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Mike Lorenzo stood with his hands on his hips, an unreadable expression on his face. “What do you think?”
I'd called the police after calling him and he showed up right after they had. We'd stayed off to the side, watching as the responding unit did their thing, and I was worried that he was in shock. But after a few minutes he'd started making phone calls and pacing, and I figured that meant he was alright for the moment.
An officer and a detective interviewed me, just routine questions about who I was, why I was there, and how I'd found Patrick. They seemed satisfied with what I'd told them and they told me they'd be in touch if they needed more information from me. So Mike and I stood outside the house, watching the coroner's office arrive to do their job.
“I don't know,” I said, answering Mike’s question. “Seems fairly straightforward, I guess. Just sucks.”
“You think?” he asked, rubbing at his chin. “Straightforward?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I mean, he's an admitted user who, according to his mom, has been in and out of rehab. It had its hooks in him. And I don't want to be crass here, Mike, because he's your nephew, but the needle was in his arm and that note...” I tried to be sensitive. “It seems...self-explanatory.”
Mike was studying the house. “Sure. I mean, sure to the addict part. But usually, when an addict dies, even if it's self-inflicted, it's accidental. It's not premeditated.”
“Was he having depressive issues?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “But my point is that it seems a little off to me that he would purposefully kill himself the same way he got high. Those two things don't jibe for me.”
I watched a forensic tech check out the door I'd busted in. “Okay. But isn't it reasonable to think that the drug just got to him and he got tired of trying to fight it?”
“Yeah,” Mike said, nodding, his eyes still fixed on the house. “But why not jump off a cliff? Hook the garden hose up to a tailpipe? Or even take some sleeping pills?” He looked at me. “Why do it by overloading on the drug you use to get high?”
I could see his point, but I also knew that most people who were close to a suicide victim did everything they could to deny that it was suicide, especially if they could find some wiggle room, and especially when they first learned about it. It was a natural reaction; no one wanted to believe a loved one was capable of killing themselves. I wasn't disagreeing with the logic he was using, but I wasn't sure that his line of reasoning ruled out what I'd seen with my own eyes.
“How do you explain the note then?” I asked, trying to be both gentle and practical. It was a hard line to walk. “If he wasn't planning on killing himself?”
Mike toed the ground. “I don't know. Maybe it was a note to someone else. Maybe someone else wrote it. I have no clue.”
“Mike.”
“Joe.”
I bit my bottom lip for a moment. “Look, I don't want to argue with you. I learned from you that the most obvious reason is usually the real reason. But I didn't know Patrick and clearly you did. So if you think there's something else at play here, okay.” I paused. “But you've got a kid struggling with heroin use in there with a needle in his arm and a note that suggests he took his own life or was at least thinking about it. You can't overlook those things.”
“I'm not overlooking them,” he said. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground. “I'm not. But this just feels...off.”
I wasn't sure anything about a suicide would not feel off, but it wasn't my place to tell him that.
“Okay,” I said, not wanting to push him. “Then wait for the tox screen and see what's there.”
“Absolutely,” he said. He started to say something else, then stopped himself.
“What?”
“Can I ask another favor?”
After finding his nephew dead of an apparent heroin overdose, there was no way I was going to say no. “We're still on the clock for the first one, so, of course.”
He checked his phone. “Tomorrow. See if you can track down the guys in his band or whatever the hell it is. I'll get you their info tonight. But just make a pass at them and see if anything's there.” He looked at me. “You'll know. I know you. You'll know if there's something there or if I'm kidding myself.”
“You don't wanna talk to them yourself?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. Because I'm already filling in the blanks here and that's not good. You won't do that. You'll see what's there and nothing else. I can't do that.” He turned back to the house. His mouth was set in a firm line, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. He blinked a couple of times. “Kid was still my nephew.”
“I'm sorry, Mike.”
“Me, too,” he said, taking slow steps toward the house, almost as if he were bracing himself to go back inside. He glanced at me, and his eyes were a little bright, a little watery. “You can do that for me?”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“Thanks,” he said, making his way toward the garage and where his dead nephew lay. “I'll call you tonight after I talk to my sister.”