It was one of the first big cases I ever covered for the Winnipeg Free Press. It also remains, all these years later, one of the saddest.
Bert Doerksen was the type of person you could spend an entire day just talking to, soaking in his wisdom and life experience, and still find yourself wanting to know so much more. Of course, I met Doerksen under the most tragic of circumstances. And there’s no doubt he was plenty lonely and happy for the company. And so I listened intently during what would become several lengthy visits to his Winnipeg home. They were conversations I will never forget. And the fact he trusted me to share some of his most personal thoughts and feelings at an unbelievably trying time in his life is a responsibility I didn’t take lightly.
Doerksen’s case made national news and triggered debate on a controversial issue that still very much exists today. It was truly an honour to tell his story.
Bert Doerksen’s handwriting is remarkably neat as he begins to describe the heart-wrenching end to his 59-year marriage inside a tidy Winnipeg bungalow. But the printing becomes sloppier, the ink less bold, as he tells exactly how the love of his life, Susan Doerksen, took her own life in November 1997 by sitting inside the couple’s Oldsmobile that Bert helped fill with carbon monoxide. The eight-page diary was penned weeks later. At first, it would only be shared with immediate family members. Eventually, it would be released to the world. It tells a story of love, loyalty and deep loss.
A quick trip to Canadian Tire to buy some aluminum pipe. Fumbling around in the cold car to hook it to the exhaust pipe. Warming up the car so Susan would be comfortable. The short walk to the garage that seemed to last forever, arm in arm. A final plea to reconsider. A rejection. A last kiss and a hug. The sound of the ignition kicking in. And then the waiting.
Bert, sitting in his kitchen, staring at a clock, hoping to hear the sound of a honking horn signalling Susan had changed her mind. Nothing. Only silence.
“She never blew that horn, and I really did not expect her to. So I sat and watched the clock. After the longest 10 minutes of my life, I went to Susan,” Bert wrote in his diary. “When I opened the door to the garage, she waved me back to go away. I blew a kiss to her. She tried to blow one back but could not quite raise her hand to her mouth,” he continued. “I made no effort at this point to change her mind because I knew she was brain damaged. I waited ten more minutes and then opened the car door. There was no pulse. I kissed and hugged her for the last time.”
Bert knew there was nothing he could do for Susan, who had long been plagued by chronic back pain and, in later years, by other serious health problems. Her ordeal was over. “I went inside and poured a straight whisky,” Bert said of the moments immediately following his wife’s death. Eventually, he called his daughter Jeny, who arrived followed by the ambulance, then the police. The paramedics wanted to work on Susan. Bert wouldn’t let them, thrusting her living will in their faces.
Only hours earlier, Susan had been worried the pills she had swallowed weren’t working. It was noon. “All this time I still wanted to call an ambulance. The answer was still no,” Bert wrote. “Susan wanted to do something more drastic, such as slashing her wrists in the kitchen. I would not allow this, no way! No way!” he wrote. “She tried putting a plastic bag over her head but she could not do this either. By one o’clock she wanted to go into the garage and run the car. I would not let her do this either. Then, very suddenly, all her pain was gone. We hugged and cried and almost laughed.” Their joy lasted only an hour.
“We were laying and holding hands, then the pain came back with a vengeance. Susan said to fix the exhaust, like we had once long ago talked about.” With heavy heart, Bert reluctantly went to the cold, barren garage, using a rubber hose from their Shop-Vac. It melted in the exhaust pipe.
“I came back in and said every effort had been made and it had failed. Maybe there was a God after all and she should let me call an ambulance. But she would not hear of it. She wanted to know if I could not buy something at Canadian Tire. So after two hours of stalling, I went,” Bert wrote. He bought aluminum dryer pipe, returned home, rigged it to the exhaust and ran it through the rear window of the car.
“I warmed the car up nice and warm, removed my key and shut it off. I went inside to Susan and begged once more not to go ahead. She asked me if it was ready. I said yes. She asked if anything would happen to me and I said no, she was going to do everything herself,” Bert wrote. “We went arm in arm to the car. I was very careful walking down the three steps to the garage level as she had taken all these pills. Susan picked up her own car key, opened the car door, inserted the keys and started the car. We kissed and hugged once more.”
