“You don’t have enough light.”
“Tri-X,” he said, still taking pictures. “You can force it to 2400, if you have the right lab. And I have the right lab.”
I looked back at the cars. J. D. was returning the tank to his trunk. Then he started the Porsche engine and backed the car around, so it was facing the road, away from the ocean.
“Ready for the getaway,” Wilson said. “Beautiful.”
J. D. called to Peter and got out of the car. He stood by Peter, then I saw the brief flare of a match. Suddenly the interior of the Mercedes burst into flames.
The two men immediately ran to the rear of the car and leaned their weight against the car. It moved slowly, then faster, and finally began the slide down the sandy slope. They stepped back and watched its descent. At the bottom, it apparently exploded, because there was a loud sound and a bright red flash of light.
They sprinted for the car, got in, and drove past us.
“Come on,” Wilson said. He ran forward to the edge with his camera. Down below, at the edge of the water, was the burning, smashed hulk of the Mercedes.
Wilson took several pictures, then put his camera away and looked at me.
He was grinning broadly. “Baby,” he said, “have we got a case.”
NINE
ON THE WAY BACK, I turned off the expressway at the Cohasset exit.
“Hey,” Wilson said, “what’re you doing?”
“Going to see Randall.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Are you crazy? After what we saw?”
I said, “I came out tonight to get Art Lee off the hook. I still intend to do it.”
“Uh-uh,” Wilson said. “Not now. Not after what we saw.” He patted the little camera in his hand. “Now we can go to court.”
“But there’s no need. We have an iron case. Unbeatable. Unshakable.”
I shook my head.
“Listen,” Wilson said, “you can rattle a witness. You can discredit him, making him look like a fool. But you can’t discredit a picture. You can’t beat a photograph. We have them by the balls.”
“No,” I said.
He sighed. “Before, it was going to be a bluff. I was going to walk in there and bullshit my way through it. I was going to scare them, to frighten them, to make them think we had evidence when we didn’t. But now, it’s all different. We have the evidence. We have everything we need.”
“If you don’t want to talk to them, I will.”
“Berry,” Wilson said, “if you talk to them, you’ll blow our whole case.”
“I’ll make them quit.”
“Berry, you’ll blow it. Because they’ve just done something very incriminating. They’ll know it. They’ll be taking a hard line.”
“Then we’ll tell them what we know.”
“And if it comes to trial? What then? We’ll have blown our cool.”
“I’m not worried about that. It won’t come to trial.”
Wilson scratched his scar again, running his finger down his neck. “Listen,” he said, “don’t you want to win?”
“Yes,” I said, “but without a fight.”
“There’s going to be a fight. Any way you cut it, there’ll be a fight. I’m telling you.”
I pulled up in front of the Randall house and drove up the drive. “Don’t tell me,” I said, “Tell them.”
“You’re making a mistake,” he said.
“Maybe,” I said, “but I doubt it.”
We climbed the steps and rang the doorbell.
RELUCTANTLY, the butler led us into the living room. It was no larger than the average-size basketball court, an immense room with a huge fireplace. Seated around the roaring fire were Mrs. Randall, in lounging pajamas, and Peter and J. D., both with large snifters of brandy in their hands.
The butler stood erectly by the door and said, “Dr. Berry and Mr. Wilson, sir. They said they were expected.”
J. D. frowned when he saw us. Peter sat back and allowed a small smile to cross his face. Mrs. Randall seemed genuinely amused.
J. D. said, “What do you want?”
I let Wilson do the talking. He gave a slight bow and said, “I believe you know Dr. Berry, Dr. Randall. I am George Wilson. I am Dr. Lee’s defense attorney.”
“That’s lovely,” J. D. said. He glanced at his watch. “But it’s nearly midnight, and I am relaxing with my family. I have nothing to say to either of you until we meet in court. So if you will—”
“If you will pardon me, sir,” Wilson said, “we have come a long way to see you. All the way from the Cape, in fact.”
J. D. blinked once and set his face rigidly. Peter coughed back a laugh. Mrs. Randall said, “What were you doing on the Cape?”
“Watching a bonfire,” Wilson said.
“A bonfire?”
“Yes,” Wilson said. He turned to J. D. “We’d like some brandies, please, and then a little chat.”
Peter could not suppress a laugh this time. J. D. looked at him sternly, then rang for the butler. He ordered two more brandies, and as the butler was leaving, he said, “Small ones, Herbert. They won’t be staying long.”
Then he turned to his wife. “If you will, my dear.”
She nodded and left the room.
“Sit down, gentlemen.”
“We prefer to stand,” Wilson said. The butler brought two small crystal snifters. Wilson raised his glass. “Your health, gentlemen.”
“Thank you,” J. D. said. His voice was cold. “Now what’s on your minds?”
“A small legal matter,” Wilson said. “We believe that you may wish to reconsider charges against Dr. Lee.”
“Reconsider?”
“Yes. That was the word I used.”
“There is nothing to reconsider,” J. D. said.
Wilson sipped the brandy. “Oh?”
“That’s right,” J. D. said.
