Heart of the Prairie

I took off the week after the funeral, and all my appointments seemed magically to be rescheduled. That was fortunate because I was in no condition to deal with patients. But I wasn't idle. I learned that death brings an unexpectedly long list of details which must be attended to, and I applied myself to them diligently. Every item was excruciatingly painful, but I wanted to eliminate these razor-sharp reminders as quickly as possible so they wouldn't keep torturing me.

One of the last items on my list was a visit to the Sheriff's office. I could tell George wasn't happy to see me, but he motioned me to the chair across from his desk. "Dr. Robertson -- Mark -- are you sure you want to go through all this? The more details you know, the harder it's going to be on you."

"Thank you, George, but I have to find out what happened. I won't be able to heal until I know."

He shifted in his chair uncomfortably and steepled his hands together. "Like I told you, it's impossible to know exactly what happened. We're guessing that she must have dozed off at the wheel because the road where the accident happened is straight and level. Her car crossed the center line and never slowed down. She never hit the brakes because here were no skid marks on the highway at all. We estimate that they were both going about 65 miles per hour."

I shuddered -- the kinetic energy of such a collision would have been catastrophic.

"Go on," I said. "What about Bonnie?"

He wouldn't look up from his papers. "She had her seatbelt on and the airbag deployed just like it was supposed to. But at the speed they were going, the passenger area was partially crushed and she was pinned in the wreckage."

I tried desperately not to think about what that must have looked like: my beautiful wife broken like a bird that had flown into a plate glass window. But I had to know.

"So she was pinned in the car with multiple injuries. Do we know what killed her? Was it shock?" I asked in a whisper.

George's head sank even lower. "Somehow during the wreck her left arm was severed. She bled out, Doc." He paused. "If it helps any, it must have been pretty quick."

Unbidden, a diagram from my anatomy class came to mind, and I could see the brachial artery branching off from the carotid and running down the arm. "No," I thought, "it wouldn't have taken long at all."

"What about the other vehicle?" I asked.

"It was a Dodge pick-up truck. The driver must have died instantly; he wasn't wearing a seat belt."

"Who was he?" I asked.

"His name was Taylor Johnson. He was a rancher from over in Noble County east of here. His wife said he'd been hunting for white-tails in the Black Kettle Wildlife Management Area. He must have been driving home when the accident happened."

I shook my head. The name meant nothing to me.

"One last thing, George," I said. "I'd like to see the autopsy report."

"Doc, are you sure?"

"Please," I said. "I'm a doctor. It's the only way I can get closure."

He stood up and went to an old metal filing cabinet. Automation hadn't made many inroads in this part of Oklahoma.

"It's just a partial, Doc," he explained. "There wasn't much question about the cause of death."

I looked at the report. George was right: the coroner had only done a visual on the body. The loss of the left arm was there, as I'd expected. But it hurt to learn about the multiple broken ribs and cracked sternum. Although the report didn't mention them, I knew without question that she had to have suffered massive internal injuries. Then there was the fractured cranium. The broken femurs and cracked pelvis were incidental. All in all, there were half a dozen potentially fatal wounds. But the severed brachial artery guaranteed that by the time the volunteer EMT reached her she was already gone.

Strangely, I felt a little better after reading the report. I thought it was highly likely that she'd been knocked unconscious by the blow to her skull and had bled out quickly while she was unconscious. If that was true, then she hadn't suffered at all. That was a small blessing. The other comfort was the knowledge that I could have done nothing for her even if I could have gotten to the wreck site. I doubt she would have survived if she'd had the accident in front of a major metropolitan hospital.

I returned the sheet to George and went home. In a strange way, the autopsy report gave me a greater sense of closure than her funeral.

The next week I started back to work. There was nothing more I could do for Bonnie, so I felt it was time for me to start trying to do something for the living.

My schedule was open late on Thursday afternoon, so I was startled when my nurse came to tell me that a Hillary Johnson was in the waiting room and wanted to see me. A quick check of our files showed that she hadn't been in before, so I pulled out a clean form in readiness to examine her.

