The Cadaver

PROLOGUE

The fence around a cemetery is foolish, for those inside can’t

get out and those outside don’t want to get in.

—Arthur Brisbane

The plan was simple, but also ingenious. It wouldn’t take long to accomplish the task. It seldom does when evil’s at work. An open grave was waiting to accept the cold, lifeless body. The weather could not have been more cooperative, blanketing the area with a heavy cloud cover, thus minimizing the chance of discovery. The driver of the late model SUV turned off its lights as it neared the seldom used rear entrance to the cemetery.

The driver and passenger exited the vehicle, turned on their flashlights and walked quickly to the chain linked fence that bordered the back of the old cemetery. Its rusty gate groaned as the intruders pushed it open and slipped inside carrying a pick ax, a shovel and a large metal bucket. It didn’t take long to locate the gravesite which was covered by a portable tent. A few chairs were scattered under the tent to welcome any mourners that might show up the following morning for the departed’s ceremony. But it was unlikely that anyone would attend, as was often the case in this part of the cemetery. The homeless, the mentally ill who lived on the streets of Atlanta, the unclaimed bodies at the city morgues . . . all were buried here in a part of the cemetery that had been designated Pauper’s Field years ago when the City of Atlanta assumed maintenance of the cemetery. There were no fancy headstones bearing scriptural references or kind words etched into marble to memorialize the departed. Rather, simple metal crosses marked where the bodies lay, many of which did not even bear a name.

It was ironic in a weird sort of way. The grave would soon contain the remains of two people who were total strangers from different walks of life, but neither would complain. However, before their victim could be tossed, unceremoniously into the grave, there was work to do. The taller of the two men lowered himself into the grave and began furiously digging into the soil with the pick ax. The large bucket and shovel were then lowered into the grave; the bucket was filled with the loose dirt and then pulled up and dumped into a pile separate from the pile that lay waiting to cover up tomorrow’s occupant. After deciding that the hole was deep enough, the man was helped out of the grave by his partner and they both walked to the SUV. Quickly opening the lift gate, the larger of the two men hoisted a black bag onto his shoulder and returned to the waiting grave. He tossed the bag into the newly excavated area, and then shoveled the loose soil onto the bag until it was completely covered. The same man then slipped back into the grave and gently tapped the soil down to ensure that the bag was completely hidden. Once back above the grave, he shoveled more loose dirt in to hide any remaining footprints.

Tomorrow the casket would cover their night’s work, and no one would be the wiser as to what they had done. It indeed might be the perfect murder. The gate groaned once more as they closed it, got into the SUV and drove away into the stillness of the night.

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CHAPTER 1

They are not dead who live in hearts they leave behind.

—Hugh Robert Orr

Cadaver

Pronunciation: \kə-ˈda-vər\

Function: noun

Etymology: Latin, from cadere to fall

Date: circa 1500

Definition: A dead body; especially one intended for dissection for medical education or research.

The two greenest places on the planet earth are golf courses and cemeteries. Now, I’m not all that familiar with golf courses as I don’t play golf. However, I’ve spent quite a bit of time walking among tombstones in some of the most beautiful cemeteries that Atlanta has to offer. Granted, it’s not something that everybody would enjoy, but for me, well, they are some of the quietest places that you could ever visit, and at times a quiet place is what I need the most to sort out life’s problems. I like to think of it as a catharsis for the mind.

Besides, it’s always interesting to read a tombstone and imagine what that man, woman or child might have been like. What kind of life had they had? Were they blessed or cursed, happy or sad, or tormented by demons of their own making?

Benjamin Franklin said, Show me your cemeteries, and I will tell you what kind of people you have.

For example, the following inscriptions are chiseled on two tombstones in Suffolk County, Tennessee:

"R. J. Williams

Born Sept. 2, 1802

Died Sept. 22, 1886

His toils are past,

His work is done.

He fought the fight,

The victory won."

"Elizabeth wife of R. J. Williams

Born Sept. 5, 1816

Died Dec. 27, 1898

Rest mother rest,

In quiet sleep.

While friends in sorrow

O’er thee weep."

These inscriptions are those of my great, great grandparents on my mother’s side of the family. From the words written, I’m guessing that R. J. worked maybe as a farmer, and that he was probably a church goer from the reference to he fought the fight, the victory won. Or maybe it was a reference to life’s obstacles that he had overcome. Elizabeth was probably a beloved mother whose children and friends were distraught at her passing.

And who’s to say that at times the dead don’t speak to us from the grave? Some people claim to have visions from the dead. Some believe that they can communicate with their dearly departed through séances. Some believe that personal items left behind contain special messages for them.

I had never placed much value on religion or after life experiences, that is, until my first year of medical school. Something happened that first year that deeply affected my beliefs about both subjects. You may choose not to believe what I’m about to say, but for those who do, this is my story.

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CHAPTER 2

Do not pray for an easy life; pray for the

strength to endure a difficult one.

—Bruce Lee

To quote Chuck Dickens, an acquaintance of mine from high school English Lit 3, It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. I’m not quite sure why that quote has stuck with me over the years, but it has popped up from time to time to remind me that when times are good, they are really good; but, when they are bad, they can be really, really bad. And at no time was this more evident in my life than when I was a first year medical student at Emory University School of Medicine in suburban Atlanta in the fall of 2010.

