Author Archives: Garry Rodgers

About Garry Rodgers

After three decades as a Royal Canadian Mounted Police homicide detective and British Columbia coroner, International Best Selling author and blogger Garry Rodgers has an expertise in death and the craft of writing on it. Now retired, he wants to provoke your thoughts about death and help authors give life to their words.

BEYOND THE LIMITS — NEW BASED-ON-TRUE-CRIME SERIES BOOK RELEASE

Book #7 in my Based-On-True-Crime Series is out. Beyond The Limits is now available in e-format on Amazon, Kobo, and Nook. (February 06, 2021) Here’s the product description (blurb / jacket copy) and the first two chapters.

What really happened to Kita Southern? A vibrant entrepreneur with high ambitions suddenly disappears from a small Vancouver Island city. She seems to have it all. Beauty. Charm. And a passion for channeling the metaphysical. But Kita has a lifestyle most don’t know of, and you never know what goes on in people’s minds. The truth in Kita Southern’s case is beyond the limits of imagination—an incomprehensible tragedy.

Beyond The Limits is Book 7 in the 12-part Based-On-True-Crime series by retired homicide detective and coroner Garry Rodgers. This story comes with a warning: Explicit descriptions of the crime scenes, factual dialogue, real forensic procedures, and actual police investigation, interview and interrogation techniques are portrayed. If you crave graphic realism in crime writing, Beyond The Limits is your book.

Chapter One — Monday, December 21st – 9:00 a.m.

“Kita. Kita Southern.” Kari Lyons dammed back her tears as she said her sister’s name. Gwen Southern, their mother, didn’t. Gwen’s silently flowed. She sat with Kari on the couch in our police interview room adjacent to the Serious Crimes Section office.

“This… is… completely out of character for Kita.” Kari choked. “So, so out of character.”

Now Kari broke down. She pushed her face into her mom’s shoulder and began to bawl. Both ladies were emotional messes.

I gave them composure time. There were tissue boxes in what we called the “soft” interview space we used for victim, witness, and complainant statements. Gwen and Kari took Kleenexes and soaked them.

Kari raised her head. She spoke in hesitant spurts. “She… Kita… she would never be away… this long… without telling someone. Never.”

Gwen, too, said a nearly inaudible, “Never.”

——

Kari Lyons and Gwen Southern came into the Nanaimo police office to report Kita as a missing person. The desk officer took brief details at the front counter but, hearing the alarming circumstances, referred them to a detective. I was the only one in the Serious Crimes Section with a current spare moment, and I was the one who inherited the Kita Southern file.

Nanaimo is a small coastal city of a hundred thousand on the southeastern shore of Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. It’s straight across the Salish Sea from the City of Vancouver which is one of the most exotic, erotic, and expensive places on the planet. Although much smaller and somewhat cutoff, Nanaimo has a disproportionately large share of hardcore crime intertwined with the black market drug trade.

Drugs. It was always drugs. Drugs were the main source of sorrow.

——

“I need to get some details.” I had my pen out and my notebook open. I also had a video camera and audio recorder running, although Gwen and Kari couldn’t see it. “Can you give me Kita’s full name?”

Kari responded. “It’s Kita Rose Southern. Kita is spelled K-i-t-a. The other two are just as they sound.”

“And how old is Kita?”

“She’s thirty-four.” Kari sniffed. She dabbed her eyes and nose. “Just turned thirty-four on October seventeenth.”

“What’s Kita’s description?”

“She looks exactly like me.”

“Kita and Kari. Are you twins?”

“No. But everyone thinks we are. Kita is a year and a bit younger.” Kari opened her phone and flicked. “Here is a recent photo of Kita… taken on her birthday.”

I looked at a happy image—lusty skin, charcoal mane, turquoise eyes, and crimson lips circling a Hollywood mouth. Kari scrolled again. I saw more pics of Kita. I looked at Kari, then back at Kita. Could be twins. Very attractive women. Curvaceous. Full-figured. Vibrant. If old Hef were alive, they’d have a shot at Playboy’s center. “What’s Kita’s address and contact information?”

