The Finger-Cutting Episode - Excerpts From Two Interviews

In talking to Michael the second time, one subject I still found too difficult to ask him about was the time he cut off nearly all of one finger. In this most recent interview, I had tried several times to edge towards that desperate episode, but my oblique opportunities for him to bring it up were either missed or ignored. I would guess the latter, since Michael didn't seem too slow at picking up possible discussion topics when he wanted to.

I've got to admit I've been trying to avoid the whole thing myself. I've known more than I've admitted all along. Even when I described how Michael looked when I first saw him again, while I did mention his finger was cut off, I acted like I didn't know why. I knew then, at least more than I was saying. I should have talked about it earlier, but I couldn't. Don't worry, in a few pages you'll be more sick of the story than I am.

Michael did the job in 1966, as a last-ditch effort to keep from being drafted. This ploy turned out to be successful, though only indirectly. He finally received a medical deferment, on psychological rather than physical grounds. In light of current events, the finger-cutting has been put forth as one of the main arguments for why Michael had already shown sufficient evidence of deranged behavior to suggest he was capable of these crimes. This was a "plausible supposition," I believe it' was called in the FBI press conference which followed Michael's arrest. The apparent argument was that if you could damage yourself like this, you were willing to try anything. Also, his own injury was simple and graphic proof of a clear grievance he would have against the Draft Board, something that took their dispute out of the realm of the strictly theoretical.

I really feel bad I haven't been able to ask Michael about his doing that to himself, but so far I just couldn't. I'm sorry, but I've already warned I'm no professional in doing this stuff. Some things are just damn hard to bring up. I still have feelings of my own. You imagine asking somebody to tell you about the time they cut off part of themselves, and picture how comfortable you would be doing that.

It doesn't matter much, but I did take a good look at it both times I've seen him. It was hard not to. He didn't just hack off a tiny part of a pinky or something minor like that. He's missing most of his right index finger, two full joints worth. He gestures with his hands all the time, gestures or smokes, as if he wants to remind you continually of what he once did to himself. The stitched-up snub is pinkish and rough-textured. when you shake hands with him, the spot feels like a hardened pad on a cat's paw. He presses it into you, and seems to enjoy your pretense of not noticing his affliction. He notices it a lot.

Face to face, if that's how to describe it, you can easily realize that what he had done was cut off his trigger finger, the digit choice surely well calculated. This was a form of mutilation with clear symbolic implications, as Michael might say, a further form of potential linkage to the murders that were to come thirteen years later. With one hack of a blade, he showed a capacity for violent action which made the Army quite properly think twice about his potential as a soldier, by the act of removing a fighting man's most necessary appendage. He had committed a form of hostility against them. The excruciating physical pain he must have borne was directed outward as much as doing that could be said to be aimed anywhere but at oneself.

The surprising thing so far to me about Michael's self-inflicted disability is that I've heard nobody ask how he could have been so proficient at firing rifles and flamethrowers, given that condition. I don't think I've even seen anyone referring to the missing part as his "trigger finger," it's been just "finger" or "index finger" when I've seen it mentioned. I know he's right handed, and if one can always be said to have a trigger finger, that was surely his, but then you'd think it reasonable to wonder how he could have managed the murders. If you're without a trigger finger, do any of the remaining nine take on added dexterity, in one of those physical compensations we're told are routinely experienced by the handicapped, where remaining limbs or senses take on lost functions and then some? More likely, Michael would have viewed his condition as one of those extra challenges that made it all worthwhile, the kind of obstacle he'd have created had it not already been present. If he had shot off his foot, two or three of the murders would have involved strenuous running. You get the idea. I don't have to give more examples like that.

