by Jackie Lynn
“Lawrence Franklin,” I added. “He was found in the river.”
The doctor didn’t say anything. He appeared to be thinking. He put down the papers in his hand and rolled his chair slightly away from his desk.
“The drowning victim was kin to you?” he asked, displaying a certain amount of surprise that we could be related. Certainly, he remembered the victim was African-American.
“Distantly,” I answered, using the same word I had used with the ambulance attendant.
He nodded suspiciously.
“I was just wondering if you concluded whether the drowning was antemortem or postmortem.”
I knew it was hard to tell such a thing about a drowning victim and I was sure he wouldn’t reveal too much information. I knew the reports were incomplete and that medical personnel are very tight-lipped when it comes to telling family members anything about a deceased relative.
He didn’t speak at first. He was studying me.
“I didn’t do an autopsy,” he answered.
“That’s fine. I just thought maybe there were things you could tell about the body.”
I shifted my weight from right to left. He obviously was not going to ask me to sit down.
He sighed, appearing to consider whether or not he should say anything about the case. He folded his arms across his chest.
“There was evidence of anserine cutis and skin maceration. A little foam in the airways, some presence of white sand. Several abrasions, bruising, but that, of course, doesn’t tell us anything. There was apparent hemorrhaging in the neck muscles, a large contusion on the back of the head.”
“And no way really to know if any of those injuries happened before he died or after?” I asked, already sure of the answer, but thinking now about the possibility that someone could have hit him on the head and then threw him in the water.
“No, not really.” He reached up and removed his glasses, holding them in his right hand.
“The hemorrhage into the neck musculature could have been caused by violent movement during submersion. And any hemorrhage that is leached out of tissues due to submersion creates difficulty in the determination of the time of the injury. He could have been struck after being in the water by a barge or some other vessel.”
He set his glasses on the desk and wiped his eyes.
“And the river is full of rocks. He could have hit several as he went downriver. I’m sure you know how fast it moves.”
I thought about what he was saying. It was appearing to be more and more difficult that I was going to be able to find out if Mr. Franklin did commit suicide.
He stopped for a second, appeared to be thinking out loud. “In fact, it was surprising to me that he only got as far as he did.”
“What?” I asked, not sure of what he had just said.
“The victim is from West Memphis, isn’t he?”
I nodded.
“Did they find his car or shoes or anything near where he went in?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know.”
He looked at me surprised, as if I should have that information. He cleared his throat.
“Generally, people who commit suicide by drowning go into the water at a familiar place or at least a place they’ve been to before. They usually fold their clothes, leave their belongings near where they enter.”
His remark stumped me.
“Makes sense,” I answered, thinking that it was logical that if the victim was going to kill himself that he would have gone into the river at a known place. I remembered Clara’s story about seeing him near the camping site and I wondered if Deputy Fisk had searched the area and if he had found anything of Mr. Franklin’s.
“Even if he went in near the bridges, north of town, three days in the river, and he only got a mile down?” The doctor started to relax a little, seemed more willing to discuss his ideas and findings.
“Maybe he got hung up on something?” I said, trying to follow the direction of his thinking, offer suggestions to what might have happened.
“Could be. There’s stuff in there that could have held him down.”
He seemed to think about what he was saying. Then he added, “But with all these storms, that river has been moving pretty fast.”
I paused before asking anything else. I was trying to grasp his line of thinking.
“So, I’m confused,” I said, because I was. “You think he wasn’t in the water for three days?”
“No, I’m not saying that. His body was very decomposed. He had been in some water for three days. I just question whether or not it was in the Mississippi.”
I thought for a minute. “Because of where they found him and where you think he went in?” I considered the question. It was an interesting observation.
“Is there any way to tell? I mean, if he drowned in some other place, would there be some way to tell that it wasn’t in the river?”
“Perhaps,” he answered, maintaining a tone of interest.
“The river would have a particular content that we could find in his airways, his lungs, even in his bloodstream.” He slowed down his pace to explain.
“There are very specific diatoms in the Mississippi. If he drowned in the river, he would have breathed in those organisms that would have entered his respiratory passages along with the air.”
He stopped, deciding to give me a full description of his deliberations.
“When a person drowns, they make violent efforts to breathe. Due to this violence some of the alveoli of the lungs rupture, allowing the diatoms in the water source to enter the blood system. If he drowned in the Mississippi, then those diatoms would not just be in his airways, but also in his blood.”
“But what if he didn’t drown in the Mississippi, what if he didn’t drown anywhere?” I asked.
“Then there could still be diatoms in his bloodstream. It’s not a conclusive test,” he replied, registering a bit of disappointment. “We can have diatoms in our blood for several reasons. And much of the findings that seem consistent with drowning can actually occur with other causes of death. Like the foam in the airways that can come from heart failure or drug overdose.”
“So, what you’re saying is that you are mostly able to prove if he drowned in the Mississippi, but not really able to prove that he didn’t?” I sat down in the chair across from his desk even though he did not offer it to me.
