Most of the longer reports examined suicide as a job risk that went with police work. Each started with a particular cop's suicide and then steered the story into a discussion among shrinks and police experts on what made r-ops eat their guns. All of the stories concluded that there was a causal relationshipbetween police suicide and job stress and a traumatic event in the life of the victim.

The articles were valuable because what experts I would need for my story were named right there. And several pieces mentioned an ongoing FBI-sponsored study on police suicides at the Law Enforcement Foundation in Washington, D.C. I highlighted this, figuring that I could use updated statistics from the bureau or foundation to lend my story freshness and credibility.

The phone rang and it was my mother. We hadn't spoken since the funeral. After a few preliminary questions about my trip and how everybody was doing, she got to the point.

"Riley told me you are going to write about Sean."

It wasn't a question but I answered as if it was.

"Yes, I am."

"Why, John?"

She was the only one who called me John.

"Because I have to. I ... just can't go on now like it didn't happen. I have to at least try to understand."

"You always took things apart when you were a boy.

You remember? All the toys you ruined."

"What are you talking about, Mom? This is-"

"What I am saying is that when you take things apart you can't always put them back together again. Then what have you got? Nothing, Johnny, you have nothing."

"Mom, you're not making sense. Look, I have to do this."

I did not understand why I was so quick to anger when I talked to her.

"Have you thought about anyone else besides yourself? Do you know how putting this in the paper can hurt people?"

"You mean Dad? It might also help him."

There was a long silence and I imagined her in her kitchen at the table, eyes closed and holding the phone to her ear. My father was probably sitting there, too, afraid to talk to me about it.

"Did you have any idea?" I asked quietly. "Did either of you?"

"Of course not," she said sadly. "No one knew."

More silence and then she made her last plea.

"Think about it, John. It's better to heal in private."

"Like with Sarah?"

"What do you mean?"

"You never talked about it ... you never talked to me."

"I can't talk about that now."

"You never can. It's only been twenty years."

"Don't be sarcastic about something like that."

"I'm sorry. Look, I'm not trying to be like this.""

"Just think about what I asked you."

"I will," I said. "I'll let you know." She hung up as angry with me as I was with her. It bothered me that she didn't want me to write about Sean. It was almost as if she was still protecting and favoring him. He was gone. I was still here.