Gwen stayed silent but attentive. Kari replied, “She lives at five-twenty-three Park Avenue. The old section of Harewood off Fifth. It’s a gorgeous character home. Her cell number is… here, I’ll write it down for you.”

Kari printed 250 668-8972. She also gave me Kita’s email, kita1@gmail.com, as well as Kita’s social media accounts. Facebook. Twitter. Instagram. And a website titled TheTarotLady.net.

“Now, when was Kita last seen? Last heard?”

Kari went teary again. Gwen still was. Kari set her phone on the coffee table between us. She clasped her mother’s hand.

“She… the… from what I can determine… Kita was active until about noon on Saturday. This past Saturday the nineteenth. She went to pick up something from a friend. A close friend who has a store downtown on Commercial Street.”

“Her friend’s name is?”

“Jasmine Koch. They’re extremely close. Since elementary school, and I’d say Jasmine is probably Kita’s closest friend. Jasmine is freaking out. So is everyone else, and a lot of people in this town know Kita. But no one knows anything at all about what’s happened to her. This is so, so out of character.”

“Fill me in about what happened when Kita was last heard from.”

“I haven’t spoken to Jasmine in person. Just on the phone. But Jasmine says Kita came to the store at noon or just after. The group had a Christmas party planned for the evening, and Kita picked up something for it from Jasmine’s store. Then Kita left… she was alone… and that’s the last anyone can say they know…”

Gwen leaned forward and took Kari’s other hand. I thought she was going to crush it.

“Did Jasmine say where Kita was headed next?”

“No. Not specifically. But from what I’ve put together from phoning around… driving around… Kita had a few appointments, and I can’t say for sure if she made them. I didn’t know anything was wrong until yesterday afternoon. Then I tried calling, texting, emailing, messaging her website, but Kita didn’t answer. This is absolutely not like her. Kita has never done this before. She would never just take off and not leave a reason to not be available. She has so many contact forms, and she’s a very busy person. She needs to constantly keep in touch with people. Friends. Clients. Business associates. She would never, ever, up and disappear. It’s just beyond the limits of my imagination.”

“Sure sounds like something’s seriously wrong.” I spoke my thoughts, and it wasn’t good. Kari and Gwen went nearly hysterical.

Kari hugged her mother who was full-on vibrating. I gave them a few minutes. Then I asked a question that had to be asked. “Do you have any suspicions?”

Chapter Two — Monday, December 21st – 9:15 a.m.

Did Gwen Southern and Kari Lyons have any suspicions? Yes, they did. And to their admission, those suspicions made no sense. Looking back, they made no sense to me either. However, I’d learn as I investigated the Kita Southern file that a lot of things didn’t make a lot of sense. Especially things that went on in other people’s minds.

I’d been a detective for a long time. Probably too long, and I was nearing retirement. I’d seen a lot of things, and something I learned was never to assume things are as they first appear. I let Kari and Gwen tell me what they suspected.

——

“I don’t know how to say this.” Kari looked towards a taupe wall with non-descript artwork in the softly-lit room. “It’s Dan. He is acting… strange. Not himself. At all.”

“And who is Dan?”

Kari turned back to me. “Dan is Kita’s other. Kita’s life partner. They’re not officially married, but they’ve been together for nearly ten years. I… I can’t imagine Dan doing anything to harm Kita… but… there’s something wrong with the way he’s acting. Really wrong.”

“Dan’s last name is?”

“Porter. Dan… Daniel Porter.”

“So how is Dan acting that raises suspicions?”

Kari paused. She glanced at Gwen who nodded a go-ahead sign. “He… he seems worried on one hand. Like almost sick with worry. On the other, he says there’s no problem. He says Kita has just taken some soul time for herself, and everything is just fine. Well, it’s not fine…” Kari started to cry again which set Gwen off.

I let them vent. They were nearly cried out, and that could be a good thing. Venting helps a person focus once they’re all vented out.

Kari continued. “When I first couldn’t contact Kita, I phoned Dan. He didn’t answer, so I left a voice message then a few texts. I also phoned a few of Kita’s friends, and that set the alarm off. People called other people. It was obvious something was seriously wrong. Kita didn’t keep appointments. She didn’t respond to anyone else. She… she… vanished.”

