The group sessions ended on Friday, and they’ve been good. It still hurts, still fucks with my mind — and nobody has a clue, of course, of my involvement, that I’d witnessed Robbie’s death.
All they know is that Robbie was found dead, his body entangled with that of a known drug dealer in Sudbury.
The police hadn’t even showed up the night that I fled the scene. The car I heard must have been heading out on another call. Or I guess it could have even been an ambulance.
Robbie’s body was found the next morning by a jogger; and less than an hour later, Dillon’s body was discovered floating just around the other side of the bay. There was an investigation, but I was never even questioned. The evidence seemed obvious: a drug deal gone bad.
Could I have stepped forward and given the authorities details about what had happened that night? I suppose I could have. But what was the point? Robbie was dead, the bad guy was dead — there wasn’t really anything to tell.
Except where it came to Monica. I mean, sure, if Dillon or whatever the drug dealer’s name was — I think it was in the papers when they found his body, but they only used his real name once (I suppose the media rather enjoyed the nickname “Dillon” maybe because it sounded like an outlaw’s name) — if he were still alive, then sure, I could perhaps give the authorities details on what I knew about him. But he wasn’t. And besides, it wasn’t really my place to bring something that Monica herself wasn’t comfortable bringing forth to the surface.
Yes, I cared about her, but it didn’t happen to me, so how could I possibly know the right thing to do for her?
There’s only one thing that comes to mind, and I think I’ll do it.