The Mourning Mail (FINAL)

Chapter 13

I took thirty minutes away to get a snack and to think of other things. Still, a real uneasiness lingered in my mind about Brian becoming more aggressive. Though I could almost feel his desperation, his view of a "body" in the abstract as a bargaining chip was disconcerting. Brian's last missive continued:

"Decided my best bet was to take it to their turf, where they woudn't expect me. I was doing driveby's of Docs house. One day I saw Doc - his girlfreind and another man leaving Docs place. I followed the smaller guy—it was hard to tell from a distanse, but his voice sounded like the Rickie I heard that night. He's shorter than me, going bald, maybe 30 something—you can never really know - they look older when they loose there hair. I followed him for a while, not too close, because I didn't want to get caught. He landed in this older, kind of crummy-looking residensial naberhood.

"When Rickie pulled up to a set of rail-road tracks, the crossing arms came down lights flashing. Rickie scooted around and thru them, but I had to hang back so he wouldn't get suspicius I was following him. Figgured I'd lost the guy. But after the train was gone, I saw he parked his car 2 doors down on the R side of the street. As I past by I scoped out the place. The house was small and rundown—2-bedrooms on an ittybitty lot, no obvius securaty I could see. No trees no dogs or other animals outside- he probly rents it There's a chainlink fence around the back and sides but nothing across the front."

Good, I thought, more information I could use to find Rickie's house. Brian's correspondence continued:

"So I pull over to the curb a few doors away and wait to see what was happening. About 15 mins later, Rickie left the house carrying a gym bag. He locked the deadbolt with his keys. That told me that he lived there and he'd be gone awhile. After his car left I grabbed my lock picks and a big screw driver - snuck around to the back side of the house and tried the sliding door. There was a broomstick handle on the inside track so it woudn't open. So I found an unlocked kitchen window above the sink and got in that way.

"This Rickie is a slob - lives alone—just Men's Clothes in the closet, Men's stuff in the bathroom—no pets. He's into working out. Theres gym equipment and sweat clothes all over the place but can't say I am impressed with the results.

"Took the broomstick handle Rickie was using to block the patio door but didn't take anything else today. I got an idea tho, and I'll come back – I'm putting together a plan. If that goes the way I want, I'll take Rickie's computor, TV, soundbar and subwoofer – I shoud get something for doing all this work."

I was reminded just how differently professional thieves arranged their priorities from how I ordered mine. But even between criminals, I could see glaring differences: A wealthy, white-collar con artist like Fat Leonard wouldn't do anything if it didn't result in maximal gain for minimal risk. Yet someone like Bubba, fighting daily for his very existence, would take extreme chances based on emotion alone, giving very little consideration to either the investment or the rewards. The letter carried on:

"Before I followed Rickie, I thouht about killing a homeless dude with some poison hooch. I'd hide the body in Doc's house and call the cops. Theyd think it was him did it. But when I tried to pick somebody I got sick. Looking someone in the face and killing thems one thing - dragging an innosent person into all this is even worse. And without something to tie them together, the docter might wiggle out of that one too. But now I plan to go back to that little house one night - get rid of this Rickie, and pin that on the docter. Rickie's smaller than me, and he's a bad guy. There'll be less links to me if I dont use a gun. I'll catch him on a night he's wasted - do it while he's sleeping— he won't feel a thing. No guilt no mess.

"Sis I got it all figured out. 1st I'll print out a note and leave it by Rickies computer. Say how he's trying to blackmail Doc for what they did with that lady's body. I still have some of the stuff I took from the docter's house that doesn't have my prints so I can leave little things around Rickies place for the police to put the 2 of them together.

"Then I'll grab some things from Rickies and plant them at the docter's house. use a burner to call 911. The cops will have to at least think about the docter getting revenje against Rickie for the blackmail.

"But they'll have to get more serius about finding that missing girl. All the heat this spreads around shoud chase the out of town goons away from my naberhood. The note I made up to leave at Rickies is awesome and shoud do the trick—it goes like this:

"'Doc,
I decided the $10,000 isn't enough - I need more.
You and your girlfriend will make big money from
that lady you killed. I need $50,000 by this weekend
or else I tell the police where we hid the body and
what we did to it.
—Rickie.'

"What do you think - pretty cool huh? See how I turned it around on them? I've been watching Rickies place. He goes out drinking Friday nights and comes back pretty hammered. Thats tomorrow night, so I'll do it then - let you know how it goes. Maybe they'll finally do something about the docter and all this will help make up for the things I've messed up. I could acomplish some good in the world – Karma ha

"I hope your doing ok wherever your at— thanks for lissening.

"I miss and love you—

"Bubba."

Aww, Jesus, Brian, what have you done? I thought to myself.

I'd begun to identify with Bubba and maybe even relate to his situation. The sudden turn to violence as a solution to his problems surprised—well, disheartened—me. Whatever he'd done after that letter likely played a part in ending him. The day he wrote this last message preceded the date on his tombstone by just forty-eight hours.

The entire situation with Brian reminded me of something Marci firmly believed. "That's a big part of the problem with life on the streets," Marci said. "The choices they can make, and so the ones they do, are so different from yours or mine. And a lot of that—not all of it, to be sure—is on society. We've made a world where the only access to good choices is through having power and resources. But we give all the power and resources to the already empowered and rich. Or they just take it. Doesn't leave much to the poor or disadvantaged. We keep disregarding the disparities, but they're growing; eventually, we won't be able to ignore them any longer."

Marci might be the right person to ask to help verify Brian's letters. But before I enlisted her, I needed to get on the Internet and track down what I could.

It didn't take long to nail down the basics. An article in the electronic edition of the Union-Tribune confirmed that Bridget Coleman née Pierce was in a head-on collision two years ago. A drunk driving the wrong way on I-5 struck the vehicle she was driving while taking her son, Michael, to school. She was in a coma for over two months. According to her obituary, the hospital pulled the plug after doctors diagnosed her as brain-dead. Michael survived with minimal physical harm, and Bridget's aunt had been caring for him.

There wasn't much on Brian Pierce, but I found an entry in an archive of Bridget's old MySpace account that was revealing. At the time of her posting, Brian would have been sixteen. In her text, Bridget asked for prayers for her brother. He had severely injured himself in an off-road motorcycle accident when he wasn't wearing a helmet. He was undergoing life-threatening surgery for the frontal lobe injuries he'd sustained. Using Google Images, I found a photo of Brian in which he appeared to be in his mid-twenties. It showed significant scarring on his forehead, nose, and chin. It was clear why Brian might have had some of the social, emotional, and mental challenges I picked up from his letters.

Two brief articles referenced the same badly beaten body found dumped in an alleyway downtown the day after Brian's death. Both appealed to the public for more information. The police had identified the victim through DNA, presumably made possible because Brian was in the system for past crimes. The body mutilation had been too severe for immediate identification at the scene.

My heart sank, and sadness washed over me with the new realities, though the adult in me probably should have known they were coming—I'd stood over his grave. For all his flaws and failings, and perhaps because of them, I could relate to Brian at some level. An irrational part of me hiding below the surface had been rooting for his story to have a happy ending, giving Dad some peace. That would not happen if we left things as they were.

Now the question that started me on this journey would have to change. What good can we make from those letters, so Dad can rest easily?