This morning, after the Sheriff and two state investigators left his office carrying sealed boxes, the man did not return home—instead, he drove to a neighboring town and bought three things:

Dancing shoes.

A hamburger.

A shotgun.

The dancing shoes he delivered to his daughter whom he would never see again.

The hamburger he ate so he could think straight while he made his decision.

And the shotgun he will use in nine and a half hours—when he sits alone in an abandoned shack behind a line of trees in another state—and places it in his mouth.