Death at Charity's Point Read Online Free PDF Page A

because his mother is quite distraught, as you can imagine, I am exploring the possibility of appealing the finding of your inquest.”
    “I understand perfectly. You’re on a fishing expedition.” The doctor smiled. “Don’t blame you at all. It’s always a sad duty for me to find suicide. But I assure you that there is little doubt in this case.”
    “Of course. Still…”
    “I’ll be blunt with you, Mr. Coyne. There is no other reasonable explanation. The presence of the note leaves no question in my mind.”
    “I’d like to see that note,” I said.
    “And you shall. But why don’t you just let me explain the whole thing in my own way, first. Then we’ll look at the note. And then if you still have questions I’ll be happy to answer them.”
    He peered at me over his glasses, his eyebrows arched.
    “That would be fine,” I said.
    “Good.” He hitched himself forward in his chair and glanced up at the ceiling for a moment before he spoke. “I was called on the morning of Friday, May first, by Dr. Berman, the local Medical Examiner. I suppose you understand that in Massachusetts each county district has its own examiner, what the quaint law of the Commonwealth calls a ‘discreet physician.’ They’re not forensic pathologists—not usually pathologists at all, in fact, but simply M.D.’s appointed by the Governor for five-year terms. The police call them in cases of unattended, violent, or suspicious deaths. Their job is to determine the cause and manner of death. I emphasize the word ‘manner,’ Mr. Coyne. It’s not enough to know how a person dies. The circumstances of his death are at least of equal importance.”
    I nodded, feeling very much like a college sophomore sitting at the feet of a distinguished professor.
    His eyes roamed the walls of the tiny office as he spoke in his precise, clipped manner. “By the time I was called in, the police and Dr. Berman had done their jobs. The note had been found, and they had pretty well reconstructed the manner of death. Because the death had been unattended—not to mention violent—a forensic autopsy was required. Dr. Berman is not authorized to perform such autopsies. That is my bailiwick.”
    I leaned forward in my seat and nodded.
    Dr. Clapp stared at me briefly, then shifted his attention to the wall over my left shoulder. “Here’s what happened: On the evening of April 30, George Gresham drove his automobile to a place called North Cove Beach, outside of Manchester. He parked and locked it at the municipal lot there. He was wearing a suit and tie. He walked from the parking lot up to the top of a high bluff that overlooks the ocean. The view is spectacular from there. It’s a popular spot for lovers.” Dr. Clapp permitted himself a wry smile. “Also with jumpers. Nine suicides have been attributed to jumps from Charity’s Point in the last twelve years. Ten, counting Mr. Gresham. Anyway, he climbed out to the tip of Charity’s Point, took off his jacket, folded it, and laid it on the ground. The suicide note was in the inside pocket of the jacket, sealed. Then he leaped to his death. His body was discovered on the beach the next morning by a young lady who was out for her morning jog. Frightful experience for her.”
    “I can imagine,” I murmured.
    “Indeed. Mr. Gresham’s body sustained quite a beating. It did raise some doubt about the specific cause of his death. Until the note was found, in fact, there was considerable doubt about the entire matter.”
    I was finding the discussion—and Dr. Clapp’s clinical tone—a trifle disconcerting. I wanted a cigarette. But the black lung on Dr. Clapp’s desk seemed to be staring at me.
    “When I arrived, unfortunately, the body had been removed to a local funeral home,” he continued. “I performed the autopsy there. Not ideal conditions, but that’s how our system works. Although by then the problem was really academic.”
    “Academic?”
    “A body washed up on the beach, a