Chapter 26: Public Television

2025

There was a nice lounge in the hotel, and we ran an open bar for an hour where quite a few people stopped for a drink or two, swapping stories about Jack, and then heading home. We were flying to Matucket on Saturday, and Teresa chartered a private jet to fly us direct. Saturday morning the funeral director brought back the photos and the video remembrance they had created, all boxed up so that we could load them on the plane. I had suggested to her that Holliman’s was a good place to do the service for Jack, since they had done a good job with Grandpa. The funeral home also provided us with a packed container holding half of Jack’s ashes. I had an idea for them but needed to talk to the family about them.

Teresa seemed to think my eulogy was good and asked me to deliver it again at the memorial service in Matucket. I needed to edit the eulogy to fit the needs for our family, not for people who didn’t know him like we did.

Monday morning was the memorial service, to be followed by a lunch at St. Joe’s. The idea I had for Jack’s ashes was to bury him with Grandpa. Ashes weren’t like a casket. We didn’t need to dig a big hole in the ground. All I needed to do was head up there sometime during the week with a garden trowel. I could dig the turf up, pour in the ashes, and push the turf back down. In a few days nobody would ever be able to tell what I had done. It’s not like we were putting up a memorial or changing the headstone. Jack’s official place of residence, as it were, was back in San Francisco. I checked with Grandma, and she smiled. “I think that would be wonderful, Grim, but is it legal?”

“I don’t think Grandpa is going to file a complaint, Grandma.”

There was a twinkle in her eye as she said, “Probably not. You come over and pick me up. I’ll take care of your grandfather in case he decides to cause trouble.”

I gave her a hug and a laugh.

Monday morning was the service, and my parents said I had done a nice eulogy. We didn’t do an open bar. That would have been a bit much for Pastor Russ.

That evening we all met at our house to talk about what had happened. Mom was very happy that I had travelled to San Francisco to sort out the police, and Teresa and I filled the family in on what we knew. Was it a black capsule? Was it a suicide? Officially we didn’t know. The final report wouldn’t be issued until after the final results of the autopsy, which wouldn’t be issued until the toxicology report was finished.

Mom’s question was the most obvious one. “Why would he do it? From what you said the doctors were saying, he could have lasted another six months.”

I couldn’t answer the question, but I thought I knew the reason. It was Teresa who responded. “More than anything else, he hated the loss of his independence. He hated having me or a nurse fussing over him twenty-four-seven. He couldn’t feed himself; he couldn’t dress himself; he couldn’t go to the bathroom or bathe himself. He was at just about the last moment before he was totally bedridden.”

“He must have gotten the pill months ago, when he could still do some travelling and moving around. Then when he felt it was time, he somehow managed to sneak the pill bottle into his clothes. I don’t know how that happened, though,” I admitted. “Maybe he had just enough strength left to hide the pill bottle and didn’t want to take the pill at home where Teresa or the boys might find him.”

Mom cried at that but nodded in understanding. Dad asked, “So what happens now? Is this still an open case? In San Francisco, I mean.”

Teresa looked at me, the ex-cop. I shrugged. “Yes and no. They might try tracking down where the pill came from, but that’s going to be like hunting for a needle in a haystack. Did he get it from a former teammate or from an employee, or did he just get a name of somebody to talk to, or a name of somebody with a name of somebody? From months ago? There aren’t enough detectives in San Francisco to track something like that down. If nothing pops in the next few days, this is going into the dead files.”

Bobbie Joe and his family had come down for the service, though their boys were too young to understand. He said, “So this is it? Nothing else happens?”

“What do you want, Bobbie Joe? I hate to say it, but when we learned about this and started learning about the disease, I pretty much concluded I wouldn’t want to go through with it. The expression I used with Riley was taking a long walk off a short pier. Jack wasn’t a dumb jock. He knew how he was about to die. I suppose there are worse ways to go, but it’s hard to think of one.”

He just sighed and nodded.

I went to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a new bottle of Maker’s Mark, and then scrounged up all the shot glasses I could find. I poured shots of whiskey and passed them around. “We did this back at the beginning of the year for Grandpa, and we do it again at the end of the year for Jack. Let’s all try not to need to do this again anytime soon.”

“Sláinte!” said Seamus O’Connor. “For the Sassenachs in the group, that’s Irish for ‘To your health!’ Seems appropriate, don’t you think?”

There were some smiles and some tears at that, but everybody repeated the toast and knocked back their drink. Then we all hugged, and everybody went home.

The next morning, I called Grandma and then Teresa about the remaining ashes. After the call, I took Kelly’s minivan and drove over to Grandma’s to pick her up. I also grabbed a garden trowel from the barn. We drove over to Jack and Teresa’s place and picked up her and the boys. We went over to Shady Glen after that.

