In spite of the challenges and hurdles that the cliff created, my research rolled on. The tempo had evolved into a much slower, more methodical pace. The motivation was still there, as the blazing questions had yet to be answered.
 
I kept up contact with the lady from Detroit and in one particular conversation she gave me great inspiration. According to her experiences, anyone can get a copy of the death certificate. On the surface this didn’t seem that interesting, perhaps I was growing weary of this having gone on for well over a decade. Perhaps too, the massive research discoveries seemed a thing of the past. Death certificates initially felt like just another piece of paper on the stack.
 
But then my inner voice spoke up. “Send for them.” For several years this voice or gut reaction or seemingly casual prompting had a reason, even if not readily evident. It’s odd to say that it never led me astray, and so I sent off for the final paperwork on two officers. The lady in Detroit agreed to send for Murphy’s and we would share what was learned, as we have been doing for the past few years.
 
When they arrived I read them of course. It was just as the newspaper article described. One officer was inside of the light when the acetylene tank exploded, blamed on an unexpected spark. That gentleman was killed instantly. As I read the highly dry and factual document an image flashed, incredibly brief, but clear. A wrench had scraped against the metal floor inside of the light and caused a few sparks. His name was John Sipniewski, second officer of the Marigold.
 
The next certificate was assigned to Louis DeVrendt. His death was due to being in a boat adjacent to the light. When the explosion occurred he was shot off and into the water. The blast was cited as causing paralysis, which contributed strongly to his drowning.
 
“… I continued to watch the men. Their attempts quickly became more desperate. They were completely unable to reach me and oddly, I could not move toward them. All I could do was watch as I slowly drifted downward.
 
“I recall considering the moment as inescapable. ‘I don’t think I’m going to get out of this one’, I thought. I knew there was nothing I could do about it, but agree to it. It was in that acceptance that I found absolute calmness. With awareness of no ability to reach to my rescuers I watched them grow smaller as my world grew darker…”
 
“My God,” I said aloud. “This death certificate is my dream.” And suddenly the stars in the universe of my mind detonated in radiant bursts of understanding. Dots of information connected. Disparate images fused into a clear history. Adrenaline charged through me as the rush of a genuine eureka moment crashed upon me. I was at once ecstatic at coming full circle and shocked that this was really happening. This was truly a Twilight Zone event.
 
Days passed I remained in an awed, somewhat confused orbit around the Marigold. I tried to convince myself that these sorts of things happened in movies, not reality. It was in that time, that a scan of Murphy’s death certificate was emailed to me. I recall that time with absolute clarity, which is difficult considering so many strange and impossible things had been mashed together. Sitting at my computer, I opened the attachment that the lady from Detroit sent. She commented on how excited they were to have this valuable piece of family history. I read the single page, spotted with dust that had landed on the scanner glass. It was typed in the same official manner as John and Louie’s had been. Murphy had received fatal head injuries while on the same boat as Louie. The blast had slammed him back into a mast. He fell unconscious and never woke up.
 
For the briefest of seconds the dedicated researcher in me marveled at the fact that I was actually reading this extremely important paper, crucial to my work. I paused to let the facts seep in. As I leaned back I felt the undeniable presence of a man move from behind my right shoulder to sitting in me. It felt like I was sitting inside of myself and that was perfectly fine. The sensation of looking through my eyes was like looking through a mask. I read for a second time as the man read for a first.
 
Again, every word entered my mind, identical to just a minute before. Each letter was soaked in, absorbed past my brain and into a very deep mind that existed to only know. I clung to every typed comment, holding dearly as I would have a lifeline. When I came upon the cause of death I recall pausing my shallow breath. I read it again. “Murphy,” I whispered.
 
The rest of the page began to blur, details were fading into one another. I finished reading it all, but the end evaporated before I could commit it to memory. Leaning back again I just stared at the monitor, catatonic with sudden knowledge. And then I wept. “Dear Murphy. Now I know what happened to you.”