They met in the Dirty Thirties—Bert tall and handsome, Susan elegant and charming. “By 1936 we were known as a couple,” Bert wrote in the diary. Two years later they married. Bert was conscripted into the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1942, shortly after the birth of their second child. Being away from Susan and the kids was rough, but Bert had a lot of company to soothe his sorrow. But the toll of raising two children by herself was too much for Susan, who began experiencing terrible back pain stemming from an injury in her teens when she was kicked by a horse. By 1946, she was desperate to bring her husband home. Bert was given a compassionate discharge from the RCAF, returning home to Winnipeg to help with the daily grind. A third child soon followed—exactly the number Susan wanted. Bert had hoped for six, but gave up his dream as his wife’s injury persisted. “It was very hard on her back, but she carried on,” Bert wrote.
Life was fairly unremarkable, Bert working in construction while Susan stayed home with the kids. There were good days and bad days with Susan’s back, but the bad began to outweigh the good in the 1970s after the couple was forced to evacuate an airplane in Denver by sliding down the emergency chute. “As time went by it reached the point that very often there were only partial good days,” Bert wrote. “By the 1980s she often talked about wishing to die. Then Susan got breast cancer.”
She began radiation treatments, becoming violently ill after her 13th. She stopped wanting to go, missing two further treatments. “It took all my begging and the cancer clinic personnel to continue. She did finish all her prescribed treatments, but by this time Susan made no bones about it that she wanted to die,” wrote Bert. “By suicide if need be.”
Susan began attending the Health Sciences Centre pain clinic, but the positive effects wore off after about four years. She would occasionally return for painkillers, but they would barely mask her agony, Bert said. “By 1997 she had taken painkillers for over 15 years,” he wrote. Susan regularly asked her doctors about having back surgery, but was told there was a 50 per cent chance of becoming wheelchair-bound, according to Bert. She wanted to risk it, but the doctors did not.
In 1994, the couple stopped taking their regular winter trips to Phoenix, where the dry air helped ease some of her pain. “Susan still did her crafts and baking, etc., during this time and some cooking. But by three years ago [1995] I did more or less everything, such as all the housework—floors, washing, making beds and most of the cooking. Susan still looked after the flowers,” wrote Bert.
On Christmas Eve 1996, she suffered a major heart attack and spent 16 days in hospital. “It was downhill on a fast track from here on in. She wanted to die so desperately, even if by suicide. She asked, and I promised, that I would not stand in her way if she ever made that final commitment. These were terrible times and these promises were made with tears flowing from both of us,” wrote Bert, who took over his wife’s gardening chores. Susan became bedridden by October 1997, then had one mild heart attack followed by a severe one while lying in bed one night.
“She would not let me call an ambulance, much as I begged. She became almost unconscious and I just held her in my arms. After about half an hour she sort of stabilized,” Bert wrote. She remained in bed for days, but was adamant that she finish two baby blankets she had been working on for expectant friends. “There was a great deal of urgency in her activities. I sort of knew deep down that Susan was preparing to die,” he wrote.
Susan never did finish the blankets, giving up her efforts and asking Bert to get her sisters to do them once she was gone. Discussions about death became frequent. “Susan requested that I do nothing rash and stay in our home for at least a year,” he wrote. “It is lonely here but it would be elsewhere as well,” he said. Rather than give them to his sisters-in-law, Bert finished Susan’s baby blankets himself.
Bert railed at the Canadian medical system, saying people suffering chronic pain should have access to stronger painkillers such as morphine. Doctors refused to give Susan morphine because she wasn’t terminally ill.
“On that day, Nov. 26, ended the longest day of my life. I am in a great deal of mental pain,” Bert concludes his diary. “My great comfort is that my love, wife, the children’s mother, is without pain for the first time in 53 years. Susan, Rest In Peace.”
TUESDAY JANUARY 27, 1998
It was a day Bert Doerksen knew was likely coming. But seeing the front-page headline—SUICIDE CHARGE A FIRST—drove home the reality of the situation. Manitoba justice officials did, in fact, want their so-called “pound of flesh.”
Allan Fineblit, assistant deputy attorney general, confirmed that his office had authorized police to lay a criminal charge against Doerksen. It marked Manitoba’s first-ever assisted suicide case. And it was sure to spark intense debate.
