Chapter 25: Passage

November 2024

Riley wanted us to go out and get another black Lab puppy the next day, but I just shook my head. “Let’s wait a bit on that, hun. I think it’s too soon. I think you should give it a chance to rest, let all of us remember Boxie, then we can do something. Let’s give it a month or two, then we can start building some new memories.”

She moped about that but didn’t get mouthy with me. She told me she wanted to call the new puppy Boxie, too, and I just said that would be too confusing for old people like her parents. In August I called a buddy who raised Labs and he had a yellow Lab bitch who was about to have a litter. He invited us over to say hello and I took Riley and Seamus over for a visit Saturday morning.

“This isn’t a puppy mill, is it, Dad?” Seamus asked.

“No. Mister Johansson breeds working dogs, retrievers for hunting. Labs were originally bred to be hunting dogs. You’d go duck hunting and when you shot yourself a duck, you’d send your retriever out and he’d retrieve your duck. That’s why they’re called retrievers.”

“Very funny, Dad,” he said.

Riley asked, “What’s duck taste like?”

“Don’t know. Maybe we should ask one of the retrievers.”

“Very funny, Dad,” she answered.

Any day you can get both of your kids stewing at you is a good day. In any case, we went over to Harley Johansson’s, and they saw he didn’t have his dogs in cages pumping out puppies. There were a lot of trophies for field competitions and the dogs were well treated. You could tell he loved his dogs. The kids met the bitch and Harley told us she was due to give birth in another week or two. After that it would be about eight weeks before we could take a pup home.

Harley’s bitch gave birth to a litter of seven pups a week later, four males and three females. He called and I confirmed that we were interested in one of the male pups. We went over a couple of weeks later and the kids picked out one of the males, who played with them for a bit and then fell asleep in Seamus’ lap. “I think we should name him Barney,” my son said.

“Barney?” I asked. The only Barney I knew of was a big purple dinosaur from when I was a kid.

“I think he’s a Barney.”

I rolled my eyes. When we got home the kids told their mother we had picked out a puppy and named him Barney. She looked at me and asked, “So, what did you think about Barney?”

“I think Barney is going to specialize in napping on laps.”

Kelly just laughed. “I thought you said retrievers are working dogs.”

“From what I saw, he’s going to work on retrieving pillows to sleep on.”

Barney came home with us eight weeks later and promptly fell asleep in Kelly’s lap. “Somehow this thing does not strike me as a guard dog. Not unless he’s guarding a bed.”

“I don’t think Barney would have done all that great chasing ducks around,” I agreed.

Barney began snoring.

The next couple of months were spent housebreaking Barney, occasionally punctuated by screams of outrage when Seamus or Riley discovered an accident in their bedrooms. This was a first-time thing for them. Seamus wasn’t even born when we got Boxie, and Riley had been a baby. Kelly and I were smart enough to keep our bedroom door closed.

Then the worst happened. Mid-afternoon on November 11 a text message came across my cell phone from Teresa.

Jack passed will call w details

I was sitting in my recliner reviewing some notes for the book when I got the messages. Despite being a federal holiday, Veterans Day wasn’t one of the biggies, so Kelly was at Matucket State and the kids were in school. I sent the messages to Kelly in case she hadn’t gotten it already.

Ten minutes later my phone rang; it was Teresa. “Hi, Teresa.”

“Oh, Grim, it’s just awful.”

“What happened? I thought this wouldn’t happen until next spring or summer.”

“I don’t know, Grim. He said he wanted to take a ride around the city before he wouldn’t be able to any longer,” she said.

“So, what happened?”

“He wanted to go alone. He got a small limo and the driver helped him in and helped him buckle in. Then the driver said Jack had him just drive around. They went over the Bay Bridge and came back and then drove down to Fisherman’s Wharf and when the driver asked for another destination there was no response. He kept asking and then stopped and opened the back door. Jack was dead!”

“Jesus!” I replied.

“It’s worse, Grim. The driver called the police and they’re going to do an autopsy!”

That was surprising. Unlike on television, when most people die, they don’t get autopsied. Autopsies are normally only ordered when somebody dies and somebody else thinks the death is unusual or suspicious. They don’t normally occur when somebody dies while under the care of a doctor, and Jack had plenty of doctors around to point to. “Did they say why?” I asked.

“No! We were told about it by an inspector.”

“An inspector?”

“That’s what they call detectives here.”, she explained.

“Can you get me the name and phone number for him?” I asked.

“It’s a she, and yes, hold on.” I heard some rustling of papers and then she gave me the name and a phone number.

“Don’t worry, Teresa. I’ll call. What’s the schedule?”

“I don’t know. We can’t do anything until they release Jack’s body.”

“Okay, I’ll make a call on that. Did you and Jack make any plans?”