While I think of it, this reminds me of a mutilation-to-avoid-getting-drafted story from my college days. I better put it in here, where it fits for a change. I swear this is true. It helps to know that anecdotes about this kind of thing were pretty standard shtick back then. Everybody had some angle or other they had played or had heard from some friend. I could go on about this for pages, believe me, instead of just giving the best one, which is what I'm doing. The manager of the apartment building I lived in when I was a Junior at Berkeley (that would be 1967, the address 2 Panoramic Way, to continue my concern for specific and accurate detail) was a guy named Dick Ridder, a former student who had given up graduate work in the School of Urban Planning to play the saxophone, a fairly common story as well in those days. Now it would be much more likely they'd give up music to go into Urban Planning. Anyway, I see him one day and he's sporting an eye patch, and right away I figure out what must be going on, one more poor sap giving up a little to try to hold onto the rest. He told me he had followed instructions that had been printed in the Berkeley Free Citizen, which was a local radical underground newspaper that sprinkled anti-draft material throughout pages and pages of sex ads. The instructions described a method of daily eye washes with a mildly corrosive form of household cleanser, no single application of which would cause undue pain, but at the end of the week a thoroughly opaque cornea was guaranteed. Dick lifted his patch for me and offered a testimonial to the method, complaining only that it took eleven days to yield these results and not the seven promised. His eye did indeed have the appearance of well-scrubbed linoleum. This was not a day too soon apparently, as the scheduled induction and physical were due the following morning. Needless to say, I wished him luck, which he assured me he no longer required.

That in itself would be a good story, I think, turning yourself half blind so as not to be drafted. That's not the end. I get the rest of the story about a week later from a girl in the building who was friendlier with Dick than I had been. Her name was Judy Pritchett, a poli sci major, not that it makes much difference. She tells me Dick has run off to Canada, opaque cornea and all. As she told it, Dick went down to the Oakland Induction Center, cocky as hell about the preparations he had made for this day, actually proud that he had reduced his vision by SO%. when he gets to the medical examiner, he winds up with a big "Passed" stamped on his processing papers. He saw that out of the other eye, I guess. Dick gets understandably angry and demands to know why the Army is prepared to claim as one of their own a guy who looks like he should be in a Hathaway shirt ad, if not over on Mission Street with a tin cup and a large dog. The Army guy's answer, and I promise this is exactly as reported, was "If Moshe Dayan could win a war with one eye, you can fight in ours, and if I were you, I wouldn't renew that Berkeley Free Citizen subscription." Dick is given orders to ship out three days later, by which time he has long since headed for points north. So the story goes.

Back to Michael, and rather than me telling about his

corresponding incident, we'll revert to more direct testimony. Unlike the preceding chapters, what follows here is a brief selection of some parts of two different interviews. I thought it would be helpful to bring the material I've gathered on this incident into one spot, rather than leaving it spread around like so much of the stuff here that's probably impossible to keep track of. It ought to be a nice change for the reader to be able to follow one bit of narrative in reasonably straightforward chronological order.

The first excerpts are further sections from the Sharon Crutchmer Willetts interview presented earlier. I decided to save these parts and put them here because they fit better. I know I promised earlier that I'd be keeping interviews intact as much as possible and not fiddle around with them if I could help it. Well, this is one of those times when I just couldn't help it. It would have been too difficult and confusing to have left these parts back there, without the necessary explanations which have now preceded this section. The second piece of interview material here is from a conversation I had with the doctor who treated Michael after he lost his finger. He didn't exactly lose it, but you know what I mean. Reasons for including what he told me will hopefully be apparent once you've read what he said.

I shouldn't make a big deal out of it, but I don't mind saying I doubt whether anyone besides me could have come up with this kind of chapter. I know Sharon wouldn't have talked about this to an outsider, and I don't know who, else, however familiar with the case they might be, who would dig in and try to come up with this kind of stuff. who would even have thought to check on Michael's doctor? Maybe I couldn't talk to Michael about it yet without getting nauseous, but I've handled myself OK with these other people. I might be sufficiently proud of the way I've covered this incident to try to finish the job later by finally talking to Michael about it. When I do, that part will stay in its correct place. This is enough piecing together here. You should just realize as you read this section how much more complete a job I've done here than you could have read anyplace else. You certainly didn't get any of this in Newsweek, did you? And it wasn't in the New York Times either. It may be true that it's a somewhat sickening, lurid story, but at least it's a somewhat sickening, lurid story that no one's told before now.

If you recall the interview with Sharon, Michael's ex-wife, this part of the discussion came roughly after our talking about his failure to get classified a conscientious objector.

