We set a record today, here in southeastern Michigan. A record fell, that had stood for over 120 years. It was 78 degrees and a simply gorgeous day. The last time that it was this warm on April 8th was in 1885. It was more like a day in June or July than early April. It was the kind of day that you would like to spend puttering around in your backyard. Even my engineer today, Berkeley Mellon, was in that 'puttering around' mood, and was taping up the rough edges on one of the Dutch doors as we waited to board passengers in Detroit.

At about the same time I got a call from my wife to inform me, with excitement, "We just saw a robin in the backyard!" To which I replied, "Okay, good, the air rifle is on the shelf over my work bench." There was a sudden intake of breath before she realized it was merely my crass sense of humor at work again.

Last year at this time I was the conductor on the Twilight Limited, train number 355. This year I'm helping Montford Bluis. Same job, different pay-rate.

We left the Detroit station only a couple of minutes late. The Grand Trunk had decided to run the northbound No. 4933 between us and the station, right at boarding time. No problem. There is enough slop in the schedule that we were still several minutes early at our next stop, Dearborn Michigan.

Leaving Dearborn for Ann Arbor on this beautiful afternoon none of us had the slightest inkling that Palm Sunday was about to become a tragedy.

For those of you that are familiar with the story called, "Suicide", a lot of what follows will seem like déjà vu. It certainly did to me. For, no sooner had we passed the dragging equipment detector at Geddes Road, than I felt the train go into emergency. Berkeley had dumped the air. And began hollering over the radio, "Emergency, emergency, emergency, we just had a suicide - a guy just jumped right in front of the train!" From past experience, as soon as I heard the air blow, I turned down my radio. Passengers do not need to hear this sort of thing. I looked up and saw Montford heading for the rear of the train, so I went forward into the cafe car and grabbed a blanket. Then I, too, headed for the rear.

Between notifying the dispatcher, calling 911, and calling Amtrak operations, valuable moments were flowing by, moments that would never be recovered. Montford was at the rear of the train trying to get permission to backup. This is usually the fastest way to get back to the scene of the tragedy. In this case, I could see a bright spot of clothing in the ditch, less than a quarter of a mile away. So I took off on foot, knowing that Montford would backup as soon as he could. I also knew that this bright spot of clothing had two chances of still being alive, and those would be - slim and none. But there is always a chance. . .

At this point I would like to interject Berkeley's statement:

‘As we came out of the curve by the jogger's path I saw a guy crouched by the tracks on the firemen's side. It seemed like he was playing chicken with the train. He would make a motion as if to jump in front of the engine and then draw back and then make the motion again and then draw back. Of course, I was immediately blowing the whistle and just as fast decided to dump the air, since this guy seemed pretty weird. And at the last moment, he dived in front of the engine. That's when I began the emergency broadcast.’

From about 25 feet away I realized I was looking at the remains of a young man who had been alive short moments before. My first thought was, where is his head? And of course, the strong feeling of déjà vu would not go away. Because it was approximately at this same time last year at this same place that a despondent gentlemen took his life in front of our train.

For a moment I couldn't move. I could hear the birds singing in the trees. I could feel the afternoon heat. I could see a cloud of gnats circling in the air about ten feet in front of me. None of this seemed to gibe with the still form of what used to be a human being, lying at my feet. Forcing myself back into the moment, I realized upon closer inspection, that this man's head was still attached to his body. It was merely empty now, a skin sac, and folded neatly under his chest. His left arm seemed to be trying to cradle that empty sac against the instant of oblivion.

I covered him up with the Amtrak blanket.

"Amtrak number 355, field man to the conductor, hello Montford."

"Go ahead."

"Stay right there, there's no sense coming any closer. We don't need an ambulance. We need the coroner."

"Roger."

Déjà vu.

Unlike last year, when our unusual position in the middle of the Huron River Park made it so difficult for the proper authorities to get to the scene of the accident, this year it only took them ten minutes. Four police persons, all of them females, in two police vehicles, knew exactly how to get to the site where the jogger’s path crosses the railroad main line. I recognized one of them from last year and we nodded. I gestured towards the body and said, "He's all yours now." And in fact, I was wrong.