That calmed her down a bit. They had a local undertaker on tap, and they wanted to keep things simple. Jack was going to be cremated and there were going to be two memorial services, one in San Francisco and then a second in Matucket. In a weird turn, half of Jack’s ashes would be spread out somewhere in San Francisco and the other half would come back to Matucket to be spread out here. I thought that was more than a bit bizarre, but I’d heard of weirder shit. There were companies that would take your ‘cremains’, the ashes left over from a cremation and turn them into Christmas ornaments. That was really weird!

I told Teresa to let people know the plans but not the final schedule, and not to say anything about the autopsy. After we hung up, I called the inspector in San Francisco but had to leave a message. I was called back about half an hour later. “Hello. I’m looking for Graham Reaper.” The caller had a light soprano voice.

“That would be me. Inspector Swanson?”

“Yes. How can I help you, Mister Reaper?”

“I’m the brother of Jack Reaper. He died earlier today, and his wife has told me that an autopsy was ordered. What was the reason for the autopsy request?”

“Mister Reaper, this is nothing more than a normal procedure,” she said.

“Inspector, I was ten years on the job and have another six as a consultant. I know that an autopsy is not a normal procedure, especially when the decedent is under the care of a physician,” I replied.

“Mister Reaper...”

“Inspector Swanson, who ordered the autopsy and for what cause? Or do I need to ask your supervisor?” Cops don’t like being pressured, and I figured it was maybe even odds that she’d tell me to go pound salt. On the other hand, I was related to the corpse and being an asshole wouldn’t play well if we went public. If necessary, I’d call in favors from Irene Delahoye, but that would probably burn some bridges.

I heard a sigh on the other end of the line. “Mister Reaper, are you aware of the circumstances of your brother’s death?”

“I was told that he went for a drive around San Francisco, and that when the driver asked him where to go next, he never responded. The driver found him dead in the back seat.”

“The driver called the police and the responding officer called for an ambulance. The EMTs reported signs of a drug overdose and that was enough to make the officer suspicious.”

“A drug overdose? He could barely move! How in the world was he overdosing?” I exclaimed.

“Mister Reaper, I’m sorry for your loss, but it’s out of my hands. We’ll let your sister-in-law know what the results are and when your brother can be released.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

I hung up and called Teresa back. I had to leave a message, but she called me back five minutes later. “Grim, did you call the police?”

“I spoke to the inspector but it’s out of her hands now. Jack is at the medical examiner’s office,” I told her.

“Why did they do this?” she wailed.

“Teresa, calm down. The EMTs who responded thought they saw signs of a drug overdose. That’s what caused all this.”

“Drugs! That’s crazy!”

“I know. Just stay calm. Tell me more about the memorial service.”

I talked to Teresa some more and she gave me the plans that she and Jack had worked out. Two memorial services were planned, one in San Francisco, his new home, and one in Matucket, his old home. It was expected that the San Francisco memorial service would be mostly attended by company employees, former football teammates, and Teresa’s family, who would have to fly to either Matucket or San Francisco anyway. The Matucket memorial would take place a day or two later and would be for our family and local friends. I wasn’t sure about the splitting of the ashes. Teresa was going to have to figure out where in San Francisco that portion was going to go. Was it even legal to just dump somebody’s ashes somewhere? How do we do that in Georgia?

Kelly called me at her next break I told her about Jack, though I didn’t say anything about the autopsy. I also called my parents and confirmed that they had heard from Teresa. Mom told me she had already heard from Grandma and Bobbie Joe, so everybody in the family knew. I told her about the twin memorials, and she couldn’t figure out whether they should go to San Francisco to attend both or not.

What was still on my mind was the evidence of a drug overdose. That made no sense at all. Jack had always been a straight arrow as far as drugs were concerned. It wasn’t because he was made of better moral fiber than I was, but it was because we had taken the same path when we were young. Coach Summers had been death on drugs back when we were on the team in high school, and then when he had gone to college, there had been drug tests. Sure, he could have figured a way around them, but Jack’s biggest vices, like mine, had always been beer and bourbon.

Tuesday morning, I called Teresa, who hadn’t heard anything from Inspector Swanson, and Swanson, who simply told me nothing, but was polite about it. After that, I called the Atlanta office of the FBI and got an appointment with Irene Delahoye for that afternoon. Then I packed a suitcase and drove to Atlanta.

When I left the FBI building, I drove to ATL and took the first available flight to SFO. I paid the extra for first class and got to San Francisco around eight that evening. I took a taxi to the condo. Teresa and the boys greeted me and showed me to a spare bedroom. I had been texting her all afternoon with my plan to directly approach Inspector Swanson and sort things out with her. I spent the night talking to my sister-in-law about what she knew, which wasn’t much more than what she had told me on the phone.