My name is Jake Hawke. I’m not too crazy about the name Jake, but, then, how many kids grow up liking the names their parents give them? I grew up in Atlanta with a love for music. Loud, gut wrenching, head banging music was what I liked. Fortunately, my dad had grown up liking rock n’ roll, so we had at least one thing in common that we could enjoy together. Dad bought me my first guitar when I was in seventh grade. It was a red Fender Stratocaster that came with a Peavey amplifier. Then, when I was in eighth grade, he took off from work early one afternoon and took me to a Guns N’ Roses and Metallica concert. There I reveled in six hours of hard rock n’ roll and heavy metal. Lucky for him he had the foresight to buy himself some wax earplugs. We later followed that up with an Aerosmith concert. I think these concerts with my dad pretty much sealed my fate to be a musician performer. Yeah, me and half the kids my age across America were going to be rock n’ roll stars. I even had a Tee shirt made that said, I’m in a Band . . . Deal With It. Funny how dreams of youth are often shattered by those things called reality and adulthood.

Most of high school turned out to be just plain boring, and I ended up finishing high school through the Hawke Institute of Higher Learning home school program that my mom agreed to teach and administer. The summer I graduated, my parents gave me a six week internship at Berklee School of Music in Boston. What could be better than being 17 years old and being 1000 miles away from home at a prestigious music school living the rock n’ roll dream of every kid my age?

But reality sank in at the end of the summer when four dark years of college loomed overhead. After six long weeks into my first semester at the University of Miami, I decided I didn’t want to spend that much time in a classroom just to get a piece of paper that said I had a Music Degree. I reluctantly returned home, took a few courses at a community college, accepted a part time job at Blockbuster, and then dropped out of school again for what I intended to be the last time ever to set foot in the halls of higher education.

This may be TMI for you, but I feel it’s important that you understand why, after a couple of years at the Block, I gave up a lucrative and promising career as a video clerk to return to the classroom of academia at a local four year college. Not only did I return, I actually graduated with honors and was accepted to medical school which was pretty freakin’ cool, don’t you think? But I’m getting ahead of myself. Anyway, it’s important that you understand how a home boy like me could metamorphose into potential MD material. I became the proverbial caterpillar to butterfly story and it only took me four extra years to learn to fly.

It was the summer of 2006. I was 22 at the time and growing tired of my day job as a video clerk. I was thinking of quitting when, one morning, in walked a drop dead gorgeous blonde named Carmella Dubois. She had the bluest eyes and softest, creamiest skin I had ever seen. And she smelled heavenly. It wasn’t until after I scanned her movie card that I knew her name. My tongue lay so tangled on the floor that all I could say when I handed her the movies was, Have a dice nay which I was pretty sure made me out to be a bonehead in her mind. But being the astute person that I was, I made it a point to write down her home phone number. Then, exactly one day before the movies were due back in the store, I called her and told her that Blockbuster had begun a new movie home delivery and pick up service and that I would be glad to pick her up, uh, pick up her movies, as well as bring out anything else she would like to view. Pretty slick, huh?

And so began my summer romance with Carmella, at least in my own mind. Actually, we became pretty good friends over the course of the summer. I would deliver movies poolside at her folks’ Georgia mansion and sit and listen to her tell what a wonderful person she was and how she was going to change the world. Okay, she was full of herself, but I didn’t care as long as I could just get close to her. She had just graduated from Princeton and was home for the summer before heading off to Harvard Medical School. I had graduated from home school four years earlier and was headed nowhere. I guess I realized that we could never be really close friends when I asked her what I would have to do to get into medical school so that maybe we could change the world together. After she stopped laughing for what seemed like an eternity, she told me that I did have potential and that maybe someday I would become a certified pool cleaner and could clean her parents’ pool.

Me, a pool cleaner? I didn’t think so! The very idea that this was all she thought I could achieve with my life infuriated me. I was tired of being an hourly employee and being cursed at by boobs who couldn’t get their movies back on time and then argued with me when they had to pay late fees. I wanted to be someone that people looked up to, someone who actually made a real difference in the lives of other people. To quote Aretha Franklin, the Queen of Soul, I wanted R E S P E C T, and I intended to get it one way or another!

It was a poolside, spur of the moment decision which I would often question over the next 12 years. I would be 34 years old when I completed my residency training and deep in debt to the tune of several hundred thousand dollars. When I told my parents of my plans, they seemed to be okay with it, but I’m sure they thought it was just another one of my many harebrained ideas that would never see the light of day. But I was determined to prove Carmella, and them, wrong.

Four years and a lot of tired brain cells later, I graduated with honors with a degree in Biology from Emory University. I scored well on the MCAT (Medical College Admission Test) and waited to see where I would be accepted. And if for some unlikely reason that I wasn’t accepted and this turned out to be one of those worst of times scenarios that my buddy Chuck spoke of, well, I felt I could always become a pill pusher for a pharmaceutical company. They got a company car and made a nice salary, so it wouldn’t be all bad.

Anyone contemplating medical school should be aware that there are always more applicants than openings for med school, and not everyone is accepted during their first year of eligibility. I knew someone who was passed over two years in a row before she received an acceptance letter. And then I knew others who were never accepted. But this wasn’t going to happen to me. No, sir, I was destined for stardom, and I was going to shine.

During my senior year at Emory, I visited seven medical schools in the South and on the East coast. Each had a reputable program that I would have felt good about attending. Actually, I would have felt good about attending any program that accepted me. I was four years older than the average applicant, and I was hoping the maturity factor might sway a few of the docs with whom I interviewed.

The way the process works is that each applicant ranks