Brandon and Wilson at the Catch, Installment 34/40

Catch Up

After returning to the group home from runaway, Brandon was released from the Catch, leaving Wilson mourning his loss.

Wilson

Wednesday, September 6, 1989

Detective Barrows was smiling again. It has become a smile I cannot stand, a symbol for the cruel way Brandon was branded as suspicious and pushed from the Catch and my life. He was sitting under the bare rectangle, where the painting used to be, where Jennings used to sit, in the common area of our cottage, facing what was left of the cottage’s residents. Duane and Mrs. Doubek and Davey and Wilkerson were there too. Mrs. Doubek looked uncomfortable surrounded by all the Black faces, looking small sitting in the bulky indestructible cushioned chairs that fit nobody’s body shape. Other people looked miserable, too, notably Barry and Duane.

The detective started: “Mrs. Doubek invited me back to see if I could clear up some things with you. Now that the investigation into House’s death is complete, I can say some things that I couldn’t reveal to you previously.” I wanted details. Toxicology reports. Autopsy photos.

“Yes,” Duane added, “Mrs. Doubek thought it might be helpful.” The way he said it implied he didn’t expect it to be helpful at all. “But I hope you realize there are things that we can say and things we can’t, because we still want to respect House’s privacy, even though he’s no longer with us.” That meant no details.

“The biggest question that I understood you had,” Barrows stated, “is whether House committed suicide or whether foul play was involved. Many of you now know that he was found hanging from a tree limb behind the administration building. I know that’s a gruesome image. But those are the facts.

“That question, suicide or foul play, was the point of our investigation,” he continued. “I know I grilled some of you pretty . . . intensely. That’s part of my job, it’s part of trying to find out what happened. I apologize if I frightened any of you.” He smiled that disarming smile. “We naturally considered the death suspicious, as some of you did. It’s unusual to find a person hanged to death in any place other than a private home. Given the history of lynching of Black individuals” – he paused and cleared his throat – “the department wanted to make doubly sure that we got this right, that we didn’t overlook something that could . . . that could reflect a more sinister motive.

“The medical examiner ruled the case a suicide,” he said. “The police department concurs. The facts align with suicide. There were no signs on House’s body that there had been a struggle, no lacerations, cuts, no contusions, bruises, no damage to any internal organs. House was a big guy. He would’ve been able to put up quite a struggle if someone tried to corral him and get him up into a tree and hang him.”

“He could’ve been drugged,” Barry said.

“Excellent point. Someone could have drugged him,” the detective said. “But he wasn’t drugged. The only drug in his body was for a medication prescribed by a doctor, and it was within normal parameters. I mean, he didn’t have a lot of that in his blood. He wasn’t drugged.” I knew House was on an antidepressant from my time rooming with him.

“Did he tell anyone he was going to kill himself? Or write a note?” Felipe asked.

“Not that we know. We didn’t find a note. That’s not unusual. There usually isn’t a note.” He couldn’t write a note, I thought. He couldn’t write.

“How did he get some rope to hang himself?” Wilkerson asked.

“I wish we knew. We don’t. It was something that could be purchased at any hardware store.”

“House didn’t have money,” Terrance said. “None of us have money. None of us had been to a hardware store.” Brandon didn’t have money either, I thought, and hadn’t been to a hardware store either. But still, it meant no one knew how House obtained the means to kill himself.

“Do we know why he might’ve wanted to kill himself?” Davey asked.

“We have some suggestions,” Barrows answered. “There were family complications. There were social relational issues with which he was dealing. He had a history of clinical depression.”

“This is an area where we want to protect his privacy,” Duane added. He didn’t like that the word depression was used.

“House was fat,” Wilkerson said. “How did he climb that tree to get up there and do that?”

“We had the same question. He was a large young man. It would’ve been hard for him to climb the tree but not impossible. It would’ve been difficult for someone to hoist him up as well. But it would not have been impossible for him to ascend the tree.” Barrows was trying to wrap this up, distill any doubts, but the residents weren’t budging. They were finding the holes in his case.

Barry asked, “Did you look into whether Brandon’s father might’ve set this up as a hit from prison, you know, with one of those white supremacy gangs?”

“We heard about this theory. I understand some of you boys thought of that. Frankly, House’s family thought of it, as well. We did not find any evidence to support it.”

“But did you interview Brandon’s father in prison?” Barry asked. He wasn’t giving up easily.

“I didn’t personally, no. I checked with the prison. There is a real racial thing going on in the prison where Brandon’s father lives. And there are white supremacy gangs operating in the prison as well as other gangs. But the prison officials there were confident Brandon’s father is not part of any white supremacy gang. The group home also keeps a phone log of long-distance calls,” Barrows said. “Brandon didn’t make or receive any phone calls from the prison.”

“If the police wanted to cover this up, to rule it a suicide when it wasn’t, you could do that, couldn’t you?” Barry asked. This made me grin. Barry and I had not been on the same side in this investigation, but I had to hand it to him. He was finding his footing, asking good questions, making the detective squirm. I wondered if Duane had prepped him to ask the questions Duane couldn’t ask in front of Mrs. Doubek.

“It might be possible,” Barrows said. “Fair question.” The big smile. “But such a cover-up would involve a lot of people, police officers who responded to the scene, the detectives who led the investigation, the technicians who collected evidence and took photographs, the medical examiner’s office and her team there.”

“Can we see the photos?” Barry asked. “Of House.”

“No,” Mrs. Doubek said quickly. “You absolutely cannot see the photographs.”