A: We finally got a letter saying that the last review board for appeals, the one in Washington, had chosen not to reverse the previous denials of his C.O. application. This wasn't any surprise. We had already received the state appeal result, and his draft lawyer had told him that there was no hope from either of them. Once the local- board had made its decision, a reversal from higher up was pretty unlikely. Since this board had never granted a C.O. appeal, either before or after Michael, the whole thing wasn't very likely to have turned out well from the beginning. I don't really know why he went through it, with all the frustrations it involved, when it was certain not to be decided in his favor. He just did it, and at the time it seemed to make more sense than it does now to have given it a try before moving on to take drastic measures.

I remember that day well when the last letter arrived. Besides the sheet saying the appeal was denied, a second form gave a date and location for appearing to be inducted. It was to go to Oakland by Greyhound bus from Marysville in I think about three weeks from the time of that letter. Michael sat on the couch in the living room, clutching the letter, not really reading it over, but holding it in a way that looked like he was sort of strangling it. He must have sat there the whole afternoon. whenever I tried to say anything, he said he was thinking and could I please just leave him alone for awhile. I brought him lemonade a couple of times and he thanked me each time, but he kept staring towards the wall, and when he wasn't drinking lemonade, he was still grabbing on to that letter. I could tell he was finally making up his mind about the finger. I knew that all along, but I wasn't going to say anything. This was going to be when he had to decide, when there was nothing left to do. We had talked about it before, so there wasn't any reason for him to talk about it now. It was his finger.

I've been asked a lot of times why we never went to Canada, as if that had obviously been the right thing to do, or why Michael didn't just accept the five years in jail you were supposed to receive for refusing to go in. I must say that on this I totally agreed with him. I think he did the right thing under the circumstances. We didn't like the circumstances, but we hadn't made them, so I'm not critical at all of what he finally decided. It was a terrible decision, but a correct one. I had thought so then, the entire time, and I still feel that way today.

We both felt very territorial about Yuba City, and our right to live in our own town. We had sacrificed a lot to stay, including Michael coming back from college in Oregon for my sake, and we both felt strongly that this was where we belonged no matter what. If he had gone to Canada, I would probably have had to remain here for a time because of the farm, but even without that problem, I don't think we would ever have left. Michael would get very angry about how he wasn't going to be driven away by those idiots. He felt that if he went to Canada, there'd never be a time he could come back safely, and I don't think he wanted to be a permanent exile from America. He loves it here, not just America but especially this town; it was only those people he hated who wanted to send him away and have him kill and probably be killed himself. So Canada was never something that either of us considered seriously. As for going to jail, he was even more adamant about that. Either way, running or going to jail, he said was admitting you were in the wrong and you had something to hide or to be guilty about. He couldn't see why he ought to do it. If he was going to be a criminal he said, it wasn't going to be by running. Considering all this today, that's a pretty upsetting thing for him to have said, I know.

So where did that leave us? I don't know why I keep saying us, since eventually it was his finger that got cut off, but I always a part of what he went through. Michael was very good about that then. [[e didn't hide anything from me, and he never made a decision without the two of us talking it over carefully and agreeing what was to be done. It was only later that he changed, looking like he was always seething inside in some kind of rage or other, but that really came a long time after. During this part of it, we were together on everything totally. Well, Canada was out and jail was out, and now the appeals were all over. He had been denied hardship status, he wasn't a conscientious objector they said, and that didn't leave much. A medical deferment was the last chance. He never had much wrong with him physically, and his weight was pretty normal, so it would have been tough to starve himself or turn real fat, the way we heard some people had done it. He went to Dr. Millar, you know, Phil's dad, to get a thorough physical, just to make sure there was nothing wrong with him that he could take advantage of. He also went to an orthodontist to check about his teeth, because we heard that braces were a nice easy way to get out of it, except that as soon as the braces were removed, you still had to go in. His teeth were too good anyway, and the dentist told him it would be very hard to find someone who would give him braces, since they knew why 18 or 20 year olds were showing up in their offices. So, as I said, the regular medical routes, and things like asthma and allergies and all of those, he was very thorough in making sure he wouldn't be able to claim things like that. He did what he could to avoid the way he finally used, I've got to say.

