The Final Image

I work as a sergeant for a large police department in the Pacific Northwest. I’m on the early morning shift. Like, 0300 hours early. It’s a great shift if you’re a golfer: Leaving work at noon allows you to play a full 18 and get home in time for dinner with the family before sneaking to bed at 1900.

Most dead on arrival (DOA) situations are discovered during these wee hours. Sergeants are dispatched with officers to every DOA call to ensure each death is properly investigated until the medical examiner can take custody of the remains. More and more, the synthetic opioid fentanyl, which has largely replaced almost all other street narcotics, is involved. These overdose deaths frequently are homeless people, who often pass alone in alleys and alcoves. Unfortunately, for most it seems an inevitable ending to a hard-lived, difficult existence.

Recently, I was called to a low-income apartment building for an overdose death. It was the kind of structure where each studio apartment is furnished with not much more than a mattress and a hot plate. The building was named after a state in New England and was decorated with murals of barns and fall foliage despite it being located in one of the densest urban centers on the West Coast. The apartment manager, with a thick New York accent, had realized that he hadn’t seen this guy in multiple days. He checked the unit and found him deceased, face down in his bed, next to burnt foil with the residue of a fentanyl pill still on it. We quickly identified the victim by his driver’s license, left near his wallet and keys. He was 30, and the address listed on his ID was in the suburb that borders my hometown.

As I was leaving, the manager stopped me and said that the man was a veteran and had moved into the apartment a few months ago. He was going through a divorce from his wife and was worried he’d likely lose custody of his child. The victim’s decline, he said, was quick.

There aren’t a lot of easy answers in police work. Officers must rationalize, compartmentalize and quickly move to the next tragedy. But this victim lingered in my mind a little longer than most. I wondered about his life and how he’d arrived at that point. 

Maybe it was his relative youth, or my own fear that I’m closer to where he was in that bed than I am to my actual life sometimes. Something led me to Google his name. I found his LinkedIn profile, where he’d listed his experience in the United States Army and described how he wanted a job counseling veterans. His photo was a selfie, most likely taken about a year previous. He was clean-shaven with a small smile, wearing a polo shirt. I noticed golf carts and golfers in the background; he was standing on a tee box.

I couldn’t know if his relationship with his wife had already begun to fall apart then. I don’t know if he found meaningful employment between that photo and the end. I don’t know if he had previous substance-abuse tendencies or if his mental health was in a poor state. I don’t know if he was a beginner trying to break 100 or a more seasoned player regularly shooting in the 80s. I couldn’t tell if he was on his grind that day or just out with friends for an afternoon of slicing Top-Flites into the next fairway.

I do know from my line of work that usually the most logical answer is the correct one, even if it’s also the most tragic. I also know that the struggles this guy probably faced are shared by many; relationship problems, anxiety, depression, fear and loneliness can easily consume a life. But before the fentanyl ultimately ended his, he chose a selfie on a golf course to represent himself to the outside world.

I imagine it was for some of the same reasons we all love this game: an escape from the compounding stresses of life, a welcome break from screens, a physical and mental challenge, a time to be alone or to bond with friends. I found myself thinking of that selfie on one of my recent rounds. I thought about what golf meant in that moment to someone who was suffering. And I hoped that it could be part of someone else’s solution.

Alex Pratt has been a Broken Tee Society member since 2022.