Martin Glazer, a prominent Winnipeg defence lawyer hired by the Doerksen family, came out swinging. “Mr. Doerksen is a decent, law-abiding war veteran who has never been in trouble with the law in his life,” he said. “He lost his wife of 59 years. He’s not Paul Bernardo. He’s living a nightmare.” Glazer said comparisons to another infamous Canadian case out of Saskatchewan were unfair. In that instance, Robert Latimer killed his severely disabled daughter. Latimer was ultimately charged and convicted of second-degree murder. “This woman [Susan Doerksen] had her own free will and made her own choice to die,” said Glazer. “Even the Crown isn’t saying this is a murder.”
There was quick public reaction on both sides of the issue. Theresa Ducharme, a disabled-rights advocate in Winnipeg, applauded the move. “We must have the same rules. Just because we’re aging, is that supposed to mean you should be excused from any litigation?” Ducharme told the Winnipeg Free Press. “If I was a Crown attorney, I’d treat him like anyone else. They have to be charged to the maximum. I’m getting frustrated because increasingly we don’t know if there is a law protecting people like myself.”
Barney Sneiderman, a law professor at the University of Manitoba, disagreed. He felt the Crown ought to have used their judicial discretion in this unique and tragic case. “It seems to me if there is ever a case not to proceed with, it’s this case,” he said.
Fineblit said there was no question his office had plenty of sympathy for Doerksen. But he said they must follow the letter of the law—specifically section 241(b) of the Criminal Code. The assisted suicide charge carries a maximum penalty of 14 years in prison. Doerksen would be invited to attend a city police station the following day to voluntarily turn himself in. Police would then immediately release him on a promise to appear in court. There would be no handcuffs. No confrontations. No “perp walks.”
“This is taking its toll on him. He’s not happy, and it’s causing a lot of stress,” said Glazer. “We’ve already had one suicide here. We don’t want another.”
WEDNESDAY FEBRUARY 25, 1998
He wanted to grieve in private, to be left alone with his thoughts and memories. But Bert Doerksen couldn’t escape the public spotlight these days, now a month after police had formally arrested him for helping his wife commit suicide. His lawyer, Martin Glazer, knew the court of public opinion seemed to be siding with his frail, elderly client. And so Glazer continued to push the envelope. Doerksen sent the Winnipeg Free Press a letter—with Glazer’s blessing—in which he lashed out at justice officials.
In my mind, I did not assist Susan to commit suicide. She did have a right to die. Now in my agony after losing my wife, lover, companion and friend I also have to put up with the so-called law to prolong my healing like salt in a wound. We were married 59 years and were a couple 2 1/2 years prior to our marriage. After 62 years the Minister of Justice should leave me alone. It is my sincere belief that the Minister of Justice and possibly he alone is responsible for all or most of my problems.
He advocated as much on CBC radio, which was broadcast nationwide. I have at this time pleaded not guilty. I feel I am not guilty. It is possible that this plea could change and not because of guilt.
If I carry on it could very well bankrupt me as my means are modest. The state has endless tax dollars including mine to persecute me. I do not mean prosecute. The Minister of Justice is in charge of all this. I do not qualify for Legal Aid.
My children have already spent thousands of dollars since Susan’s death and will spend many more if I go to trial. The family is very supportive but they have their own life to live and I do not wish to place any more burdens on them, which are already great.
Should I be convicted, what would the state do with an 80-year-old man who is partly crippled and has other medical problems as well? The Minister of Justice would then be victorious. It would seem that just to satisfy his beliefs and ego it would at best be only a hollow victory.
After 53 years of pain and the last year of pain beyond belief, no one or state can deprive Susan of her freedom now.
So I say, get your pound of flesh. You can not increase my agony. You can only prolong it. The police have been outstanding and have shown nothing but kindness and compassion, as well as our neighbours, friends, etc. I am hard of hearing so forgive me to all that call.
Doerksen then followed up on the letter by sitting down with the Free Press at his home for an exclusive interview. “I want them to leave me alone to grieve by myself, rather than have the whole world looking at me. I’m a good citizen. They’ve got no right to do this to me,” Doerksen said through tears. “It’s already a terrible thing to lose your wife. This just makes the agony worse.”
Doerksen went into great detail about his wife’s suffering and her desire to end her life. “She wanted to die a long time ago. She kept it in the family, but in the last year she told everyone. Of course it upset me. I didn’t want her to give up. But I didn’t hold that against her,” he said.
