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December 23, 2005
Murder is personal in small town Pahrump
I was working part time in a wood shop. It was dark out and the cold desert wind was blowing about 100 mph when the headlights of the car pulling into the gravel parking lot interrupted my solitary labor on the lathe. Some how, some way, I knew there was solemn news waiting for me and whoever was behind the wheel of the Chevy was a bringer of bad tidings. My fears were confirmed when I saw my brother-in-law poke his head in the door. Tom had that vacant, frightened, shattered look people get when they're about to perform a very difficult chore. "David's dead" were the only words I heard because the screams from my sister Liz drowned out whatever else her husband had to say. My little brother was gone. I was, to say the least, stunned and confused. All of this seemed eerily familiar. Seven years earlier a drunk driver had killed our older brother, Sebie. Now, the youngest of the three brothers was dead thanks to a drug overdose. I was 22 years old in December 1982 and this was not my first it's time to be a man moment, but for some reason the only thought I could cling to was the hope I would stand tall when it came time to face my dad. He had lost two of three sons, both of them when they were 19 years old, and now I was all he had left. The prospect of living up to his expectations had always seemed dim, unreachable; now doing so seemed urgent, imperative. And Mom. How was Mom going to deal with this terrible loss? She loved all six of her children and nurtured us and protected us and defended us and encouraged us and scolded us and hugged and kissed us all our lives. How does a parent get through the loss of one child, let alone two or more? Mom and Dad have passed away, mercifully it seems, because there was an abiding sadness that lingered over them for the rest of their days. That knowledge came back to haunt me Tuesday afternoon when Susan Thorsen called to ask me to refer to her daughter Christine as Thorsen, not Glover. Her soon-to-be ex-husband Jeff Glover had allegedly murdered Christine, a popular woman and a Pahrump Valley High graduate, the night before. "They'd been married less than a year," Susan seethed through tears, her words choked tight by brutal misery and a terrifying anger. Christine had divorce papers prepared and was set to file the petition with the court on Tuesday; she would not live to accomplish that task. Anyone who has ever shopped at Smith's may not know Susan Thorsen by name, but they certainly would know her by face. She's an attractive woman who always wears a smile as she flits around the store tending to the needs of customers and employees. We've never really spoken to one another, except briefly and only on trivial matters, but I like her and she likes me so when one of the front office secretaries told me she was on the line I paused, held my breath, thought of my own losses and my own mother and kind of bravely picked up the phone. Except for those covering wars, being a journalist is not inherently dangerous work; not like being a cop or a firefighter or a Marine, but being a journalist can sometimes be the most difficult job in the world. The mission is to seek truth and report it, to be objective and balanced and fair and independent and accountable. How utterly impossible do you think it is to do any of those things when you're talking to a woman you know whose daughter, who you also knew, less than 18 hours earlier had been viciously murdered? How do you get to the truth when a person you've seen on a very consistent basis for 10 years is reeling in shock and horror and grief and pissed off enough to snap a tree in two with just a look? It's Christmastime. A mother is grieving her murdered daughter. The suspect, someone else you've known for years, tells police he's innocent and we must presume that's the case or else the system fails. Someone else's tragedy evokes memories of your own personal losses and a primal part of you - deep inside of you - says to hell with objectivity. This woman doesn't need a detached journalist. She needs someone with empathy. Empathy? I've got empathy by the boatload. I don't believe I asked more than two questions. I just let Susan talk and cry and when we hung up we were both crying and all the sudden the petty problems in my life don't amount to much. So of course I cursed my soul for being such a selfish bastard and silently promised I'd be more grateful for my blessings in the future. And of course I got through my day and went home and hugged my wife and kid and said prayers for Susan Thorsen and her family. I also said prayers for my daughter and her husband and my sisters and their husbands and for my wife and for everybody else on this shaky planet. It's what we do when the bottom falls out. Write to Doug McMurdo at dmcmurdo@pvtimes.com. |
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