Name of Examiner: Dennis Campbell
Name of Deceased: Michael Burbank
Age Deceased: 23
Sex: Male
Race: Caucasian
Presumed Cause of Death: Drowning
Date and Time Exam Started: 9/3/05, 11:31am
Date and Time Exam Ended: 9/3/05, 2:13 pm

The average time for a human body to cool to the touch is 12 hours. 24 to cool to the core.

The body on this date, September 2nd, 2005, of Michael Burbank was pulled from the Genesee River. No signs of struggle or obvious signs of homicide.

The first evaluation provides no clarity relative to Michael’s time of death. His submergence and exposure to the elements in the river (fish, currents, rock formations, etc.) have made it near impossible to determine this.

The age and race of this victim, along with the noticeable absence of traditional homicide related injuries, might suggest suicide.

The boy comes from a middle class family. He is 23. He has no last known address and has listed his 18- year-old brother as his contact in case of emergency.

The body, decomposition aside, shows clear signs of malnutrition.

The body’s cells, during drowning, cease aerobic respiration, and are unable to generate the energy needed to maintain normal muscle biochemistry.

The boy’s eyes are open, suggesting he was conscious at the moment he entered the water, as if he were trying to freeze this moment, capture it forever in the tissue.

The brain cells can die if deprived of oxygen for more than three minutes, thereby eradicating one’s memory.

The cause of this drowning may never be determined.

A body in water does not decompose like the rest.

The boy looks content.

The body still waterlogged like my son when I pull him from the bath.

The hair frizzled and clinging to the neck and down onto the shoulders.

The boy, Michael, wearing, prior to examination, a Sesame Street T-shirt. What is that all about, I wonder?

The shirt a gift from some girl or maybe a relative, this eighteen year old brother, who is bound to come here, not so many days or weeks removed from last seeing his older sibling.

The shoes he was wearing were full of holes.

The things I found in his mouth are not an indication of crimes committed.

The boy must have parents.

This body, Michael Burbank, is not the first 23-year-old to come in from the river, dragged in like a catfish, but the first to have the tattoo of a pony on his chest.

The sudden feeling that this all means something.

The truth: I stopped, shortly after starting this exam, for lunch.

The kid on this table looks like he might have been nice. The way his eyes and mouth are shaped let me know that.

The hands look like they’ve been worked, make me think he was not so alone in this world.

The only answer lies herein.

The body: falls, falling, fallen.

The boy, giving himself over to the current.

Dear Ms. Burbank,

Forgive that I am writing to you on behalf of the Rochester Police Department to express my condolences.

Forgive that my words are of little comfort. I wanted to let you know we are doing our best to solve this and do so with you and your loss in the back of our minds. If there is anything I can do, personally, to help you during this time of mourning, please feel free to contact me.

Forgive me your loss, though I cannot take it back.

Forgive this city, which is incapable of apologizing.

Forgive the delay in regards to my letter. It was my intention to write you immediately.

Lord knows I’ve written too many of these letters in my tenure. Your son is the third pulled from the river this year and it’s not even the end of August. I wonder often about the river, about those lost to it.

Forgive my discomfort.

Forgive my not knowing what to write.

Forgive this: my wife says I should just apologize for your loss, that there is nothing I can do to console you or set things right.

Forgive this: my wife says this sort of rambling is a sign of some deeper wound that I’ve yet to resolve.

Forgive our inability to effectively stop this.

Forgive all the arguments you cannot finish or the history you will not write.

Forgive the five o’clock news, which will seem like a reminder, and then daytime TV and newspapers and all other forms of mass media, which seem like an organized advertisement aimed at your grief.

Forgive those who know you and can’t stop trying all sorts of things—vacations and other Hollywood remedies—none of which seem appropriate even to them.

Forgive the feeling to give yourself over to a, b, c…

Forgive the way you are coming to understand me, this unacceptable attempt to say something, to share grief.

Forgive that I mentioned my own grief.

Forgive, because it is unfair—perhaps—my overwhelming need to share something.

Forgive the forces that act on any set of circumstances, fate, for example, or luck. They cannot be held accountable.

Forgive the gods.

Forgive what has come to pass.

Forgive the way we all end up. Though finally it was too soon, perhaps. Though there is no way of knowing or taking it back.

—Patrolman Raymond Tantillo