“We believe,” Wilson said, “that your wife may have been mistaken in hearing that Dr. Lee aborted Karen Randall. Just as we believe that Peter Randall was mistaken when he reported his automobile stolen to the police. Or hasn’t he reported it yet?”
“Neither my wife, nor my brother, were mistaken,” J. D. said.
Peter coughed again and lit a cigar.
“Something wrong, Peter?” J.D. asked.
“No, nothing.”
He puffed the cigar and sipped his brandy.
“Gentlemen,” J. D. said, turning to us. “You are wasting your time. There has been no mistake, and there is nothing to reconsider.”
Wilson said softly, “In that case, it must go to court.”
“Indeed it must,” Randall said, nodding.
“And you will be called to account for your actions tonight,” Wilson said.
“Indeed we may. But we will have Mrs. Randall’s firm testimony that we spent the evening playing chess.” He pointed to a chessboard in the corner.
“Who won?” Wilson asked, with a faint smile.
“I did, by God,” Peter said, speaking for the first time. And he chuckled.
“How did you do it?” Wilson said.
“Bishop to knight’s twelve,” Peter said and chuckled again. “He is a terrible chess player. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times.”
“Peter, this is no laughing matter.”
“You’re a sore loser,” Peter said.
“Shut up, Peter.”
Quite abruptly, Peter stopped laughing. He folded his arms across his massive belly and said nothing more.
J. D. Randall savored a moment of silence, then said, “Was there anything else, gentlemen?”
“YOU SON OF A BITCH,” I said to Wilson. “You blew it.”
“I did my best.”
“You got him angry. You were forcing him into court.”
“I did my best.”
“That was the lousiest, rottenest—”
“Easy,” Wilson said, rubbing his scar.
“You co
uld have scared him. You could have told them how it would go—the way you explained it to me in the bar. You could have told them about the pictures….”
“It wouldn’t have done any good,” Wilson said.
“It might.”
“No. They are determined to take the case to court. They—”
“Yes,” I said, “thanks to you. Strutting around like a self-satisfied bastard. Making cheap threats like a penny tough. Demanding a brandy—that was beautiful, that was.”
“I attempted to persuade them,” Wilson said.
“Crap.”
He shrugged.
“I’ll tell you what you did, Wilson. You pushed them into a trial, because you want one. You want an arena, a chance to show your stuff, a chance to make a name for yourself, to prove that you’re a ruthless hotshot. You know, and I know, that if the case ever comes to trial, Art Lee—no matter what the outcome—will lose. He’ll lose his prestige, his patients, maybe even his license. And if it comes to trial, the Randalls will also lose. They’ll be smeared, shot through with half-truths and implications, destroyed. Only one person will come out on top.”
“Yes?”
“You, Wilson. Only you can win in a trial.”
“That’s your opinion,” he said. He was getting angry. I was getting him.
“That’s a fact.”
“You heard J. D. You heard how unreasonable he was.”
“You could have made him listen.”
“No,” Wilson said. “But he’ll listen in court.” He sat back in the car and stared forward for a moment, thinking over the evening. “You know, I’m surprised at you, Berry. You’re supposed to be a scientist. You’re supposed to be objective about evidence. You’ve had a bellyful of evidence tonight that Peter Randall is guilty, and you’re still unhappy.”
“Did he strike you,” I said, “as a guilty man?”
“He can act.”
“Answer the question.”
“I did,” Wilson said.
“So you believe he’s guilty?”
“That’s right,” Wilson said. “And I can make a jury believe it, too.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“Then it’s too bad. Just the way it’s too bad that Mrs. Randall was wrong about Art Lee.”
“You’re making excuses.”
“Am I?” He shook his head. “No, man. You are. You’re playing the loyal doctor, right down the line. You’re sucking up to the tradition, to the conspiracy of silence. You’d like to see it handled nice and quietly, very diplomatic, with no hard feelings at the end.”
“Isn’t that the best way? The business of a lawyer,” I said, “is to do whatever is best for his client.”
“The business of a lawyer is to win his cases.”
“Art Lee is a man. He has a family, he has goals, he has personal desires and wishes. Your job is to implement them. Not to stage a big trial for your own glory.”
“The trouble with you, Berry, is that you’re like all doctors. You can’t believe that one of your own is rotten. What you’d really like to see is an ex-army medical orderly or a nurse on trial. Or a nice little old midwife. That’s who you’d like to stick with this rap. Not a doctor.”
“I’d like to stick the guilty person,” I said, “nobody else.”
“You know who’s guilty,” Wilson said. “You know damned well.”
I DROPPED WILSON OFF, then drove home and poured myself a very stiff vodka. The house was silent; it was after midnight.
I drank the vodka and thought about what I had seen. As Wilson had said, everything pointed to Peter Randall. There had been blood on his car, and he had destroyed the car. I had no doubt that a gallon of gasoline on the front seat would eliminate all evidence. He was clean, now—or would be, if we hadn’t seen him burning the car.
