bout de papier, Vol. 9, No. 2 (1992) — Spring 1992 // Printemps 1992, pp. 36–37
As a new Foreign Service Officer, I looked forward to my first foreign assignment — a training mission to a tropical island nation. As a diplomat-in-training, my trip in late March was not intended for pleasure, a fact I could not long overlook despite the sun, sea and reggae. After a six-week course studying theory, this was to be my initiation into the reality of immigration and consular work. To the credit of my instructors, immigration work proved to be pretty much as described. Unfortunately, nothing would prepare me for the rude introduction I was to receive to the darkest aspect of consular work.
Night settles over the island like a moist cloak, sliding down from the tops of the majestic mountain peaks to envelop residents of the capital in a warm, velvety embrace. From a high vantage point, the shimmering waters of the port are clearly demarcated by the absurdly thin finger of land that boldly juts out into the harbour mouth to blunt the fury of occasional storms. It inspired me to reflect that even in the midst of the clutter of this impoverished but bustling city, beauty was never more than a long glance away. Indeed, the natural splendour contrasted sharply with the well-known stories of crime and intrigue. After two relatively uneventful months, I was over my initial trepidation and had settled into a routine existence that reinforced my sense of serenity. I had grown to expect that the surrounding calamity and squalor could not invade my peaceful existence, particularly within the sanctuary of the hotel. Fate intervened, however, to shatter this illusion.
It was almost midnight as I lay in my ninth floor room, weakly resisting the onset of sleep while watching yet another vintage television movie rerun. A banging noise coming from a location just outside my balcony jolted me out of my ennui. In the dimly lit room, I strained over the low background noise of the television to define the source and meaning of the racket. Someone was roughhousing on my balcony! A bloodcurdling scream pierced the night, shooting past my curtained window in a descending crescendo, stopping with an awful crashing noise.
I rushed out onto the balcony. Peering downward through the blackness and gathering gloom, my eyes adjusted to the poor light, and I was stunned by the human shape sprawled on the ground below. I scanned the area for signs of rescue rushing to the helpless form, but nothing was evident. Hesitating no further, I sped back through my room, scooping up a T-shirt, shorts and shoes on my way out. Dressing in the elevator, I spilled out the door and hit the lobby running. I barely noticed the startled hotel staff as I raced out to the rear courtyard, shouting for an ambulance and police. The victim had come to rest on the roof of a covered walkway. The site was horrific.
Obviously young, he was face down, arms and legs splayed out crazily about his torso like some macabre jigsaw puzzle, with the pieces jammed willy-nilly into place. His right leg was at an impossible, perpendicular angle to his body, lying over one outstretched arm. This was capped by a foot in a cowboy boot that rested beside his head His other arm sprawled over the edge of the rooftop, while a growing pool of blood flowed from his nose and mouth. I held back, startled and uncertain what to do next. In spite of the warmth of that humid tropical night, an icy chill settled over me. Suddenly, the person stirred and attempted to push himself up off the ground. In the dim light, it almost appeared as though the misshapen form was demonstrating some grotesque gymnastic manoeuvre. His strength of character and determination were heroic but nothing could overcome the physical reality and the herculean struggle ended as abruptly as it began.
An eerie silence descended as hotel staff moved to secure the scene and attend to the victim. Long minutes dragged by. No one seemed knowledgeable in first aid or even certain of what should be done first. Word came that a doctor might be on his way. This was reassuring, if for no other reason than to have a qualified person confirm the fatality. While waiting for the authorities to arrive, the crowd began to mingle nervously and compare experiences.
I spoke with hotel staff, including the night-manager, and learned the individual was Texan, twenty-five years of age, and had checked in that very evening during the supper hour. As we talked, the night-manager became increasingly strident in his opinion that the only explanation was suicide. I found this difficult to accept and voiced my doubt. I pointed out that I had been only one floor below the victim’s room and had clearly heard a scuffle. “Not only that,” I added, “I heard the guy scream as he went down. That was no banzai scream, it was sheer terror.”