Q: Then how did he come to decide on cutting off a finger?

A: That's the story I'm telling. You don't have to interrupt. I've been trying to explain why his doing this wasn't an irrational act, like everybody has said. He didn't go crazy and run off with an ax and do it. He thought about it long and hard, and I know it was very important to him then that I didn't think he was out of his mind or anything to be doing this. So it's important to hear that, and not just have me start in on the way he did it, and make it all sensational.

The idea for cutting off his finger had first come up, oh, around a year before when he finally did it. We were watching TV, and there was this show, a Twilight Zone or something like that. I don't know for sure, and the story was about a bet two guys had over whether a cigarette lighter would light a certain number of times in a row. They got bored betting over money, and one of them gets the idea to bet a finger. If it wouldn't light five times, the loser would cut off his little finger. They tied his hand to a table and everything, all set to cut it off if the lighter wouldn't light. To be honest, I don't even remember how the show ended, because five or ten minutes before it was over, while we were watching the guy, Michael says, "I hope I never have to do that." This was around the time he was starting his conscientious objector papers going, and even then I knew what he meant, although we had never talked about anything like that before. I couldn't pay any more attention to the show. I knew that was it.

Q: So he copied it from a television show?

A: I wouldn't say just the TV program got him thinking about it, but I know that was the first time he spoke that way. Whether he was already figuring he'd have to do something like that eventually, I can't say. But if he hadn't seen that show, I don't know if he'd have still done it the way he did. He probably could have thought it up on his own just as well.

Q: A funny thing about this is that you could say these Draft Board murders were also copied.

A: From what?

Q: You know what I mean, like they were combat deaths.

A: I've got to say you're not too smart an interviewer if you'd say something like that to me. If you use one word of this in a way that could hurt Michael, I'll kill you myself. I don't want you to say one other thing that makes it sound as if you'd take anything I'm telling you and make those cheap connections to the murders which everybody is finding so significant. whatever I told you, if you had a mind that went that way, could be twisted around to show why he must have done it. If I said he used to go the grocery store and always came back in an hour, you'd probably take that and say the murders only took an hour, so that must mean it was Michael. I'm trying to tell you the truth, but if you so much as suggest you'd do anything against Michael, you better make damn sure I never find out about it, because I'll find you wherever you are.

Q: Don't get mad, Sharon. I didn't mean it that way. I've already told you I would never take advantage of your talking to me like that. I'm sorry that sounded bad.

A: Oh, it's probably not you. I've been under a lot of strain. I guess that's obvious. I'm glad to talk, but I don't really like to. It's so sad how this has turned out. Michael doesn't deserve what's happened. I'd like to think there's still some way he can get clear of this, but I realize it's not a new problem. His troubles go back a long way. Where was I? I'd like to finish what I was saying.

Q: I think you were to the TV show, and how Michael said he never wanted to do that.

A: I don't think that's quite how I said it. He said he hoped he'd never have to. To me it meant he realized that could be the way it would happen, and he was right. It is a good idea for you to have that tape recorder, or none of this would come out right.

You have to remember too the timing of this. He was pretty down already. It was apparent how hostile the Board was to what he was trying to do. He was getting his first chance at seeing what the world was going to be like from then on, if you know what I mean. Mr. Friedlander being so hostile to him was a big blow. They read his letter at the first Draft Board hearing. He was in the middle of a lot of growing up. We both were. I mean this was 1966. A long time ago. We were just kids. He was young enough to think you could count on people when you needed them. One or two incidents like what Friedlander did to him made him grow up real fast.

So, we go through all that stuff I was mentioning earlier about what happened with the conscientious objector tries, and we're back now to the day of the last letter, when I can see Michael is ready to do it. I guess I should say again that we did talk more times about whether cutting off his finger was a good alternative, it wasn't just that one time he said it during the program. He never said completely how he was going to do it, but I knew that was the plan. I still don't know how he went about it. If you really want to find out, you'll have to ask him. I `Il tell you as much as I know about that night it happened, but I wasn't there the whole time so I can't tell you everything. I didn't think he would copy the show exactly, you know, tie his arm down and all, but I knew finger-cutting was the last step.

