Yesterday afternoon, once I found out that Marvin Gates was shot and killed on Monday, one of the first things I did was fire off a frantic e-mail to Cincinnati police Lt. Col. James Whalen, also the assistant chief, who I met and interviewed for my Cincinnati Initiative to Reduce Violence stories.
Someone here, and I honestly don't remember who, asked if I thought Marvin was killed because of his being quoted in one of my stories.
That thought alone was terrifying. I hoped not, but not wanting to assume anything, that's what I asked Chief Whalen about.
Marvin Gates/ photo by Thomas E. Smith, Special to The Blade
Just a few minutes ago, I got a response (which was awesome -- I'm not a Cincinnati reporter, I don't cover the department or anything, really, that happens there. He met me for 15 minutes after nagging the department and probably getting on the nerves of about a dozen people there. I'm very appreciative that he replied):
I think you can rest assured that your article played no part in Mr. Gates’ death. We do not currently know who killed him or exactly why, but we are pursuing some investigative theories (possibilities), none of which involve retaliation for speaking with you. Although there were some positive signs that he was stepping away from the life, the fact remains that he was not very far removed and there are probably a few issues he still had outstanding or ongoing that cost him dearly. It’s a shame. Take care.
All day yesterday, after learning that Marvin was dead, I couldn't stop thinking about it. It knocked me off of my A-game yesterday and I felt like I was kind of moving through a dense fog, not really able to concentrate.
I couldn't stop wondering why someone shot Marvin. What was he doing at the time? Did he know the person? Did he see them? Where on his body was he shot? What did he do?
Over and over in my head I just imagined Marvin being hit with a bullet and him staggering and, in slow motion, just falling to the ground.
Maybe I watch too much television?
I moped. Ate a lot of frozen yogurt. Tried to work it out at the gym.
Even still, I've been thinking about it a lot today.
I almost feel guilty for feeling so upset. I mean, really, who am I to feel heartbroken over this? I knew Marvin for, what, a few hours?
There's a pretty good chance that, at the time of his death, Marvin had totally forgotten that we ever met, that I even exist. Maybe not, but who knows.
I wonder if he saw the stories -- I sent a few copies to Cincinnati so the guys could check it out. If he saw them, I wonder what he thought. Wonder what he thought of his picture. Did his mama see? His girlfriend? His daughter?
Did he keep one?
Can't help but wish I'd asked him a lot more questions. Like why in the world was he a Steelers fan? (He dogged me for being a Browns fan. In fact, I'm pretty sure he almost even resented me for it on the first day we met. He refused to talk to me -- despite the fact he had to sit next to me during a 20 minute van ride. It was pretty funny.)
I wish I'd have asked what it was like for him to become a father. What's his daughter like? How did that change him? Did it change him? What do you do when you're not working? What's your girlfriend like? How'd you meet? How long have y'all been together? Do you have brothers? Sisters? What's your mom like? Your dad?
I did a few public record searches on Marvin today just to try and ease my curiosity. Found out his birthday is in October. His mama's name is Beverly.
It's the little things.
But who am I? You know.
I went to the store last night and bought a pack of blank cards to write one for Peterson Mingo, another for Marvin's mama, and one for the guys I met that Marvin worked with. Maybe I'll send one to his daughter? Would that be weird? She's only 2, but I don't have anything bad to say about her dad. Maybe, some day, when she's older, she'll need to know that.
Maybe she'll think I'm a huge freak. I just can't help feeling like whatever I decide to do, it's not enough.