“So did Dan contact you?”

“He did. After maybe two hours and then others were calling him, too.”

“And what did Dan say?”

“Dan said Kita was fine. Not to worry. That was yesterday afternoon. Maybe four or so. He said Kita needed time to herself and she was fine. I didn’t believe it.”

“Did Dan say where Kita was?”

“No. I asked him specifically. He said Kita didn’t want anyone contacting her for a while. I asked him how long. He was… evasive. He said he could pass messages on to her, but she didn’t want to talk to anyone or see anyone at the moment.”

“Did Dan say why she wanted… what did you call it? Soul time?”

“No. I tried to get him to explain, but he walled-up and told me not to worry. ‘Everything was fine,’ he said. I can’t believe that.”

“Has this happened before?”

Kari shook her head. “Never. This is absolutely not like her. Kita would never do anything like go away without telling anyone. She would know people… family… friends… clients… everyone would be really concerned without a good explanation. It makes no sense at all. Excuse my language, but it’s bullshit. Dan knows something. He’s not telling the truth.”

Gwen Southern spoke for the first time. She had an unusual voice. She reminded me of my mother, who was highly educated and articulate but with a peculiar way of pronouncing certain words like sawmon for salmon and toe-matt-toe for tomato.

“I have to say I can’t believe Daniel would ever do anything to harm Kita.” Gwen sat up. She leaned forward and into my space. “Something has happened between the two that I cannot remotely fathom. There has never been any conflict or discontent in their relationship. Daniel is a son to me.”

“Have you spoken to Daniel, Gwen?” I set down my pen and put my hand forward.

Gwen instinctively took it. “I have. Daniel gave me a story that Kita took a hideaway to finish a book. Kita is a writer, among the many things she does. Daniel told me… and he’s never spoken mistruth to me… that Kita had a deadline change and a manuscript rush to complete and be published before year’s end. There is truth to that. But there is no truth to Kita’s intentional lack of contact. Kita would not cut off communication with her family and friends.”

“Did Daniel tell you where Kita was?”

Gwen released her grasp. She reached for another Kleenex. “No. I asked him. He was… evasive. He told me not to worry. That Kita was under pressure. That Kita was fine. That she’d be home in a few days. Well before Christmas which is our main family event. This is the first time I’ve had reason to disbelieve Daniel. However, I have to say Daniel seems very worried himself.”

Kari offered something else. “Dan told Anita Jancovic a different story. He said Kita went on a vision quest. Dan told Anita that Kita had a card reading telling her to take an immediate break from life stress. Kita said… Dan said Kita said she needed to do a vision quest and excommunicate herself.”

“Anita Jancovic? Who’s she?”

“Another of Kita’s close friends. Anita was holding the Christmas party.”

I was getting confused. Soul time? Vision quest? Card reading? Writing deadline? Excommunicate herself? I paused to write the phrases in my notebook.

“So it seems there are two conflicting accounts coming from Dan—” I was going to paraphrase, but Kari cut me off.

“Three. Dan told me Kita wanted soul time. He told Anita that Kita had a troubling card read and went on a vision quest. He told Mom that Kita suddenly dropped everything to go and finish a book. I don’t buy any of it.”

“Okay.” I numbered my phrases with one, two, three, and four.”

“On the other hand… while this is completely out of normal for Kita… it’s also completely abnormal for Dan to act like this. Like I said, what’s happened is beyond the limits of my imagination.”

I leaned forward. “I’d like you folks to tell me more about Kita and Dan. What is going on in their lives and in their minds?”

What I was about to find out was beyond the limits of my imagination too.

——

Download Beyond The Limits — Book 7 in the Based-On-True-Crime Series by Garry Rodgers.

