Sean McEvoy, 34, was found in his unmarked DPD car, which was parked in a lot at Bear Lake near the Estes Park entrance to the rugged mountain park.
The body of the detective was discovered by a park ranger who heard a shot about 5 P.M. and went to the parking lot to investigate.
Park service officials have asked the DPD to investigate the death and the department's Special Investigations Unit is handling the matter. Detective Robert Scalari, who is heading the investigation, said preliminary indications were that the death was a suicide.
Scalari said a note was found at the scene but he refused to disclose its contents. He said it was believed that McEvoy was despondent over job difficulties, but also refused to discuss what problems he was having.
McEvoy, who grew up and still lived in Boulder, was married but had no children. He was a twelve-year veteran of the police department who rose quickly through the ranks to an assignment on the Crimes Against Persons unit, which handles investigations of all violent crimes in the city.
McEvoy was currently head of the unit and had most recently directed the investigation into the death of Lofton, 19, who was found strangled and mutilated three months ago in Washington Park.
Scalari refused to comment on whether the Lofton case, which remains unsolved, was cited in McEvoy's note or was one of the job difficulties he may have been suffering.
Scalari said it wasn't known why McEvoy went to Estes Park before killing himself. He said the investigation of the death is continuing.
I read the story twice. It contained nothing that I didn't already know but it held a strange fascination for me. Maybe that was because I believed I knew or had the beginnings of an idea why Sean had gone to Estes Park and driven all the way up to Bear Lake. It was a reason I didn't want to think about, though. I clipped the article, put it in a manila file and slid it into a desk drawer.
My computer beeped and a message printed across the top of the screen. It was a summons from the city editor. I was back at work.
Greg Glenn's office was at the back of the newsroom. One wall was glass, enabling him to look out across the rows of pods where the reporters worked and through the windows along the west wall to the mountain line when it wasn't hidden by smog.
Glenn was a good editor who prized a good read more than anything else about a story. That's what I liked about him. In this business editors are of two schools. Some like facts and cram them into a story until it is so overburdened that practically no one will read it to the end. And some like words and never let the facts get in the way. Glenn liked me because I could write and he pretty much let me choose what I wrote about. He never hustled me for copy and never badly dinged up what I turned in. I had long realized that should he ever leave the paper or be demoted or promoted out of the newsroom, all of this most likely would change. City editors made their own nests. If he were gone, I'd probably find myself back on the daily cop beat, writing briefs off the police log. Doing little murders.
I sat down in the cushioned seat in front of his desk as he finished up a phone call. Glenn was about five years older than me. When I'd first started at the Rocky ten years earlier, he was one of the hot shot writers like I was now. But eventually he made the move into management. Now he wore a suit every day, had one of those little statues on his desk of a Bronco football player with a bobbing head, spent more time on the phone than on any other activity in his life and always paid careful attention to the political winds blowing out of the corporate home office in Cincinnati. He was a forty-year-old guy with a paunch, a wife, two kids and a good salary that wasn't good enough to buy a house in the neighborhood his wife wanted to live in. He told me all of this once over a beer at the Wynkoop, the only night I'd seen him out in the past four years.
Tacked across one wall of Glenn's office were the last seven days of front pages. Each day, the first thing he did was take the seven-day-old edition down and tack up the latest front page. I guess he did this to keep track of the news and the continuity of our coverage. Or maybe, because he never got bylines as a writer anymore, putting the pages up was a way of reminding himself that he was in charge. Glenn hung up and looked up at me.
"Thanks for coming in," he said. "I just wanted to tell you again that I'm sorry about your brother. And if you feel like you want some more time, it's no problem. We'll work something out."
"Thanks. But I'm back."
He nodded but made no move to dismiss me. I knew there was something more to the summons.
"Well, to business then. Do you have anything going at the moment? As far as I remember, you were looking for your next project when . . . when it happened. I figure if you are back, then maybe it would be good for you to get busy with something. You know, dive back in."
It was in that moment that I knew what I would do next. Oh, it had been there all right. But it hadn't come to the surface, not until Glenn asked that question. Then, of course, it was obvious.
"I'm going to write about my brother," I said.
I don't know if that was what Glenn was hoping I would say, but I think it was. I think he had had his eye on a story ever since he'd heard the cops had met me down in the lobby and told me what my brother had done. He was probably smart enough to know he didn't have to suggest the story, that it would come to me on its own. He just had to ask the simple question.
