Many many years ago, a police officer called my mother's house to say that he was holding my brother in protective custody to stop him from jumping on the subway tracks and killing himself. I went to help my brother and met this officer.
A nightmare day and night later, this officer called and wanted to speak to me. He told me that my brother had said a lot to him, that he wanted to help me, and that hearing what my brother had told him would help me. I said yes, of course.
I thought it was a little strange that he asked me to come to his house rather than the police station, but he explained he was helping me on his own time. I went to his house. I was stressed to the point of breaking down myself. I needed answers. He opened the door and within 20 minutes I was being raped.
Was it my fault that I trusted him? Was it my fault that he chose me because I was the perfect victim-vulnerable in a thousand ways? That until that exact day I believed all people are inherently good and that even if they made really huge mistakes, they should be forgiven, because compassion should always trump anger?
No. It was the rapist's fault for raping me. And it was the killer who killed Travis, a man who very much wanted to live more and longer and better, and who was in no way whatsoever responsible for his own death.