 

 

HYBRISTOPHILIA — THE BONNIE & CLYDE SYNDROME

Why do good girls love bad boys? Why would any woman in her right mind fall for a murderous bank robber, a child sexual slayer, or a psychopathic serial killer? As crazy as it sounds, this frequently happens. It’s so common that the American Psychological Association and the DSM-5 have a term for this psychiatric paraphilia disorder—hybristophilia. On the street, and around the net, hybristophilia is called the Bonnie & Clyde Syndrome.

Few people haven’t heard of the infamous gangster duo, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow. The Barrow gang roamed the American south in the 1930s. By best accounts, Bonnie & Clyde and the gang cold-bloodedly gunned down and shot dead 13 people. Seven were law enforcement officers trying to catch them or prevent their escape.

If you don’t know of Bonnie & Clyde’s escapades, we’ll look into that shortly. We’ll also try and make sense of what Bonnie Parker saw in Clyde Barrow, and why she willingly partook in a string of senseless slayings. First, let’s examine what hybristophilia is and how it slots as an identified mental disorder.

The American Psychological Association (APA) defines hybristophilia as: sexual interest in and attraction to those who commit crimes. In some cases, this may be directed toward people in prison for various types of criminal activities. Hybristophilia is a common form of paraphilia.

The APA goes on to define paraphilia as: in DSM–IV–TR, any of a group of disorders in which unusual or bizarre fantasies or behavior are necessary for sexual excitement. The fantasies or acts persist over a period of at least 6 months and may take several forms: preference for a nonhuman object, such as animals or clothes of the opposite sex; repetitive sexual activity involving real or simulated suffering or humiliation, as in whipping or bondage; or repetitive sexual activity with nonconsenting partners. Paraphilias include such specific types as fetishism, frotteurism, pedophilia, hybristophilia, exhibitionism, voyeurism, sexual masochism, sexual sadism, and necrophilia. In DSM–5, a paraphilia is considered a paraphilic disorder only if it causes distress or impairment to the individual or if its practice has harmed or risked harming others.

The DSM-5, by the way, is the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders Edition 5 (V) which is the go-to book for psychiatric and psychological assessment of brain-thought and behavior abnormality. It’s published by the American Psychiatric Association. People have gone to their executions, or been excused from them, based upon how they fit into the DSM-5.

Hybristophilia is a disorder. It’s not a crime or offense. However, actions stemming from being hybristophilic often lead to serious criminal involvement when the woman aides, abets, or otherwise helps the male she’s infatuated with carry out his crimes. Such was the case of Bonnie Parker.

“Hybristophilia” derives from the Greek words “hubrizein” which means “to commit an outrage against someone” and “philo” which means “having a strong affinity/preference for”. In pop-culture, it’s the Bonnie & Clyde Syndrome which includes prison groupies who fall for dangerous inmates. The broadest sense of hybristophilia is “a general attraction towards partners who display dark triad personality traits” or good girls loving bad boys.

Before examining why Bonnie loved Clyde, I know of two modern-day, high-profile hybristophilia cases—one I was personally involved with. In 1994, Shannon Murrin raped and strangled 8-year-old Mindy Tran. Murrin transported Mindy’s tiny body in a suitcase, buried her body in a park, and brought the suitcase home. I was instrumental in recovering the suitcase and processing the DNA evidence. Unfortunately, the jury acquitted Murrin based on a inexcusable investigation error made by a senior and more-experienced police officer.

I testified at Murrin’s jury trial. As customary for professional witnesses, I spoke directly to the jury members when answering prosecution and defense counsel questions. I was on the stand a long time, and I distinctly recall an abnormality in one female juror. Normally, jurors are riveted on witness testimony and keep eye contact with the one-on-the-stand. I couldn’t help but notice one female juror, Kathy MacDonald, had her gazed fixed on Shannon Murrin who was in the prisoner box to my right—not on me. After the trial, Kathy MacDonald married Murrin. She’d fallen to hybristophilia.

Another case here in Vancouver played out in the news. Gangster Peter Gill was on trial for murder. Juror Gillian Guess sat in his judgment, and she was having sexual relations with him (after court hours) during the time the trial was underway. Gill, too, got off when Guess hung the jury. Classic, classic hybristophilia.

Anyway, on to Bonnie & Clyde.

