
Todd was working for the mortuaries. Doing some maintenance, cleaning rugs, occasionally driving the hearse at funerals and coroner’s office pick-ups. That is how he met Marilyn. He’d seen her on the news talking about her lost son, about what the city needed to do for its wounded and traumatized families, entire sections of the city needed loving care, but the constantly growing list of survivors of the killed needed it the most. “Todd had been trying to meet with me and I didn’t know,” said Marilyn. “He would tell the people at the mortuary and they never told me. You know why they didn’t tell me? Because they didn’t want us to meet, because they knew whenever we met they wasn’t gonna be able to separate us, and that’s what happened. That’s why I always said “That’s my little brother.” Todd calls it love at first sight, brotherly love, sisterly love. “God sent me to her, god sent me to her,” he says twice in a row, “Or sent her to me.” He began going out with her and her husband Jesse to homicide scenes. That’s what they would call it: going out. “Todd,” said Marilyn, “he was gonna go out there with me at 3 or 4 in the morning because he didn’t care what time it was, he loved it.”
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