Truth Doesn't Have a Side

by Bennet Omalu

  Teddy Pendergrass filled the car. As the highway rolled beneath my car, I felt very optimistic about the future. New York had been good to me, but I knew it was time to leave the hustle and bustle of the city behind. This move was therapeutic for me. Over the previous four years, I had proved that I belonged here. I had completed a program through the College of Physicians and Surgeons of Columbia University, an Ivy League school, and had been accepted into a fellowship program supervised by one of the leading forensic pathologists in the United States, if not the world. However, these past four years had left me mentally, emotionally, and spiritually exhausted. I hoped the more laid-back and less cosmopolitan Pittsburgh would be exactly what I needed to get my mind back. Either way, I could not wait to get there and get on with the next chapter of my life.

  Chapter Ten

  Finding Myself

  When I graduated from medical school, all I really wanted to be was myself. That seems like an easy thing to do, but it is very difficult when you do not really know who you are. Many of the decisions about which I have written thus far were more about who I did not want to be than about who I am. I went to medical school at the insistence of my father, but I did not want to be a doctor. When an opportunity came to go to Seattle to study the epidemiology of cancer, I took it, not because I wanted to study the epidemiology of cancer, but because it brought me to America.

  Once I was in America, I completed a pathology residency, not out of a sense of calling or because I found fulfillment as a pathologist. I was better suited for work in a pathology lab than in a clinic with one live patient after another. After my four years of residency, I pursued a fellowship in forensic pathology primarily because it took me even further away from clinical medicine while allowing me to remain in America. Growing up in Nigeria, I never dreamed of spending my life conducting autopsies and investigating causes of death. Even today, I have friends from back home who say to me, “Bennet, how can you spend your life surrounded by death? That doesn’t seem like you.”

  Working with the dead did not seem like me, but then again, nothing really seemed like me because I did not know who I was. In the movie Concussion, Will Smith, playing me, says, “In America, you must be the best version of yourself. If you do not know what that is, you pick something and fake it.” I did not know what the best version of me might be—or any version of me—so I picked someone, and I faked it. Faking it may sound like the opposite of being oneself, but that was not the case for me. Long before I ever came to America, I was attracted to this nation by her creativity and the perfection I found in American music. Watching American music videos on satellite television as a boy in Nigeria, I promised myself that whatever I did in life, I would strive for the same perfection.

  When I arrived in Pittsburgh, I found someone who strove for that same standard of perfection, while also demonstrating a level of creativity in his work I had never witnessed before. That is why I chose to pattern myself after Cyril Wecht. As the two of us got to know one another, we found that we were quite similar, in spite of our very different backgrounds.

  Spending time with Cyril and watching him do his thing was extremely enriching for me. Dr. Wecht is one of the best forensic pathologists in the world, and having the opportunity to learn from him in close quarters was nothing but divine providence. I was a blessed man. And a good student. I memorized everything he said to me, just like I had memorized the English alphabet and multiplication tables in early grade school.

  One thing I learned from his personality was how not to speak your mind every time, especially in public. There are times you need to hold back, swallow your pride, walk away, and let things be, just like my mother advised me. There are times when the stronger and wiser man is the man who walks away from a fight. But sometimes you must stand your ground, no matter how many people are against you. That was Cyril Wecht. He showed me how to balance the two and how, when it was time to stand, to stand firm. In truth, he taught me the American swagger and how to use it.

  For a forensic pathologist, one of the places where one must be most firm is the courtroom. When I was preparing for my first court case, Dr. Wecht pulled me aside. “Bennet,” he told me, “in the courtroom, you should never, ever change your mind or opinion on the witness stand. Your opinion is your opinion. It does not have to be right or wrong. It is your opinion, given as the expert you are. Look around you in the courtroom, and you will realize you are the only one present who best knows and understands forensic pathology. Hell, you’re probably the smartest person in the room. Always bear that in mind.”

  I took his advice, as I always did. Whenever I testified, I expressed my opinion without wavering. However, just being decisive was not enough. Cyril explained the dynamics of a courtroom trial to me. I learned from him that there was a time to display showmanship and a time to be straightforward and serious.

  • • • •

  My fellowship in the Allegheny County medical examiner’s office lasted twelve months. A few months before I had completed it, Dr. Rozin, the chief forensic pathologist, approached me with two questions. He asked if I would be willing to assist Dr. Wecht with his private consulting company, which conducted autopsies and provided medicolegal analysis and testimony in cases outside of Allegheny County. Immediately I said, “Yes.” By this point, I had applied for and been accepted into my second fellowship program, this one in neuropathology at the nearby University of Pittsburgh Medical Center. Dr. Wecht had encouraged me to pursue the second fellowship.

  Dr. Rozin then asked if I might be interested in helping out in the medical examiner’s office on weekends and public holidays while I completed my second fellowship. “The quality of your work is excellent,” he said. “Dr. Wecht and I would love to keep you and then hire you once you finish the second fellowship.”