Bonnie Parker was born in 1913 in a small Texas town. Her dad died when she was one, and her mother raised Bonnie in the grandparent’s home while holding down a full-time seamstress job. By all accounts, Bonnie was bright and gifted as an award-winning writer and young actress. At fifteen, Bonnie became infatuated with a bad boy named Roy Thorton who eventually went to jail for bank robberies and was shot dead by guards while escaping.

Bonnie never divorced Thorton, but she took up with Clyde Barrow as soon as Thorton went to jail. Clyde was another bad boy who was two years older than Bonnie. They met in 1930 and immediately hit it off. Clyde was in and out of jail for robberies and made parole in February 1932. Bonnie was waiting for him.

The pair formed the Barrow Gang right at the height of gangsterism where the Roaring Twenties ended and the Dirty Thirties of the Depression set in. It was the Public Enemy era. The two became the glam-couple of gangsters and were as much infatuated by the public as Bonnie was with Clyde. One take I read while researching this piece was that if Bonnie & Clyde were active today, they’d have more Instagram and Twitter followers than the Kardashians.

Various hoodlums rolled in and out of the Barrow gang. It was life in the fast lane for Bonnie & Clyde, and the public saw something in this pair that no other gangsters had. Not Al Capone. Not John Dillinger. Not Baby-Faced Nelson or Pretty-Boy Floyd. Not Alvin “Creepy” Karpas. Not Machine-Gun Kelly. And certainly not Ma Barker.

Bonnie & Clyde had illicit sex.

Illicit, extra-marital sex was the way of life for wild and young, still-married Bonnie and her single boy-toy Clyde. The public ate it up, envisioning them roaming town to town and hideout to hideout, spending more time spanking each other between clean sheets than they did doing banks.

Part of the Bonnie & Clyde story that fueled the fascination was a camera left behind at a Louisiana safe-house. The lawmen missed the Barrow Gang, but they recovered the film which a newspaper company developed and got the infamous photo of Bonnie with her left foot on a stolen Ford’s bumper, her right hand holding a chrome-plated revolver, and a cigar chomped in her teeth.

There were more Bonnie & Clyde photos in that roll. They hit the news wires going viral the way it would have done today on the net. If Bonnie & Clyde weren’t celebrity household names before the pics, they sure were then.

All historical accounts place Bonnie as a following accomplice, not a killer in her own right. Clyde was the mastermind and the ringleader. He was a dominant force. She was submissive. Their lives ended in a massive shootout with law enforcement officers on May 23, 1934, in Bienville Parish, Louisiana.

The public attention to Bonnie and Clyde’s deaths was outrageous. Before their bullet-ridden bodies were extracted from a car, hordes descended on the little town of Arcadia. Regular citizens defied police and did what they could to collect souvenirs like locks of dead Bonnie’s hair and swatches of her clothes. Others tried to cut off Clyde’s trigger finger and one of his ears.

Bonnie was a fatalist. She knew their run would end, and Bonnie wrote so in a poem sent to her mother. It was titled End Of The Line.

They don’t think they’re too smart or desperate
They know the law always wins
They’ve been shot at before
But they do not ignore
That death is the wages of sin

Some day they’ll go down together
And they’ll bury them side by side
To a few it’ll be grief
To the law a relief
But it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde

So what was going on in Bonnie’s mind? It’s tough to make sense of why good girls love bad boys. You won’t find the answer in the DSM-5. Maybe forensic psychiatry professor Katherine Ramsland got it right with these traits that seem common to women with hybristophilia.

Low self-esteem
Lack of a father figure
Belief they can change a bad man
Seeing the little boy in him and wanting to nurture
Hoping to share the media spotlight and gain notoriety
The notion there’s no perfect man but knowing the man can provide
A primal instinct that alpha male dominant genes provide strong offspring

Bonnie Parker’s life with Clyde Barrow was anything but glamorous, as the media of the time painted it. Bonnie and Clyde were constantly on the run. Sure, they had sex, probably lots of sex, but they didn’t have clean sheets or a rented room. Sex was in cramped back seats of stolen cars they had to sleep in, because their pictures were everywhere, and they couldn’t rent a room with clean sheets for fear of being turned in for the reward on their heads.

