Years ago – many years ago – I was a board certified vascular surgeon. I could continue on in that vein (little vascular surgeon’s joke there) but I won’t. Because I didn’t.
In 1999 I was accused of killing my wife, by an investor who wanted to take over my surgical group (I was the majority stake holder, and wouldn’t sell). He fabricated evidence and brought it the police, who believed him. When I got wind of that, via a dispatcher acquaintance, I did a stupid thing. I ran.
For 2 years I stayed one step ahead of the law, finding work at dive bars and dog grooming spas, sleeping rough (usually) or underneath some accommodating doyenne (sometimes). I won’t lie, it was an awful existence. But what could I do?
Finally, after two years, I’d had enough. I turned myself in. At trial the judge dismissed all charges when it was discovered I was never married. With no wife to be murdered, I couldn’t be found guilty of murdering her. I was free to go.
But the damage was done. My license, which had been suspended in absentia while I was on the lam, was restored. But my former practice had dissolved, and no new one would touch me. To be accused in this society is to be guilty. I was Dr. N. Grata.
Despondent, I took the only road open to me. I married a willing slattern and became a radio god.
These are the stories of my descent into perdition.