An Unfortunate Accident

Author's Note: This fictional work was inspired by a single sentence prompt used in my language arts classes.

Before Geno became a cop, he knew what the worst part of the job would be. Not the possible dangers of surprising an armed burglar. Not the fear of taking a bullet in a situation gone wrong. No, the worst part would be having to tell another person that their loved one had died.

In his first four years on the force, Geno had only found himself in this situation twice. Once wasn't too bad; the victim had been a homeless man estranged from his family for more than a decade. While there had been regret involved, there was no apparent remorse from the survivors. The second occasion had been far worse: a fatal car accident involving a family. Geno had blocked that scene from his memory, only reliving it in the depths of nightmares.

As soon as he arrived at the house on Windsor Street, however, he knew he was about to have his third confrontation with death and grief.

From the street, he could see the situation clearly, perhaps even more clearly than the medical crew and other officers who stood in the immediate area.  A window on the second floor was wide open, white curtains waving in and out; the screen that would have secured them inside the room lay abandoned and forlorn on the front lawn. The vacancy behind the window's  frame would parallel the emptiness in the eyes of its former occupant, also lying on the front lawn. Geno sighed and headed toward the house.

"Jumper?" he asked the coroner.

"Yup. Broken neck." 

Both men bent over the twisted body.

"Anyone else home?"

"No. But there's gotta be a wife. Women's clothing in the bedroom closet, lipstick on the bathroom counter."

"Great. How do you tell a woman that her husband's committed suicide?"

The coroner smiled lightly. "That's why you're here," he quipped.

Within the hour, the wife arrived home in a Volvo filled with groceries. Stepping out of the car, she looked with concern at the crowd of emergency vehicles on the street and uniformed men on her lawn. Her gaze traveled up to the open window, and her expression changed to one of shock and horror.

Geno intercepted her at this moment. "Ma'am? I'm afraid there's been an accident."

"Sheila," she responded. "I'm Sheila. What-? What happened?"

"I'm afraid your husband is dead. He fell from your bedroom window died from his injuries."

She hesitated, then asked, "Fell?"

Geno hesitated as well. He could see in her eyes that she wanted to hear it was an accident, not a suicide. The coroner had deemed the death inconclusive and had ruled it an accident. After all, why open a can of worms when you weren't sure either way? So he nodded. "Yes, he fell. It was an accident, ma'am. An unfortunate accident."

"And you'll be sure to write it up that way? As an accident?"

Strange, thought Geno. But then again, who wanted to believe that a loved one would choose to die?

"Yes, ma'am. It was definitely an accident."

Geno stayed a while longer to make sure that Sheila would indeed be all right. She was badly shaken and obviously in shock; she barely said another word. Finally, he needed to leave. She assured him that she would be fine; she would call a friend to stay with her tonight.

Sheila watched the officer's car pull away from the curb, the last vehicle to leave her in the new silence of her house. Upstairs, in the bedroom, she would have to confront her husband's death. But for now, she just wanted quiet.

After a few moments, she began to smile. We got away with it, she thought.

Completely thrilled, Sheila pulled out her phone to share the news.