Thirty-five years ago today, at the Gendarmerie in Papeete, Tahiti, the FBI interviewed my brother for several hours about the suspicious deaths of our parents. At one point they took a break, and one of the agents—I dubbed him Steely Eyes—met with me outside of the compound, where we stood in the shade of a large tree.
“A half-dozen French and American doctors have examined the X-rays of your sister’s wound,” the agent said. “They all came to the same conclusion: Your sister did not have an accident.”
Numbed by his words, I stared into the distance.
He continued. “The fracture was caused by a forcible blow with a blunt instrument. A gun butt, maybe a wrench.”
A lump filled my throat and I struggled to breathe.
I recount the entire scene and what followed in my forthcoming memoir, scheduled for release this spring.
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