At the time we were living in a little house on C Street, about a block from the high school. He asked me during dinner if I would go over and spend that evening with my mother. I understood why, but I asked him if he was sure he didn't want me to be there. I didn't say be there for what, because it was so clear why he wanted me to go. He told me not to worry, he had worked out a safe way to do it, but he'd rather be alone in case he started crying and getting angry, and he didn't want me to ever have to remember him doing that. I also remember very well that he did say, "Just be sure and get back at as close to 11:00 as you can. If something goes wrong, I may need your help. I've got no intention of bleeding to death." After we were through eating, I asked him one more time if it wouldn't be better if I stayed, in case something did go wrong. I told him I would go into another room or out in the yard or down the block, but someplace where I could get right back if I had to be. He said no again, and how he'd worked it out very carefully so that it would be safe and not hurt, but he'd feel a lot better if he knew for sure I'd be back on time just in case. I wasn't going to ask him again, but I hope you can imagine how I felt leaving the house that night, knowing what Michael was going to do, and knowing that he would never be the same again once he had actually been able to do that to himself. In all of this, everything, from then right up to now, that was the hardest thing I ever had to do.

I didn't tell my mother what was going on. How could I say I was visiting because Michael was home cutting off his finger? I was pretty good, pretty normal I mean. I watched the clock carefully, and I made sure I'd leave in enough time to be back right at eleven. I didn't want to leave too early either, because I knew Michael wouldn't want me back before then. He might have been planning to do it just before. I didn't know, so I tried to follow instructions.

The house was quiet when I got back. I was really surprised to see the porch light on, surprised I guess that in all of Michael's planning for doing this, he still remembered that I'd be coming back in the dark and that he should leave the light on. Michael was always like that, not forgetting to be considerate whenever he could, always doing tiny things that most of us would forget at some time or other.

I can't believe I'm really describing this. I've never told anyone. I'm surprised I'm remembering so exactly. I don't know. Maybe I'd be more surprised if I had forgotten any of it. So, I went in, and there was Michael standing in the kitchen over the sink. Along the counter he had laid out some first aid things, cotton, a long roll of gauze, and some adhesive tape. I saw him trying to wrap more bandage on his finger, or where his finger used to be. I could see from the blood that he really had done it, but I knew that all along, so it wasn't such a surprise to see what I was seeing. whatever he was doing, it didn't seem to be working very well The bleeding wouldn't stop. He looked groggy, as if he had taken pills or been drinking, but it might have just been from loss of blood. "I think we better get a doctor," he said to me, and it was clear he was right. The blood kept coming. I was so glad I got back in time. It's funny, I never felt like he was in danger of dying from this. Seeing him standing there over the sink, so considerate not to have made a mess, watching the blood accumulate on the big wad of gauze he was pressing against himself, I knew this was just a minor problem, like a faucet that wouldn't quite go off all the way. I was never scared. It was more a relief that it was finally done. I was so proud of him at that moment. I came up behind him and hugged him and told him so. It didn't matter about the blood. He laughed. I guess it was funny me doing that but I loved him so much at that moment, I couldn't begin to tell you.

I've got to say something I probably don't need to say, but if there's one thing that makes me more angry than just about anything else it's been when people have called Michael a coward or a chicken or a draft-dodger. If they could only have seen him that night. If what the Draft Board had been after from him was two years of his life, that night was more than he owed. Somebody should have realized that.

I called Dr. Millar and told him that Michael had an accident, and could he please do something. He asked me what had happened, and all I said was he was bleeding a lot on his hand. I didn't want to tell him that he had done this to himself, not that I expected it to be a secret or anything, but I don't know what was going through my head. I think it was that if he knew Michael had done this because of his draft problems, he might not have wanted to treat him. That probably sounds strange now, but I'm sure that's what I was thinking. It seemed like anybody you asked to help you in this town didn't want a word to get around that they might have done something to be cooperative with a potential draft-dodger. when it came out what had happened, everybody was so appalled anyway, they were so certain Michael was out of his mind to have done this, I don't think I was unusually paranoid at the time. You could tell what bothered people the most was that he was from here, right in town. It was like, if he wants to be that way and cut off his finger and all, then let him, as long as he does it somewhere else. It's like I was saying about our being determined to stay here People who felt that way deserved to have these things happen right in front of them If Michael was going to bleed, he wanted to do it here, and he did.