“No,” he replied in a parting shot, “this was a jumper. He was crazy.”
No one else admitted seeing or hearing anything more than the sound of the victim’s scream and impact. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the suicide theory continued to gain acceptance and eventually a consensus emerged among the assembled crowd. A failed love interest or drug involvement quickly eclipsed other possible motives as far as the crowd was concerned. Amid all the speculation, I began to feel regret; the victim was now all but a curiosity and object of scorn. This callousness seemed all the worse because I could not accept that the death was self-induced. Perhaps a half-hour after the incident, security staff were instructed to disperse the crowd so that no other guests would be disturbed.
Another half hour passed while I chatted half-heartedly with the bartender and other guests. Occasionally, I glanced across the compound to the roof-top where the dark form still lay, one hand dangling over the ledge. I grew impatient for the police to arrive. I was beginning to doubt my earlier certainty that foul play was at the root of the matter. Even so, I could go no further than to allow that maybe it had just been a terrible accident.
Another hour went by before the police arrived at last. After conferring briefly with hotel staff, they disappeared into an elevator car. I yawned; it was past 2:00 a.m. and the thought of being at work for 7:30 a.m. was beginning to irritate me. Murder or not, it was becoming increasingly difficult for me to ignore my need for sleep. I was also growing uneasy with all the talk of suicide, and sensing that the possibility of foul-play might be overlooked if nobody spoke up, I was determined to ensure otherwise.
Waiting with everyone, I noticed all of us looking upward to the tenth floor balcony where shadowy figures appeared. A flash bulb showered occasional bursts of incandescence. The photographer leaned over the balcony to catch a panoramic shot of all the upturned faces, save one. The police entourage soon appeared in our midst with an almost regal air of officialdom. The uniformed officers took stock of the eclectic group of locals and foreigners with that baleful, accusatory stare that only police seem to possess. It was then that I spotted a white stetson lying on one of the steps, some 15 to 20 feet from the body. The sight somehow grated. A couple of quick photographs of the victim and the police were about to depart.
So as not to miss the opportunity to impart my views, I sought out one of the officers before he exited the hotel. I recounted my experience and pressed him for the official position. His matter of fact reply affirmed that the case was clearly one of suicide, plain and simple. “Suicide,” I queried skeptically, “Are you sure?” “Be right,” was his bland patois reply. After several more minutes of discussion, it became obvious that pressing the point further would be fruitless. Irritated, I went out once more to view the body to satisfy myself that he really was dead. A cursory examination dispelled any lingering doubt. Retiring to my room, I quickly fell into a fitful sleep despite thinking about a state trooper knocking at a door in the middle of the night to say a young man had died alone in a far off place.
A typically warm and sunny tropical morning greeted my awakening, a brightness that stood in stark contrast to my troubled mind. My workmates were uncertain whether to accept my story. Even to me, the next day, it had become an almost surreal experience. One look at a dark stain when I returned to my hotel that evening, however, brought back the harsh reality of it all.
I later learned that a small quantity of cocaine had been found in the victim’s room. He had checked in with US $6,000.00 in his possession, of which only $3,000.00 was found in the hotel safe. The remainder apparently was never recovered. Whether the victim was a drug runner or an experimenting tourist, I will never know.
A young man had died. Hopes, dreams and aspirations had died with him, but who really cared? No one in an official position of responsibility, it seemed to me. I realized that a thin veneer of my own innocence had peeled away and perished that night alongside the young Texan.
Young people make mistakes. In time, though, such mistakes often lead to insight and wisdom. Unfortunately, nothing would be gained from this experience for this particular youth or his grieving family. In the ensuing days and weeks, I tried to make sense out of the entire affair. I came to no conclusions. If there were any solace, it came from the thought that a green consular officer had gained insight early on into the potentially harsh realities of the consular trade.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 9, No. 2 (1992) — Spring 1992 // Printemps 1992, pp. 36–37. Read the rest of this issue →