Anyway, I took the bait. And all things in my life changed after that. As clearly as you can chart anyone's life in retrospect, mine changed with that one sentence, in that one moment when I told Glenn what I would do. I thought I knew something about death then. I thought I knew about evil. But I didn't know anything.
3
William Gladden's eyes scanned the happy faces as they moved past him. It was like a giant vending machine. Take your pick. Don't like him? Here comes another. Will she do?
This time none would do. Besides, their parents were too close by. He'd have to wait for the one time one of them made a mistake, walked out on the pier or over to the snack window for cotton candy, leaving their precious one all alone.
Gladden loved the carousel on the Santa Monica Pier. He didn't love it because it was an original, and, according to the story in the display case, it took six years to hand-paint the galloping horses and restore it to its original condition. He didn't love it because it had been featured in lots of movies that he had seen over the years, especially while in Raiford. And he didn't love it because it brought to mind memories of riding with his Best Pal on the merry-go-round at the Sarasota County Fair. He loved it because of the children who rode on it. Innocence and abandonment to pure happiness played on each one's face as it circled again and again to the accompaniment of the calliope. Since arriving from Phoenix he had been coming here. Every day. He knew it might take some time but one day it would eventually pay off and he would be able to fill his order.
As he watched the collage of colors his mind jumped backward as it had so often since Raiford. He remembered his Best Pal. He remembered the black-dark closet with only the band of light at the bottom. He huddled on the floor near the light, near the air. He could see his feet coming that way. Each step. He wished he were older, taller, so that he could reach the top shelf. If only he were, he would have a surprise waiting for his Best Pal.
Gladden came back. He looked around. The ride had ended and the last of the children were making their way to waiting parents on the other side of the gate. There was a line of more children ready to run to the carousel and pick their horse. He looked again for a dark-haired girl with smooth brown skin but saw none. Then he noticed the woman who took the tickets from the children staring at him. Their eyes met and Gladden looked away. He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag. The weight of the camera and the books inside it had pulled it down on his shoulder. He made a note to leave the books in the car next time. He took a last look at the carousel and headed for one of the doors that exited onto the pier.
When he got to the car he casually looked back at the woman. The chil
dren screamed as they ran to the wooden horses. Some with parents, most alone. The woman taking tickets had already forgotten about him. He was safe.
4
Laurie Prine looked up from her terminal and smiled when I walked in. I was hoping she'd be there. I came around the counter and pulled an extra chair away from an empty desk and sat down next to hers. It looked like a slow moment at the Rocky library.
"Oh no," she said cheerfully. "When you come in and sit down, I know it's going to be a long one."
She was referring to the extensive search requests I usually made in preparation for stories. A lot of the crime stories I wrote spiraled into wide-ranging law enforcement issues. I always needed to know what else had been written about the subject and where.
"Sorry," I said, a feigned contrition. "This one might keep you with Lex and Nex the rest of the day."
"You mean, if I can get to it. What do you need?"
She was attractive in an understated way. She had dark hair I had never seen in anything other than a braid, brown eyes behind the steel-rimmed glasses and full lips that were never painted. She pulled a yellow legal pad over in front of her, adjusted her glasses and picked up a pen, ready to take down the list of things I wanted. Lexis and Nexis were computer databases that carried most major and not so major newspapers in the country, as well as court rulings and a whole host of other parking lots on the information highway. If you were trying to see how much had been written on a specific subject or particular story, the Lexis/Nexis network was the place to start.
"Police suicide," I said. "I want to find out everything I can about it."
Her face stiffened. I guessed she suspected the search was for personal reasons. The computer time is expensive and the company strictly forbids its use for personal reasons.
"Don't worry, I'm on a story. Glenn just okayed the assignment."
She nodded but I wondered if she believed me. I assumed she would check with Glenn. Her eyes returned to her yellow pad.
"What I'm looking for is any national statistics on occurrence, any stats on the rate of cop suicide compared to other jobs and the population as a whole, and any mention of think tanks or government agencies that might have studied this. Uh, let's see, what else . . . oh, and anything anecdotal."
"Anecdotal?"
"You know, any clips on cop suicides that have run. Let's go back five years. I'm looking for examples."
"Like your . . ."
She realized what she was saying.
"Yes, like my brother."
"It's a shame."
She didn't say anything more. I let the silence hang between us for a few moments and then asked her how long she thought the computer search would take. My requests were often given a low priority since I was not a deadline writer.
"Well, it's really a shotgun search, nothing specific. I'm going to have to spend some time on it and you know I'll get pulled when the dailies start coming in. But I'll try. How about late this afternoon, that be okay?"
