Bryson City secrets even more tales of a small-town doctor in the Smoky Mountains

Bryson City SecretsCopyright © 2006 by Walt LarimoreRequests for information should be addressed to:Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataLarimore, Walter L.Bryson City secrets : even more tales of a small-town doctor in the SmokyMountains / Walt Larimore.p. cm.ISBN-10: 0-310-26633-5 (hardcover)ISBN-13: 978-0-310-26633-4 (hardcover)1. Larimore, Walter L. 2. Physicians â€" North Carolina â€" BrysonCity â€" Biography. 3. Medicine, Rural â€" North Carolina â€" Bryson City. I. Title.R154.L267A3 2005610'.92 â€" dc222005017451This edition printed on acid-free paper.Some Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version®.NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permissionof Zondervan. All rights reserved. Some Scripture quotations are taken from theHoly Bible: Todayâ€TMs New International VersionTM. Copyright © 2001, 2005 by InternationalBible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrievalsystem, or transmitted in any form or by any means â€" electronic, mechanical, photocopy,recording, or any other â€" except for brief quotations in printed reviews, withoutthe prior permission of the publisher.Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.Interior design by Michelle EspinozaPrinted in the United States of America06 07 08 09 10 11 • 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1We want to hear from you. Please send your comments about thisbook to us in care of zreview@zondervan.com. Thank you.chapter oneBLOODY MESSHey, Walt.”I recognized Rickâ€TMs voice on the other end of the line. Rick Pyeritzand I were both family physicians and had practiced together forfour years. Before moving to Bryson City in 1981, we had been familymedicine residents together at Duke University Medical Center.“Whatâ€TMs up?” I asked him.“I need some help, partner. Iâ€TMm over in the ER sewing upa woman who stabbed herself several times. When the EMTsbrought her in, she was hysterical, so I had to sedate her prettyheavily. Anyway, Don and Billy said she apparently murdered herhusband in their home and then tried to do herself in. Since Iâ€TMmgoing to be here awhile, would you be willing to go to the crimescene and do the medical examinerâ€TMs report?”My heart began to beat a bit more quickly, as it always didwhen I received a call from the emergency room or a summonsto the scene of a crime, and I suspected that the suspense of theunknown â€" of the surprises one might find waiting â€" would keepon giving me a sense of nervousness and trepidation every time acall came. Nevertheless, I tried to sound cool, calm, and collected.Itâ€TMs a skill doctors are taught early in their training. “Be glad tohelp, Rick. Whereâ€TMs the house?” “Itâ€TMs up a hollow just off Deep Creek. Don and Billy are takingthe ambulance back over there. They say you can follow them.”“Let me throw on some scrubs. Five minutes?”“Iâ€TMll have them wait in their unit at the end of your driveway.”“Sounds good, Rick.”I hung up the phone and walked to our bedroom to put onmy scrubs. I smiled as I looked at the bedroom furniture I hadgiven to Barb, my wife, for our tenth wedding anniversary over ayear earlier. Right out of medical school in Durham, North Carolina,we had moved to this quaint little house in this charming villagewith our then nearly three-year-old daughter, Kate. BrysonCity is the county seat of Swain County, in the heart of the GreatSmoky Mountains. The county is spread over 550 square miles,yet in 1985 it only had about 8,000 residents. Less than a thousandpeople lived in the town. The population was small becausethe federal government owned 86 percent of the land â€" and muchof it was wilderness.Since pathology-trained coroners lived only in the larger towns,the non-pathologist doctors in the rural areas often became certifiedas coroners. We were not expected to do autopsies â€" only pathologistswere trained to perform these â€" but we were expected to performall of the non-autopsy responsibilities required of a medicalexaminer.Having obtained my training as a coroner while still in trainingat Duke, I knew the basics of determining the time and suspectedcause of death, gathering medical evidence, and filling outthe copious triplicate forms required by the state authorities. Notlong after receiving the fancy certificate of competence from thestate of North Carolina, I was required to put my new forensicskills to work. Through the subsequent years as a medical examiner,the work had become more routine, but never boring.After putting on my scrubs, I left our house, which was locatedacross the street from the Swain County General Hospital, andjumped into our aging Toyota Corolla. Billy was in the driverâ€TMsseat of the ambulance as I pulled up to the end of the driveway. Hesmiled and waved as he gunned the accelerator and disappearedbehind the hospital and down the backside of Hospital Hill.I had no idea what awaited me at the murder scene, and I triednot to think about it as I followed the Swain County ambulance.Because medical examiners were required to gather medicalevidence for all deaths that occurred outside the hospital, duringmy first four years in practice I was called on as a coroner in dozensof cases. Nevertheless, I still found my stomach in knots wheneverI approached the scene of a crime or unexpected death.After observing the scene, determining the cause of death wasusually straightforward, at least from a medical perspective. Butevery instance continued to remind me of the finality of death, helpingme realize again that death almost always comes unexpectedly,without warning or opportunity for preparation. An even moretroublesome aspect of my work as an ME, at least when exploringa murder scene, is that it was an unnerving reminder of peopleâ€TMsinhumanity to people â€" of the intrinsic evil that can potentiallybubble out of any personâ€TMs heart, even in an idyllic town I had cometo love and call home.I followed the ambulance up the narrow dirt road into asmall mountain hollow. It was a typical winter day in the Smokiesâ€" gray, overcast, damp, dreary, and cold. Most who visit theSmokies in the spring and fall revel in its temperate and lushglory. But most arenâ€TMt aware of how stiflingly hot and steamy thesummers can be â€" and virtually none know how dismal a SmokyMountain winter can be. This day would prove to be far moredismal than most.As we reached the end of the road, I saw several sheriff vehiclesin a small field in front of a diminutive white farmhouse surroundedwith bright yellow crime scene tape. After parking andhopping out of the cab, Billy walked over and extended his hand.“Howdy, Doc.” “Greetings, Billy.”As Don walked up from behind the ambulance I nodded athim. “Itâ€TMs a mess in thar, Doc,” Don explained.“What happened?”“On first look, it seems the woman stabbed her husband.She used a big ole butcher knife. Pretty much got him straight inthe heart, at least judginâ€TM from all the blood on his chest and thefloor. Then she turned the knife on herself.”“Cut her wrists?” I asked, assuming a common method ofsuicide.“Nope,” Billy responded. “First she cut her arm a couple oftimes, and then she tried to stab herself in the chest a couple atimes. When we got here, she was out like a light. Donâ€TMt know ifshe fainted or was in shock. But her vitals were good. We got herstabilized and then transferred her up to the hospital.”We began to walk to the house. Excerpted from Bryson City Secrets: Even More Tales of a Small-Town Doctor in the Smoky Mountains by Walt Larimore All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.