Memory is an amazing thing, it often becomes hagiographic. Our dogs are often rendered to Sainthood, summers were just a bit better, young love was the epitome of desire, and I could go on and on.
We have a family tragedy that created generational trauma. My maternal grandfather "committed" suicide over 50 years ago. As I was growing up it was called a car accident, my great-grandmother told me the truth. Dying in a car was the only truth. I read the medical reports and the autopsy in my mid-teens. I have read the newspaper reports of the time. At first glance, the state police investigated it as a murder. The incident occurred in a small town and the gossip fell as the crow flies. It is a mystery for sure. There were accounts he was seen after his " death"
Honestly, I don't think it was a suicide. It doesn't fit with who he is. I have tried to get all his records again to read with the education I have. I called the medical examiner's office about obtaining my grandfather's autopsy. They" can't find" it. All they have is a few notes from the medical examiner. The notes written are horrific.
His family (who were extremely) wealthy did not claim his body. My great-grandparents buried him in their family plot. My grandmother(his wife) was very cool and collected when interviewed by the police. She left town and left her girls at my grandmother's for almost a decade.
I have called the eyewitnesses at the time over the years to see what they remember. They were young teens and I found their names in the paper. I had hoped they remembered something that may solve this "solved " case.
I based my novel 1954 loosely on these events. I am still not quite done editing it.
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