So I think I was right in not saying to Dr. Millar that Michael had done this to himself. Anyway, he asked if Michael was able to be driven, and I said I thought so. He said to meet him at his office, because he needed to be there in case any stitches would be necessary. Even then I had the feeling he had us go there as a way of being as private as possible, as if he could get into more trouble if I brought Michael to his house, or if he were seen coming here. I could have imagined that or only started thinking that way after, but I think that's how I felt. At least he was at his office when we got there, so I guess I really have no right to complain. I watched the whole time during his removing the bloody mess of bandages and giving Michael a shot, and then he did put stitches in. He never once asked while I heard how Michael had done this, so maybe it was kind of apparent what had happened. It was probably pretty generous of him not to get preachy or anything, and he did give Michael some pain pills and also told him to come back in a week and see him, and that he'd take out the stitches a couple of weeks after that if everything looked OK, and be sure and call if it looked like there was any funny color on the wound, in case it might be getting infected. I guess I shouldn't sound bitter towards him, but I start feeling that way towards everybody whenever I think back to then. That's why I usually make a point of not doing this kind of thing. I'd really prefer not to think back.

Q: Have you ever told Alex about that night?

A: He asked once, I think it was when he was about six. Michael told him right off "It was something Daddy had to do once." He answered like he knew Alex would eventually ask him about it, and this was the reply he had ready. That was the right thing to say, I think, because it was apparent that Alex could someday hear what happened on his own, and it was better not to have him think he had been lied to. It was an answer that satisfied him, but I'm sure he's been finding out now for the first time why exactly that happened. I'd rather you wouldn't ask me anything else about Alex. I'd rather not discuss him. I don't want to get into sob-story stuff, and that's what would happen if I went on about how this has affected him.

Q: Then tell me if you were always sure, you and Michael, that cutting off his finger would be a certain way of not being drafted As I gather, since his deferment was for psychiatric reasons, the physical handicap might not have been sufficient.

A: I'm not sure about the details, but I think that was some kind of Army formality. They didn't want it in their records that somebody had cut off a finger to keep from getting taken in. Probably they were afraid of having it publicized that was a sure way to avoid being drafted, like it would start an epidemic of it or something. I don't really know. I haven't heard of anybody else who had done what Michael did, but it wouldn't surprise me to learn he wasn't the only one.

Q: Well, I really appreciate your talking about this. I hated having to ask about it, honestly.

The interview went off from there into other areas, so that's all we need here. I am saving one bit for a few pages from now, but you'll see why later. Today, this would be the same day as the second interview with Michael, I thought it might be worth following up what Sharon had told me by talking to Dr. Millar. He used to be my doctor too. His son was a classmate of ours who, incidentally, went on himself to become a doctor and now shares his father's practice. I don't think it's a digression to note that wasn't unusual in Yuba City. We've already had the example of Neil Kenady and his father's real estate business, and there's others I could mention. I always thought it would be possible to come back to Yuba City in twenty-five years or so, and find that most people had been replaced by younger looking versions of their old selves. I was now discovering, at least in a number of instances, that I didn't have to wait twenty-five years to see that happening. I did, by the way, do an interview a couple of days ago with Phillip Millar, the son I used to know. There wasn't much he said that would be worth going into, so his is one of the many so far deleted. I talked longer this afternoon with his father also, but all I'm including is the part about Michael. For the record, Doctor Millar's first name (the older Dr. Millar, that is) is Hamilton, though I've never heard him called that by anyone. It's on the sign outside his office.

Q: Do you remember the night Sharon called you and said Michael had been injured?

