“I was in my house,” the man continued. “I was gettin’ my dinner ready. I done put in a hard day of work. I didn’t harm no one. Never would.”
Now he was giving me more information than I needed or had asked for — another sign I’d observed with people who are lying.
I turned to the sheriff with my conclusion. “I’d recommend you place this man under arrest for murder and attempted murder. And I’d suggest you call Judge Leatherwood and get a search warrant for his house and property.”
The eyes of the sheriff, the deputies, and the EMTs widened perceptibly, as though they all thought I was half crazy. Nevertheless, I was sure that a murderer was standing in front of us.
chapter three
HEARTS OF DARKNESS
I pulled into the hospital parking lot and noticed very few cars, as was usually the case in the evening. Swain County Hospital had only forty beds.
As I walked into the ER, Louise looked up. She had been the ER nurse for a long time. She ran it like a general running a small army. And she considered each of the local doctors to serve directly under her command. Without looking up, she commented, “Good evening, Dr. Holmes.”
I smiled. “Dr. Holmes?”
“You know, Sherlock Holmes — that famous detective. Would you rather I call you Dr. Columbo?”
“Larimore’s fine, Louie.” Ever since I had gotten to know her and appreciate her experience and wisdom — and, of course, to learn that the ER was her ER — I’d affectionately call her Louie, but only in private. To have done so publicly would have been, she had assured me on many occasions, dangerous to my health. “Where’s Dr. Pyeritz?” I asked.
“I think he’s down at the nurses’ station. He transferred that woman to ICU.”
“Is she OK?”
“Physically, yes, but emotionally she’s a wreck. She still has a bad case of amnesia. When Dr. Pyeritz told her about her husband, she just came apart at the seams. So he had me give her another sedative.”
“Thanks, Louie.”
I walked down the hall to the nurses’ station, where I found Rick writing on the patient’s chart.
“How’s your patient, Doctor?”
Rick looked up from the chart. “Oh hey, partner.” He signed his name and then closed the chart. “She’s stable.”
“Good to hear. Their house was a real mess.”
“So was she. I really had to work hard to get her sewed up. The lacerations on her forearm were deep and into the muscle. I had to cauterize bleeders and close the muscle, the fascia, and the sub-q. Then I stapled the skin closed. Thankfully, the chest wounds were fairly superficial. Nevertheless, putting Humpty together again took me awhile. Oh, and thanks for the help, Walt.”
“Glad to help, partner. It’s not like I don’t owe you a bunch of favors, eh?”
Rick feigned being serious as he teased, “And don’t you forget it!”
I chuckled with him as he handed the chart to the nurse, who asked, “Dr. Pyeritz, are you going home?”
“No, he’s not,” I replied.
Rick looked surprised. “I’m not?”
“Nope. Barb’s fixing dinner, and you know there’s always room for one more.”
Rick smiled. “That sounds too good to turn down.”
As we walked down the hall, Rick commented, “Louise said you think the woman and her husband were attacked by someone else.”
“I’m sure of it.”
“I was suspicious when I saw the cuts on the dorsal portion of her left forearm,” Rick said. “To me they looked much more like defensive wounds than self-inflicted lacerations.”
“I agree, Rick. In fact, her husband had the same type of wounds on his arms. And he had a couple of wounds on the top of his shoulder. When I saw that, it made me believe that the person who was trying to stab him must have been at least as tall as him, and probably taller. I’m guessing the husband was about six feet tall. The deputies said his wife was closer to five feet.”
“That’s right. She’s tiny.”
“The man who worked on their farm is about six foot four. He’s been arrested as a suspect.”
We walked out of the hospital, crossed the street, and walked up the driveway toward my house as I continued my story. “Another key clue was the orientation of the lacerations on the man’s shoulder, chest, and arm. They could only have been made by a right-handed person holding the knife in his hand, pointed down, and then stabbing repeatedly. All the slashes went from right to left, up to down. A left-handed attacker would have created the opposite pattern. Louise told me your patient was left-handed, and I found out the handyman is right-handed.”
