Mendiola

I wonder how many deaths an average cop sees in his lifetime.  Or how many murders an average homicide detective sees in his career.  In my thirty-odd years on the force, I’m sure I’ve seen over a thousand dead bodies.  I never thought I would get used to the sight of corpses, but as the instructor at the academy once predicted, I did get used to it eventually. 

Somebody had to do the job for the good of society, I kept on telling myself, and before I knew it, I had become insensitive to the sight and smell of corpses, whatever shape they might be in.  Through the process, I became a callous individual with a sick sense of humor or, I hope, a bona-fide homicide cop, depending on how you want to look at it.  Whether that was good or bad, I still don’t know. 

As a retired homicide detective, I can easily tell you hundreds of gruesome and often tragic tales in the goriest detail.  These stories would likely deprive you of a healthy appetite or a good night’s sleep, or worse yet, might even lead you to doubt the very existence of God.  The foundation of every human society is rooted in either faith in human nature or fear of God, in one form or another.  As such, every murder shakes up the very core of human society.  So why tell you about it?  Average citizens are better off not knowing about the shady side of life.

This being said, however, there is one case I feel compelled to speak of.  It is to me, without a doubt, the most intriguing and unusual story of all.  I was already a veteran of the force when the case initially fell into my lap.  After some investigation, the conclusion I reached at the time was that it was an accidental death, but somewhere down deep inside, I knew that it was no accident.  So unofficially, the case remained unsolved in my mind, that is, until recently.  I had never really held a fatalistic view of life, but what I unearthed in a remote Texas town might just qualify as a fate of some sort.  It is this story I am now prepared to tell.

A retired police detective has a lot of time on his hands.  Any work environment, if you spend most of your life there, is bound to make you feel cozy and at home.  It is a cliché, but nonetheless true to say that those of us in law enforcement share a peculiar kind of camaraderie or brotherhood.  The fact that many of us put our lives on the line every day so that ordinary citizens can go about doing business as usual unites us in the strongest sense.  It’s really not something I can explain with words.  Only those who put on the uniform know what it’s really like. 

I don’t believe I’ll raise too many eyebrows by saying that for many of us, the force becomes a family, often more so than even our own wives and children.  It didn’t surprise me a great deal, therefore, when my wife, Laurie, announced out of the blue fifteen years ago that she was leaving me. 

She said she wanted to share her life with someone she felt close to, not with someone who came home late at night, if at all, just to grab some sleep.  She said my notion of family had no place for her, and I was never meant to have a family of my own.  I didn’t quarrel with her.  I knew that I wasn’t treating her right.  In fact, I was surprised that she stayed with me as long as she had, putting up with my cynical view of life and perennial obsession with death that often resulted in bouts of depression.  She knew that it was my job that was largely to blame and begged me to leave the force, especially earlier in our marriage.  Obviously I never agreed to it. 

It is tempting to say that ultimately I chose my profession over her.  Well, nobody really chooses his or her profession over loved ones, in my opinion.  It usually goes much deeper than that.  In my case, it certainly did. 

But this isn’t where I want to discuss my relationship with Laurie.  For now, suffice it to say that I was gravely sorry that I had caused her so much pain and unhappiness throughout the years.  I also knew that there wasn’t much that I could have changed or done differently.  Perhaps it was for the best that we never had children.  Some things are just not meant to be.  So she left and I stayed behind.  I would have never left San Francisco and come to Austin had it not been for Laurie, and now I am stuck alone where there are no blue oceans or green mountains.

Retirement brought a whole new perspective on life.  I never really questioned my life when I was an active member on the force.  I had a job to do and I saw it through with pride and determination, particularly early in my career.  However comfortable the family atmosphere might be, when you retire, you quickly realize that you have become the grandfather of the family.  If you are fortunate, you get respect from your “family” all right, but you’re kind of in the way, nevertheless. 

After my retirement, I occasionally went back to the station to pay the boys a visit, more out of loneliness than out of necessity, but soon I realized that I was feeling out of place there.  Old folks give way to younger ones, and retirees give way to active participants in society.  That is only natural and just.  But I didn’t like the way I felt.  My life was not over yet.

Perhaps