“I spoke to Father Russ about this, and he said he would meet us when we got to John’s grave. I called him right after you called me and he should be waiting for us,” said Grandma.

“I really appreciate this, Grandma,” said Teresa.

“John will appreciate the company. He was always a chatty fellow,” she laughed.

Pastor Russ was waiting for us in the drive nearest the grave. He took Grandma’s arm and helped her across the grass. We looked at the headstone; Grandpa’s name was on the left, with his birth and death dates shown. On the right was Grandma’s name, but only her birth date.

I smiled at my grandmother. “Sure you wanted to do that, Grandma? What happens if you meet another fellow?”

“Oh, my God! That’s all I need! You men aren’t worth the trouble!” she laughed. Of course, the next thing she did was kiss her great-grandsons on the cheek.

“Pastor, maybe you could say something, a prayer, whatever?” I asked.

Pastor Russ led us in the Lord’s Prayer, and then gave a prayer for both Grandpa and Jack. I knelt and cut up a small piece of the turf near the headstone, and then opened the cardboard box Jack was inside. I’d never actually seen cremains before, but quickly poured them into the dirt before the breeze wafted them around. I pressed the turf back into place and stood up, wiping the dirt off my hands. Teresa and the boys crossed themselves and we all thanked Pastor Russ and left. I dropped off Jack’s family and then took Grandma home. Teresa and the boys would be travelling to Miami later that morning.

Thanksgiving was very strained that year since it was only a few weeks after Jack’s death. It was a little better at Christmas, since another month had passed. Still, I was glad when 2024 ended. It had been a bitch of a year.

Fortunately, 2025 looked more promising. Several more police departments in South Georgia signed up for SWAT training and development, and I continued pushing for regional commonality. One thing I was starting to discuss was a formal framework for assistance. It works for fire departments, after all. If a town has a fire that’s too big for them, they just get on the radio and call for help from nearby towns, and even nearby counties. As it stood, if a city had a problem bigger than they could handle with SWAT, they had to call in help from either the Georgia State Patrol in Atlanta or the FBI, which might have a team God only knows where. Was there a better way possible?

Meanwhile, I finished up my first draft of Posse Comitatus: A History by the end of January. I sent it off to my editor and hoped the delay wouldn’t hurt sales. They liked to get the book out in the fall so it would end up on the New York Times Christmas Bestseller List. The back and forth of the editing wouldn’t be finished until sometime in March, after which there would be the cover artwork, reviews by renowned historians, a book tour, and publication sometime in June or July.

Then something happened that I would never have believed if somebody had told me. I got a call from somebody at a company called Florentine Films, which I had never heard of. The call came in on the RSC line, not my personal number, and I couldn’t imagine what a film company would want with a police consultant. It ended up going to voicemail and I returned the call at the end of the day. We played telephone tag for a couple of days until they reached me on the last Wednesday in May.

“Reaper Security Consulting, how can I help you?” I answered.

“Doctor Reaper, my name is Sandra Kellogg and I’m with Florentine Films.”

“Yes, we’ve been playing tag for a few days. It’s nice to talk to you. How can I help you?”

“Mister Burns asked that I contact you. We’d like you to help with a project we’re working on,” she said.

“Who is Mister Burns and what kind of project? I’ve never worked a security project for a film company. Is this some sort of consulting project?” I asked.

‘Uh, no, sir. This isn’t a consulting project. I understand that you’re a historian, a police historian. I wasn’t even aware there was such a thing as a historian who studied police.”

I laughed. “I think there’s probably a historian who studies almost everything.”

“Anyway, that’s why we wanted to speak to you. We’ve been doing some research and your name came up. We’ve read your books and your editor at Simon & Schuster said you have another one coming out this summer.”

That was a headscratcher to me. Who were these people who knew about me, and why? It didn’t sound like they needed any security consulting, so why did they need a police historian?

I must have been wondering too long. “Doctor Reaper, you there?”

I blinked and said, “Sorry about that. I was just wondering what you needed a police historian for. What’s Florentine Films, anyway? And who’s Mister Burns?”

“Oh. Florentine Films is a production company. We work with PBS; you know, the Public Broadcast System. Mister Burns is Ken Burns, the TV producer and director.”

“Uh, okay.”

“Maybe you’ve heard of some of his shows. Have you ever seenThe Civil War or The Vietnam War or Country Music?”

“You mean those big documentaries on TV? That Ken Burns?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, that Ken Burns,” she laughed.

“Huh!” I shook my head in confusion. “Uh, so what does Ken Burns need a police historian for?”

“We’re working on a project, a history of policing a lot like your second book. We’d like you to participate.”