A rather attractive woman about my age entered the office. Although I motioned her to the chair beside the examining table, she continued to stand there with her arms crossed, staring at me intently. I found her manner a little disturbing, but I tried to get the examination started.

"What can I do for you today, Mrs. Johnson?" I asked in my normal bedside manner.

She dropped her arms and clenched her fists, and her face began to redden. "You can tell me why your wife killed my husband!" she burst out, and then covered her face and began to weep.

"Oh my God!" I thought, "This must be the wife of the man who was driving the pick-up truck."

A part of me wanted to come around my desk and comfort her, while another part wanted to hide in the face of her obvious pain. But her words brought back all my own pain, and I could do nothing but sit there as though paralyzed.

After a long couple of minutes, she seemed to regain some control of herself about the same time that I came out of the fog of memories that had enveloped me. I was the first to speak. "I'm so sorry about your husband, Mrs. Johnson. I'm still struggling to comprehend my own loss."

Her expression relaxed a little as she seemed to realize that I too was suffering. But she was clearly still tormented. "I just don't understand how she could have been so careless. If she'd just pulled over and napped, just stopped for a little while to get some rest . . ."

"I don't understand it either," I told her sincerely. "She made that drive every evening at the same time. I keep thinking about it, wishing she'd called me to come get her, anything but what happened." I tried, but I was unable to keep the anguish out of my voice.

I think Mrs. Johnson must have picked up on that because her tone softened further. "I know it wasn't your fault. If I'm honest with myself, it probably wasn't her fault either. It's just that it hurts so bad, and I felt like I had to come. Now I wish I hadn't done that -- I can see how much you're suffering too."

"It's alright, Mrs. Johnson," I said. "We're both searching for answers where there are only questions. We're both groping for some way to reverse what's happened, even though we know we can't do that. It's only human nature to become angry with any others involved, even if he or she were helpless to prevent the tragedy."

Then my professional training took over. "Have you been able to sleep since the accident?" I asked her gently. When she shook her head, I quickly wrote out a prescription for her. "If you want you can take one of these before bedtime. Just be sure not to have any alcohol with them."

She thanked me and rose to leave after I handed her the prescription. Before she departed I asked her, "Please stay in touch, Mrs. Johnson. I'd like to know how you're doing." She nodded gratefully, and after she'd gone I felt better that I'd been able to help, even if just a little.

But over the next few days her visit kept coming to mind. Her questions had troubled me, even though I knew there were no answers. Sometimes bad things just happen to good people for no reason. But knowing that was not the same as accepting it, and the fact that I couldn't answer any of Mrs. Johnson's questions made acceptance just that much more difficult.

If nothing further had happened, I believe time would slowly have begun to heal me. But I was not to be afforded that luxury. A week later, a Ms. Nicole Claiborne from some insurance company in Oklahoma City made an appointment to see me. She made it clear that her visit was not a sales call, but she would not disclose her purpose in advance. All she would say was that she needed to speak with me in regard to my late wife. I reluctantly agreed to see her, steeling myself to have my wounds reopened yet again.

When Ms. Claiborne arrived at the appointed time, I saw an attractive young woman dressed in a business suit that would have been considered conservative except for a slit up the side of the skirt that rose higher than I would have expected. I found it somewhat offensive that she would wear such attire to see a man still in mourning for his wife, and I made it a point to keep my focus at eye level.

"Dr. Robertson," she began, "I'm here because your wife was covered by a life insurance policy that her father had purchased for her. You are listed as the beneficiary. Were you aware of that?"

"No," I told her, "I had no idea."

Ms. Claiborne nodded. "The policy had a double indemnity clause that comes into play in the event of an accidental death. In this particular case, the face value of the policy was $100,000, so the payout, assuming the claim is approved, will be $200,000."

She looked at me carefully as she spoke. When I didn't react, she went on. "Naturally, as part of our normal procedure in such cases, we routinely look into any untimely demise before we pay a claim."

"I don't see what there is to investigate," I told her coldly. "The police told me that she must have fallen asleep at the wheel before the crash. I don't see how it could be much more straightforward than that."

