At the little dock below the Michigan Avenue bridge, a drowned man lay floating face down in the river. Two divers struggled to slide him onto a tray suspended just above the water by several straps held by a group of fire fighters. Reporters, photographers, and police clustered around them on the walkway just above the river. Behind them a crowd was gathering, they hung over the water from the walkway, lined the steps leading up to the bridge, and stood two and three deep along the bridge’s rail.
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The first diver tried again to lift the torso onto the tray, and, that accomplished, the other again tried to lift the legs around the straps. Successfully clearing the straps, he flung the legs onto the tray–sending the body rolling off the other side and into the water again.
“They’re a bunch of idiots down there!” said a man on the bridge.
“Maybe he was pushed,” he shrugged.
The first diver again shoved the man’s head and shoulders onto the tray, and his face lolled into view. A few gasps were sucked in. The face was the same bloodless white as the rest of the body, although his features and hair seemed to be those of a black man. His eyes were closed, the swollen skin around them a smear of dark red, as though he had been struck in the eyes. With the next shove from the diver the face rolled down onto the tray and out of sight.
The young man tried to protest: “Now, that’s not what I meant–”
“Look out!”
