking, “Damn…you’re right.”

I couldn’t go back into the garage. I couldn’t bring myself to check your pulse. To touch you. To even look back. I remember moving towards the driver side of my Jeep and then realizing that my phone was on my the passenger side and that I might accidentally catch a glimpse of you when I had to reach over to get it. I called 911. I was hysterical. I fell to my knees on the driveway, trying to answer questions from the dispatcher, listening for sirens, hoping that some neighbor would see me screaming and would bring me back to reality. The dispatcher kept asking me if I had checked to see if you were alive. I told her no. I knew you were dead. It simply didn’t occur to me that there might be a chance you were alive. Deep inside, I knew when you made the decision to die, you would make sure you didn’t screw that up. How could I explain that?

The police went to the wrong house.  I had to stand up to wave them over.  I was selfishly mad.  I thought I might accidentally catch a glimpse of you again.  They descended on the house. Checked you.  Yes, you were dead.  Called off the ambulance and called the medical examiner. I asked for Toby.  Suddenly, I was terrified that you had done something to our dog.  I know that would be out of character for you, but I hadn’t heard him bark in all this.  I could only think how scared he must have been when he heard the gunshot.  I can’t even think about the moment when you told him goodbye.  (Did you? Or did you just walk out to the garage and pull the trigger?  You didn’t even put your boots on. Again. I didn’t notice this.  I was told this by the police, who also noticed that you left your rings on the table.  How odd.)

The next four hours are a blur.  Answering police questions. Did you know (of course you did because you were once a RESERVE sheriff) that I would be considered a suspect?  That my hands would be swabbed and that my gun would be taken away? Did you know that I would be subjected to questioning by three different investigators asking the same questions, looking for inconsistencies?  They kept asking me whether you were right or left handed.  It bugs me but I honestly could not remember and I got stuck thinking about how you put the gun to your head with your dominant hand, therefore you must be right handed. 

They wanted more evidence that you were suicidal.  That was easy. I provided an investigator with an email you sent me asking for your ashes to be put into some Hawaiian blowhole. I brought up several phone calls I had made to the police asking what my options were for getting you to leave.  They asked if I was afraid of you.  I said yes. I was afraid you would kill yourself and had fleeting thoughts that you would take me with you. That documentation was evidence and I’m thankful I made the call.  

The medical examiner and the police investigator came to a quick conclusion. Yet, I still felt guilty.  I pondered this as I sat in the back of my jeep with the tailgate open. I refused to look at the activity behind me.  Thankfully, they quickly shut the garage door to spare me or the neighbors any accidental glimpses of your dead body on the floor.  No one needs to see that. The police stayed with me for what seemed like hours. I asked questions about whether they clean the scene, who collects the body, whether I could live there…questions no one should ever have to ask of anyone.  

Then they moved your body into the medical examiner’s van.  They suggested that Jan take me for a little ride for 10 minutes so I would not have to see that.  I’m so glad I did. That image would have been difficult to shake although I have imagined exactly what it looked like with you zipped up in the body bag being loaded into the van countless times.  I’m not sure why but I knew THAT was going to happen. 

And then there were the phone calls.  The police would not let me contact your parents or daughter until after the medical examiner had given his blessing.  When the police first came and found me sitting on the driveway, they gave me permission to contact someone who would be my personal support.  I remember trying to think about who to call first. I called my son. He wasn’t home. I called Jan next. Jan would take care of me. She was always the kind of person that would take charge in any situation and I needed that now.

She came as quickly as she could…crying….shaking…hugging me. She was a witness to the entire collapse of this relationship and I know she felt some of the responsibility for the scene in the garage.  You didn’t know it but Jan, Gwen, Nita and I had, of course, met with our counselor only a few weeks before and Jan had already helped me move your belongings to the garage a few days ago. I wonder if she had rehearsed this outcome in her mind as I had?

Jan also contacted our counselor Marty.  Marty called me right away and reassured me that it wasn’t my fault and reminded me that it was time to move forward.  Mourn quickly and then move on.  I made an appointment with her to see her in person in a few days.  I really looked forward to that.

I called the people I could…my support system…my parents (my Dad fell apart and raged in a way I did not think him capable of), my daughter.  The police investigator wanted me to contact my boss and I ended up asking Jan to call the superintendent as he knew you better than my actual supervisor. (I know you will remember your motorcycle ride together, which was unbelievably awkward for me…having the superintendent show up at my house, in my garage.)  I didn’t realize that the investigator would later talk to him and ask for him to vouch for my whereabouts prior to your death.  I called Steve as president of the motorcycle group. He also broke down.  I didn’t realize that within a few short hours, he and several other men in the group, would come to my home and invent a narrative that would later indict me.

Did you know I had to tell your parents?  I had to hear your father sobbing?  Your mom answered the phone and I managed to say, “Scott shot himself in my garage.” She asked if you were dead.  Your father was inconsolable in the background and I briefly thought about the picture you had described when you told him about Mary’s death.  I’m sure it was worse for him when he had to hear about his own son. The conversation wasn’t long. I believe they were subconsciously or maybe even consciously expecting it. They knew from your recent visit that you were supposed to be leaving me. Your mother reflected on your last visit with her and said you were fixated on saying goodbyes.  You must have known even then.  When they came over the next day, I sat on the stairs with your mother and answered her questions.  I would do a lot of that in the days, months, and years to come.

Did you know I called your brother when he landed in Los Angeles?  (His first words were, “that fucker.”) And that he had to catch a flight right back to Minnesota?  (He hasn’t cried, by the way.)  He seems to be hiding his pain, possibly for the good of his son.  I can’t imagine how he told Aiden. Aiden adored you. I have a feeling that your brother probably has also rehearsed this conversation with his son as he didn’t act surprised when I called. I’m sure his mind sent him to back to countless conversations and interactions with you over the years where suicide was taunted as a reaction to whatever drama was playing out in your life.

Did you know that I had to call your daughter? She didn’t believe me. I can’t even begin to talk about the impact your decision has had on her. That will be part of another chapter. She told me that she came over that night. I honestly don’t remember that. Throughout the days that followed, your daughter has been amazing. She is the strong one. She handled the “next of kin” responsibilities as if she had been preparing her entire life for this role.

Did you know that there is such a thing as a crime-scene cleaning company?  There are three of them in the north metro area.  The one at the top of the alphabetized list given to us by the police officer came in and removed the blood, brain splatter, and any other traces of you from my garage.  They disposed of the bloody rugs and scrubbed the floor with special cleaning solution. They did all this at 11:00 in the evening. I guess tragedy doesn’t confine itself to daylight hours. The lady from the company was amazing and I wondered if they had special training in how to work with victims of death scenes. 

The floor was still a mess and I couldn’t bring myself to even go into the garage.  Steve, Gordy, and Tim drove my Jeep into the garage and then drove your truck and your bike away.  This is all I asked.  I couldn’t look at the truck.  I couldn’t look at the bike.  I needed every trace of you to be gone.  Gwen and Jan stripped your bed and removed everything associated with you from that room.  By midnight, It was as if you had never been there.

OK…deep breath.  I have to stop.  I can’t keep writing anymore.  I feel the tears again forming in the back of my head and I’m determined to make it through without allowing them to roll down my face.