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After a brief phone call, Erin Collier agreed to give me her address and to talk to me. She sounded wary on the phone, but after I explained that I'd talked with Patrick's mother and the members of his band, she relented and said I could come over.
Her apartment was several blocks from the San Diego State campus in a building that looked nearly brand new. Four stories high, painted a pastel yellow, with lots of glass and small balconies, it was part of the ongoing effort to make the university area feel more welcoming and less sterile. For decades, it had been nothing more than a commuter campus composed of large stone buildings that inspired nothing. But the school had gotten its act together and after much fundraising and planning, it was starting to transform itself into a place people might want to go rather than a place they ended up.
Erin's apartment was on the third floor, and I opted to use the steps after seeing two guys trying to wrestle a dolly loaded with boxes into the elevator. She answered the door almost immediately. Her blonde hair was piled high on top of her head, her cheeks flushed like she'd just finished exercising. The black yoga pants and gray tank top she wore seemed to confirm this. She was small, just over five feet tall, but had broad shoulders and a compact physique that reminded me of a gymnast's.
She shook my hand firmly and invited me into the apartment. It was light and airy, decorated with the kind of furniture normally associated with a college student's home: inexpensive and easy to put together. Futon couch, IKEA bookshelves and coffee table, a simple dining room table with four chairs. A closed MacBook rested on the table, along with a notepad and pencil.
“One of the guys told me you're a grad student?” I said, taking a seat on the futon.
She sat down in the chair next to the glass slider that led to the balcony. “Yeah.”
“Studying what?”
“Mathematical concepts.”
“That sounds out of my depth.”
She folded her hands into her lap. “I've always liked math. It makes sense to me.”
“What do you do with a graduate degree in mathematical concepts?”
“Not sure yet,” she said. “Maybe research, maybe teach. I'm going to get my PhD and then we'll see.”
“That's great.”
She didn't react, just stared at me. Her face was free of make-up, and she looked tired, worn out.
“I'm sorry about, Patrick,” I said.
Her jaw worked to the side and she swallowed. “Me, too.”
“Were you...surprised?”
She looked down at her hands for a few seconds. “I am shocked that he's gone, yes.”
“How long were the two of you together?”
“Depends on how you define together. We've known each other for five years. Or knew.” She waved a hand in the air. “Whatever it is I'm supposed to say now.”
“So it was off and on?”
“More off than on lately,” she said.
“How'd you meet?”
She leaned back in her chair and swiped at a strand of hair that had come loose. “We had a class together, right before he dropped out. He asked me for notes, but he just wanted an excuse to talk to me.” She paused. “He told me that; I'm not just assuming it or putting my own spin on it.”
“Sure.”
“We started dating,” she continued. “I liked him. A lot. He was good-looking, smart, and the music thing was attractive. It was cool, different than what I was used to. And everything was fine. At first.” She paused again, and folded her arms across her chest. “Then he started doing heroin.”
“And how did that start?”
“I genuinely don't know,” she said, shaking her head. I never got a straight answer out of him, so I don't know where it came from or even why he really tried it. It wasn't overnight. I’d found some pills once, but those were prescription, so it didn’t really ring any alarm. But then...I realized he was just acting differently. Then I found some of his...stuff in a drawer and I confronted him. He didn't lie or try to cover it up or anything. He told me he was just using occasionally, that it was all recreational. Which I called him on because I knew that no one just casually sticks a needle in their arm.”
“How did he react?”
She smiled, but it seemed like it hurt. “That was the first time we were off.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“We split for maybe a month,” she said, the pained smile gone. “Then he showed up at my door and said he was clean. I didn't really believe him, but he kept showing up and we just fell back into our...thing. And he did seem clean. Until he wasn't again.”
“So it was a pattern,” I said.
She nodded. “Oh, yeah. Until last year. He finally seemed to have kicked it. He came out of rehab totally different than I'd ever seen him. He was serious, he was rested. He was just...different. In a good way. It felt like I could finally breathe again. He was like the guy I always knew he could be, which sounds stupidly cliché, but it was how I felt. I thought he'd gotten over the hump.” She folded her hands together in her lap again. “But then...then it just got weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Well, for one thing, he wasn't getting along with the other guys,” she explained. “And I'd never seen that. There'd never really been much crap between them, you know? They really got along. Patrick sort of led and they followed and everyone was cool with that.”
I nodded. That aligned with what they'd told me.
“But they were arguing,” she continued. “And it was sort of Patrick against them. And Patrick, you have to understand. He wasn't a guy who liked conflict. He wanted everyone to get along. He wanted them to be the band that didn't...conform to what everyone thought a band should be. But, it was like all of a sudden, they were all on different pages.”
“Over what?”
“It was the direction, I guess,” she said, sort of shrugging. “Patrick had this clear vision of where they needed to go and how to go about it. He was totally clear on that. But the other three, they disagreed.”
“You mean signing with a label versus staying independent?”
“You know about that?”
I nodded. “They all mentioned to me the money issues,” I said. “That they were pretty anxious over not having any and it had become a sore spot.”
She shifted in her chair. “Well, that's what I mean that it sort of got weird.”
“I'm not following.”
Erin took a deep breath, then exhaled, like she was trying to gather strength for something.
“Money,” she finally said. “Patrick had money.”