Edward William Eldridge Jr. took his own life at the age of 62.
He lived alone in a small semidetached, red-brick house on Daywalt Avenue in Northeast Baltimore. He had no wife, no known children, no brothers, no sisters, and his parents died years ago. He listed his only aunt as a beneficiary, but she, too, had passed away.
He had no friends, at least none close enough or willing enough to stay with him at the hospital for a few hours so he could undergo the arthroscopic knee surgery he was scheduled to have on the day he died. He had nobody he could talk to or who could help him when he lost $100,000 of his retirement savings to the faltering stock market.
Now Eldridge's body lies at Ruck Funeral Home in Towson - a viewing is scheduled for 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. tomorrow, memorial service at 11 a.m. Wednesday - his earthly remains saved from becoming a ward of the state and from a pauper's grave by the Baltimore homicide detective who got the case, went to the house and recognized the dead man as a colleague and an old acquaintance. He had "shot the breeze" with Eldridge years ago when the detective walked a foot post and the now-dead officer was the Police Department's Central District wagon man.
His name, with rank attached, was Agent Edward William Eldridge Jr. He joined the Baltimore Police Department on Aug. 4, 1972, and retired Aug. 6, 1998. He had earned a degree in business and public administration from the University of Maryland, was drafted into the Army and sent to Okinawa to guard underground missile silos.
"He served his country for two years and he served this city for 26 years," Detective Randy Wynn said after he claimed the body at the morgue. "At the very least he deserves a proper send-off."
The detective is trying to get current and retired police officers to come to services for Eldridge, and he plans to display nearly two dozen certificates and commendations he found after spending days digging through boxes and bags at the house where Eldridge grew up and died.
Wynn found a neighbor who told him Eldridge fixed bicycles for the kids - there were parts scattered in his basement - and gave them money for candy. There were 40 names in Eldridge's address book, and Wynn called them all. Every single number went to a business where people had dealt with Eldridge but didn't really know him. Only his retired accountant thought Eldridge's demeanor had soured - "that he didn't seem the way he used to be," Wynn said.