Glazer sat at his client’s side, admitting they hoped enough pressure might convince justice officials to ultimately drop the controversial case. “We’re asking the justice department to back off and drop the charges,” said Glazer.
WEDNESDAY AUGUST 26, 1998
Another six months had passed. Six long, stressful months for Bert Doerksen. The case had largely disappeared from the headlines. But it continued to hang over Doerksen like a dark cloud. And now there was another layer of tragedy in play. Doerksen had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer.
Lawyer Martin Glazer fired another volley by sending a letter to Manitoba Justice Minister Vic Toews. He said continuing to go after a dying man in these circumstances was cruel and unusual punishment.
“Based on the facts of the case and the lack of a likelihood of conviction, I’m asking him to step in and review and reconsider the case,” Glazer told reporters. Of course, this was mostly a public relations move. Glazer knew the odds of a sitting justice minister actually using his “prosecutorial discretion” to quash a charge were slim. “There is obviously a renewed sense of urgency as a result of his illness,” said Glazer. “I’m seeking his compassion as a result of the man’s medical condition.”
Not surprisingly, Toews wasn’t willing to take the bait. Hours after delivering the letter, Glazer received a response. “It is a long-standing practice of attorney generals in Manitoba not to become involved in individual cases despite the legal and constitutional ability to do so,” deputy attorney general Bruce MacFarlane wrote in the reply. MacFarlane added there was a “need to avoid even a perception that political considerations may be involved in the decision-making process.” The charge remained. The fight would continue.
The Doerksen family had seen enough. Frustrated by what they viewed as a lack of compassion from senior government and justice officials, several members mounted a full-scale attack.
“He’s being treated like a test case,” Jim Doerksen told the Winnipeg Free Press. He said his father didn’t deserve what he was being put through. “He’s in a lot of stress. I don’t know how long he will live. This shouldn’t be happening.”
Jim Doerksen took direct aim at justice minister Vic Toews, blasting him for sitting on the sidelines. “Vic Toews, as the minister of justice, is doing a terrible thing. You can’t prosecute someone who is innocent. The Crown is starting to look pretty stupid now,” he said. He revealed the Crown had made his dad an offer—plead guilty in exchange for receiving no jail time. As a matter of principle, it was immediately refused. “To me that’s outright blackmail,” he said. And he added this wasn’t a matter of wanting special treatment for his father, who he described as “lonely” and in a constant state of grieving. “I don’t think he should be getting any special treatment because of the cancer. There never should have been charges laid in the first place,” he said.
The Crown’s office responded the following day with their own public statement. For the first time, a slight window of opportunity appeared to open. “The Crown has maintained, and will continue to maintain, an open dialogue about [Doerksen’s] medical condition,” the statement said. Sources told the Free Press there was fear within the justice department of potential backlash from special interest groups should they drop the case against Doerksen. And so it continued to move forward.
In January 1999, a one-day preliminary hearing was held to determine if there was sufficient evidence for the case to proceed to trial. Provincial court Judge Arnold Conner ruled there was after hearing an abbreviated summary of the Crown’s case. Prosecutor Brian Wilford told court his office had plenty of sympathy for Doerksen but he said they must follow the law as it was currently constructed. Outside court, defence lawyer Martin Glazer repeated the family’s growing frustration. Barring a miracle, it seemed now like Doerksen was going to trial.
“I’m hopeful a jury will find him not guilty,” said Glazer.
FRIDAY JUNE 16, 2000
Now 81, Bert Doerksen was ready to give up—in both his battle against the assisted suicide charge, and the battle against the disease slowly eating away at his body. “The end is inevitable. I’m just not anxious to prolong it, so why go through the agony of that?” Doerksen, his voice raspy and wavering, said in an interview from his home. And so he was going to let “nature take its course” and discontinue all medical treatment. He blamed the heavy burden the province had placed on him by branding him a criminal and bringing him to court. “This is just terrible. I have never, ever had a criminal charge against me in my life. I have done nothing that is criminal,” he said.
Lawyer Martin Glazer renewed his call for the Justice Department to drop the case against his client. “Mr. Doerksen has suffered enough. This process is only exacerbating his suffering and I think enough is enough,” said Glazer. Glazer had just received a letter from Doerksen’s doctor that prompted him to make the renewed request for mercy. He faxed a copy of the letter to the Justice Department and requested an immediate stay of proceedings based on its content.
