Death is different for everyone. For some, it is a celebration of lives for the ones that have passed, and for others it is a tragedy. Death for me is all too familiar.
It all started with the death of my grandma on my mother's side. She died of pancreatic cancer at the age of 45. Then my mother's dad passed away in a car accident a few years later. He was 48. The streak continued when my mother passed away. I was only three years old at the time, so I don't really remember her, I just remember small things she used to do for us (me and my dad). My mother would bake when she was sad, happy, or even angry. To say the least, our house smelled of brownies for days. When she passed, it didn't affect me because I was so young. The day of her funeral, there was a lot of people crying and hugging. My mother was lying in a coffin, as peaceful as I had ever seen her. She looked like she was sleeping. That was the last time I ever saw her.
Flash-forward, and twelve years later there are three more deaths in the family (Great Aunt Joanne, Grandpa Pierce, and my second cousin). Little did I know, my father would be next.
It was a rather nice day for the fall: high sixties, sunny, not a cloud in the sky. Days like these were rare for New York City in late October. The day started out like any other day. I woke up, got breakfast from the Starbucks on 33rd street, and then I would take the subway to school. Then my dad would meet me and we would go out for coffee and talk about our days, but that afternoon, my dad wasn't there instead was a policeman and some lady that was part of Social Services. That conversation is still fresh in my mind. I recall how the policeman gave me look filled with so much pity, I wanted to slap him. I didn't need anything from anyone, and the last thing I needed was someones sympathy. This was meant to happen, right? Doesn't everything in life happen for a reason? It is what it is. My father died. He was gone, but the thing that changed everything was the way he died.
October 29th, 2008
The officer's mustache was similar to Charlie Chaplin's, or at least that's what I thought. When he opened his mouth, his mustache would rise. He spoke to me in a gentle, parenting tone as if I was five not fifteen. "I'm afraid that something has happened to your father, Charles Pierce. His body was found a couple of hours ago. He was murdered, we haven't tracked down the killer yet, but have started searching for clues and taking DNA tests right away. I am very sorry for your loss. I know that it is a lot to take in right now, but......"
I stopped listening. It was too much to take in. Someone had killed my father. What did my father do to deserve this? Was it accidental or on purpose? He didn't seem like the kind of man to have enemies. I realized two things at that moment. One: that I was probably going to die young, and two: that I am now an orphan. I am all alone. I look at the officer, but I can't hear what he's saying. Its like I am watching old black and white movies with no sound. That was another tradition. Every Saturday my father would take us to some old theater in downtown Manhattan. There we would watch the silent films and eat over buttered popcorn. Am I ever going to see those movies again? Probably not, I never liked them anyways, the only reason I went to go see them was for my father.
The officer motioned for the lady in the suit to come over. The lady gave me a smile, but it was forced and a weak one at that. They lady looked tired, not just from fatigue, but from life in general. Her hair was dark (darker than mine is) with tints of gray at the roots. The lady wasn't necessarily pretty, but I don't know if you would consider people who are middle aged pretty. Lets put it this way, when I look at her I don't want to gouge my eyes out of my head. She also looked very annoyed. Well, it really is a shame that my father had to be killed so then you had to show up and actually do your job. Can you at least try and look like you care a little bit, lady? "Hello, I am Linda. I understand that this must be really hard, but if you need anything we are all here for you. The police want to take you in for questioning"- She explains further about the questioning once she sees the look of dismay written on my face.-" Oh, no don't worry. They just want to ask you some questions about your father. To see if maybe you remember some things that may help them further in the investigation. Anyways, after that then we can take you back to your home so that you can pack some clothes-"
"Where exactly am I going?" I ask.
"You will find out shortly. Now please follow Officer Winnick," The lady, Linda, gives me another one of her I-hate-being-here-and-would-have-many-better-things-to-do smiles. I return her gesture, but make sure that she sees that my action is anything but genuine. She glares in return. We head down the long hallways in the police station. Officer Winnick politely opens a door for me, and does the same thing two more times after that.
After we go through the fourth- and hopefully final-door, he locks it. He tells me to sit across the table from him. I do as he says. The room is small, it probably only has a width of 10 feet and a length of 12 feet. It's just like it is seen on TV. Two chairs, and a table in between them , separating them. The only source of light is the lamp hanging above the table, but even that doesn't allow much light into the confined room. As I tap my fingers on the table, Officer Winnick tells me," I will ask you a series of questions. There will be between 7-13 questions that you will have to answer, depending on how quickly you can answer them. Your social worker only gave me twenty minutes. And I see that I am wasting time here by blabbering on so why don't we start then?" The police officer lets out a chuckle.
I force out a laugh, but it comes out forced so I end up choking on air. I am about to smile at my own stupidity when I remember that there is no more point in smiling. There really is no point in life. Now that the only person I had left is gone, I don't really want to do much of anything. Don't tell me that I don't care just because I am not crying, I care more than you could ever know. Besides, I have shed enough tears to have my own man-made ocean. To sum up everything: there is no pointing in trying to act happy when there is little to no happiness left inside of you.
Officer Winnick starts to ask me the questions and I manage to answer them with a couple word responses.
The first question he asked was: What does your dad do?
My answer: Works for a loan company.
How long has he worked there?
My answer: 8 or 9 years.
Has your father ever talked to you about attacks at his workplace?
My answer: No.
My father has never been one to mix his business life with his personal one, I think to myself.
Did your father ever act strangely the past few days?
My answer: No, not really.
Did your father have a bad temper or anger issues?
My answer: No.
Did your father possess any qualities that could make him feared by others?
My answer: I don't know.
I notice that they are speaking in past tense.
Officer Wilkins finishes writing down my answers, and then closes his leather notebook."One last question. If I may ask, were you and your father close?"
I know the answer to that: yes, he was everything to me, he was all I had left. I refrain from saying that, and instead I respond with: No, we never really got along. The lie makes a lump form in my throat. I'm sorry, dad, but I don't want anymore pity from people.
"Thank you. We will start on the case as soon as you leave and will find the killer and catch them. Trust me,they will pay for what they have done."
With a curt nod and a small wave,he left the room, leaving me alone.
2 years later
They never caught the murderer. They investigated for two years on and off. Each time that they thought they had a lead they later realized it was false. The only clue that they had was the word mendax written in blood on my father's right forearm. The only thing they could prove was that the blood was my father's and the word translated into liar. After years of trying to solve this case they finally gave up. Office Winnick stayed in charge of the case and when they decided that the case was impossible to solve he said to me,"I'm sorry, Kinsley, but I think we have to stop. We have thought of hundreds of ideas of who the murderer might be, but have come up with nothing. I hope that you will move on with your life and just forget about all of this.You deserve a fresh start."
I would soon be getting a fresh start. I was on my senior year of high school and was just about to graduate. Next semester I would be attending the University of Maryland- College Park. A new state, a new start. I already knew what I wanted to major in. At first I wanted to major in business, but it had later changed due to my father's case not being solved, so next year when I am at the University of Maryland, I would make sure to obey Officer Winnick's request.