When Fort Lauderdale police detectives arrived, they found handwritten notes in Glenn's apartment, one mentioning a $12,000 tax-free gift he had given to someone named Robin, another saying "things never work out the way you hope," according to Fort Lauderdale Police Sgt. Frank Sousa. About 40 minutes after Glenn died, his sister called from New York to ask police to check on her brother, because he had recently been treated for depression.

Detectives found a cross pinned to the outside of his T-shirt.


Kyle T. Webster
Kyle T. Webster

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

8:05 a.m., Sands Pointe, Sunny Isles Beach

Khinna was beating the cancer that had grown inside her pelvis. Then, in fall 2006, the 61-year-old machinery worker learned it had come back. "I don't want to live like this anymore," she confessed to her family. The sunny morning before she killed herself, her husband stepped out to get her breakfast. He returned and found a lawn chair tipped over on the balcony. Below, Khinna lay dead on the Feldmans' patio.

The Feldmans were trapped in the gruesome scene of Khinna's death: They weren't able to leave their home for hours. A cleaning crew finally began to wash the couple's blood-stained patio six hours later.

These days, Fred, an 81-year-old retired businessman, sometimes thinks about that fateful morning. What if he and Ceil had decided to have coffee outside that day? Would they be alive? And what if Khinna's husband hadn't left to fetch breakfast? Or if the cancer hadn't come back?

Fred and Ceil don't pretend to know what went on in that poor woman's mind. "It may seem strange," Fred says, "but we feel lucky to be alive."


Saturday, April 19, 2008

7:20 a.m., Key Colony, Key Biscayne

Enrique spoke his last words in Spanish. "I've done something wrong, and you will cry," he told his wife. What that something was will remain a mystery. At 75 years old, the industrial fisherman had an anxiety disorder worsened by the death of his mother. At 4:30 a.m., he awoke feeling restless. In a fit, he took off his clothes, paced around the living room, and threw furniture over the balcony. He jumped from the ninth floor and landed in a small flower garden.


Tuesday, May 6, 2008

9:06 p.m., Mirador, Miami Beach

His buddies called him "the Bartman" because his life stories were more exciting than fiction. A self-made millionaire and scuba diver, Bart was the life of the party at the D.C.-based National Potomac Yacht Club. "He was one of the most exciting, outrageous, and fun-loving guys we have ever known," clubber Harold Seigel wrote after his death. "We will be telling Bart stories for as long as we live."

But underneath those dimples and one-liners, something dark ate away at him.

Born in New York City in 1949, Bart was a competitive kid. That drive helped him found a successful company in Virginia called Potomac Floor Covering. In March 2005, he resigned from his position at the business and sold 9,000 shares of company stock for $1.8 million.

After his retirement, Bart injured his knee and got hooked on painkillers. Around the same time, he discovered he had hepatitis C and enrolled in a research program for treatment at the University of Miami. Retirement wasn't going the way he'd planned.

The evening of May 6, 2008, a teenager was lounging in the living room of unit 1125 in Mirador when he heard a noise. He looked up and noticed "something pass by [his] window, which looked like a person," a Miami Beach Police report states. It was Bart.

When cops arrived, they found the door to unit 1225 ajar. Inside, officers spotted "a wine glass with possible lipstick on the rim," a "syringe with unknown liquid," and "empty baggies on top of the dresser along with a spoon." Blood spots speckled the glass coffee table. A woman had been there, "possibly a prostitute," the medical examiner's investigative report says.

The fall broke both of Bart's legs, and he died on impact. In the days afterward, his lawyer, David Charles Masselli, explained that finances couldn't have triggered the suicide: Bart was loaded. He left behind a daughter.


Saturday, May 10, 2008

9:40 a.m., Mirador, Miami Beach

Jane left the window to Penthouse 3 half-open. The 57-year-old real estate agent had access to the spacious condo, which was under construction on the 17th floor. A Miami Hurricanes fan with bipolar disorder, she jumped in comfortable green sneakers and landed near the building's entrance. A baseball cap fluttered down behind her.


Monday, July 21, 2008

4:30 p.m., Bay Garden Manor, Miami Beach

Jamie chooses to remember her handsome, green-eyed father before the sickness turned him into a stranger. It comes in images: his smiling face at the go-kart track, the warmth of water while they were boating, playing putt-putt in the sun. "He taught me to be so independent," she says. "He was such a loving father."

Her dad, Fabio, came to Miami from Cuba in 1964 on a nine-foot wooden boat with three friends. In Miami, he met a woman near the Key Biscayne lighthouse. They later married and had a daughter, Jamie. He landed a job moving industrial equipment and then eventually began to run the business.

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