"Perfect."
As I went back into the newsroom I checked the overhead clock and saw it was half past eleven. The timing was good for what I needed to do. At my desk I made a call to a source at the cop shop.
"Hey, Skipper, you going to be there?"
"When?"
"During lunch. I might need something. I probably will."
"Shit. Okay. I'm here. Hey, when'd you get back?"
"Today. Talk to you."
I hung up, then I put on my long coat and headed out of the newsroom. I walked the two blocks over to the Denver Police Department headquarters, flipped my press pass at the front counter to a cop who didn't bother to look up from his Post and went on up to the SIU offices on the fourth floor.
"I've got one question," Detective Robert Scalari said after I told him what I wanted. "Are you here as a brother or as a reporter?"
"Both."
"Sit down."
Scalari leaned across his desk, maybe, I guessed, so I could appreciate the intricate hair-weaving job he had done to hide his bald spot.
"Listen, Jack," he said. "I have a problem with that."
"What problem?"
"Look, if you were coming to me as a brother who wanted to know why, that would be one thing and I would probably tell you what I know. But if what I tell you is going to end up in the Rocky Mountain News, I'm not interested. I've got too much respect for your brother to let what happened to him help sell newspapers. Even if you don't."
We were alone in a small office with four desks in it.
Scalari's words made me angry but I swallowed it back. I leaned toward him so he could see my healthy, full head of hair.
"Let me ask you something, Detective Scalari. Was my brother murdered?"
"No, he wasn't."
"You are sure it was suicide, right?"
"That is correct."
"And the case is closed?"
"Right again."
I leaned back away from him.
"Then that really bothers me."
"Why is that?"
"Because you're trying to have it both ways. You're telling me the case is closed, yet I can't look at the records. If it is closed, then I should be allowed to look at the case because he was my brother. And if it's closed, that means that, as a reporter, I can't compromise an ongoing investigation by looking at the records, either."
I let him digest that for a few moments.
"So," I finally continued, "going by your own logic, there is no reason why I shouldn't be able to look at the records."
Scalari looked at me. I could see the anger working behind his cheeks now.
"Listen to me, Jack, there are things in that file better left not known, and certainly not published."
"I think I'm a better judge of that, Detective Scalari. He was my brother. My twin. I'm not going to hurt him. I'm just trying to make sense of something for myself. If I then write about it, it will be to finally put it in the ground with him. Okay?"
We sat there staring at each other for a long moment. It was his turn and I waited him out.
"I can't help you," he said finally. "Even if I wanted to. It's closed. Case is closed. The file went to records for processing. You want it, go see them."
I stood up.
"Thanks for telling me at the beginning of the conversation."
I walked out without saying another word. I had known Scalari would blow me off. I went to him because I had to go through the motions and because I wanted to see if I could learn the location of the file.
I went down the stairs that mostly only cops used and into the office of the department's administrative captain. It was fifteen minutes past twelve so the desk in the reception area was empty. I walked past it, knocked on the door and heard a voice tell me to enter.
Inside, Captain Forest Grolon sat behind his desk. He was such a large man that the standard issue desk looked like child's furniture. He was a dark-complected black man with a shaven head. He stood to shake my hand and I was reminded that he topped out above six and a half feet. I figured a scale would have to have 300 on its dial if it were going to take his full measure. I shook his hand and smiled. He had been a source of mine since I was on the daily police beat six years earlier and he was a patrol sergeant. We had both risen through the ranks since then.
"Jack, how's it going? You say you're just back?"
"Yeah, I took some time. I'm okay."
He didn't mention my brother. He had been one of the few at the funeral and that made it clear how he felt. He sat back down and I took one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Grolon's job had little to do with policing the city. He was in the business end of the department. He was in charge of the annual budget, hiring and training. Firing, too. It had little to do with police work but it was all part of his plan. Grolon wanted to be police chief one day and was gathering a wide variety of experience so when the time came he'd look best for the job. Part of that plan was also to keep contacts in the local me
dia. When the time was right, he'd count on me for a positive profile in the Rocky. And I would come through. In the meantime, I could count on him for things as well.
"So what am I missing lunch for?" he said gruffly, which was part of the routine we played. I knew that Grolon preferred meeting me at lunch when his adjutant was out and there was less chance that he would be seen with me.
"You're not missing lunch. You're just getting it late. I want to see the file on my brother. Scalari said he already sent it to get filmed. I thought maybe you could pull it and let me look at it real quick."
The Poet (1995) Page 3