Authors: Thomas Fincham
“That’s the first thing we assume when we examine a death,” Lopez said. “But in this case, I’m not so sure. Come see this.”
She took him to the corner of the room. On top of a table was a piece of paper.
The text was printed, but a signature below was in blue ink.
Without lifting it up Nolan read it.
My name is Eric Freeland and I was a professor at the University of Franklin. When you read this it means that I am either dead or in a state where death is inevitable. I have not been feeling well of late and to stop the pain I have decided to end my suffering. I am truly sorry to those who will be affected by my death, but I have found no other option than this. I want to say I love my family and will miss them when I am gone.
(Signed)
Eric Freeland
“Short and concise,” Nolan said. Over the years, Nolan had seen many suicides. The notes left behind by the victims were usually long and full of personal rambling. Nolan always considered those who committed suicide as victims because, in his opinion, they were a victim of their illness that pushed them to kill themselves.
“There is something else I want to show you,” Lopez said.
He followed her to the second floor of the house and straight to a room. Next to the bed was a side table. On top of the table was a small prescription bottle.
Nolan pulled out a Kleenex and picked up the bottle.
The bottle was half empty. He examined the label on top. The date on the bottle indicated that Freeland had downed quite a lot of pills from the day the prescription was written.
“They are anti-depressants,” Lopez said from behind him.
Nolan nodded. He had a full bottle of these very pills in his home. He had been prescribed them after the accident, but he had found other forms of medication to aid him in his suffering.
Nolan put the bottle down and left the room.
Back in the living room he rubbed his temples. He desperately needed a drink.
“What do you want to do?” Lopez asked.
He knew what she meant. If it was deemed to be a homicide then forensics would be called in. They would gather and tag evidence before the scene became contaminated. If it was not a homicide then the coroner would be called in to remove the body.
There were so many things nagging him about the scene, but the pounding in his head had turned from a headache to a full migraine.
“Call the coroner,” he finally replied.
NINE
Hyder and Veronica reached the scene. Veronica immediately placed herself in the middle of the other reporters. Hyder followed behind.
They were told that soon a spokesperson from the police department would make a statement.
Hyder saw a man and a woman come out of the house.
The woman was well dressed and had a badge around her neck. The man, on the other hand, was dishevelled and wore nothing that indicated he worked for the force.
“Should we go talk to them?” Hyder whispered to Veronica.
She looked over and shook her head. “No point. They won’t speak to us. It’s better if we stay here and get the official story.” She then squinted. “Is that Tom Nolan? I heard he was a mess. They must be desperate to get him back on the job
.”
***
Nolan walked away from the media.
“Do you want to talk to the assistant who found the body?” Lopez asked. She nodded toward her vehicle. A young woman sat inside, wiping tears from her eyes.
“Why?” Nolan asked. “It’s a suicide, isn’t it? Cut her loose.”
“Gotcha,” Lopez said. “I guess I’ll see you at the office.”
“Yeah, sure, maybe later,” Nolan said.
He quickly walked away.
Once inside his Charger he could breathe again. He put the car in gear and drove away from the scene. When he was sure he was a good distance, he parked the Charger by the side of the road and took a long swig of vodka. He felt better, much better, but for some reason the feeling didn’t last long.
***
The spokesperson showed up ten minutes later and informed those around the scene that the police were treating it as a suicide. The spokesperson gave some more details, enough for the reporters to get their story.
The entire scene felt surreal to Hyder. He remembered having long conversations with Professor Freeland. They talked about life, religion, politics, music, everything. Hyder had learned a lot from him.
Freeland was Jewish and Hyder was Muslim, but they both shared a common trait: a love of God and an appreciation of His people.
Eric Freeland was Hyder’s mentor. Hyder couldn’t believe he was dead, and by suicide no less.
Once the spokesperson had concluded her statement, the reporters left the scene.
None of them noticed a black sedan parked half a block away. The windows were tinted, hiding the sedan’s sole occupant, a man in a suit.
When the man was satisfied that he had seen enough, he started the engine and drove away.
TEN
Feeling the loss of his professor, Hyder decided to go home.
The house was a three bedroom bungalow in the heart of the city. His parent’s had bought the house right after they had moved to the country.
It was the only house he ever knew as his home. Deep down, he wished one day he would be able to raise his children in this house. It was in walking distance of everything: the grocery stores, the medical office, the barbershop, even the coffee shop was two minutes away. On top of that, there were several schools nearby. Hyder’s grade school, middle school, and even high school were around his house, which meant he never had to be driven to school or take a bus. The first time he actually did take local transit was when he went to Franklin U.
Hyder unlocked the front door and entered.
“
Assalamu alaikum!
” Hyder said loudly. It was taught to every Muslim at a young age that one should always extend greetings when entering a room or place.
“
Wa alaikum assalam!
” a female voice replied.
Hyder went inside and found his mother in the living room.
He kissed her on the cheek.
“How was your day,
beta (son)?”
she asked. “It was okay,
Ammi (Mom)
,” Hyder said, falling on the sofa.
