“Of course,” I said, deadpan as the old man.
Guipone was either too young or too dumb to realize he’d been made the butt of a joke.
“Well then.” Again the snaggletoothed smile, directed at me. “What happens now?”
“This morning, using cemetery records and the grave marker, I established that this was, indeed, the plot assigned to John Lowery.” I gestured toward the open grave. “Now, in the coroner’s presence, I’ll open the coffin, record the condition of the remains, then seal the body in a transport container. As soon as the army completes arrangements, the remains will be flown to JPAC for analysis.”
“My son died a hero.” Taut.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. We will get to the bottom of this.”
Turning his back to Guipone, Lowery spoke to me. “I want to see him.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” As gently as I could.
The ebony eyes bore into mine. Seconds passed. Then, “How do I know my son will be treated with the respect he deserves?”
Reaching out, I placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“My husband was a marine, Mr. Lowery. I am a mother. I understand the sacrifice made by the man in that coffin. And by those who loved him.”
Lowery tipped his face to the sun and closed his eyes. Then, lowering his head, he turned and walked away.
Medical examiners are appointed. Most are physicians, preferably pathologists, ideally board-certified forensic pathologists.
Coroners are elected. Candidates can be mechanics, teachers, or unemployed pole dancers. Most are morticians or funeral home operators.
In 1965, the North Carolina General Assembly passed legislation allowing individual counties to abolish the office of coroner and to appoint medical doctors to investigate deaths within their borders.
Today North Carolina has a centralized death investigation system. County MEs are appointed for three-year terms by the chief medical examiner in Chapel Hill.
Sound progressive? Actually, the setup is not so hot.
In counties lacking willing or capable doctors, nonphysicians—sometimes registered nurses—still serve. Instead of coroners, they’re now called “acting medical examiners.”
And get this. On its Web site, the North Carolina Medical Examiner System describes itself as a network of doctors who
Read between the lines. Doctors or dog walkers, in North Carolina, MEs are paid zilch.
Robeson County’s acting medical examiner was Silas Sugarman, owner and operator of Lumberton’s oldest funeral home. By prearrangement, following exhumation the casket would go from the cemetery to Sugarman’s facility.
I’d driven from Charlotte to Lumberton in my own car, departing as the first tendrils of dawn teased the Queen City awake. Though careful timing was required, I managed to shake Guipone and leave alone from the cemetery.
It wasn’t just that I found the lieutenant annoying. I had a plan.
Over the years, I’ve driven countless times from Charlotte to the South Carolina beaches. The back route I favor involves a long stretch on Highway 74 and brings me close enough to Lumberton for a barbecue detour. That was my target today. Being already in Lumberton, it only made sense to score some “que.”
I headed straight for Fuller’s Old Fashioned BBQ. A bit of a diversion, but I wasn’t due at the funeral home until two. And my stomach was broadcasting deprivation distress.
At one fifteen, most of the lunch crowd was gone. Ignoring the buffet, I ordered my usual. Barbecue pork, coleslaw, fries, and hush puppies. A tumbler of sweet tea the size of a silo.
OK. No smiley heart. But the owners, Fuller and Delora Locklear, know how to do pig.
Exiting the restaurant was like stepping into the molasses I’d left untouched on my table. The temperature inside my Mazda was 150.
After cranking the AC, I punched an address into my portable GPS and wound south toward Martin Luther King Drive. Within minutes the robotic voice was announcing arrival at my destination.
Sugarman’s Funeral Home looked like Tara on steroids. Redbrick. White antebellum pillars and trim up and down. Elaborate drive-through portico in front.
The interior could only be described as rose. Rose carpet. Rose drapes. Rose floral wallpaper above the wainscoting and beadboard.
In the main lobby, a faux-colonial placard listed two temporary residents. Selma Irene Farrington awaited mourners in the Eternal Harmony Room. Lionel Peter Jones cooled his heels in Peace Ever After.
A young woman materialized as I was pondering the relative merits of harmony versus peace. When I requested directions to the owner’s office, she led me past the Lilac Overflow Reposing Room and the Edgar Firefox Memorial Chapel.
Sugarman was seated at a massive oak desk with carved pineapples for feet. At least six-four and three hundred pounds, with greasy black hair and a crooked nose, he looked more mafioso than mortician.
Also present were the good lieutenant and a small, rat-faced man with short brown hair parted with surgical precision.