A: Certainly. As if it were yesterday. I didn't know at first he had lost a finger. All I knew on the phone was about an accident and lots of bleeding on his hand. I can even tell you a little joke I made, because when I found out later what had really happened, about how he had done this himself, I realized what truly bad taste my jest had been in. When I first examined the wound, my initial reaction was to say, "Michael, you should have been a surgeon. That's the cleanest cut I've ever seen. I couldn't have done better on an operating table." I'm eternally sorry to say I followed my initial reaction and actually said those words out loud.

Q: What was their response when you said it?

A: I'm happy to say I didn't notice. I was too concerned with the work at hand. Oh sorry, I didn't mean to make another joke.

Q: I'll pretend I didn't notice. You didn't ask how he had lost his finger?

A: Well, as soon as I saw it, I realized it hadn't occurred in the course of a typical sort of accident. The bone wasn't chipped or jagged, the usual condition in that kind of case. Just below the occipital joint, which would be the middle joint of the finger, there had been a completely smooth slice. It looked like some special machine had done it, or a professional surgeon. While my joke at the time was in terribly bad taste, it was also an accurate observation. At least that's what I tell myself. But I don't to this day know what he did to remove his finger that way. While it took awhile to occur to me that it must have been self-inflicted, I somehow knew right away not to ask. They had already avoided explaining the circumstances to me on the telephone, and if they weren't going to tell me, I didn't want to know.

Q: Wouldn't knowing how it happened be necessary to treating him? I wouldn't expect a cut-off finger to be entirely that routine.

A: I think all I asked was how long ago it had happened. That would be all I'd need to know, to get an idea how much blood had been lost. The rest I could see for myself. It was clear no foreign matter, glass or anything else, had entered the injured area. Treating it was a matter of doing no more than cleaning it up and suturing. Any intern with a couple of nights experience in an emergency ward could have done the same. The job was completely free of complications. Those didn't start until Michael came back the following week to be checked.

Q: Complications?

A: He's a strange fellow, Michael is. I don't mean that in a bad way, not at all. I've always liked him. When he came back, he wanted to know why his finger had been bleeding so much. He acted genuinely surprised by that, as if everything else had gone according to plan.

Q: To plan?

A: You don't have to become an echo. I'm explaining. He acted as if I knew he had done this to himself. In fact, by then I had realized what was going on, about the Draft Board and all, I mean. I had mentioned to Phillip the next morning at breakfast about Michael's injury, and it was easy for us to put two and two together, as they say, because Phillip knew about Michael's draft troubles. So when Michael came to see me that second time, he wanted to discuss it as if we were two colleagues consulting on a case. I'd say he was unduly fascinated with the clinical aspects of his injury. He didn't talk about himself and his symptoms like a normal patient would. It was more like he was trying to learn something useful from the unexpected complications, which was to him, as I said, the amount of bleeding. It was unusual, really, his fascination with what to him had gone wrong. I've never seen anything like that before or since.

Q: Was it that unusual, for him to have bled as much as he did?

A: I wouldn't say so. The amount of bleeding in an injury like that depends upon too many factors to be possible to predict, weight and height, pulse rate, blood pressure, age, location of injury, you can't really say.

Q: Did that answer satisfy him?

A: As I recall, he wanted to know if he would have bled the same amount had he lost two toes. I told him I refused to discuss the matter further.

Q: Who do you think he said two toes?

A: I didn't know at the time, and I didn't want to prolong that part of the conversation with him. I did ask Phillip later what he thought. His idea, and I'm inclined to think it's correct, is that Michael must have felt that two toes would have been necessary to avoid being drafted, that for some reason one wouldn't have been sufficient. I can't for the life of me imagine why.

Q: Did Michael say anything else to you that you found unusual?

A: I did see him one more time, in order to remove the sutures and to be sure there had been no infection. He also asked me that day for some extra help.

Q: Extra help?

A: I had a feeling you would say that. The gist of what he wanted was whether I would be willing to say, because of his injury, that he was crazy. I gave him what I believe to have been a truthful answer, which was that I was no psychiatrist, and that the best I could do was refer him to one if he had mental problems he wanted to talk about. I did add, however, that my reaction was that his self-mutilation had clearly been done so thoughtfully and patiently that I couldn't imagine how anyone would find it to have been an irrational act. He smiled and told me that he was surprised I couldn't see that was exactly the point, that the care and precision were what proved his case. My reply was simply that I was not qualified to speak on these matters.