“Right. If he has injuries consistent with drowning, like overinflated lungs, large quantities of water in his stomach, foam, silt or dirt under his fingernails from grasping at the bottom of the river, and the same diatoms in his system that match the diatoms in the Mississippi, then it can be concluded that he drowned in the Mississippi River. If there are diatoms present from another source, then maybe you could prove that he drowned somewhere else, but it would depend on the diatoms and how many places they can be found.”
I shook my head. It was a lot of information.
“But what if there are no diatoms in his system?” I asked. “Or what if there are diatoms that are found in the tap water of West Memphis, the same diatoms that you have in your system?”
He smiled, leaning back. “So, now you see why drowning is so difficult to prove.” He folded his hands across his lap and continued. “Mr. Franklin could have died in the Mississippi River and gotten hung up on an old piece of wreckage below the surface or on rocks, only drifting a short ways before his body was recovered. He could have accidentally fallen in the water, bumped his head, and died.” He hesitated, thinking of possibilities.
“He could have gone in the water for a little swim, gotten in trouble, panicked, and drowned. He could have weighted himself down or taken some medication to slow any reaction and taken his own life by drowning. He could have been whacked on the head, thrown in the water, and died. Or he could have had all this happen somewhere else and then had his body thrown in the river, covering up everything.”
I sank back in the chair, trying to take in all of these ideas,
recognizing the brick walls we were coming to. There could be lots of plausible explanations for Mr. Franklin’s death. And suicide, if what the deputy had said about his psychological state before the death was accurate, was certainly a strong one. I chewed on the inside of my lip. We both sat quietly for a few minutes. Then I remembered something that he said.
“What about the white sand?” I asked.
He interlaced his fingers, sliding his hands behind his head. The wrinkles across his forehead tightened. He didn’t appear to remember.
“You said there was white sand in his airways,” I reminded him.
“Yes, that’s right.” He dropped his hands again in his lap. His eyes lit up.
“Is there white sand in the Mississippi?”
He picked up his pen and tapped it against the desktop.
“I don’t think there is,” he answered, enjoying the idea of solving a mystery. “It’s known for the mud, the dark brown mud.” He held the tip of the pen against his cheek.
“But there’s a lot about that river we don’t know,” he added. “We’d need to look at it and then compare it to what we find in that region of the Mississippi. It’s possible the sand did come from there.”
“But it’s also possible that it didn’t,” I added, feeling very much like a detective.
“Did you do the toxicological screens?” I asked, knowing that this would present the most conclusive information.
“No,” he answered, putting his glasses back on and placing the pen on the desk next to his papers. He took in a deep breath as if the story was now coming to an abrupt end.
“A deputy came in and said the sheriff ordered them to take the body to Nashville General Hospital. That he wanted a complete autopsy.”
“Sheriff Montgomery?”
“The one and only,” he replied, with a certain tone of agitation.
“Is that usual?” I asked, thinking the sheriff sure was active in this death and wondering what kind of relationship the doctor had with the lawman.
“Nothing that the sheriff does is usual,” he answered. “But to answer your question, no.”
He checked his watch. “Most of our medical autopsies are done at the hospital at West Memphis or over here at one of the bigger facilities. If it’s a state or federal criminal investigation, they’ll send the body to the university hospital in Little Rock.”
He scratched his chin and studied my expression.
“I thought it was odd that they sent him to Nashville too, but I figured maybe it was the family’s request.”
He looked at me as if I had been designated to speak for the Franklins.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think anybody made that request.” I tried to sound like I knew the family’s wishes.
“Then you’ll have to ask the sheriff or the coroner in Nashville. All we have on our records is dead on arrival: death consistent with drowning. Awaiting medical examiner’s report.”
I stood up from my chair. “Dr. Lehman, I really appreciate all you shared with me today.”
I reached out my hand. He stood up from his desk and shook it.
“I just thought of one more thing,” I said.
He placed his hands on his desk, bent slightly at the waist, and leaned in my direction.
“Once they brought Mr. Franklin in, do you remember what they did with his suit jacket?” I asked. I was still considering that there might be a clue in his pocket, the red thing that Clara saw or something else he had hidden.
He thought for a minute. “A suit jacket?” he replied in the form of a question.
“Yes, his jacket?” I answered, remembering what the ambulance attendant had said.
“I don’t remember there being a suit jacket,” he answered. “But, of course, that’s not out of the ordinary, if a body stays in that river for three days, there’s probably no way a jacket would stay on. The current was just too strong for that.”
I was suddenly unsure of the information that I had. I was confident that I had seen a jacket on the dead man, but then I recalled that Cliff, the ambulance attendant, had also seemed uncertain about the garment when I asked him about it.
I paused, considering the pathologist’s reply. I decided not to comment.
“Well, thank you again, Doctor. This has been most helpful.”
“Best of luck, Ms. Franklin,” he said, calling attention to the last name. I even thought he winked.
I smiled, nodded, and walked out the door, shutting it behind me.
