2.4 Investigation

I could not come to terms with his death; it was a strange and surreal experience. I did not want to go back to the house where I grew up and relieve my childhood memories. They were not bad memories just uneventful meaningless blimps on a radar screen. I would have to go back for the funeral, it was only right.

The flight was routine I slept through it.

When I arrived at the house it took forever to get from the driveway to the front door a gang of reporters jostled wildly with each other, while police nosed around the property it was still a crime scene, there was no way they would let me stay in side for the night.

When it finally hits you that the guy that helped conceive you from day one is dead it’s difficult. Sure he didn’t have to carry me around for nine months making sure to eat for two, though he already ate enough for two. He didn’t have that connection that all mothers are supposed to have with their children; he didn’t have that mothers love. But he was my father, and he was there for me more than my mother was. He taught me how to ride my first shiny red bicycle down the street, and when I got it down after a week he roared so everyone could hear him, “That’s my son!” and then I would proceed to crash into a roadside tree or get all nervous and the bike would mysteriously come up from under me.

He taught me how to drive, where the clutch, brakes and accelerator could be found. He taught me a lot of things; I guess he was a good dad. When things such as death occur you think a lot about silly things, like what was running through the persons mind at the time, did the person have anything to eat, how was their fridge stocked for food, did they step outside the front door to pick up the daily paper? Silly things like that seem to enter the mind, and then there’s the question as to what the person was wearing before the death, were they in the nude, had they just engaged in the act of sex. It was late so my dad was probably in his bed clothes and no sexual partner in his bed, though it was probably on his mind at the time.

“Hello,” the voice interrupted my thoughts momentarily. It was deep and gruff.

I replied, “Hi.” No need to even look up at the voice.

“We want to ask you a few questions, we could take you down to the station, but I think the hotel would suit better.”

“I made no arrangements for a hotel.”

“Everything has been taken care of no need to worry about a thing.”

My father is dead I think I should worry about that and the fact I can’t even step inside my families’ home. I think I should be worried. The way he died should worry me. He died helplessly in his sleep.

“I don’t want to talk now,” I replied raising my head, a short balding man with brown eyes and a wrinkled grubby white shirt just about covering his belly.

He grunted loudly, “We only want to ask a few questions.”

I was having none of it. “I will answer no questions, not for the media and not for you.”

“But…but…”

“I want to be left alone, can’t you respect that.”

“It is needed for the investigation.”

“I sure hope you’re not the one leading this investigation.”

He grunted again, “Yes I am along with Sergeant Barker.”

I shook my head, and imagined the speckled grease stains next to his chest pocket on his shirt was oil stains and a red smudged stain was ketchup that oozed out of low fat burger.