As soon as I woke up, I called Swanson at the number on the business card she had given Teresa and made an appointment to see her that morning. Swanson worked in Major Crimes out of SFPD headquarters. I googled the SFPD; Major Crimes considered themselves elite detectives, so she was probably smart.

Teresa called a limo and had me taken to the department. I went inside and found I had to pass through a magnetometer system manned by armed officers. I pulled out my retired credentials and my LEOSA identification before approaching the entrance. I also held my jacket open so they could see my holstered weapon. I was carrying my Glock 22 with ten-round magazines to meet California’s requirements.

One of the officers immediately stepped to the side so that his partner wouldn’t be caught in a crossfire and placed his hand on the butt of his pistol. “Sir, slowly step forward and place your hands on the table.” The second officer ordered everyone else back, then came forward and took my Glock and then frisked me.

“Officer, I have an appointment with Inspector Susan Swanson. I am also permitted to carry concealed under the federal Law Enforcement Officers Safety Act. This is my identification.”

“Mister, this is California, not Georgia. You don’t just wander in here strapped!”

“Perhaps you could contact Inspector Swanson and ask her to come down. As I said, I have an appointment with her. Also, if you would allow me to provide an additional item?”

I was allowed to move away from the entrance and one officer grabbed a phone and called somebody else. The first officer kept his hand on his weapon and told me to get out what I wanted to, but to move very slowly. I reached into my jacket and pulled out an envelope. I opened it and handed over the letter inside.

The officer read it and gave me a curious look. “What is this, a get out of jail card?”

I smiled. “Let’s let the inspector decide.”

What I had shown the police officer was something I had picked up from Irene Delahoye. I had explained my problem in San Francisco to her and asked if she knew anybody in the department. She hadn’t but she offered me something more interesting. “Give me a minute, Grim.” Then she typed something on her computer and stood up. Five minutes later she returned with a piece of paper and an envelope. “This should cut through some red tape.”

I looked at the paper; it was a letter on FBI letterhead for the Atlanta field office. It was brief, simply stating,” Please provide all possible courtesies to Doctor Graham W. Reaper.” It was signed by the Special Agent in Charge, Irene’s boss. The envelope also had the FBI logo on it. I had smiled and thanked her and then left for the airport.

It took a few minutes for a woman to show up at the entrance. The officers passed over my identification and the letter, though they kept an eye on me. She came over to me and said, “Doctor Reaper, I’m Sue Swanson.” She was middle-aged, in her mid-forties, and despite the Anglo-American name had decidedly Asian features. Well, California was the very definition of the melting pot.

“Inspector,” I replied, nodding.

She reviewed my identification and smiled as she read the brief letter from the Atlanta FBI. “Can’t say as I’ve ever seen one of these before. You have some pull with the Feebs?”

“I’ve assisted them on several occasions. They were very kind to provide that.”

She shrugged and handed everything back to me. To the entrance guards she said, “Let him through and give him back his gun. If he gets uppity, we’ll shoot him upstairs.” Then she asked, “Did you check his magazine capacity?”

The officer started at that and popped the magazine and checked. I just stood there and smiled. Then he replaced it and handed it to me. I said, “I checked before coming. I also have seven-round mags for when I travel to New York.”

I was allowed inside, and Swanson led me towards the elevators. Nobody even bothered with my cane. “You said on the phone you were on the force back home?”

“I did ten years on the Matucket Police Department, mostly on SWAT. I had to retire after being hit, line of duty. Since then, I’ve been working as a consultant, mostly in Georgia, but I also work with the Feds as needed.”

“Interesting. And the Doctor? Not too many cops are doctors.”

“It’s in history. I already had a master’s while on the cops. After I took the medical, I took some time off and picked up the doctorate.”

“Huh.”

“When Teresa told me about Jack and an autopsy, and you told me about the drugs, we decided I should look into the problem,” I continued.

She didn’t respond to that immediately but led me to a small office. Once inside she pointed me to a chair. “I’ve got a bit more information for you. I re-interviewed the driver. I had him lead me through the entire drive and it was much like what I said to you on the phone. I know your brother had ALS and that he was mostly not capable of movement. After buckling him in, the driver drove him around town and over the bridge to Oakland and back. What the driver didn’t say, at least on the first interview, was that after coming back from Oakland, your brother asked him to stop in Golden Gate Park. He said he needed to take some medication and needed some help. He stopped in the park and went around to help. Jack had a pill in a pill bottle and the driver opened it for him and put it in his mouth, then held up a water bottle so he could swallow. The driver never thought twice about it; your brother was obviously sick and needed a pill. Then he got back in the front and kept driving. When they got down to Fisherman’s Wharf and your brother stopped giving him instructions, he got concerned. He stopped and checked, and he was dead. That’s when he called for the cops.”