Excellent—exactly as we rehearsed. Of course we haven't spoken to a soul at the U.S. Embassy.
"Certainly, certainly." Weems is re-reading the report with renewed urgency, in the event it requires expurgating on the stroll to the copy machine. Rising slowly (and still reading), he says, "I'll be right back, Ms. Thrush. Give me a moment, please."
As soon as he departs, I signal Janet with a congratulatory wink. Upon the young sergeant's return, she accepts the Xeroxed police report and reads through it. Weems and I share the uneasy silence.
When Janet finishes, she folds the document and slips it into her handbag. Tearfully she stands and excuses herself. This is no act.
I wait a few moments before saying to Weems: "She's having a tough time accepting this."
"Yes, I can understand."
"You're confident it was an accident?"
He nods with grave assuredness. "We took statements from both witnesses, Mrs. Stomarti and a Mr. Burns, I believe it was. The details matched up," Weems says. "I'm afraid her brother got disoriented underwater and couldn't make it back to the boat. This sort of thing happens too often, believe me—with experienced divers, as well. You'd be surprised."
"Do you find it odd that Mr. Stomarti didn't ditch his tank and try to swim to the surface?"
Weems leans back in the chair. Stiffly he says, "Not really, Mr. Tagger. Some people wait too long. Others panic. These tragedies seldom reflect a clarity of thought." The sergeant's suddenly chilly monotone signals he is done with me.
Standing, I thank him for his courtesy. "By the way, who interviewed Mrs. Stomarti?"
"I did, sir."
"On the boat?"
"Yes, but later. After they docked at Chub."
"She happen to say anything about a premonition she had that morning? Did she mention begging her husband not to dive on the plane wreck?"
Weems shakes his head skeptically. "No, she didn't. I'm quite sure I would have remembered."
"She said nothing about Mr. Stomarti being sick?"
Weems looks intrigued. "Sick how?"
"Food poisoning," I say. "Fish chowder."
Chuckling, Weems rises. "No, sir. Where did you hear that?"
"What's so funny?"
"That's what Mrs. Stomarti was having for dinner while I interviewed her on the boat," he says. "Fish chowder. She even offered me a bowl."
We've got two hours to kill until Dr. Winston Sawyer will see us, so Janet and I order rum drinks and grouper sandwiches at an outdoor joint a block off Bay Street. Somehow we end up talking about death, a subject on which we hold vastly different philosophies. Janet says she believes in reincarnation, which is how she's held herself together after Jimmy's death. In a nutshell, she believes her brother will come back as a dolphin, or possibly a Labrador retriever.
I, on the other hand, believe death is the end of the ride. Death travels on the caboose.
"What about an afterlife?" Janet inquires.
"Don't hold your breath," I say. "On second thought, do."
"You believe in heaven?"
"From all I've read, it sounds pretty tedious. Frankly, your reincarnation program seems more intriguing—except with my luck I'd come back as Shirley MacLaine."
"Don't make fun."
"Or a mullet."
"What's that?" Janet asks.
"A fish whose only purpose in life is to be devoured by bigger, hungrier fishes."
"Jack, you don't understand. The way it got explained to me, whatever happens on earth, your spirit remains safe and whole. Whether you're a fish or a butterfly or whatever."
I gnaw crossly on a pickle. "All right. Say I get reincarnated as a lobster—"
"Let's not talk about this anymore."
"First day of lobster season, some bubble-blower nails me with a speargun. You're saying I won't feel a thing? Even when they drop my tasty red ass into a pot of boiling water, my spirit will feel A-OK? You honestly believe that?"
"Can we get the check please."
Dr. Winston Sawyer is eighty-seven years old, the same age as Jacques-Yves Cousteau when he died. Says Dr. Sawyer: "I've delivered more babies than any other poysin in all da Bahamas."
Janet and I had braced ourselves for such news. The man's waiting room was packed with pregnant women.
"We're here about my brother," Janet says.
"Ah," Dr. Sawyer nods. He continues nodding. "Indeed, indeed."
Janet glances anxiously at me. I am burning this scene into memory in case I need to write about it later in the newspaper.
"The American who died in the diving accident," I remind Dr. Sawyer. "Last week at Chub Cay?"
"Ah." The doctor smiles warmly. I am impressed by the old man's dentition, which is flawless and luminously white.
I say, "Perhaps we're looking for another Dr. Sawyer."
"I understand your confusion," he says, "but be assured dat I'm fully qualified, fully qualified. The police call me occasionally on such matters, occasionally as I say, due to my long years of experience ... "
I ask why there were no stitches on the body of Janet's brother.
"Stitches." The doctor blinks drowsily.
"As are commonly used in autopsy procedures, yes," I say, "to close the chest cavity."
Janet sighs. The color has seeped from her cheeks. She extracts the lump of chewing gum from her jaw and lobs it into a wastebasket.
Dr. Winston Sawyer raises a bony finger the color of polished teak. "You say autopsy, well, I must tell you, sir—and you, madam—dat dere wasn't need for an autopsy. Dat is why you saw no sutures! I was merely ast to attend by the police, who call me on such matters, due to my experience ... "
The doctor trails off. The upraised finger curls and uncurls.
"Go on," I say. "You were asked by the police ... "
Dr. Sawyer's chin snaps up. "Indeed. I was ast to examine the body, which I did, and subsequently certified the death as accidental. Subsequent, as I say, to a postmortem examination."
"But a visual examination only." I take out my notebook and uncap a pen. Blessedly, Dr. Sawyer fails to notice.
"Understand dat I've had occasion to see many drowning victims over dese many years. This was quite routine," he says, directing his words toward Janet, "not that any such tragedy is 'routine,' madam. But in the medical sense, you understand, it was. Drownings are not uncommon here in the Bahamas, not uncommon. Sadly to say."
Numbly Janet asks, "So, how did Jimmy look?"
Dr. Sawyer grunts helplessly. The sage finger is withdrawn.
"I mean," says Janet, "you see any bruises? Any sorta ... you know, Jack, what's the word?"
"Trauma."
"Yeah. Any trauma?"
"None," the doctor says. "Not a scratch, madam, I give you my woid. Your brother died from drowning. Dere was no need to cut—oh goodness, no need for a complete autopsy procedure."
"You saw nothing at all unusual?" I ask. "You didget him out of his wetsuit at least?"
Dr. Sawyer squints in fierce concentration, moving his mottled lips like a cow. Then he explodes in a jolly boom: "Haw! Now I know what this mon be gettin' at! The tattoo. The snake tattoo! Oh goodness, I never see anyting like datbefore, not in eighty-seven years! Gawd, please!"
The doctor is wheezing, he's laughing so hard. Pretty soon Janet cracks up, too. Then I join in. How could anyone not like the old guy?
"That tattoo, wheeeee, it's like a woik of art," Dr. Sawyer is saying. "Tell you trute, I'm glad I didn't have to mess dat up. Woulda made me plenty sad to do such a ting! Who was the pretty lady with dat snake, if I may ast?"
"Some stripper Jimmy was dating," Janet says, giggling at the memory. "In real life she had a terrible overbite."