Roses Are Red

Chapter Ninety

I arrived at James Walsh's home in Virginia around midnight on Sunday. Several of the neighbors were circulating nervously out on the street. I heard an elderly woman mutter and sigh," Such a nice man. What a shame, what a waste. He was an FBI agent, you know."

I knew. I took a deep breath and then I plunged inside the modest house where Walsh had lived and died. The Bureau was there in large numbers and so was the local police. Because an agent had died, the Violent Crime Unit had been called in from Quantico.

I spotted Agent Mike Doud and I hurried over to him. Doud looked ashen and maybe close to losing it.

"I'm sorry," I said to him. He and Walsh had been close friends. Doud lived nearby in the Virginia suburbs.

"Oh Jesus. Jimmy never said a word to me. I was his best friend for God's sake."

I nodded. "What do you know so far? What happened?"

Doud pointed toward the bedroom. "Jimmy's in there. I guess he killed himself, Alex. He left a note. Hard to believe."

I crossed the sparsely decorated living room. I knew from talking to him that Walsh had been divorced a couple of years ago. He had a sixteen-year-old son in prep school, and another at Holy Cross, where Walsh had gone himself.

James Walsh was waiting for me in the bathroom connected to the bedroom. He was curled up on the off-white tile floor, which was flooded with a lot of his blood. I could see what was left of the back of his head as I entered the room.

Doud came up behind me. He held out the suicide note, which had been placed into a plastic evidence bag. I read it without removing the plastic. The note was to Walsh's two sons.

It finally got to be too much for me. This job; this case; everything else. Andrew, Peter, I'm truly sorry about this.

Love,

Your dad

A cell phone sounded and it startled me. It was Doud's phone. He answered, but then handed it to me," It's Betsey,” he said.

"I'm on my way to the airport. Oh Alex, why would he do such a thing?” I heard her voice. She was obviously still in New York. "Oh poor Jim. Poor Jim. Why would he kill himself? I don't believe it. He's not the type."

Then she sobbed loudly into the phone, and though she was far away, I had never felt closer to her.

I didn't say what I was thinking. I held it inside and it chilled me a little. Maybe Betsey's gut reaction was right. Maybe James Walsh didn't kill himself.