  I was deeply humbled by the request. Now, completing a fellowship is not like taking night classes at the local community college. My duties within the neuropathology program were more than a full-time job. While less than the eighty-plus hours per week that medical residents put in, a fellowship position still demands long hours. In spite of this, I jumped at the offer. “Yes, I would be honored to continue working with you,” I said, even though my weekend work for the county, my private work for Dr. Wecht, and pursuing my second fellowship guaranteed I would not have a life outside of work for the next few years.

  Over the course of the next year or so, Dr. Wecht entrusted me with more and more cases, especially those that needed to be done in a short time frame. In the beginning he had me do research for him. He then took my findings, studied them, made any corrections that were needed, and then presented them in his own voice. After I proved myself, he let me fly solo, taking on an entire case myself. Then, in the middle of 2001, he handed me a case where a man’s life was literally on the line. I felt up to the challenge.

  The case Dr. Wecht gave me involved a man named Thomas Kimbell. In 1998, Kimbell had been tried, convicted, and sentenced to death for a brutal, vicious quadruple murder. His first conviction was overturned on appeal. The appellate court ruled that a crucial witness’s testimony should have been allowed in his trial. Even after winning his appeal in the summer of 2001, Kimbell remained in jail pending a retrial. All the evidence from his first trial still stood against him. If the defense went into the new trial with the same approach as the first, the outcome would most likely be the same. That is why they called the preeminent forensic pathologist in Pennsylvania for help. Dr. Wecht referred them to me.

  Thomas Kimbell’s lead attorney called me and set up a meeting with the entire defense team in one of the high-rise buildings in downtown Pittsburgh. In the meantime, he sent over the files on the case for me to examine. Even with all my other responsibilities, I had time to devote to the case because, in those days, I did not have a life outside of work and church. I was not married, although I had been engaged once. That relationship had not lasted, which gave me that much more time for work. I did not mind the lon
g hours I put in. Between my two jobs, I made a very good living. I saved a great deal of my money, while also sending money to my parents and family in Nigeria. My father had long since retired, but government corruption in Nigeria cost him his pension. Sending my parents money each month was the least I could do to step in and help provide for them as they had once provided for me.

  I dove into the Thomas Kimbell file in preparation for my meeting with his legal team. The case was chilling. On the afternoon of June 15, 1994, a thirty-four-year-old, 250-pound mother of two, Bonnie Dryfuse, was attacked in her New Castle, Pennsylvania, home. She fought desperately for her life. While she fought off her attacker, her seven-year-old daughter Jacquelyn and four-year-old daughter Heather ran off with their five-year-old cousin, Stephanie Herko, and hid in the bathroom. Bonnie’s assailant stabbed her twenty-eight times, taking her life. The fatal wound came long before the assailant stopped stabbing her. I found many of her stab wounds came postmortem. After the killer finished with Bonnie, he stormed into the bathroom and stabbed Jacquelyn fourteen times, Heather sixteen times, and Stephanie six times. The latter was particularly savage, for one of the stab wounds cut through her entire neck. Just reading about the nightmare this woman and these innocent little girls endured made me sick. How could anyone commit such horrible acts?

  The prosecution claimed that Thomas Kimbell committed these crimes during a burglary while intoxicated with cocaine. Kimbell was a slight man, standing five foot three inches tall and weighing only 120 pounds. Everyone in town knew him. He lived at home with his mother, was unemployed, and was known to use cocaine. On the day of the Dryfuse murders, he came into town in the morning, snorted some cocaine at 11:00 a.m., and claimed to have hitchhiked back home around lunchtime. Later that evening, he admitted to taking an old bicycle that did not belong to him. The next day, he checked himself into the Saint Francis Hospital of New Castle out of fear of losing control. The night before, he had hit his mother with an open hand and admitted to having problems with his temper over the previous few days. Police arrested him that night for the stolen bicycle. Witnesses reported seeing him in the vicinity of the Dryfuse house. Police questioned him about the killings, but Kimbell maintained his innocence. With no physical evidence linking him to the crime scene, police let him go.

  Two and a half years later, he was arrested when witnesses came forward saying Kimbell had bragged about killing Bonnie and her little girls. Another two years passed before he was finally tried. Even though the prosecution still did not have any physical evidence linking him to the crime scene or the murders, Thomas Kimbell was convicted on four counts of first-degree murder and sentenced to death. His successful appeal of the verdict bought him a second chance to prove his innocence. That’s when his attorneys contacted me.

  As I dug through the autopsy reports, the witnesses’ testimonies, and the evidence presented at the first trial, I discovered a photograph of the hands of an adult male among the hundreds of photographs connected to the case. The hands showed nail abrasions, along with other abrasions and contusions on his palms, hands, and fingers. Dried blood could be clearly seen beneath his fingernails. When I saw those photographs, I believed I was looking at the hands of the killer. I later learned these were not Thomas Kimbell’s hands, but the hands of Thomas Dryfuse, Bonnie’s husband. He was the first person on the scene. Curiously, Thomas Dryfuse did not immediately call 911 when he allegedly discovered the mutilated bodies of his wife, daughters, and niece. Instead he called his father, who came to the home before any police officers ever arrived.