“That’s not enough to convict him, Walt.”
We walked into the house. “Barb, look at what the cat drug home! Got enough to feed him?”
Barb came into the kitchen from the living room. “Hey, honey. Hi, Rick!”
“Evening, Barb!” Rick exclaimed as he gave Barb a hug.
Then two voices from the living room exclaimed, “Uncle Rick!” Six-year-old Kate and three-year-old Scott ran from the living room as Rick leaned over to hug both of them.
“OK! All you guys head off to the living room,” Barb scolded. “I need some room in here. Dinner will be ready in a bit.”
We walked to the living room and sat down.
“So, can you tell me more about your theory?” Rick asked. “If I took what you’ve told me so far and a dollar to Doc John at Super Swain Drugs, I could get a hot cup of coffee.”
I laughed. “You’re right, Rick. But the handyman made a couple of mistakes. First, I think he’s the one who called 911.”
“What makes you think that?”
“When I examined the phone, there was a bloody handprint on it. Someone had tried to wipe it off, but I could still see the marks. It was clearly the handprint of someone with a big hand — bigger than mine, in fact. And it was a right hand. That fact alone likely eliminates the wife as a suspect. She’s left-handed, and she only had blood on her left hand. And when I questioned the handyman, it was obvious he had changed clothes and washed his hands. But he had forgotten to clean under his fingernails. I could see some dark matter packed under the nails of his right hand. The fingernails on his left hand were dirty too, but far less so. My guess is the crime lab’s going to find either the husband’s or wife’s blood on that right hand.”
“Good observations, Walt.”
“Also,” I continued, “I asked the guy, point-blank, if he had stabbed them.”
“What’d he say?”
“He told me he did.”
“He confessed?”
“Not verbally, but with his gestures. In fact, every nonverbal signal said yes, yes, yes! As I was getting ready to leave the farm, the crime scene van drove up. I walked in with the investigators and explained my theory. I think they were persuaded, Rick, but I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Well, partner, sounds like you did some pretty good work.”
“Rick, I had the easy job. Your job was a lot more critical than mine. And from the looks of it, you and your patient have a lot of work ahead of you.”
“I think you’re right. I’ll bet the recovery of her heart and mind is going to be a lot slower than the healing of her body. Anyway, I need to call Pastor Hicks and see if he’s willing to come up to the hospital and provide her with some counsel. I think she’s going to need some psychological and pastoral support.”
Ken Hicks was the kind and jovial pastor of the Bryson City Presbyterian Church, where Rick and I attended. He had been in town only a few months longer than we had — and like us, this was his first work assignment after training (in our case, family medicine residency; in his case, seminary). From the commencement of our practice, Ken always made himself available to provide spiritual consults for our patients in the hospital who needed time with a pastoral professional.
“Ken should be a real help,” I commented. “Sounds like a good plan, partner.”
Just then Barb called from the kitchen. “OK, everyone! Time for supper!”
After the kids were in bed, I slipped on my coat and slipped out the back door. Since moving into the hospital-owned house, I had enjoyed spending quiet times on the park bench just outside our back door. The view over the Deep Creek Valley and the heart of the Smoky Mountains was captivating and always inspirational — day or night, good weather or bad. The view changed from season to season, year to year, and sometimes moment to moment. This was a secluded, secret, silent place where I could feel the wind, watch the clouds, and listen to my heart. On this bench I could regain calmness in my soul and listen for that small, gentle voice that would often speak to my spirit.
