With cigar smoke collecting in a haze at the ceiling, Brooks begins his investigation, taking note of religious figurines on a coffee table. He spots a faded pillow embroidered many years ago. It begins: "To a soldier far away from home."
He is cataloguing the scene with an aim: to rule out a crime. Nothing seems out of place, no sign of a break-in or struggle.
Brooks enters the bedroom and finds the woman slumped at the edge of the bed, facing a large mirror. The detective rummages through the closets and drawers, looking for identification cards. In a purse, he finds a few scraps of paper, with the names and phone numbers of several relatives. One note begins with words that seem meant for Brooks: "If something should happen to me, please call . . ."
Such lonely deaths are the hardest on the detective, who has seen some of the worst that people can inflict on one another. He lives with his own elderly mother in Northwest Washington. After such deaths, he calls her to be sure she's all right. It is too late to call her tonight, so he makes a mental note to check on her in the morning.
Brooks stubs out his Black & Mild and puts it behind his right ear. He pulls out his cellular phone. He is about to begin what he calls the hardest part of his job: notifying the next of kin.
"I'm Detective Brooks with MPD," he says. "I'm sorry, but I have some bad news for you. We're in her apartment, and she has passed away. . . ."
The detective jots down something in his notepad and then explains to the relative that somebody will have to identify a photograph of the woman at the morgue. He ends the call.
"It is tough to do that," Brooks says. "You imagine yourself in their place."
He relights the cigar, puts it back into his mouth and takes a few puffs.
'This Takes a Toll'
On a recent afternoon, natural squad detective Susan Blue looks up at a Capitol Hill rowhouse. She knows a dead man is upstairs in his bedroom. Work crews on the street smelled something bad and called police. An officer arrived, borrowed a key from a neighbor and found the body upstairs.
Blue turns to the officer. He knows what to expect when he reenters the home, so he wraps a T-shirt around his head to block the odor. His jacket is zipped to his Adam's apple. It is 90 degrees outside. Blue asks him to buy her some cigars, and he hustles to his patrol car for the trip to the convenience store. He seems relieved.
Stepping inside the house, Blue surveys the scene. No broken windows or bashed-in doors. No tipped-over furniture. Just country music twanging from a stereo and fans twirling from the ceiling. Wrinkled clothes occupy a chair.
