The car comes to a stop in front of a plain suburban house, flanked on either side by properties that were identical in style, if not detail.

Fitting, I think, He always seemed like a suburbs type of guy.

I run my fingers along the sharp folds of my collar, drawing the moment out, not eager for what comes next.

"Son." The captain says nothing more. No point dragging it out - the words that fill his silence.

I open the door and step out. On the other side of the vehicle, the captain does the same. We step up onto the curb and walk past recently mown grass up a concrete driveway. As we approach the sounds of a child shouting emanate from inside. At the door I pause again, steeling myself.

A soft jingle rings through the house as I press the doorbell. I hear indistinguishable words, then footsteps that reach the other side of the threshold.

The door opens and a mousey haired woman is greeting us, her young child at her leg. She gets half way through her greeting before the words die on her lips.

"No." She whispers, falling against the doorframe as her leg involuntarily buckles.

"Mrs Catherine Blaire?" I ask, knowing full well who she is. I know her from the photos Lachlan keeps in his wallet. I know her from the jokes he makes over beers. I know her from the long gazes out the window as he tells me how he misses her.

She doesn't answer, instead a choking sob escapes her.

"Mommy?" The boy asks, looking up at his mother questioningly.

"I'm sorry." I say carefully, placing my hand on Catherine's upper arm. "Lachlan was shot and killed in a firefight the day before yesterday."

Catherine moans. Low. Emotional. The sound of a breaking soul. She slides to the ground and tears fill her eyes.

The child's eyes dart between his mother and me and the captain. He's scared and uncertain of what's happening. I squat down to his level.

"Hey Nate, my name is Shaun. I was friends with your dad."

Looking into those little brown eyes I see the image of an older, more tired and worn face, one with lines by the corners of his eyes from a lifetime of laughing. "You look just like him." I say.

Nate looks around me and out the door at the car still parked by the curb. "Is daddy in the car?"

I shake my head slowly. "Daddy's not coming home Nate."

Nate continues to shift his eyes between me and his mother. He doesn't understand. "But why isn't my daddy coming home?"

"He died." I answer.

Catherine wails.

"But maybe I can go see him?" Nate asks me.

I see a mental image of the thin man, with his glasses that never sat quite right, meeting his little boy, wearing his camos and carrying his bags at the airport. That classic scene we'd all seen a dozen times on social media. That would never get to happen for Nate and his father.

"I'm sorry buddy, I don't think you can."

The boy's little lip is quivering now, and the corners of his mouth are twitching downwards.

"But why?" He asks.

I don't have an answer.