They ate poorly—Bonnie died with a bologna sandwich in her hand—and they bathed in cold creeks, and they limped when they walked. Clyde had two toes cut off in prison. Bonnie had one leg severely burned in a getaway automobile accident.

The posters on Bonnie & Clyde didn’t say Wanted Dead or Alive. Bounty was for their corpses which were so mutilated by gunshots that their embalmer couldn’t stop the fluid leakage. And they weren’t buried side by side as they’d asked. Death defied them a final resting place. They’re in separate Dallas cemeteries.

What led Bonnie Parker down such a road of destruction with Clyde Barrow? Hybristophilia. The Bonnie & Clyde Syndrome.

DID VINCENT VAN GOGH REALLY COMMIT SUICIDE?

Dutch Post-Impressionism master, Vincent Van Gogh, was a phenomenal force who helped shape modern art culture. His influence ranks with Shakespeare in literature, Freud in psychology, and The Beatles in music. Van Gogh was also plagued with mental illness, suffered from depression, and was tormented by psychotic episodes. Conventional history records that Van Gogh died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound in 1890 at the age of 37. However, an independent and objective look at the case facts arrives at an entirely different conclusion—Vincent Van Gogh was actually shot by someone else, and it was deliberately covered up.

This isn’t to say that Van Gogh was murdered as in a homicide case. As a former police investigator and coroner, I’m well familiar with death classifications. The civilized world has long used a universal death classification system with five categories. They are natural death, accidental death, death caused by wrongful actions by another human being which is a homicide ruling, self-caused death or suicide, and an undetermined death classification when the facts cannot be slotted into one conclusive spot.

I’m also familiar with gunshot wounds. Understanding how Vincent Van Gogh’s fatal wound happened is the key to determining if he intentionally shot himself, if he accidentally caused his own death, or if someone else pulled the trigger which killed Van Gogh. Before analyzing what’s known about the Van Gogh case facts, let’s take a quick look at who this truly remarkable man really was.

Vincent Willem Van Gogh was born in 1853 and died on July 29, 1890. During Van Gogh’s life, he produced over 2,000 paintings, drawings, and sketches. He completed most of these in his later years and was in his most-prolific phase when he suddenly died.

Van Gogh didn’t achieve fame or fortune during his life. He passed practically penniless. It was after death when the world discovered his genius and assessed his works of bright colors, bold strokes, and deep insight as some of the finest works ever to appear on the art scene. Today, an original Van Gogh is worth millions—some probably priceless.

Vincent Van Gogh achieved artistic saint status. It’s not just Van Gogh’s unbounded talent that supported his greatness. It’s also the mystique of the man and the martyrdom mushrooming from his untimely death that robbed the world of an artist—a starving artist and a man who lived on the fine line between genius and nut.

Most people know some of Van Gogh’s masterpieces. Wheatfield With Crows may have been his last painting. Café Terrace At Night, The Potato Eaters, Irises, Bedroom In Arles, The Olive Trees, and Vase With Fifteen Sunflowers are extraordinarily famous. So is The Starry Night. (I happen to have a hand-painted oil reproduction of Starry Night right on the wall in front of me as I write this, and my daughter has Café hanging in her home.)

Most people know the story of Vincent Van Gogh’s ear. It’s a true story, but the truth is he only cut part of his left ear off with a razor during a difficult episode with his on-again, off-again relationship with painter Paul Gauguin. The story goes on that Van Gogh gave his ear piece to a brothel lady, then he bandaged himself up and painted one of many self-portraits. I just looked at this portrait (Google makes Dutch Master shopping easy) and was struck by the image of his right side being bandaged. Then I realized Van Gogh painted selfies by looking in a mirror.

And most people know something about Vincent Van Gogh’s time in asylums. This is true, too, and he spent a good while of 1889 in Saint-Remy where he stared down on the town and painted The Starry Night from later memory. The celestial positions are uncannily accurate.