“Mentally, I believe Mr. Doerksen has deteriorated. On May 19, he indicated he had ‘had the biscuit’ and the communication which is enclosed on May 30 indicates that he is ‘tired, old and lonesome,’” wrote Dr. Paul Galbraith. “I do not think that this 81-year-old man is capable of pursuing the rigours of a criminal trial.”
Doerksen suffered a relapse of lymphoma in March. It was originally diagnosed in the summer of 1998 and appeared to be under control, according to the letter from his doctor. Doerksen was also experiencing night sweats, nausea and acute pain. Doctors were awaiting results of a CT scan to see if his cancer had spread further. Although he continued to take painkillers, Doerksen was adamant he no longer wanted to be treated with chemotherapy, radiotherapy, surgery or any other aggressive medical technique. “Sometimes the treatment can be worse than the disease,” he said. “The state wants to make a criminal out of myself where no crime has occurred.” Doerksen said it was “obvious” justice officials had no sympathy for him by insisting he stand trial. “Their ideology and zeal have not diminished,” he said. “Physically, it would be out of the question for me to spend time there in court.
FRIDAY JULY 28, 2000
He was just days away from going to trial when the news he’d been praying for finally arrived. Manitoba justice officials had a change of heart. They were going to drop the assisted suicide charge. Bert Doerksen broke down in tears after hearing Crown attorney Brian Wilford had formally entered the stay of proceeding.
“This is an example of compassionate justice,” defence lawyer Martin Glazer told court. “The stress level, the nightmares have been just awful. Now he can die in peace without this hanging over him.”
Wilford explained how Doerksen’s current medical condition, which included recent updates from his doctors and even a face-to-face meeting, led them to this decision. “Given his physical and mental deterioration since his wife died, it has been determined that it would not be appropriate in the public’s interest to proceed with this prosecution,” Wilford told Queen’s Bench Justice Nathan Nurgitz. “Let me just say this decision has nothing to do with the merits of the case. It has everything to do with the status of Mr. Doerksen’s health. He is incapable of attending for his trial or participating in it mentally.”
Nurgitz agreed it was the right decision. “This has nothing to do with his guilt or innocence, and everything to do with the public’s best interests,” the veteran judge said.
Doerksen was unable to attend court in person to hear the news. And it took several telephone rings at his home before he picked up. His frail, shaken voice suggested it was not a good time to call. “I’m not feeling too much of anything right now,” he said, noting the heavy dose of morphine he was currently taking.
Other family members proclaimed victory following the ruling. “We are so very relieved. His health has deteriorated so badly, and this has put so much stress on him,” said Doerksen’s son, Jim. The California resident came to Winnipeg to be with his father. “We don’t know how much longer he will live, but this case was definitely going to shorten his life,” he said. “My mother was in severe pain and couldn’t stand it anymore. My father has had a tremendous amount of support and believes this has been a serious intrusion of his life.”
Glazer said he believed the merits of assisted suicide should be debated by government, not lawyers. “Today is a victory, but this case is a tragedy. Hopefully we’ve learned a lot from this,” he said.
Rob Finlayson, assistant deputy attorney general, said the Crown had no choice but to lay the assisted-suicide charge against Doerksen. “The province is not responsible for the laws of the land. That is up to our elected officials,” he said outside court. Finlayson said the Crown had a solid case. He said the Crown had discretion to drop the case only when it became clear he would not be fit for trial. “I don’t think this will be precedent-setting. This is an exceptional case because of the age of Mr. Doerksen and his deteriorating health,” he said.
SATURDAY NOVEMBER 8, 2003
There was no trial. There would be no inquest. And now, more than three years after his high-profile case faded from the public spotlight, Bert Doerksen lost his battle with cancer. He was 85.
“Nobody knew when he was going to be terminal—he outdid the doctors’ predictions by a mile,” Doerksen’s son, Jim, told the Winnipeg Free Press.
Defence lawyer Martin Glazer said he believed justice officials helped extend his former client’s life by showing mercy. “I’m pleased to see he was able to live out the rest of his life in peace without the threat of a criminal prosecution hanging over his head,” said Glazer. “Had the charge not been dropped, I think he would have died sooner.”
