The Long Walk

How will they react? Will they break down in tears? Scream and yell? Find a place of relief or comfort? You can't predict it. No matter how many times I've done this in my 25 years of work; I never know how they will react to what I am about to tell them. Am I about to shatter their lives or give them closure, or both?

The only certainty in my job is that it must be done. Regardless of the unpredictable nature of what I do. Regardless of the anguish and the toll it can take on my own mental health, the long walk, seemingly miles yet only mere feet, must be made. I have to get out of this car, walk to that door and alter the way someone sees the world for the rest of their lives.

Most of the time, the worst has already been experienced. The loss of a loved one, in my profession, is usually well known and processed even before I come to their door. My role is to provide the start of a new chapter of a tragedy that has already been written. It can be a cathartic end to an ongoing trauma or a devastating final blow that compounds an existing pain.

The walk to the door is different for me every time. Each victim is unique and has a unique relationship to the living person that I am about to speak with. I already know these people, I've already become a part of their lives by the time I make this walk. I've been investigating their case for some time before I make this walk. I carry in my hands the finality of a fate, one most often expected in my line or work, but never the same.

If there is some comfort for me, in my line of work, I haven't had to do this very often. Murder is not as common as it might seem on television. It's not a daily part of my life but it is more than frequent enough to cause me to reflect on this walk and the times that I have had to make it. I've taken this heavy, heartbreaking walk more than I would care to, but certainly not as often as detectives in bigger cities have.

I'm not alone on these walks. Protocol insists that I have a uniformed officer with me. These officers are often even less prepared or experienced for this particular task. I have watched more than one uniformed officer, outfitted in his best tough guy stance, full uniform regalia, reduced to a puddle of humanity in the face of a crying mother, father, son or daughter. Macho posturing is never a match for this kind of pain and heartache.

You may be wondering about today's long walk. Earlier this week, we were called because a man had left home suddenly, taking only his shotgun. The man's elderly mother was concerned that he was taking the gun to his former employer's home. He wasn't. Instead of harming others, the man had driven to the woods, found a quiet spot far from the city and taken his life. We didn't find him for four days.

I'm walking up to this woman's door now, making the long walk to tell her that he hadn't gone to harm anyone, he'd chosen to harm himself instead. Will this be of comfort? Or will it compound the tragedy. Will she accept that her child, now a grown man in his 50s, was suffering beyond anything she could have done or will she spend the few remaining years of her life blaming herself?

I won't know the answers to these questions but they will haunt me for the foreseeable future. They will likely linger in my mind until I have to make the next long walk, speak to the next family member and give them the life changing news of the fate of someone they loved. The long walk is always similar in how it feels like an eternity, but the outcome is never the same.