On a recent morning, I was on a run around the yard when I noticed several people coming out of my housing unit and gathering together. A bunch of guards rushed toward the unit from different directions.
I stopped running when one of the guards instructed everyone to move to one side of the yard, away from the unit. Sirens wailed. About 10 minutes later, we watched as paramedics rushed into the unit with a stretcher and medical equipment.
Someone in the crowd said they were rushing to Billy Dyer’s cell.
The paramedics came out first, but their stretcher was empty. About 10 minutes later, several guards came out of the housing unit with Billy’s lifeless body on a stretcher. He was covered in a blanket, with only his feet showing. We all watched as the stretcher was wheeled toward the medical building to await the mortician’s arrival.
Billy Dyer was a 61-year-old white man who had been in prison for over 40 years. In 1977, when Billy was 14, he killed four children and was later sentenced to life in prison. After his death, the mother of the children told a Missouri TV station she was happy to have outlived him.
I typically avoid asking anyone in prison about their crime. I try to deal with them at the point in their lives when I know them. But, sometimes, when I learn of a particularly brutal crime, it affects me. Several of us knew of Billy’s crime, but his personality could win the bitterest person over. He had a sense of humor that instantly absorbed you.
He was a decent guy in the time I knew him. I knew he had struggled with addiction and substance abuse issues.
Recently, Billy had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. He was moved into the enhanced care unit, reserved for elderly and sick people who need daily assistance from medical and volunteer staff. One of the elderly patients near me murmured, “Goodbye, Billy.”
What was strange about Billy’s death was that everyone said he had just returned from a visit.
Later, we learned that during the visit Billy had received news of his mother’s death. We all believed, though we didn’t know for sure, that in his grief — and because of his struggles with addiction — Billy had chosen to end his life.
My sorrow for Billy’s death quickly turned to anger. I thought about how he might have obtained drugs, and how that possibly caused his death. So many meaningful things had been taken from us — like incoming mail, books and magazines — to eliminate our access to drugs.
All we inside have is hope, but our hope is often dependent on family members or friends. When that’s taken away, many of us believe we have nothing left worth fighting for.