In late 1889, Van Gogh moved to a rooming house in Auvers-sur-Oise near Paris. His painting production went into overdrive, and he was at the peak of his game. On July 27, 1890, Van Gogh left his room with his paints, canvas, and easel. He returned empty-handed with a bullet in his belly.

Vincent Van Gogh’s spirit left this world at 1:30 a.m. on July 29. He passed without medical intervention on his bed, and the medical cause was, most likely, exsanguination or internal bleeding. There was no autopsy, and Van Gogh was buried in a nearby churchyard the next day.

There are various ambiguous statements purported from Van Gogh. He did not admit to shooting himself or intentionally attempting to commit suicide. However, the record indicates he didn’t deny it. The record can also be interpreted that he covered up for someone else.

What is fairly clear is the description of Vincent Van Gogh’s gunshot wound. There are conflicting locations, (chest, stomach, abdomen), but this is explainable from Dutch/French to English translations. It’s highly probable that one bullet entered the left side of Van Gogh’s mid-section and traversed his intestines in a left-to-right direction. There was no exit wound and no serious spinal damage as Van Gogh had walked home from the shooting scene, up the stairs, and to his room where he expired a day and a half later.

There was no firearm found and absolutely no history of Vincent Van Gogh ever owning or operating a gun. He was a painter. Not a hunter or soldier. (Note: There was a rusted revolver found in an Auver field in 1960 which was said to be the weapon. There is no proof that it was.)

There was no suicide note or any deathbed confession. Aside from being an artist, Van Gogh was a prolific writer who documented many thoughts as he progressed from mental sickness to physical health. In late July of 1890, Van Gogh’s writings showed him to be optimistic and with plans to paint as much as possible before an anticipated period of blackness returned. Two days before his death, Van Gogh placed a large art supply order.

Suicide, in Van Gogh’s case, wasn’t surfaced in the early years after his death. There were murmurs among the villagers that “some young boys may have accidentally shot” Van Gogh as he went about his work in a nearby field. There was no coroner’s inquiry or inquest, but there is documentation of a gendarme questioning Van Gogh if he intentionally shot himself to which Van Gogh allegedly replied, “I don’t know.”

The first strong suicide suggestion came in 1956 with Irving Stone’s novel and movie Lust For Life. It was a documentary that took liberty with Van Gogh’s life and times. It concluded Van Gogh was a troubled soul—a beautiful soul—who ended his life intentionally. The book and movie were bestselling blockbusters and cemented the suicide seed to an adorning public.

It became ingrained in lore and public acceptance that Vincent Van Gogh was a desponded psychotic who suddenly up and killed himself rather than continue a tormented existence of interpreting beauty in nature and people. It was the gospel, according to Van Gogh historians, who were comfortable with a suspicious explanation.

Other people weren’t. In 2011, two researchers took a good and hard look into Van Gogh’s life and death. They had full access to the Van Gogh Museum’s archives in Amsterdam and spent enormous time reviewing original material. They found a few things.

One was a 1957 interview with Rene Secretan who knew Van Gogh well. Secretan admitted to being one of the boys spoken about by the villagers who were involved in Van Gogh’s shooting. Rene Secretan, sixteen years old in 1890, told the interviewer he wanted to set the distorted record straight that was misrepresented in the book and movie.

The interview documents Rene Secretan as saying the handgun that shot Van Gogh was his, and that it was prone to accidentally misfiring. Secretan self-servingly denied being present when the accidental shooting happened, claiming he was back in Paris and not at his family’s summer home in Auvers. Secretan failed to identify those directly involved or exactly what circumstances unfolded.

The researchers, Pulitzer Prize winners Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith who co-wrote Van Gogh: The Life, found corroborating statements placing Van Gogh near the Secretan villa on the afternoon of the shooting. They also sourced a leading expert on firearms and gunshot wounds who refuted any chance of Van Gogh being able to discharge a firearm with his own hands that could have caused the wound in its documented location.