The quiet of the dusk enveloped me as my eyes slowly became accustomed to the dark. I smiled to myself as I anticipated one of my favorite experiences on the bench. It was almost as though the lights of the universe were gradually illuminated and then the intensity of their radiance slowly dialed up. I was always enthralled to see the stars come alive, followed soon thereafter by the Milky Way galaxy in the vast dim distance. To see the evening skies fully illumined in the middle of a dark rural area while looking out from the top of a crest or mountain is to feel like you’re peering into the very center of the cosmos. Staring into the farthest reaches of what seemed to be an endless expanse of the heavens somehow allowed me to see more deeply and clearly into my own spirit, to begin to understand my deepest thoughts, and to uncover unexplored emotions and feelings in the depths of my heart. Sometimes this process was pleasant; other times I found it painful. Always, however, it was profoundly profitable.
On this particular evening, I was experiencing mixed sentiments about the events of the day. On one hand, I was thankful for the observation skills that I had been taught in residency and that had been honed during my early years as a family physician and medical examiner in this small rural hamlet. And I was pleased with the fact that I was certain the murderer had been apprehended; of course, I’d have to wait for the crime scene technicians to evaluate the evidence, but I was convinced that the data collected, combined with the results of the autopsy, would prove my theory.
Nevertheless, my satisfaction with breaking this — or any other — murder case was tempered by the way it exposed the finality and inhumanity of the slaughter of one human by another. Whenever a life was suddenly snuffed out, I was faced with more empirical evidence of the inherent evil rooted in the heart of humankind. Many of my colleagues believe that humankind is inherently good — that virtue and nobility are at the core of each person unless corrupted by external forces. However, I saw the world a bit differently. I had come to believe, both from the wisdom revealed in the ancient books of the Bible and from my experience as a medical examiner, that the prophet Jeremiah’s conclusion is irrefutably true: “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?”
I could remember back to my first year in college, before I knew what it meant to have a personal relationship with God. In those days my heart often seemed to be shrouded in darkness and despair. Every time I tried to change myself — to become better in this or that way — I failed. I simply could not transform myself from the self-centered, self-promoting, and self-serving man I often loathed. Bouts of depression became more frequent.
In those lonely and bleak times, I came across some guys who seemed to bubble over with enthusiasm and happiness. Their explanation was that these positive changes in their lives had come from a decision — a choice — to give their lives to God. To me, their rationalization of how their lives had changed was ludicrous. What an incredibly weird way of dealing with things! I remember thinking.
But as I watched them over time, I was impressed by two things. First, their testimonies seemed authentic, and the characteristics their lives demonstrated seemed genuine. Second, my life seemed to be a wreck waiting to happen. As hard as I tried to change myself — to become a better person — I simply could not. Fits of anger would erupt with minimal provocation. I became more aware of my selfishness and, if truth be told, my deep disappointment with life. The more goals I accomplished and the more platitudes I received, the larger the empty hole in my soul seemed to become.
A good friend named Rich explained to me that every person must decide whether to run his or her own life, or whether to simply invite their Creator to come in and serve as their guide — their navigator, their pilot, their coach, if you will. During my sophomore year at Louisiana State University, I made a decision to turn over my life to my Creator, the architect and author of the universe itself who had also made and designed me.
One of the most gratifying results of the embryonic beginning of my spiritual journey with God was that it manifested itself in a number of noticeable changes in my character. Where I had tried so hard to change myself and had so miserably failed, his Spirit living in me succeeded. The most poignant example I can recall was with regard to my feelings toward men and women of other races. The environment in which I and my brothers were raised was blatantly racist, and everything in that culture supported and fostered bigotry and intolerance — even hatred. However, not very long after awakening to my spiritual life, I had a remarkable experience.
I was the first team scrum half on LSU’s varsity rugby team and was pleased that the team was racially homogenous — at least until Alvin made the team. He was a magnificent athlete, but his African-American heritage doomed him not only to my wrath but to the ire of several of my team members as well. I worked as hard as I could to make his life miserable. My disgust and contempt for him was palpable.