Q: Did you give him a psychiatrist's name?

A: He said that wouldn't be necessary. He also acted, I would say, as if he were disappointed that I wouldn't get involved in his case.

Q: Do you still think you did the right thing?

A: I wasn't trying to avoid becoming involved. If I thought he was crazy and felt I could make a competent medical judgement, I would have done so. If he expected me to come to his aid by supplying false testimony or pretending I had a special ability to decide that issue, it was wrong for him to expect I would jeopardize my professional standing in order to do that. As it happens, he got what he was after without my assistance, so I don't think I did very much either way.

Q: If I can ask one last thing, I just wonder whether you're surprised by recent events.

No more surprised than anyone else. It's a terrible tragedy, for the families involved and for all of Yuba City. If it had to happen, I wish it could have been somewhere else. The last thing we needed was any further reason to be put in a bad spotlight. All the reporters, the negative publicity. That's not the kind of town this is. You'd know that since you lived here, but people reading about us or watching television would have a completely distorted notion of what we're like.

Q: Did any reporters talk to you?

A: No. Once I was stopped on Clark Street and asked a question, but no one has come to see me about treating Michael, if that's what you mean. You're the first. And I don't plan to talk to anyone else. I've said all there needs to be said. And I don't intend to become the Dr. Mudd in this case.

Q: Dr. Mudd?

A: You know, the physician who attended to John Wilkes Booth after Abraham Lincoln's assassination. He later went to Devil's Island, having been assumed to have conspired with Booth, when all he had done was set his leg, and a broken leg was far less serious than Michael's injury.

Q: I don't think the two care are much alike. Booth's leg injury came right after he killed Lincoln, and he was on the run when Mudd saw him. You treated Michael thirteen years ago. That seems hardly the same thing.

A: I'm glad you think so. I hope everyone else sees that too. I shouldn't be associated with Michael. To me he was just a patient with an injury.

The last part of an interview about this incident I want to include I've kept for the very end, because I haven't been sure whether to include it at all. It's a little more from Sharon, and I told her I wouldn't put it in, and I don't want to go against what I said, but it should be here and I'm going to do it. If I'm lucky, Sharon won't look at this part, and if she does, Sharon please understand what I had to. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I hope you can see, if not now then someday, why this has to be told.

The section below came about ten minutes into our interview after the previous excerpt with her, roughly just before the part where she asked me why I had come back to town. She had been talking about how Michael was during the time after he finally got the deferment, most of which I've left out as not being really necessary, when we got to the following point:

A: Did I say anything before about what he did after we got back from Dr. Hamilton's that night? I mean that same night.

Q: No, I don't think so.

A: You have to swear you'll never tell anyone, but he told me he was keeping a small jar in the garage, and he wanted to show it to me that one time, and from then I should always leave it alone.

Q: What was it?

A: Obviously, it was his missing finger. He had put it in a jar that he must have had ready in advance. It was in some kind of clear liquid. I would guess it was formaldehyde or something like that. I certainly didn't want to open the jar and smell it in order to find out. I asked him why he had done this, which seemed to me a natural enough question to ask. He said it was so he wouldn't forget. I wanted to ask him how he could forget this night and what he did anyway, and wasn't the missing place on his hand where the finger used to be enough of a reminder, but I didn't say any of that. I guess he meant if he kept it, it would be a further reminder. I don't know if he ever got that bottle out again, but I know he kept track of it because he asked about it twice, once when we moved from there, and once more when I came to live here at the farm after he and I split up. He didn't ask to take it with him, he just wanted to know where it was.

Q: Do you still have it?

A: No. As soon as this trouble happened, I went and threw it in the river. I didn't want the police finding it and making something out of it which it wasn't. Just because he kept it doesn't mean he held any more of a grudge against those men who died. I know he didn't keep it because of that. And you better not tell anyone about this, especially Michael. Don't even hint about it. Promise me.