She sat there for a few moments, then she rather ostentatiously crossed her legs, allowing the material of her skirt to fall open. I ignored her display.

"$200,000 is a lot of money. What are you planning to do with it?" she asked abruptly.

I was angry at the woman for her inappropriate display and for the tone of her questions. I was also angry with myself for the tears that came to my eyes despite my efforts to retain my composure. "Ms. Claiborne, the woman I loved died horribly in an accident only a few weeks ago! Money is the last thing I care about. Now if you don't have any further questions, can you just leave me alone?"

She uncrossed her legs and sat upright in her chair, carefully adjusting her skirt to hide what she'd so readily displayed only a moment before. Her whole demeanor changed, and an apologetic look came over her face. "Dr. Robertson, I'm very sorry for my questions and the attitude I adopted. Please accept my sincere apology."

She must have seen the confusion on my face because she hurried on. "Dr. Robertson, I've been doing insurance investigations for longer than you might guess. During that time I've learned to use certain 'distractions' -- she reached down and smoothed the slit in her skirt -- to help me evaluate the people with whom I deal. Some of those people were not what they purported to be, and their responses to my distractions helped me to uncover the truth. In your case, I'm satisfied now that you are a grieving widower who truly loved his late wife, and I'm genuinely sorry for your loss."

"I suppose I understand," I said slowly, "but why even bother to put me through all that in the first place? Surely there can't be any questions about what happened." Even as I spoke, I flashed back to Hillary Johnson's visit and I felt a twinge of uneasiness.

The investigator leaned toward me. "Dr. Robertson, another thing I've learned in this job is to rely on my instincts. My gut is telling me that you're a good man who wants to know the truth about what happened to his wife, so I'm going to be very candid with you. But before I do, let me caution you. By necessity I have to consider possibilities that are disturbing. If I suggest something that offends you, please hear me out. I didn't know your wife, so my questions are those I might ask anyone in such circumstances. Please don't take any of it personally."

I nodded doubtfully. It made sense that an investigator would have to look at a situation from every angle, but I still couldn't see more than one angle in this case. She quickly showed me how wrong I was.

"Dr. Robertson, I told you I listen to my gut. My gut keeps asking how your late wife could have fallen asleep at the wheel before the accident. I don't think she did."

I was shocked. "If she didn't fall asleep, what else could make her swerve into an oncoming truck? Are you suggesting that she might have been drugged?" I asked incredulously.

"Absolutely not," she replied quickly. "On the contrary, I don't think she was impaired in any way."

I looked at her curiously. "How can you know that?" I asked. "Perhaps she had a really tough day at work and was unusually worn out. Maybe she didn't have anything to eat for lunch and her blood sugar suddenly dropped. There are lots of things that could have caused her to drop off just before the accident."

"When was the last time you made the drive to Arrowpoint?" she asked.

"It's been quite a while," I said, "several months at least. I'm not really sure."

She nodded. "Two months ago, Miller County undertook repairs to the bridge over the river between Arrowpoint and Millersville. The repair work means that any vehicle crossing the bridge has to slow down to 35 mph and then make a sharp lane change in the middle of the bridge. Your wife would have had to be both awake and alert to drive over that bridge."

"That doesn't mean that she couldn't have fallen asleep after crossing the bridge," I protested.

"It's not impossible," she admitted, "but the accident occurred only about a mile past the bridge. At the speed she was traveling, that would have been only about sixty seconds later. It doesn't seem likely that she would have dropped off to sleep only a minute after she had successfully made a major speed change and steering correction."

I sat there in silence. Bonnie made that drive every evening after work. She'd have been used to driving under those conditions, and I'd wondered again what could have gone wrong after all these years. What Nicole Claiborne told me was extremely troubling.

"What about a mechanical failure?" I asked finally. "Couldn't something like a blow-out or a steering problem cause her car to veer into the other lane?"

"Yes, it could," she said quietly, "but I've already been out to the salvage yard to examine your wife's car. The tires were intact, and the damage to the suspension and steering mechanism all appeared to be related to the accident."

