I last spoke with Sandy on July 7^th, 1992. It was two days after my birthday and I had received word that she wanted to wish me a belated one. I called her in New York and we talked for close to an hour.  She seemed very upbeat as she spoke of how she had watched the L.A. riots and had worried so about me, knowing that I was working and in the shit. She told me how she always bragged about me to her friends, and to hear her say that really made me proud. Then she said something that will live with me forever. She spoke in a content voice as she said, I am proud of you Michael. We finally got one in there. I did not have to ask her what she meant. We all came from the same crazy nightmare family and Sandy loved the fact that I was a straight arrow. An ex paratrooper, a cop married with a wonderful Brady Bunch kind of family. I was happy that she was happy.

 As we prepared to end the call, a very strange, ominous feeling hit me hard and I suddenly knew that there was bad on the way. Out of the blue, I asked, Sandy, your not gonna do something weird like kill yourself, are you?  I remember her words exactly and can still hear them in my mind. Michael. Give me more credit than that. Ten days later,  on July 17^th, 1992 Sandy ended her life.

It was just after two a.m. in California when two officers from my division showed up at my home. One of them was my own partner and friend. I guess when cops show up at anyones door unexpected at that hour, the odds of there being good news are slim. Is it my sister or mother? I asked them before they spoke. They told me that my sister in New York had committed suicide and I did my best to react like a strong person. I did pretty well for a while, asking them if they wanted coffee or anything and only once did I shriek, why did she do that!!? That strange outburst still embarrasses me when I think about it. I wonder why.

A few days later, I made some calls to the NYPD and was actually able to contact an officer who was at the scene when Sandy died. He seemed kind of bitter as he spoke to me, as if somehow I might be part of a bad family that had caused this thing. He was fairly traumatized and after he told me the story, I understood why. They received a call about a disturbance at the hotel where Sandy was staying. It seems that it was an all womens hotel that was for women who were down on their luck. Sandy was staying in room 527 which was of course, on the fifth floor. She had been in an obvious rage and had been throwing things through her window and down to the roof of a smaller building which was next door. She had thrown shoes, a radio, and all kinds of stuff that was in the small room. The officer and his partner made their way to the door, knocked and announced their presence by yelling, police! Open the door!  Sandy refused to open the door and the officers heard lots of screaming and noise as they yelled, open it now, or we will kick it open. The next thing that they heard was a loud crash and the sound of glass breaking. They kicked the door open and discovered what the officer described to me as, the bloodiest scene I have seen in my twenty year career. Apparently, Sandy, while in her rage had cut herself and had spread her own blood all over the walls of the room. When she heard that they were going to force entry, she threw herself through the widow and down the five floors, landing on the roof of an adjacent building. Things then went from bad to worse.

The officer I spoke with informed me that due to the positioning of the building, it took him quite a while to find a way to her. The fire department also had to use a ladder from one building across to the other. While they waited for the fire department, the officer described how he had held Sandys hand as she lay there, still alive. She made many attempts to get up but her leg was broken very badly and she was injured throughout her body. He asked he, why? Why did you do this? Your family will want to know. Sandy told him, I just did not want to be a burden on my family anymore. She then asked the cop to, call my brother in Los Angeles. He does what you do. Please call him. The cop said that she was having a hard time breathing at this time and she had expressed that to him. He asked her, what does your brother do?  Sandy said, He is a police officer like you. His name is Michael. Please call him. To this day, I take great comfort from the fact that Sandy was thinking of me at the end of her life. It really brings a certain warmth to me when I think about it and I am not sure why. I think that I know. But I am not sure.

The fire department eventually recovered her from the roof and she was still alive in spite of her many obvious and other unknown, internal wounds. She even lived when the ambulance broke down and they had to wait while a replacement one inched through rush hour traffic. And. Sandy lived while they transferred her into the second one and almost to the hospital. After that great fall, the long delays and the massive loss of blood, Sandra Jeanne Weiss, my sister finally left this world. Right there in downtown Manhattan, unnoticed by most, a wounded, sad, pathetic, beautiful angel died from this world and was born into another. The world became a darker place at the moment of her departur.