Dr. Vincent Di Maio (a 2012 key witness in the Florida trial of George Zimmerman who shot African-American youth Trayvon Martin in a neighborhood watch altercation) concluded that Van Gogh, who was right-handed, could not possibly have held a firearm as it had to be; therefore the shot had to have been fired by another party. Dr. Di Maio also commented on the lack of reported gunshot residue on Van Gogh’s hands and clothes. In 1890, most cartridges contained black powder which was filthy stuff when burned at close range.

Researchers Naifeh and Smith also took a deep dive into what they could find on Rene Secretan’s background. They painted him as a big kid—a thug and a bully who was well known to have picked on wimpy Van Gogh throughout the month of July 1890. Secretan came from a wealthy Paris family who summered at Auvers with their second home within walking distance of Van Gogh’s rooming house.

According to the researchers of Van Gogh: The Life, Rene Secretan had seen the Buffalo Bill Wild West show in Paris, and Secretan fancied himself as a cowboy character. Secretan fashioned a costume to go with his cocky role of a western gunfighter, and he acquired a revolver that was prone to malfunction. They documented incidents where Secretan would mock Van Gogh as he painted, play pranks on him, and supply alcohol to Van Gogh who couldn’t afford it.

It was during a mocking spat, the researchers surmise, that somehow Secretan’s revolver went off and struck Van Gogh in the abdomen. According to the theory, the boys fled, disposed of the weapon, and formed a pact of silence. If this was true, the question arises of why didn’t Vincent Van Gogh report the truth, and why has the suicide conclusion remained steadfast.

Naifeh and Smith address this in their book with this quote: When all this (accidental shooting theory) began to emerge from our research, a curator at the Van Gogh Museum predicted the fate that would befall such a blasphemy on the Van Gogh gospel. “I think it would be like Vincent to protect the boys and take the ‘accident’ as an unexpected way out of his burdened life,” he agreed in an e-mail. “But I think the biggest problem you’ll find after publishing your theory is that the suicide is more or less printed in the brains of past and present generations and has become a sort of self-evident truth. Vincent’s suicide has become the grand finale of the story of the martyr for art, it’s his crown of thorns.”

As an experienced cop and a coroner, I think Naifeh and Smith are on to something. There are two huge problems with a suicide conclusion in classifying Vincent Van Gogh’s death. One is the lack of an immediate suicide threat. The other is the gunshot nature.

I’ve probably seen fifty or more gunshot suicides. All but one were self-inflicted wounds to the head. The exception was a single case where the firearm was placed against the chest and the bullet blew apart the heart. I have never seen a suicide where the decedent shot themselves in the gut, and I’ve never heard of one.

Vincent Van Gogh didn’t leave a suicide note. He made no immediate suicide threats and, by all accounts, things were going well for the struggling artist. It makes no sense at all that Van Gogh would head out for a summer’s day, begin to paint, produce a gun from nowhere, shoot himself in the stomach from the most inconceivable position, then make it home—wounded—without finishing himself off with a second shot.

If I were the coroner ruling on Vincent Van Gogh’s death, I’d readily concur the cause of death was slow exsanguination resulting from a single gunshot wound to the abdomen. I’d have a harder time with the classification. Here, I’d have to use a process of elimination from the five categories—natural, homicide, accidental, suicide, or undetermined.

There is no possibility Van Gogh died of natural causes. He was shot, and that is clear. Was he murdered or otherwise shot intentionally? There is no evidence to support a homicide classification. Did the firearm go off accidentally? It certainly could have, and there is information to support that theory but not prove it.

Suicide? Not convincing. The available evidence does not meet the Beckon Test where coroners must establish beyond a reasonable doubt that the decedent intentionally took their own life. If the death circumstances do not fulfill the requirements of the Beckon Test, then a coroner is not entitled to register a suicide classification.

This only leaves undetermined. Coroners hate closing a file with an undetermined classification. It’s like they failed in their investigation.

Unfortunately, in Vincent Van Gogh’s case—from the facts as best as are known—there’s no other conclusion than officially rule “Undetermined”.

I’m no longer a coroner, though, so I’ll stick out my neck.

On the balance of probabilities, I find Vincent Van Gogh was accidentally shot, then sadly died from this unintended and terrible tragedy.