Lyle

WHO MURDERED MY BROTHER LYLE?

Who murdered my brother Lyle? Surely someone close to him because after all he was stabbed nine times; overkill. A fatal blow to the liver, so it read on a rough handwritten note given to my sister from one of the officers who had the unfortunate task of delivering the message that my brother was dead; murdered on his 28th birthday.

Who murdered my brother? I have my own answers and they are certainly speculative. So it seems that members of my large family don’t consider this an important task to take on. Or do they? If they have, I haven’t seen it. I have called the Boston Police’s homicide unit a few times. I need only blame myself for not keeping in touch with the officer in charge, because fear of the truth would stifle my quest for justice.

Who murdered my brother? Rumors were bandied about. Who could it have been that was so angry, so full of seeping, rotten, foul vengeance that they could actually take the life of this quiet and humble soul? The only fault I could ever find with his sheepish personality was that when compounded by alcohol, his personality morphed into an annoying drunk. Never confrontational, only that he enjoyed his numerous cigarettes and loud music, which near the end of his night of two-fisted drinking and cartons of cigs could be a down-right vexation!

Who murdered my brother? Was it a fellow inmate at the half-way house he was living in? These half-way houses are notorious for housing ex-prison inmates, ex-criminals and former drug addicts who may not have the most reputable of lives. To me, I saw it as a safe haven for him and that belief alone has caused me many sleepless nights. Especially because I was the one who recommended the move, my so-called strategy for him to obtain that elusive sobriety. Plus he had been confronted time and time again by the Boys In Blue where we lived in an all white neighborhood, harassed to no end to show his identification on his way to the local store to buy his ample supply of beer.

Who murdered my brother? Was the murder purposely coordinated for him to take his last breath on his birthday? Could this tragedy have been just cruel Providence? How about the fact that on his tombstone his birthdate is the same as his death-date. How ironic. Yes, the decades are different, twenty-eight years apart, but this is just a sad fate, is it not?

Lyle was always a painfully shy child, and grew to be a painfully shy man. His penchant for alcohol soothed his social anxiety, as it did mine, and many others in my family as well. Our alcohol consumption was prevalent. Our parents were alcoholics, so it just seemed fitting that many of us siblings would also share in this ailment.

He was the 12th child that my parents were raising. He was the third of whom were labeled “The Four Little Kids” because my mother, after seven years of a dry spell of giving birth to nine children, gave birth to my sister Tamara, born in 1970, then Angela, born in 1971, then Lyle, 1972 and Nicole, 1974. In quick and rapid succession, these “four little kids” were of another generation, another decade, a new and hopeful decade: the 70’s, lumped into a hopeful generation. The tally was now 13 children. Mother Mary, my mother, gave birth to her last child, Nicole at the age of 43!

For some unknown reason, my mother kept her late pregnancies hidden from us. Perhaps it was because of societal angst? I recall a neighborhood friend who lives across the street from us telling me that my mother was pregnant. What? How would you know? Couldn’t be, I told her because my mother was too old. She was 38 in 1970. It’s impossible and you really should mind your own business. “Have you noticed that her belly is getting bigger and she wears those big maternity shirts?” For real Mom? So, it was finally revealed, but only when she was far along and close to the end term of her pregnancy. She was always small in stature and thin. Her belly was deceptive to us all. So, once again, how slightly embarrassing was it when it was revealed to me from another friend that my 16 year old sister was pregnant? Very. But then again, it was unprecedented and felt somewhat unsettling because an unwed mother was controversial at this time, as well as an aging mother conceiving, not just once, not just twice, but four times in the latter years of her life.

But eventually it became a very cool thing. My big sister Debra had “four little kids” of her own. She was pregnant with our mother three times! Brandon, born in 1970, the same year as Tamara, our sister. Then she had Robert, born in 1971, the same year as our sister Angela. Then, Aaron was born in 1974, the same year as our sister Nicole. Nearing the end of the decade, Debra gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, Sareeda in 1978. A Baby Boom decade in our family was to be a celebratory, yet turbulent time period.

My parents had been introduced to the fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous by a friend of theirs I believe. My memory is vague about the introduction of AA to them, but that doesn’t really matter at this point. They achieved sobriety, spotty and challenging as it was. But they were sober when the “Four Little Kids” were born. My brother Scott, who was number nine, was born with a hernia and alcohol withdrawal. Fetal alcohol syndrome. He had a small head, peanut-shaped head with low birth weight. I remember him always falling and his forehead forever bruised and knotted. A fate he didn’t deserve, but my parents were adamant on redemption and bringing about healthier lives for the “Four Little Kids.” And so it was.

I became caretaker many times while my parents were battling Demon Rum. Lyle became my baby boy when I was 16. I preferred to babysit the four little kids than to go out with friends to drink and drug, which probably saved me many times from the grip of a more intense addiction. It was as if Lyle and I grew up together and even drank together, but we decided at one point “enough was enough.” We went to Lake Massabesic in Derry, NH to watch the sunrise after we both made a decision that we would both achieve sobriety. His favorite song by the Beatles came on the radio, “Here Comes the Sun” and it was agreed this was a sure sign from God, and he would go to Boston, and research for a reliable half-way house had commenced.

Fast forward to one year later, he was sparkling and brand new. He had lost a ton of weight, the puffiness in his face was gone; a physical commonality in alcoholics because of water weight retention and he looked like runway model material. He was a chef at a restaurant in Boston, and offered a position to be a cartoonist at the Boston Globe. Life was grand! We were all so proud of him. He called a few days before his birthday, April 21, 2000 and he mentioned that he was going to come back to celebrate with us, his family. Before the end of the conversation, I told him that I loved him so much. He said the same.

April 21, 2000 the Derry Police Department knocked on our door. You know that serial pound-sound that is so personal and trademarked for law enforcement. When my sister answered the door, and I heard them announce themselves, the first thing I thought of was, “Oh my God. It’s Lyle’s birthday, and he killed himself.” That was my belief at the time because twenty years earlier we had a younger brother hang himself in his dorm in Boston.

Fast forward twenty years later and the murder remains unsolved. I continue to be vigilant about the case, but not as much as I should be, or as other members in my family should be. I resolve to make 2021 a year where more is revealed about this murder. The year 2020 was quite troublesome, and I’m already in that mode of speculation as to the “Why.” The coming new year cannot possibly be more challenging, could it? I intend to find out this year:

Who murdered my brother Lyle?