My mouth stopped working for a minute as shock was still reeling through my brain. I tried to work my words out. “Uh, hi, I think someone named Getty called me.”
“Detective Getty,” the dispatcher corrected me like a child. “I’ll transfer you over to him. I believe he’s still in his office.”
The phone rang again, and this time, each ring seemed to shake me.
“Hello, this is Detective Getty speaking.”
“Hi, I’m Kobe, Kobe Brogan. I think you just called me.”
“I did,” Getty answered. His voice seemed to change from professional to sorrowful, which wasn’t helping my anxiety. “What is your relation to Jared Brogan?”
“He’s my brother.”
“How about your parents? He had your number listed as emergency contact in his phone.”
“No, it’s just the two of us.”
I knew people said that their heart raced but mine had slowed as if someone had dunked it into a bowl of water and it was fighting to pulse.
“I came by your house and knocked, but no one answered.”
“I’m sorry. I’m home alone and don’t answer the door.”
“I hate to do this over the phone . . .” He let out a sigh.
“Just tell me,” I demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“Your brother was in an accident this evening,” Detective Getty explained. Once the word accident was out of his mouth, I slumped into the table. His other words seemed to fade away, only a few ringing in my ears. “Car...shooting...dead.”
The line was silent. “Okay,” I dragged out the last part of the word.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Detective Getty finally spoke. Anger rose in me as he repeated the words that sounded so stiff, so untrue. He didn’t care that my brother had just died, it was a normal part of his job. “We need you to come down and identify your brother’s body.”
“Where do I go?”
“The morgue, it’s at the corner of Michigan and Bumby Avenue, I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
My fingers trembled as I wrote his instructions down on a napkin. Even getting up to get some real paper seemed like too hard a task. I knew I should get up, find my keys, and pull myself together enough so I could drive, but for some reason, my body seemed to have a mind of its own. I was moving so slowly, I was surprised that I wasn’t moving backward.
Finally making my way to the bathroom that Jared and I shared in the back hall, I sat on the closed toilet lid. “You can cry now,” I said to myself, but nothing would come out. My chest was constricting, and breathing seemed nearly impossible. But no tears came. I squeezed my hands into fists then opened them again.
I stood and stared into my chocolate-colored eyes in the mirror. They didn’t shine with tears, but they did look decidedly sad. That was it. That was when I started crying like a little blubbering baby, hating myself even as the tears slid down my face. “Jared’s dead!” I shouted.
After our mom died from a heart attack when I was thirteen, Jared just sort of took over to keep me from going into a home. He was five years older than was and had to petition the court for custody, but he had refused to allow us to be separated.
The entire way to the coroner’s office, my mind kept turning to me, which I knew was horrid especially since my brother, my rock, was dead. But I couldn’t help it, I kept wondering what would happen to me.
I wasn’t sure how I got to the morgue in one piece, especially since the entire way. I kept staring out the window, watching the skyline of Orlando, Florida move by. Condos, where people were still sleeping. How could they sleep? Didn’t they realize my brother had just died.
I turned into a parking lot and the reality of it all hit me. Each step to the front door was a strain, I fought to keep my legs moving. As I pulled open the door, funky smells hit me—too much bleach, some chemicals, and a very distinct smell that I couldn’t describe, and it was all overwhelming and made my stomach lurch.
“I’m Kobe Brogan,” I said to the man standing inside the front door.
“I’m Detective Getty, I’m sorry for your loss.” He gave a weary smile.
“Where’s my brother?” I scrunched my eyebrows down and crossed my arms. I didn’t care about formalities—I needed to see my brother. He led me past several doors to a room that was empty.
“Please wait here,” the detective said and then he left me.
When the door shut, I tried to take in my surroundings of this stark and sterile room. No chairs, just the humming from the overhead fluorescent bulbs. In front of me was a large glass window.
A light flicked on behind the window, I slid my hands into my pockets and held my breath as a woman in a white jacket rolled a gurney with a sheet covering the body up to the window.
She moved into position by the head and glanced up for the first time, meeting my eyes. Then slowly she removed the edge covering Jared’s face.
I let out a cry, and the woman recovered Jared’s face then rolled him away. I followed each rotation of the wheels on the bed until the light went out and there was nothing left to see.
I bit my lower lip, fighting to hold back the tears. My brain was too busy trying to process the fact that my brother wouldn’t be coming home.
The detective reentered the room. “Ms. Brogan, is that Jared?” he asked even though it had to be obvious by my reaction.
“Yes. Can you explain to me what happened?”
“Best we can tell is that he and his friend were in a parking lot and got shot by one of the local gangs. At this time, we think it was a drive-by shooting and your brother wasn’t specifically targeted.”
“What gang?” I asked.
“We aren’t certain which
