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Alongside the investigating detective I supervised the examination of the room, the collection of evidence, and the police photographer. We then moved the body away from the wall. It was still warm and soft—no evidence of stiffness, no coldness. This killing was fresh.
The neck seemed normal but was only connected to a small piece of the back and base of the skull. The inside of the skull—what little was left—was strangely beautiful, glistening white, still moist and warm. There was nothing left of the head. The shock and nausea had receded, and now my training and limited experience took over as I, almost mechanically, finished the evidence collection.
As soon as I had all the information I needed, I jumped into my car and headed away from the scene. I fought to focus my mind on the medical data and to shut out my emotional reactions to the horror. So often in residency we had to stuff our emotions deep into our subconscious—there to lie hidden, not talked about, not explored, not released.
I thought, "This isn't the medical center—this is a little town—now my home. These folks—the victim and the survivors—I don't know them, but in a sense they are my new neighbors." I thought of the woman and her daughter. "Who are they? Will they be OK? Will they—can they—ever recover from witnessing such a horrible tragedy? Will I ever recover?"
My mind was a swirling cacophony of emotions. Suddenly I felt a strange sensation on my cheeks—my own tears. I pulled off the road, turned off the engine, and lay my forehead on the steering wheel. Three years of residency—of learning to be a doctor—with all of its anxiety and failure and repressed emotion erupted out of its repose like the deep waters of a dam that had just burst. I sobbed and sobbed. After a bit, I collected myself and blew my nose. I found myself wondering, "Who am I crying for? Myself, or for this senseless tragedy? Maybe both," I thought.
I heard a noise and turned to see the hearse, followed by Deputy Rogers in his squad car, drive by me and down the hill—probably heading toward Moody Funeral Home. After the cars drove by, my eyes were drawn to what appeared to be, in the half-moon's light, a football field—and beyond it, a cemetery. "What an unusual combination," I thought. In a sense, one represented my past. Then I felt goose bumps on my arms as I realized that the other represented my future. I was between the two. "What would be said," I wondered, "when life ended for me? What would my tombstone say?"
I had no idea what my future in this small town might hold. I again bowed my head onto the steering wheel. "Father in heaven," I prayed silently, haltingly, and confusedly. I continued, "Thank you for the skills and training you have given me. Guide my use of them, and grant me your wisdom. I don't want my life to end like this man's did tonight. I want my life to mean something. I ask you to use me. I ask for your peace."
I felt suddenly refreshed—strangely peaceful. I smiled at the cemetery. "Not just yet," I said silently to the rolling knoll of tombstones. "Not just yet!"
I started the car and headed back toward Hospital Hill. When I arrived at the house, I walked around back and sat down on the wrought-iron bench just outside our back door. The view was stunning—looking up the Deep Creek Valley and into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I filled my lungs with the crisp fall mountain air.
I thought about my decision to move to the Smoky Mountains to practice medicine. "What were you thinking when you accepted a position in this little town? Was it these mountains?" The second thoughts and self-doubt that plague every young physician flooded my mind. "Am I just a do-gooder? Am I trying to be some sort of Brother Teresa? Was I wrong to bring my pregnant wife and young child to these rural mountains? Some of the local doctors don't really want me here anyway. Should I just leave? Have I made the worst mistake of my life?"
There were no answers that night. But as I sat there looking out over the mountains—which had been viewed by several generations of Smoky Mountain physicians before me—a fragile sense of peace came over me. No, I thought. "This is where I'm supposed to be. At least for now."
The wind was picking up, and I began to feel chilled. I got up off the bench to go inside. I scrubbed my hands and face and then crawled into bed. As I wrapped my trembling arms around my sleeping wife, Barb didn't stir. After four years of medical school and three years of residency, she was used to me leaving at night, sometimes several times a night, to respond to emergencies at the hospital. She slept well that night. I did not.
Here I was in a warm and safe home, with a precious daughter and incredible wife. I was in an amazing profession in a stunningly beautiful location. But the self-doubts had come crawling into the house with me. "Was this all a mistake?" I thought again. "One big mistake?"
Chapter Two
THE ARRIVAL
It was October, nearly one year before the murder. I was in the last year of my residency training at Duke University. During my residency, Barb and I had fallen in love with North Carolina and her people. I would finish my training the next summer, and I needed to find a place to ply my trade. We were also looking for a place to raise our family—a special place where we might even spend the rest of our lives.
During residency, we would use our vacation time and the rare long weekend to look around the state for places in which to both live and practice. First, we looked at the Outer Banks and along the beaches of the southeastern part of the state. None of these sites really clicked with us. Then we looked at small towns in the midlands. But after one trip to the Smoky Mountains, we knew that was where our hearts were calling us.
And then, there we were, driving toward the heart of the Smokies for my interview with the board at Swain County Hospital. Barb and I had spent hours and hours reviewing information from each potential practice site—information sent by the local hospital or the town's Chamber of Commerce. The packets would often include appeals from local political officials that extolled the benefits of their locale and why a physician could experience permanent bliss only by choosing to practice in their town or area. Conspicuously absent was any explanation as to why, if their town was so perfect, they were not already overrun with doctors.
(continued on the next page)
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