  Thomas Kimbell’s hands had also been examined immediately after the murders. As luck would have it, by checking himself into a hospital the day after the murders, Kimbell was given a thorough physical examination. Doctors found no evidence of any abrasions or lacerations or any wounds or bruising of any kind, either on his hands or anywhere on his body. I found this very curious, because the crime-scene photos of Bonnie, along with the pattern of her wounds, showed she had fought back hard against her assailant. I also discovered within Thomas Kimbell’s files a comment that indicated he suffered from a form of hemophilia, the bleeding disease. If this was indeed the case, his medical condition made him extra susceptible to massive bruising. If he had been in a fight, he’d be bruised and bloodied. But he was not. To me, this cast doubt on his guilt.

  • • • •

  My first meeting with Thomas Kimbell’s legal team got off to a rocky start. The one attorney on the team who knew me was out of the office and running late. “Just go on to the office and introduce yourself,” he told me over the phone.

  Apparently he forgot to communicate a few details about me to his office staff. I arrived at the downtown Pittsburgh location and took the elevator up to the firm’s floor. “My name is Dr. Bennet Omalu,” I said to the receptionist. “I am here for a meeting.”

  The receptionist looked up at me with an antagonistic expression on her face. “What meeting? I’m not aware of any meeting,” she said.

  “I’m supposed to meet with a team of attorneys,” I said.

  “We don’t have any meetings like that scheduled for today. Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

  “The lead attorney is running late. Perhaps I will just take a seat and wait for him to arrive,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said in a dismissive tone.

  I took a seat in the corner of the reception lobby and waited and waited and waited. From where I sat, I could see several white men in suits sitting in a conference room. They appeared to be waiting for someone. After several minutes, I decided to go into the conference room and introduce myself. “I’m Bennet,” I said. “Dr. Omalu. I am here for a meeting.”

  One of the men looked up with a very disdainful look on his face. “No. There must be another meeting somewhere. Perhaps you should go see the receptionist,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, embarrassed. Rather than speak to the receptionist again, I decided to sit back down in the reception area and wait for the attorney with whom I had spoken before. When I sat down, I glanced over to the receptionist’s desk. She glared at me as if to say, How dare you!

  Ten minutes later, one of the men from the conference room came out and asked the receptionist, “Has the doctor shown up yet?”

  “No, sir,” she said.

  He glanced at his watch, obviously frustrated, and then looked around the empty reception lobby. He looked right past me. “Okay. Let me know when he gets here,” he said as he headed back to the conference room.

  Finally, the lead attorney came running out of the elevator, panting. He came right to me. “Bennet, I am so sorry I’m late,” he said. He led me into the conference room and introduced me to the other lawyers. They were all waiting for a big doctor, one personally recommended by Dr. Cyril Wecht himself, the doctor who was going to rescue their client from death row. They never expected that doctor to look like me. Every face in the room turned bright red, all except mine. I felt sorry for them all. Rather than allow this slight to discourage me, it actually motivated me. Right then, I was determined to outperform their expectations, while also rewarding Dr. Wecht’s faith in me.

  My first meeting with Thomas Kimbell was even more awkward. Based on my hours of research, I had come to the conclusion that Kimbell was indeed innocent. If I believed him to be guilty, I would have told them that as well. To me, three compelling facts told me he could not have committed these crimes. First, the pattern of the murders did not fit the theory proposed by the prosecution. The multiple stab wounds fit the textbook definition of “overkill,” especially the multiple stab and incised wounds that came postmortem. These wounds were excessive and unnecessary, especially if the motive was simply to kill, as would have been the case in a drug deal or burglary gone bad. The trauma pattern did not fit. It was consistent, however, with intrafamily homicide.

  Second, the evidence showed that Bonnie Dryfuse had fought valiantly for her life. She sustained twelve severe defens
e wounds of her left upper extremity, including her palms and fingers. The fact that she did not have any defense wounds on her right side indicated that she had fought her assailant while demobilized, with her upper right extremity pressed on the wall or floor. It is medically or forensically unlikely that a five-foot-three, 120-pound man could pin a five-foot-four, 250-pound woman to the ground while also assaulting her with a knife.

  Finally, if Kimbell had committed this crime and had somehow pinned Bonnie Dryfuse to the ground while savagely attacking her, his hands and body would have been covered with abrasions and contusions. This is especially true since his file stated that he had a form of hemophilia. If he did indeed have hemophilia, then his bruises would have been unmistakable. But his medical examination the day after the killings showed absolutely no evidence of bruising or abrasions. The lack of contusions and abrasions convinced me that it was impossible for him to have committed these crimes.

  To prove my hypothesis scientifically, I had to draw blood from him and have it tested. That is why I went to see him in jail. His attorney had gained a judge’s permission to draw his blood. One of his lead attorneys with whom I had been working went with me to the jail. The two of us went into a visiting area and waited for a guard to bring Thomas Kimbell in to us. As soon as Kimbell laid eyes on me, he turned to his lawyer and said very loudly, “I thought I asked you to find me a guy who knew what he was doing, the best in the field, and you bring me a black man?”