Update on the pedophile neighbor

I wish I had been blogging, but honestly, I just had too much to do. Okay, in truth, my free time was taken up with my Facebook addiction. Luckily, I’m finding Facebook less addicting now. Turning off the email notifications has helped immensely with that.

Really, I was a little freaked out.

To just get down to it, my neighbor swallowed a lethal dose of unknown pills two days before the election. His trial would have been on Election Day. He was facing 20 felony counts for child pornography (plus tons of evidence and a confession) and such and I guess he couldn’t take the heat.

I had weird thoughts: Didn’t he wonder if President Obama would win? Why not the day of the trial? Why not three weeks ago? Why on a Saturday night? Where was the dog?

As those who know me well know, the month between when he posted bail and when he killed himself was challenging for me. I usually let things roll, but with the brain surgeon working weird hours and having the loose canon right next door, I had trouble sleeping and felt on edge often.

I knew he was going to kill himself. I worried he would shoot himself and a stray bullet would go through our wall or that he would take out more than just himself.

In some weird way, I feel very conflicted about his death, though. He was somebody’s son.

My children’s swim teacher, who had become our friend, killed himself just a short time before the pedophile neighbor did. It was so hard to understand, as suicide will always be. The brain surgeon was very torn apart about it – and he’s pretty tough, considering what he deals with every day. I was hysterical. It seems so senseless to me even now. Michael was this beautiful force of positive energy, loved by so many people. I know I will never understand.

We never really know people, I guess. People have their dark feelings.

So, when Michael killed himself and the pedophile posted bail, all I could think was, “Why do people like Michael kill themselves and people like [pedophile] don’t.” I wished the pedophile would. I wanted him to just disappear. Now I feel some terrible sense of guilt that he did.

He was a sick man. Everything I’ve read and heard says that you can’t rehabilitate a pedophile, but I’m not sure wishing death on them is the kindest course of action, either. The lead detective on the case, who had kept in contact with me, said there was no telling what he would have done if he remained free or when he was released.

The night of his discovery, I went into some sort of shock, even though I expected him to do it. I knew something was up all day. I didn’t see him or hear his dog. His morning paper remained untouched on his doormat. His Audi hadn’t moved.

When they found him, I sat plastered to my front window, watching the fire trucks and the ambulance come and go. I spoke to the police. I waited until the coroner arrived at 2:00 a.m. Then I watched them wheel him away. I’m not sure why I did any of this, because in doing so, I gave myself a permanent memory of the end of a sad waste of life that I don’t need. It isn’t exactly positive energy.

Now, a month later, there is still a police sticker on his door. His Audi is still there. It is eerily silent.

But I don’t have to worry about going to the park anymore or about him slamming his door or swearing at us when we walk by. In some sense, this five-year voyage to a little section of hell is over. Yet, he will always be in the landscape of my mind. Unwelcome in every way.