“Some of House’s surviving family members asked the same thing,” Barrows said. “We showed them the photographs. We showed Mrs. Doubek the photographs. We showed some officials at the Department of Human Services the photographs. We’re not trying to hide anything. The photographs are quite disturbing.”

“Is the group home being sued by House’s family?” someone else asked.

“That is beyond my purview,” Barrows said. “I mean, I wouldn’t be in a position to know. That is a civil matter. I deal with criminal matters.”

“I suspect there might be some legal action in the future,” Mrs. Doubek said. “There often is in such situations. Now, let’s not waste any more of the detective’s time. It was good of him to come here on a Tuesday evening.” Mrs. Doubek does not like how smart the questions have been. She didn’t expect the residents to push back.

“We got this right,” Detective Barrows said as he stood up, looking around to make eye contact with each resident. “We got this right. The ruling of suicide is correct. Sometimes, on these things, I have doubts. I don’t have doubts in this matter. We got this right. As terrible as it is to say it, House killed himself.”

“I have doubts,” Barry said. I didn’t, but I was glad for Barry that he got in the last word. The purpose of the detective’s visit was to lower the emotional temperature in the cottage. If the temperature budged, it was only by a bit. Kids would still talk.

What I really wanted someone to say to the detective, Mrs. Doubek, Duane, anyone was: “There is no evidence that Brandon was involved. There is no reason Brandon can’t come back here.” I wanted someone to say, “We screwed Brandon over in all of this. We scared an innocent young man to death. We accused him of something he didn’t do. The police threatened him with incarceration and the residents threatened to harm him and he ran off because of all that. He lost the one place he had to live.” But it wasn’t my place to say it. It went unsaid.

Wilson

Thursday, September 7, 1989

LaTonya found Brandon. She told me this morning before we left for our respective high schools. Staff members in LaTonya’s cottage let it slip while talking about whether the Catch would be laying off staff because of the low census, with no ability to admit new residents and with House dead and Jackie gone, and Barry leaving and Brandon at St. Anthony’s. St. Anthony’s is the Catholic hospital with a psychiatric unit that accepts kids from the system for short-term stays. You’re supposed to be a safety risk to yourself or others to get placed there and Brandon isn’t a risk to either. When a Black kid has no place to go, the system finds a way to get him into juvenile detention. There’s always a runaway or truancy charge or probation violation they can find. When a white kid has no place to go, they’ll invent a problem for him to get admitted to a fancy psychiatric hospital. The group home’s contract psychiatrist has admitting privileges at St. Anthony’s. It all makes sense. I find comfort in being able to imagine him in a place I know.

After school, I saw Brandon’s green notebook. It was on Duane’s desk. I wasn’t looking for it. I simply saw it out of the corner of my eye as I walked by the office. I’d taken it out of my backpack when we returned from runaway and gave it to Duane to go with Brandon. Now it was back. I thought about taking it, to keep Duane from reading it, if he hadn’t already, and to keep it for Brandon in case he returned. But I wasn’t sure I could keep myself from reading it if it was in my possession, to see what Brandon wrote about me, to see what he wrote about going shirtless in the room, about the decision to sleep naked, about us making out, about the gay thoughts I think he was having. If he came back, he’d be angry I invaded his privacy. But if he didn’t come back, and he was lost forever to me, at least I’d have this intimate remembrance of him.

Instead of taking it, I decided to confront Duane about it, which I did a few minutes later. “Didn’t this get sent with Brandon to St. Anthony’s?” I asked.

“What?”

“Brandon’s notebook, his journal, the one he writes in as part of his therapy with Kent. That spiral green notebook on your desk. Why do you have it?”

“What’s in my office is none of your business,” he said.

“My guess is you kept it because you wanted to find out if he wrote about House.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

I gave him a sharp look. I don’t know if he lies. My other theory was that the hospital sent it back with Duane. It could be taken apart and the spiral wire used as a sharp, to cut through skin. “They wouldn’t let him keep it, huh? Because the hospital doesn’t allow sharps. They sent it back with you.”

“Minding your business is not one of your strengths,” Duane said.

“Are you keeping it for him for when he returns?” I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t want to hear his answer.

“I’m through talking about Brandon Jeffers,” Duane said. That was a no. Duane Fellows is through with Brandon Jeffers, doesn’t want him in his cottage, doesn’t want to look at Brandon’s face because it reminds him of House, the resident in his charge who died a tragic, preventable death. He wants nothing to do with the person I want everything to do with, the person with whom I want to do everything. I felt my shoulders sag.

“Then what are you going to do with it, the notebook?” I asked.

Duane then took the notebook, unlocked a drawer on his desk with a key from his key ring, put the notebook in the drawer, and locked it. That hurt. I stared at the spot on the desk where the notebook had been. I stared at Duane. I went to my room. I conjured more images of Brandon at St. Anthony’s. I wondered if they made him wear hospital gowns for the first couple of days. They did that for runaway risks. He’d look great in a hospital gown, with the string tied in the back. I imagine him in his bed, telling his roommate about me and our adventures, leaving out the sexy parts.

Soon after, I was summoned unexpectedly to the administration building to meet with a lady from the State of Oklahoma, here to investigate whether the Catch should be blamed for House’s death. Typically, I’d be thrilled to meet someone with power like that. But my heart wasn’t in it. I answered her questions, which were mostly about the weekend staff. But didn’t relish my moment of influence. I toyed with the idea of making a plea to see if she could help bring Brandon back here, but I couldn’t find the right angle. I suspected that the injustice of a spoiled gay romance wouldn’t motivate her. Instead, I asked her if we were done. She said yes. But I knew what was done was my relationship with Brandon.