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Richard McQuade has no strong connection to Louisiana, though he has visited. His husband, Curtis, is a native of this state and it is through knowing him that I am aware of what happened last week, a tragedy which gives pause for thought as to how events that are highly publicized can have effects on people that we may never know about, and this is why the story of Richard McQuade is presented to you here.
He was born in Glen Cove, N.Y. in 1957, and after reaching adulthood made his career with the police department of that town. After retiring he moved to Florida, and ending up living in Ormond Beach, which is about 60 miles from Orlando. He and Curtis, who worked in the news business, have been together for 24 years, but only got married eight years ago, in California, because the laws kept them from doing so prior to that. In Florida they have only been recognized as a married couple since last year, again because of the laws.
Having been a cop and also being from a very traditional type of family that he presumed frowned on non-traditional lifestyles, Richard went through many years of hiding who he was, times that he confided to Curtis were difficult and painful. But when the two got together he stepped from the shadows of his self-imposed prison and declared who he was to anyone who wished to hear, as well as some who did not. The family was accepting, welcoming and warm, so those fears were for naught. Courage still carried a price, however, and Richard paid it in other ways. Perhaps the most painful was how some men he thought were good friends dropped from his circle, once his secrets became known.
The pair quietly lived their life together with Richard’s son an important part of it all. Richard coped with the disappointments and counted all the blessings. He was never an activist, never a loud guy, always very quiet. Richard’s health declined over the past few years. But even with the pain of neuralgia he somehow managed, on a trip to New York, to march with the Gay Officer’s Action League, an organization he had joined just a few years ago, and was proud and happy as you could imagine. To a lot of the cops, even the retired ones, this was a hop, skip and jump. For Richard it was a labor of love that transcended the pain.
He started getting better, and while still a quiet guy paid attention to national affairs. Then came the madness of 49 deaths in Orlando, and 53 wounded, at a gay bar, and Richard was beside himself. Maybe it was the wanting to do something that cops get when they are retired, or some other frustration. He was particularly rankled by how some organizations and sports teams made a big publicity deal about money they were giving to funds, but leaving out the social identity of the victims, their PR people no doubt not wishing to stain news of the gifts with such socially discomforting mentions. Richard tweeted up a storm. Then, on the Thursday evening, he lost it, according to the account the cops were given, pacing and saying he couldn’t take it, he had to go, and with Curtis pleading for him not to, Richard got into the tan Jeep Patriot and took off, without giving a clue as to where.
Thursday night passed and then Friday, then Saturday, and on the Sunday morning just a week after the Orlando massacre they found Richard, in the Jeep, in the parking lot of a movie theater.
The cause of his death is not known. The official reports say it is “pending.” Curtis is certain of not much except that if Richard had stayed home, he would likely not now be all alone except for the pets, struggling to make himself eat. If the shooter in Orlando had not taken his toll Richard would not have left the house, either.
And so that leaves open the question of whether, in one sense or another Richard McQuade is Orlando’s fiftieth victim. What is not in doubt is that, even 60 miles away, this act of madness is responsible for yet two more broken hearts, in addition to all of those of which we will never, ever learn, both directly related to the tragedy and, as in this case, rather far removed.