Hyder noticed his mom’s eyes were transfixed on the television. Figure skating was on the screen. Hyder always found it funny that his mother covered her head with a scarf, prayed five times a day, read the Quran regularly, but loved watching people dance in front of thousands dressed in tight-fitting or at times even skin-baring clothing. He had once asked her about the contradiction. Her response was, “I don’t care. I’m not here to judge how they live. I just like the way they skate. It’s so beautiful.”
In many ways she was right. It didn’t matter how someone lived, talked, ate, or even worshipped. What mattered was how they lived their lives.
After his father was gone, his mother was the one person who had the greatest influence on him. Without her he would not be the man he was today.
The commercials came on. “Are you hungry?” She asked.
He shrugged, not sure.
“I made roti and butter chicken, your favorite.”
Hyder loved her cooking, no matter what she made. “Okay,” he said.
While she warmed up the food, Hyder went into the washroom and rinsed his hands and mouth.
He went to the kitchen table and found a bowl of butter chicken and a plate of roti.
His mother was back in front of the television watching her show.
Hyder tore a piece of the roti and said softly, “
Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim
.”
(In the name of God, the Gracious, the Merciful.)
Every Muslim was taught to recite those words when starting a new task, which in this case was eating a meal.
When he was done, Hyder washed the dishes and went back to the living room.
“Is
bhai
(
Big brother)
home?” Hyder asked his mother. “No, he’ll be late today,” she replied, her eyes still glued to the screen.
Hyder’s brother, Akbar, was three years older than him, but he acted much older. Maybe it was because his brother had become a father figure for him, or maybe that was the way Akbar was. Regardless, he was glad his brother wasn’t home.
His brother wasn’t too happy with him getting into journalism. He wanted Hyder to become a doctor, like he was, or get into law, like their father was. It was his mother who convinced his brother to let him pursue his dream. If Hyder wanted to become a reporter she would let no one get in his way.
This was one of the reasons she was his hero.
Right now, after what he had been through during the day, he wasn’t so sure if being a reporter was the right choice.
He decided to call it a night.
A devout Muslim prayed five times a day. The main purpose was to be reminded of God. It also kept a person away from social ills and moral deviancy. If one knew he or she had to present themselves before God through the prayers, then he or she would abstain from doing anything wrong.
Hyder knew the importance of
Salat
(prayers)
but he always found it difficult to perform them five times a day. There were too many other things in life that got in the way. He knew he was guilty of placing worldly matters before God, but he always made sure to perform them before going to bed and right after he woke up in the morning. This way he could thank God for the day that ended and thank God for the day that was beginning.
Hyder went to the washroom and performed
wudu
(ablution
). The
wudu
involved washing the arms, face, head, and feet. This, according to Islam, prepared the worshipper to stand before God pure and clean. This also allowed someone to become mentally ready to perform the
Salat
.
Hyder placed a prayer cap over his head and unrolled a prayer mat.
He stood on the mat, which faced east toward
Mecca
—the holiest site in Islam—and began the prayers.
When done, he gently rolled up the mat and placed it to the side.
He went to bed and turned on his television to watch the news. Within minutes he was asleep.
ELEVEN
Nolan sat at the end of the bar and gulped down another glass of scotch.
He was miserable. He hated being forced by the Captain to work on a case. Suicide or no suicide, work was work.
“Damian!” Nolan yelled. “I need more juice!”
The bartender came over and said, “You sure, Tom? You’ve been at it for a while.”
“Hey, listen,” Nolan’s words were becoming slurred. “I don’t pay you to talk. I pay you to keep my glass full.”
“You haven’t paid your tab yet,” Damian reminded him. “You’re lucky I’m still letting you drink.”
That was one reason Nolan should be back at work:
money
. He was running out of it and fast. His romance with the bottle had taken a bite out of his savings (or what was left of it).
“Sorry,” Nolan raised his hands in the air. “My bad. You are the boss. I sincerely apologize. May I have another glass? Please and thank you.”
Damian eyed him. “One more and that’s it. After that you go home, got it?”
“Yes, sir, absolutely, once I’m done, I’ll get on the first train home.”
“You live around the corner,” Damian said. He refilled his glass.
“You are too kind.” Nolan bowed to him.
The television behind the bar had the news on. Nolan wanted to ask Damian to change the channel, but if he requested anything else Damian would surely throw him out. So he decided to keep quiet and enjoy whatever was on the screen.
The anchor spoke about a contract that the City of Franklin had awarded to the TriGate Management Group for the extension of the city nuclear reactor plant. The price of the contract was worth close to $1.2 billion.
Nolan whistled loudly. “That’s a lot of money. I could build
five
nuclear reactor plants if they gave me the money.” He looked around the bar, but no one paid any attention to him. “I could, I really could.” But still no one looked his way.
Footage of the CEO of TriGate came on the screen. Charles Marshall was over sixty, with wafer-like gray hair and a double chin that nearly reached his front shirt collar. Marshall was beaming ear to ear. He thanked the city for putting their trust in TriGate and he vowed to have it completed on time and on budget.