Then, too, as Wilson had said, everything made sense. Angela and Bubbles were right in claiming that they hadn’t seen Karen; she had gone to Peter that Sunday night. And Peter had made a mistake; Karen had gone home and begun to bleed. She had told Mrs. Randall, who had taken her to the hospital in her own car. At the hospital, she hadn’t known that the EW diagnosis would not call in the police; to avert a family scandal she had blamed the abortion on the only other abortionist she knew: Art Lee. She had jumped the gun, and all hell had broken loose.
Everything made sense.
Except, I thought, for the original premise. Peter Randall had been Karen’s physician for years. He knew she was a hysterical girl. Therefore he would have been certain to perform a rabbit test on her. Also, he knew that she had had a prior complaint of vision trouble, which suggested a pituitary tumor which could mimic pregnancy. So he would certainly have tested.
Then again, he had apparently sent her to Art Lee. Why? If he had been willing to see her aborted, he would have done it himself.
And still again, he had aborted her twice without complications. Why should he make a mistake—a major and serious mistake—the third time?
No, I thought, it didn’t make sense.
And then I remembered something Peterson had said: “You doctors certainly stick together.” I realized he, and Wilson, were right. I wanted to believe that Peter was innocent. Partly because he was a doctor, partly because I liked him. Even in the face of serious evidence, I wanted to believe he was innocent.
I sighed and sipped my drink. The fact was I had seen something very serious that night, something clandestine and incriminating. I could not overlook it. I could not pass it off as accident or coincidence. I had to explain it.
And the most logical explanation was that Peter Randall was the abortionist.
THURSDAY
OCTOBER 13
ONE
I AWOKE FEELING MEAN. Like a caged animal, trapped, enclosed. I didn’t like what was happening and didn’t see any way to stop it. Worst of all, I didn’t see any way to beat Wilson. It was hard enough to prove Art Lee was innocent; to prove Peter Randall was innocent as well was impossible.
Judith took one look at me and said, “Grumpy.”
I snorted and showered.
She said, “Find out anything?”
“Yeah. Wilson wants to pin it on Peter Randall.”
She laughed. “Jolly old Peter?”
“Jolly old Peter,” I said.
“Has he got a case?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good,” she said.
“No,” I said, “it’s not.”
I turned off the shower and stepped out, reaching for a towel. “I can’t believe Peter would do it,” I said.
“Charitable of you.”
I shook my head. “No,” I said, “it’s just that getting another innocent man for it solves nothing.”
“It serves them right,” Judith said.
“Who?”
“The Randalls.”
“It isn’t just,” I said.
“That’s fine for you to say. You can immerse yourself in the technicalities. I’ve been with Betty Lee for three days.”
“I know it’s been hard—”
“I’m not talking about me,” she said. “I’m talking about her. Or have you forgotten last night?”
“No,” I said, thinking to myself that last night had started it all, the whole mess. My decision to call in Wilson.
“Betty has been through hell,” Judith said. “There’s no excuse for it, and the Randalls are to blame. So let them boil in their own oil for a while. Let them see how it feels.”
“But Judith, if Peter is innocent—”
“Peter is very amusing,” she said. “That doesn’t make him innocent.”
“It doesn’t make him guilty.”
“I don’t care who’s guilty anymore. I just want it finished and Art set free.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know how you feel.”
While I shaved, I stared at my face. A rather ordinary face, too heavy in the jowls, eyes too small, hair thinning. But all in all, nothing unusual about me. It gave me a
strange feeling to know that I had been at the center of things, at the center of a crisis affecting a half-dozen people, for three days. I wasn’t the sort of person for that.
As I dressed and wondered what I would do that morning, I also wondered if I had ever been at the center of things. It was an odd thought. Suppose I had been circling at the periphery, digging up unimportant facts? Suppose the real heart of the matter was still unexplored?
Trying to save Peter again.
Well, why not? He was as much worth saving as anyone else.
It occurred to me then that Peter Randall was as much worth saving as Art. They were both men, both doctors, both established, both interesting, both a little noncomformist. When you came down to it, there was nothing really to choose between them. Peter was humorous, Art was sarcastic. Peter was fat and Art was thin.
But essentially the same.
I pulled on my jacket and tried to forget the whole thing. I wasn’t the judge; thank God for that. It wouldn’t be my job to unsnarl things at the trial.
The telephone rang. I didn’t answer it. A moment later, Judith called, “It’s for you.”
I picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
A familiar, booming voice said, “John, this is Peter. I’d like you to come by for lunch.”
“Why?” I said.
“I want you to meet the alibi I haven’t got,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“Twelve-thirty?” he asked.
“See you then,” I said.
TWO
PETER RANDALL LIVED WEST OF NEWTON, in a modern house. It was small but beautifully furnished: Breuer chairs, a Jacobsen couch, a Rachmann coffee table. The style was sleekly modern. He met me at the door with a drink in his hand.
“John. Come in.” He led the way into the living room. “What will you drink?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
“I think you’d better,” he said. “Scotch?”
“On the rocks.”
“Have a seat,” he said. He went into the kitchen; I heard ice cubes in a glass. “What did you do this morning?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I sat around and thought.”