Obituary by Mike McHone

“You don’t mind?” Greg asked.
     “Not at all.”
     “It’s just that I gotta make sure someone’ll cover me at work—” 
     “I get it.”
     “—and making the drive up there for the service. Plus, you were always good with words.”
     “It’s no problem.”
     “Thanks, Dan… Strange, isn’t it? Him dying like that, I mean.” 
     “Yeah,” he said. “Goes to show you never really know a person.”

     That night, Dan Walker sat in his home office and stared at his keyboard as if it was a hypnotist’s watch. Minutes passed. Words didn’t. He knew exactly who his father was, how the man died, and so on, but the ways and means of condensing the old man’s life, and death, into a paragraph or two eluded him.
     However, at a minute past ten, after he’d spent the better part of an hour at the mercy of his laptop, he told himself to just state the facts. “Treat it like a report,” he said. “Say exactly what happened.”
     He typed…

     Jerome Wilker, 71, died on October 15, 202--

     He stopped.
     He deleted it. 
     He typed…

     Jerome Wilker, 71, loving father--

     Delete.
     His hands hovered above the keyboard like spirits.
     “Say exactly what happened.” He laughed, then told himself, “Why the hell not?”

     On Saturday night, a complete bastard named Jerome Walker pressed a .44 Magnum against his temple while he lay in bed and shot himself.   
     At least, that’s how it was intended to look.

     Words, then, poured like whiskey.

     It was easy to kill him, especially when you take into account the son of a bitch drank himself into a blackout every evening for the past fifty years. It also helped that he was an outdoorsman with a shit-ton of handguns and rifles lying around the house, some of which were always loaded (like him). 
    It also doesn’t hurt that I’m the county sheriff with a key to his house.

     He typed faster.

     It was so simple, I still can’t believe I got away with it. 
     I dropped by his farmhouse at five that afternoon. “Wanna shoot?” I asked. He was drunk already, but said, “Sure,” and we went out back, put some empty beer bottles on the fence, and squeezed off a few rounds, him with his .38, me with my 9mm. We did it for about an hour, then I told him good night, lied and said I loved him, and left. A little ways down the road, I pulled to the side, parked, snuck back, and hung around outside, peeking through the windows every so often. The jackass could never keep a curtain closed if his life depended on it. 
     Which it did. 
     Haha. 
     It didn’t take long for him to stumble to bed and pass out. I crept in, took the .44 from his dresser, and blew his brains out. 
     Easy peasy.
     It certainly looked like a suicide. No note, but that doesn’t mean anything. Most suicides don’t have them, at least from my experience. 
     Also, when they ran the gunshot residue test, there was plenty of gunpowder on his hand, so there was nothing suspicious. Then it was off to the crematorium. 
     Once more with feeling: easy peasy.
     The hardest part was waiting. Not outside, no. I mean, waiting most my life to give him what he deserved. All those years, all those beatings, me, Greg, and Mom endured. Every bruised chin and black eye. 
     To be fair, he did teach me a valuable lesson. He took me hunting once and told me, “When you hunt, the most important thing you’ll carry is patience.”
     Fuckin’ A, Dad. 

     He smirked.

     Jerome worked at Fathom Steel until he retired at 49. Of course, he retired at such a young age because Mom dropped dead of a heart attack that same year and he got a hefty life insurance payout.  
     His is survived by two sons, Greg, who moved to Knoxville to work for a tech startup as soon as he turned 18 to get away from the old man, and Dan, who joined the army at 18, came back at 30, joined the Sheriff’s Department, worked his way up through the ranks, and bided his time until the perfect moment.
     He was preceded in death by billions of better people.
     He will not be missed.
     Thanks again for the lesson, Dad, and the house. Can’t wait to sell it.
     Or burn it down.

     He stopped.
     He deleted everything. 
     After a short eternity, he typed…

     Jerome Wilker, 71, passed away Saturday, November 15. Cremation has already taken place.
     Jerome worked as a foreman at Fathom Steel. In his free time he loved hunting and shooting.
     He was preceded in death by his wife Shirley and is survived by sons Greg and Dan.
     He will be missed.

     Dan hit save and emailed it to his brother. 
     He stopped himself from throwing his laptop against the wall and went to bed.

     “This looks good.”
     “It’s not too short?”
     “No, he wouldn’t want it too wordy anyway. You know how he was,” Greg said. “You send it to the newspaper?”
     “Not yet. I wanted you to take a look first. I’ll send it now.”
     “Gotcha. Well, I’ll let you go. I’ll be landing in Detroit Metro at eight. You still picking me up?”
     “Absolutely.”
     They said goodbye, and hung up.

     That night, at home by himself, Dan poured himself a glass of Jack Daniels and like his father (like himself), didn’t stop until he was completely drunk and started to roam his house like a vagrant. 
     He still wasn’t used to being alone in the house since Suzanne left with the kids the week before.
     Hours later, just before the sun rose on the day of his father’s memorial service, he stood in the doorway of his home office and eyed the laptop. 
     “Why the hell not?” 
     He didn’t stop himself that time. 

© 2025 Mike McHone
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​About the author:

Mike McHone's fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Dark Yonder, Mystery Tribune, Rock and a Hard Place, the Anthony Award-nominated anthology Under the Thumb: Stories of Police Oppression, Edited by SA Cosby, and elsewhere. A former journalist, his articles, op-eds, and humor pieces have appeared in the Detroit News, the AV Club, Playboy, and numerous other outlets. He is the 2020 recipient of the Mystery Writers of America’s Hugh Holton Award and has placed twice on Ellery Queen’s Annual Readers List. He lives in Detroit.