"But maybe . . ." I started, when she raised her hand. "More importantly," she went on, "we were able to retrieve the onboard computer from her car, which captured exactly what happened in the last few seconds before impact. As her Honda was traveling at 64.8 mph, the steering wheel was rotated to the left, causing the car to steer into the other lane. The wheel was then straightened. The brakes were never applied."

I sat back in my chair with my mouth open. It sounded as though Bonnie had deliberately steered her Honda into the oncoming truck. How could that have been an accident? But if it wasn't, the only other possibility seemed to be suicide. She didn't have any reason to commit suicide, at least I didn't think so.

Ms. Claiborne's voice broke through my thoughts. "Did you or your wife know Taylor Johnson?" she asked gently.

"I never heard of him before the accident," I told her, "and I never heard Bonnie speak of him. Besides, I understand he lived over in Noble County, way east of here, so it's not likely she'd ever met him. Why would you ask?"

Her face looked tired now. "You're not going to like this, but there are other possibilities I have to consider. What if the accident wasn't an accident? What if she deliberately tried to kill Jason Taylor as well as herself?"

The thought took my breath away. "That's not possible!" I gasped. "Why would she do such a thing?"

"I can think of at least three possibilities," she said quietly. She held up her hand and grasped her index finger. "The first is that Taylor Johnson was a mortal enemy, and she felt that she had to give up her own life in order to protect her family from that threat."

She touched her middle finger. "A second possibility is that she and Mr. Johnson were lovers, and she killed him and herself in a jealous rage."

Holding her ring finger and looking away from me, she added, "Or, if they were lovers, she could have been trying to prevent anyone from learning that she was pregnant with his child."

I'd tried to be cool and rational, but her last suggestion was too much. "Goddamit, that's not true! Bonnie loved me and she wasn't pregnant. What do you want: to exhume her body and do a full autopsy? I won't have it!"

She quickly came over and knelt in front of me, taking my hands. "I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to upset you. I'm not your enemy, and I hate it that I have to be so cynical and suspicious about people. Please forgive me."

Even though her suggestions were outrageous, her apology tempered my anger. "Alright, Ms. Claiborne, I guess you're just doing your job."

Still contrite, she looked up at me searchingly. "Please call me Nicole. And may I call you Mark? If we're going to find out what really happened, it would help."

"Alright, Nicole," I said, "but I still think you're all wrong about Bonnie."

"For what it's worth, I agree: I don't think any of those three scenarios is true. In the first place, all three would have required that Bonnie know Taylor Johnson would be on that highway at just that time. Yet Mrs. Taylor told me she had no idea when her husband would be home from his hunting trip. As for Bonnie, she left Arrowpoint at her regular time, so she obviously didn't make any special adjustment to meet up with Johnson. Moreover, I checked her cellphone records, and she neither made nor received any calls in the last few hours before the accident, so I can't see how she could have coordinated their meeting."

"So it was just a coincidence, a chance encounter?" I asked.

"It's possible," Nicole admitted, "but that still leaves us with what appears to be a deliberate attempt to crash into Johnson's truck."

"Maybe we're thinking about it the wrong way. Could Taylor Johnson have wanted to kill Bonnie?" I asked.

"I've considered it," she told me, "but how could he have induced her to steer her car into his lane?" She stood up. "Mark, I know I've upset you, and I apologize again. The thing is, nothing about this case makes sense to me, and I just can't let it drop without looking a little deeper."

I slumped in my chair. "Ms. Claiborne -- Nicole -- I have to admit that I've been dithering about this myself ever since the accident. I need to know what happened too."

She handed me a business card. "If you think of anything that might shed light on all this, please give me a call at any time." She looked at me sympathetically. "Give me a call even if you just want someone to talk to." Then she turned and left my office.

I thought I'd been in turmoil before; now the idea that my late wife had taken some mysterious secret with her to the grave was a new wound before the old ones had begun to heal. It was bad enough that Bonnie had died in a tragic accident. The questions that Nicole had raised filled my mind with insidious suspicions. Surely none of those scenarios could be true, yet the many unanswered questions were enough to incite paranoia.