Anatomy of a Suicide Note

Chapter 16

The life and death of Jeremy Case weighed on my mind for a long time because of how in-depth the investigation went. The school's attorneys went to great lengths to prove how screwed life had been for the poor kid, and in their opinion, that all started in the home. They argued there was nothing the school could have done to make a difference in his life. Later, when the court was in recess, Robert Case approached one of his teachers and asked, "But how come you did nothing?" The answer to that question could have made a difference. The jury certainly thought there was something more they could have done.

But what about the other kids who don't have the luxury of a lawsuit? Where were their investigations? I spent a lot of time wondering why suicides weren't as heavily investigated as homicides. That's when I decided to start my own vigilante suicide investigation team—a team of one. That's why I know so much about these victims. I could have been one of them, and that played heavily on my mind whenever I tried to find out what went wrong. And really, the thing that would launch me into any of my investigations was the victim's suicide note. That's why I know so much about them, but I ran the danger of becoming too obsessed with their deaths. Not only that, but if I wasn't careful, I'd also run the risk of losing my job if anyone ever found out what I had been doing.

I researched my little heart out whenever I heard about a suicide in our surrounding communities. Newspaper articles. Obituaries. Court records. Cruising their neighborhoods after dark. Attending their funerals and memorial services. But one thing I never did was talk to their families. As obsessed as I'd become, I never once wanted to disrespect them in that way. I figured they'd been through enough as it was. Most of them were pretty hard to find any information about, but there was one suicide in particular that reminded me why being so obsessed was so important. Her name was Maggie Carpenter.

After Maggie died, I sensed there was something different about her, but I couldn't put my finger on it. When I worked on her body, I first noticed some scars and other evidence of prior injuries throughout her body—injuries that hadn't healed quite right. But when I looked at her medical history, there was no evidence of those injuries in her medical records. It seemed strange at the time, so I bookmarked her case in my mind to look into further after her funeral.

Her funeral had not been well-attended. There must have been less than twenty people at her funeral. If she was such a loved mother and wife and a member of her church—like her obituary had said—why did nobody show up to say goodbye? And her funeral was short and sweet, almost as if there was some sort of formula to it. There was no love infused into it.

I searched court records, but I only found a lawsuit in which her and her family had been awarded an undisclosed settlement by a local church when she was a young girl. So, I searched through newspapers and any official records I could find. I found a short article that announced the church in question would be closing its doors—with no explanation as to why it was closing. But there was a name I recognized there—Sister Agnes Trumbull, who had lived in Mom's neighborhood ever since I was a child. Mom was still alive at the time, so I went directly to her to see if I could find out any information that would help.

"Mom, does the name Maggie Carpenter ring a bell to you?"

"No, dear. Should it? Who was she?"

"She committed suicide last week, and I prepared her body for burial. After doing some research, I found some court records that said her family won a huge lawsuit against St. Andrew the Apostle Catholic Church when she was a young girl. And Agnes—do you remember her? She was a nun at the church right before they closed their doors."

"Oh, my. Sister Agnes died a long time ago. Cancer. Quick but brutal."

"Didn't she used to live in this neighborhood?"

"She did, and her niece moved into her house after she died. She still lives there with her family."

"Well, what happened? Why did Maggie's family sue the church? And why did it shut down?"

"Of course, I don't know their side of the story, but Sister Agnes, God bless her soul, she talked on end about that whole fiasco. Father Pierce—he's dead now too, of course ..." she trailed off and looked out the window.

"What? What's wrong?"

"You know, I don't really like speaking ill of the dead. Especially when the dead in question was a man of God. But ... that poor man was accused of molesting a young girl back in the seventies."

"Do you think?" I didn't need to finish the rest of that question.

"Of course, I do. I'm sure it was Maggie Carpenter. Of course, her name was Alice Hauk back then. After the churched closed down, the family moved to California for a while, but the girl somehow ended up smack dab in the middle of Oklahoma again. Married Andrew Carpenter, and they never moved away from Moore. Oh, yes. Now it's all clear now. I do remember the poor girl."

Sister Agnes was so distraught by the course of events that she became a recluse and never stepped another foot in a Catholic church for the rest of her life. But she always remained loyal to God—still wore a nun's habit, according to my mother.

"She was a sweet, old lady up until the church shut down. When that happened, she became very angry and cursed anyone she felt wasn't living a Godly life."

We talked for hours about Sister Agnes' decline—how she talked shit about the women around town who had dared to divorce their husbands, no matter what the circumstances were. She also tried to get Halloween outlawed, but she was laughed out of City Hall on that one.

"Why are you so interested in Maggie Carpenter, anyway? Are you meddling in a dead woman's life? Let that poor dear rest, will you? I'm sure her soul has been through enough for several lifetimes."

I didn't bring up the subject again with my mother, but I felt like I'd collected enough information to continue my investigation. That is, until my boss caught wind of what I was doing and threatened to fire me if I didn't start minding my own damned business. How did she find out, anyway?

"Your business is my business when it threatens to tarnish my and my family's name. For whatever reason you feel you need to dig into this dead woman's business, I suggest you stop it right now. Nothing good will ever come of this, I promise you that. That woman has suffered enough." Her warning was clear, but it didn't do enough to distract my obsession.

"You're the second person who's said that. That tells me that somebody should be looking out for her after she's gone."

"No, ma'am. That should tell you right away that you're doing something wrong."

For the record, I promised to stop what I started doing, but on the down-low, I made no specific promises to my mother or my boss that I would. I quietly continued my research, realizing I'd have to be more careful how I continued. But before I got too close to finding out the truth, a private investigator contacted me late one night—by showing up on my doorstep right after midnight.