When I took the call from the owner of the welding supply company that I work for part-time, I assumed it was about business. I generally work there one or two days a week on my normal days off, driving a delivery truck so that I can do something for extra money that doesn’t involve wearing a badge and a gun. Regular guy stuff. But the call was only somewhat business related.

“I got a call from Athens-Clarke PD today. I had to go to the station to pick up one of our cylinders that was involved in an incident,” he said.

Naturally, I inquired what kind of incident.

“The officer told me it was involved in a suicide,” was his reply.

“That girl killed herself, didn’t she?” I asked.

“Yep.”

I’d first spotted her that day, January 5th, walking along the roadside not far from the store. I was on the way back in from a delivery and saw her right away, because there’s not a lot of pedestrian traffic in that area- no sidewalks, mostly industrial, etc. She appeared somewhat disheveled, almost vagrant-like, but appeared to have a purpose in where she was going. I noted her presence and dismissed her, focusing on getting back to the store, getting the next delivery loaded and gone.

When I returned from that delivery, she was sitting outside the store next to a medium sized cylinder of compressed nitrogen, looking at her phone. I backed in, unloaded the empty cylinders that I’d brought back, and entered the store from the side door.

“Do I need to step out there and check an ID?” was my smart-ass comment to the boss, thinking that I was going to be regaled with a tale of her coming into the store begging or something. I was wrong. Turned out that she’d come in, purchased the gas and a regulator, signed up to rent the cylinder, paid in cash, and was simply trying to arrange for a ride.

After some time, she stepped back into the store and hesitantly inquired about calling a taxi and not being sure if she had enough money for it. She had only twelve dollars left and needed to get to the other side of Athens. It was almost closing time; I was finished with all the deliveries for that day, and we’d be locking the gates very soon. As she looked to the boss for an answer, he glanced over at me and I gave him a nod.

Our normal delivery fee for anything is fifteen dollars. The boss made her a deal. I would deliver her and the cylinder to her destination for the twelve she had. She quickly agreed, and I loaded the cylinder in the pick-up truck as she climbed in the passenger side.

“Don’t try to jack me, I’m the police,” was my next smart-ass comment when I got behind the wheel, not real sure where I stood with this sketchy-looking young gal. She looked at me somewhat quizzically, somewhat nervously. I explained that this was just my part-time job and that I am in fact a full-time peace officer. She seemed very uneasy about that. But I quickly tried to put her mind at ease by explaining that I like doing regular guy stuff and just being a normal person instead of an asshole-cop all the time. As we started on our way and she explained where she needed to go, she seemed to become a little more relaxed.

I inquired about the gas she’d just purchased and she offered that she was an art student at the university. It’s pretty common for us to do business with the art department and its students, so that wasn’t a red flag at all. When I asked what she was welding with the argon, she snapped her head around and asked, “Argon?” almost in a panic. “That’s supposed to be nitrogen.” I’d just assumed it was argon because of the color of the cylinder; I hadn’t even read the label when I loaded it into the truck, but most of our cylinders in that size and color were filled with argon. Her concern was such that I pulled over before we got too far from the store and confirmed that it was actually nitrogen. She seemed immensely relieved. I asked if she was using it to purge lines, and she simply said yes, offering no further explanation. I didn’t pick up on it. Most art students are pretty eager to share what kind of work they’re doing. She offered no such information. She just needed a cylinder of nitrogen and the regulator to dispense it.

The sum total of our relationship was about fifteen minutes. We chatted briefly about where she’d traveled and lived, her brother in the military, and how she was fortunate to have gotten into the university. It was all pretty shallow conversation, but she didn’t seem overly shy and even smiled and laughed once or twice. I recall that her laugh, although brief, was very nice and warmed the cab of the truck.

I found it odd that as we approached her destination, she asked me to pull onto a side street and drop her and the cylinder off there, instead of pulling into a driveway. But she seemed to have a plan, so I pulled to the curb and unloaded the cylinder, lying it on its side because the leaves piled along the edge of the street wouldn’t allow it to stand without falling over. She apologized profusely for not having the full fifteen dollar delivery fee as she handed me the twelve she had. I told her it was no big deal, and she extended her hand to shake mine.

That’s when I saw the cut marks, as the sleeve of her coat slid up on her forearm. I noted them, but I’ve seen so many cutters over the years that I honestly didn’t give it much thought. People have demons, and I can’t fix that. I’ve learned to note it, file it away, and move on.

Her handshake was actually very pleasant- not a dead fish at all like some women offer. Just the right amount of firmness, and she delivered it with a smile as she asked my name. I told her, and she offered hers as she said it was nice to meet me and thanked me for the ride. I’d been wrong about her when I first saw her. She was actually a very pleasant young lady from all I could tell.

As I drove home a short time later, it hit me- I’d probably taken the last twelve dollars she had to her name, and here it was dinner time. The thought briefly crossed my mind to go back to the address she’d initially provided to see if she was actually there and give it back to her, along with a Subway gift card that I had in my wallet. Not out of pity, simply because it would have been the right thing to do for a young, broke art student. But I didn’t. I kept on driving. Over the next few days I thought about that interaction several times. I should have had the presence of mind to ask her if that was her last twelve dollars, and if so, what was she going to do about dinner that night. When I saw the cut marks I should have told her that she had a nice laugh, and not to hurt herself. But I didn’t.

Twenty days later Kelly Fuller was dead, and that cylinder of nitrogen was somehow involved. I don’t know the details, and I don’t really want to. I imagine she used an “exit bag,” as it’s called, but I suppose she could have used any sort of small, confined space. I probably could have used my credentials as a peace officer to find out more information from the investigators that worked it, but it wouldn’t have served any purpose other than the satisfaction of my own curiosity, and that wouldn’t be right.

In the end, it just doesn’t matter. Kelly is gone, and I’m left to wonder if the kindness I withheld may have made a difference. Odds are it wouldn’t have; I’m not so self-absorbed as to think that I wield special influence over people with deeply rooted problems, and I actually knew nothing of this girl. But I also know for a fact that every once in a while a chance encounter with a stranger has the ability to alter a person’s life course, however brief that encounter may be. I’ll never know if I might have been that stranger to Kelly, had I spoken the words and done the deeds.