I was full of questions as I made my way to the cafeteria to pick up something for lunch. Did Mr. Franklin commit suicide? If he did take his own life, why did he do it? Did Clara really see him down on the river before he disappeared? Why did they take his body to Nashville? Why did the sheriff seem so interested in everything about this death? Why did what he was wearing change from the banks where he was found to the hospital where Dr. Lehman examined him?
And then, of course there was the biggest question of all, why did I care? I quickly ate a sandwich and a salad and then took the elevator up to the floor where Ms. Lou Ellen had been assigned. I followed the hallway until I came to her room. The door was open and I could see that she was in the bed and that Mary, Rhonda, and Lucas were standing around her.
They were holding hands, their heads bowed. And though I didn’t see or hear anyone speaking, I presumed that just as they had been doing in the office when I first met them, that they were once again praying. And as I watched them gathered in the room of their loved one, as I sensed their deep concern and common regard, I felt something, something old and sad, deep, and almost forgotten.
I closed my eyes, letting the feeling wash across me as I sorted through the details of the sudden sorrow.
It had been a long time since I had borne the burden of family. I had never had much of an attachment to Rip’s people. They were always cold and distant toward me. My dad and I quit being important to each other long ago, and as much as I loved my brother and his wife and children, I never felt at ease with them. It seemed that in our own ways, he and I were trying to escape our childhood memories and when we were together, when we found that shared history in the eyes and tendencies of each other, we were suddenly faced with the stories we were trying to forget. We could never be comfortable in each other’s company.
I opened my eyes and watched Mary and Lucas and Rhonda, tears falling down their faces; I saw Ms. Lou Ellen glance up in her postanesthesia state and smile. It was weak, hardly noticeable, but I saw it and I knew that she understood that her child, her child’s husband, and her friend, had gathered themselves around her, that they would not let her face her pain alone.
Even in her drowsiness, her surgical confusion, she recognized the circle of grace she was in and she smiled. And I knew that I longed to be a part of that kind of circle, too, longed to be connected, longed to be responsible, longed to know that kind of love. And when I realized that loosed and unbound longing, that old and familiar longing, I also realized why I was suddenly playing investigator with the coroner, why I had so many questions for everybody about Lawrence Franklin’s demise, why I was so concerned about the death of a man I didn’t know.
It was all related to what I was witnessing in that hospital room, linked to what I experienced when I landed at Shady Grove, tied to what I felt at the banks of the Mississippi River, and connected to my delight in finding love. It was the reason I was drawn to a man who shared my mother’s last name, a man who haunted me with his secrets.
A dead undertaker, two ex-convicts, a widowed refugee, a card-playing southern belle, the muddy waters of a burdened winding river, and a man named Tom Sawyer. I didn’t know everything I wanted to know about them. I didn’t completely trust them, but regardless of what I did and didn’t know, I was sure of one thing: I wanted to belong.
I walked into the hospital room, made my way beside the bed, and took the hand of Mary as the three of them continued to pray in silence. I glanced down at Ms. Lou Ellen who ha
d closed her eyes, the smile still spread across her face; I watched a calm, easy nod of approval from her when I joined the circle.
It was crazy, my being here, my thoughts of being a part of this family. It was crazy, my interest in a dead man’s dying. It was absurd to fall in love at such a late date in my life and ridiculous to feel settled at a campground.
And yet, as crazy as it was, I welcomed it. I bathed in it. I even prayed over it. Three states over and miles and miles away from everything familiar, holding hands with a woman I had just met, leaning over the bed of a woman I hardly knew, I said a word of thanks. I was finding my way home.
FOURTEEN
Rhonda said that she wanted to stay at the hospital until her mother became more alert. Mary needed to get back to the campground. Lucas went home to get some things for his wife and mother-in-law, and I said that I would come after dinner and stay. I knew that the third shift and the first night after surgery were when my nursing skills would mean the most.
Tom came to get me once Lucas and Mary returned to the campground. He walked into the hospital room, and just seeing him again made me blush. Rhonda raised an eyebrow. By that time, Lucas was the only one who hadn’t seen us together and figured things out. As much as a surprise as my falling in love felt to me, it seemed as if it had been anticipated and discussed by everyone else who knew us.
Instead of driving me straight back to Shady Grove, I asked Tom if he would take me by St. Jude’s Hospital. I knew it was close by Baptist Hospital and I also knew that it was the day that Clara was having her marrow harvested. I explained the situation to him, how I had become attached to the little girl and her family and how I figured that since we were in town, I could look in on them and see how things were going.
Tom agreed and dropped me off at the front steps, found a parking place, and said that he would stay downstairs while I searched for Clara’s room number and then spent some time with her and the family. He said that he didn’t mind waiting for me and that he would enjoy reading the Memphis paper and having a cup of coffee in the coffee shop located in the lobby. He brushed his fingers lightly across my cheek before he walked away. I felt them there while he moved on ahead, felt the kindness long after he had disappeared in the crowd.