Last year the gentlemen that wished to take his own life approached our train from the engineers side, property that belongs to the city of Ann Arbor, and ended up on the firemen's side, property that belongs to the University of Michigan. It took some pretty heavy-duty negotiating to decide which of these two law-enforcement agencies would take responsibility for the paperwork and follow-up.

This year it was dirt simple. He came from the UM side and he ended up on the UM side and it would be their baby. Nonetheless, since the Ann Arbor police were on the scene first, they began to take statements and to take pictures. And then a University of Michigan squad car arrived on their side of the tracks along with a policeman on a bicycle. More pictures. And then the sheriff arrived. More pictures. A University of Michigan officer asked us what we needed, which was pretty darn nice of him. Of course, the Ann Arbor police had also asked us if we were okay, before they went about their business. We had replied that we needed the coroner to pronounce death, a detective to take statements, and then we could go. Déjà vu.

Last year it was also a holiday, I'd have to look back to figure out which one. But no one could locate the coroner then, either. By now we had been sitting for over an hour. At this point my boss arrived, dragged out of church by the situation. And so did a Norfolk Southern trainmaster. Both of these gentlemen are very helpful when it comes to reminding the various authorities that we have a mission also, and that is to get our train moving. About this time the news helicopters began circling overhead and in fact we have a regular three ring circus going. Thirty or forty uniformed officers and medical personnel, fifteen plus police vehicles with lights flashing, officers picking up body scraps and roping off the area with black and yellow police tape, photographers racing back and forth, officials officiating, investigators investigating, and passengers sitting patiently.

Déjà vu.

A University of Michigan police Sergeant finally arrives with authority even over the accident investigator. He is prepared to let us go. That is, as soon as the coroner arrives, to declare death on Palm Sunday, a record warm day. Warmest day in 125 years. I start to feel like we have been sitting there for 125 years.

Over two hours have gone by.

After the initial onslaught of attention I have positioned myself at the rear of the last coach on the train. We have a vestibule door open here that I will close once the train is released. Flashlights are coming towards me in the dark - it is the coroner, his assistant, and my boss. Although the coroner has pronounced death, he needs to take the fourth set of pictures of the front of the engine before he will deem it appropriate to let us continue on our way. He does this.

Standing on the rear platform of the last coach and sipping my seventh or seventeenth cup of coffee, I notice a truly beautiful thing. A giant yellow, and very full moon, is rising over the Huron River. It seems huge and powerful. It dwarfs the puny spotlights that have been set up and focused on the sorry remains in the ditch, by the Amtrak main line, now shrouded in darkness. I am very anxious to leave.

The engineer and conductor and myself are given the opportunity to be relieved at Ann Arbor. Berkeley and Montford take the limousine back to Pontiac and home.

I prefer to work through these incidents. I prefer to stay busy, it keeps my mind from dilly dallying on Palm Sunday corpses.

We get a new engineer at Ann Arbor and head West, slightly over two hours late. At Battle Creek, MI., train number 354 East bound is already in the station waiting for us. We let our passengers out on the street crossing east of the station and get re-crewed. Train number 355 continues West. The relief engineer and I, and a relief helper, get on train number 354 and head back east to Pontiac MI. No dinner for this crew on this record evening.

The temperature has dropped considerably. We get into Pontiac an hour late and I can hardly remember Palm Sunday. I know it was unseasonably warm. I know a guy committed suicide by jumping in front of our train. From hearing the conversation as the police removed his wallet and checkbook from his pockets I know that he was under 30, had over $300 in his pocket, had $70,000 in the bank, had a pilot's license, and a nice apartment in Ypsilanti, MI.

Well, I guess money cannot buy happiness. I know there is more to this story, and I hope to get it from the Ann Arbor authorities. I have a number to call, a detective that gave me her number last year. Perhaps she can tell me what was going on with this young man, that he felt it was necessary to end his life on Palm Sunday, on a record day, by the Huron River, in Ann Arbor, MI.

And delay my train for over two hours. . . again. Déjà vu.