Then my new spiritual life began. I remember the excitement of beginning to experience what the apostle Paul called the fruit of a life changed by God: “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.” To my shock, this fruit manifested itself completely unexpectedly one day at rugby practice. I remember looking over at Alvin and feeling both an admiration for and appreciation of him. These thoughts stopped me in my tracks. This impression was utterly uncharacteristic of me. My “old man” hated this black man; and yet, in an instant, it seemed that a “new man” loved him. I was stunned, and at that moment I knew, for sure, that my heart had been changed. The dark cell in which I had been imprisoned by my own evil heart had been unlocked and opened by Someone who had paid the price for my freedom — Someone who brought light into a heart that knew no good.
In those early days of my spiritual expedition, I memorized a verse penned by the ancient prophet Ezekiel, and it came back to me now as I sat on my favorite bench overlooking Deep Creek Valley: “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws.” I knew that apart from a divinely directed metamorphosis, my heart and the heart of the handyman were absolutely no different.
That night my heart overflowed with gratitude for my Creator — for how he had begun, during my college days, to change my heart, and for how he had shone ever-brighter beams of light into my heart’s darkest recesses, for how the lantern he had lit nearly a decade before still shone. One of the evidences of that illumination became clearer to me that evening — just like the stars in the sky. I found my heart aching for a man I had only just met — a man likely to go on trial for his life because he had stolen the life of another man and polluted, if not stripped away, the future of that man’s wife.
I bowed my head and prayed for the handyman — that even in his dark, dank jail cell his heart might someday be freed, that even in his incarceration he might be unshackled, and that in his darkness a light might begin to dawn.
chapter four
SATAN AND BACON
It was Saturday morning and I had risen early, fixed myself a cup of coffee, and settled into my favorite armchair to read the Bible. I called the old overstuffed chair my “quiet time chair” — while Barb q
uite heartlessly referred to it as a “hunk of junk.” Nevertheless, the longer I practiced as a family doctor, the more I felt the need for the advice and guidance of the Great Physician. My morning time with him had become a necessity for me — a source of daily comfort and guidance.
“Daddy?” said a little voice coming from the kitchen.
I heard the shuffling of Kate’s feet as she walked across the kitchen floor.
“In the living room, sweetheart,” I called out to her.
As she walked in, I felt myself smiling like a Cheshire cat. After all, my girl was walking — nearly normally! And without any of the clunky braces she had worn for several years. Her surgery at Duke Medical Center, the subsequent weeks in a full leg cast, and the months of laborious physical therapy were paying off handsomely.
When Kate was first diagnosed with cerebral palsy at six months of age, the pediatric neurologist predicted she would never walk or talk. Now she could do both — and quite well. She ran over to me, and I scooped her onto my lap.
“What’s on your mind, precious?” I inquired.
“Breakfast!” she exclaimed.
I smiled. “How about a breakfast date? Just you and me!”
Kate squealed. “Super Swain’s?”
“You bet. Let’s go!”
After dressing quickly and quietly, we walked toward our yellow Toyota while Barb and Scott slumbered. We headed out the driveway and down the backside of Hospital Hill toward Everett Street — one of the two main thoroughfares in Bryson City.
Our town was proud of its two traffic lights, two elevators — one in the Federal Building and the other in the hospital — two bridges across the Tuckaseigee River, and, most recently, our first two national chain fast-food establishments — a Pizza Hut and a Hardees hamburger joint. But I, for one, was always more comfortable supporting our local restaurants. Besides the three most famous ones in town — the Fryemont Inn, the Hemlock Inn, and the FreyRandolph House — our family enjoyed Sneed’s Restaurant, Na-ber’s Drive-In, Family Restaurant, and J. J.’s Ice Cream Shoppe. But more times than not, when we weren’t at home for breakfast or lunch, we’d be at the grill run by Becky Mattox at Super Swain Drugs.
Bryson City Secrets: Even More Tales of a Small-Town Doctor in the Smoky Mountains Page 3
