The autopsy wouldn't reveal anything; Wayne knew that. The homeless man had died of misery and grief, not from a detectable, physical ailment. He was murdered, but not by any one individual; he was murdered by everyone who heard him and, like Mrs. Goldstein, just walked away. He had lived a life of loneliness and misery surrounded by the dirt and grime of his lifestyle.
"Just like me," thought Detective Wayne. "At least he's better off than I am."
* * * * * * *
"Poor chap. He looks like he was a lonesome man."
Lying amid a stack of unfinished work and dirty clothes was a man who had recently died. The apartment that he lived in was filled with disorder and garbage, just like his life that had now passed away. A life of torture, a life of shame.
The television in front of him cast colors of light across the blanket that covered his lifeless body. He had tried to conceal his true emotional state from others by wearing a mask of impression in life,and then by covering his face in death, but his retreat could not remove the sadness and grief that he had felt.
The lonesome man lying on his black leather couch had ended his suffereing by slitting his wrists and letting his painful existence pass slowly away. Life for him had become so lonely that he curled up and died; so lonely that there was nothing left to live for.