Jim Doerksen said his dad had hoped the case would ultimately lead to changes within the medical system, so people like his mother could get relief from chronic pain to avoid such drastic measures. “He really felt the province should get their act together and come to terms with people suffering,” he said. “I would hope nobody else has to go through what he went through. Hopefully someone will grab it by the horns and do something to change this. I still feel if she had been properly looked after by the medical system she would be alive today.” Doerksen said his dad was lucid to the end and had a good quality of life in the time since the charge was dropped.
“Palliative care nurses took care of my father for the last two weeks of his life and did a marvelous job,” said Jeny Forest, Doerksen’s daughter. “It allowed him to die at home peacefully and without pain. With my mother they insisted she wasn’t terminal, but she was. Any person contemplating suicide is terminal and at some point she will succeed. Most important, we were there when my father died, but with my mother, because she didn’t want us there, she died alone.”
It has been more than a decade now since Bert Doerksen passed away. But there’s no doubt his case—and the important issues it raised—continue to generate debate within both the justice and medical community. And as the population continues to age, these types of tragic stories will continue to play out. I’ve even covered a few of them. Two in particular stand out.
In 2004, I wrote about an elderly Manitoba couple who formed a suicide pact, then killed themselves with a single bullet inside their Ashern-area home. The couple, who were both 75 and had been married 56 years, somehow managed to configure the weapon and themselves so they would die at the exact same time.
“They loved each other and did everything together. They were very attached. Even in death,” a brother of the elderly woman told me from his Ashern home, located about two hours north of Winnipeg. “They were so much in love, so happy. Clearly they had put a lot of thought and planning into this.”
“I’ve often thought that if one should go, what would happen to the other? Obviously they had thought about that as well,” said a close friend of the deceased woman.
The elderly woman had undergone gall bladder surgery about six weeks before her death and had been struggling with pain and discomfort, according to the family. Her husband was also battling poor health, having recently undergone treatment for a prostate condition. The couple was survived by four daughters, one son, numerous grandchildren and siblings.
Later that year, 86-year-old Tony Jaworski stabbed his 83-year-old terminally ill wife, Sophie, to death as she lay in her bed at Seven Oaks Hospital in Winnipeg. Jaworski then turned the knife on himself, plunging it into his own stomach in a failed suicide bid. He ultimately pleaded guilty to a reduced charge of manslaughter—sparing him the automatic life prison sentence required for murder—and was given a sentence of 17 months time in custody and three years of probation. It was a compassionate resolution to a case which legal experts say made Jaworski Canada’s oldest convicted killer.
“He took an action here which is illegal but understandable,” provincial court Judge Fred Sandhu said in agreeing to the plea-bargain. “This is a situation many people have faced, and will continue to face, when a loved one is dying or withdrawn from a quality of life they had and living becomes a mere existence,” he said.
Jaworski’s lawyer, Greg Brodsky, told court his client acted out of love. “Mr. Jaworski had one love in his life, and that was his wife, Sophie,” he said. “If anyone could have asked her if she wanted to live in the condition she was in, she would have said no. But she couldn’t answer. She wasn’t competent. She relied on her husband to take care of her.”
The court heard that in the hours before he killed his wife, Jaworski sat at her hospital bedside, holding hands and quietly reflecting on 63 years of marriage. Several tubes protruded from Sophie’s fragile body, which had been ravaged by colon cancer in recent months and resulted in a nearly 100-pound weight loss. A large, bulbous tumour was visible on her stomach. Doctors figured she had less than a year to live. Jaworski desperately wanted to take her home to spend her final days—but the restraints that kept the elderly woman secured to the bed wouldn’t allow it. Nor would the doctors at Seven Oaks Hospital, who had just lifted a ban— at the family’s urging— which had been preventing Jaworski from visiting his wife. Sophie couldn’t express what she was feeling, as Alzheimer’s disease was eating away at her brain. But Jaworski was positive she was suffering. “Thank God she’s not suffering anymore,” he told investigators after the killing.
Jaworski—who was legally blind and partially deaf—struggled to understand much of his court hearing.
“This was a man under extreme duress. It was no longer life as he knew it,” said Crown attorney Melinda Murray.
Just before going to the hospital on the fateful morning, Jaworski stopped at his granddaughter’s home and left his wallet, other personal identification and a chilling note on the front steps. “Please forgive me,” it read.