A Case of Need

  “Tell me your lawyer’s name.”

  He told me, and I wrote it in the notebook. Art had a good lawyer. I guess he figured he’d need one, sometime.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll call him when I leave. Now what’s going on?”

  “I’ve been arrested,” Art said. “For murder.”

  “So I gathered. Why did you call me?”

  “Because you know about these things.”

  “About murder? I don’t know anything.”

  “You went to law school.”

  “For a year,” I said. “That was ten years ago. I almost flunked out, and I don’t remember a thing I learned.”

  “John,” he said, “this is a medical problem and a legal problem. Both. I need your help.”

  “You’d better start from the beginning.”

  “John, I didn’t do it. I swear I didn’t. I never touched that girl.”

  He was pacing faster and faster. I gripped his arm and stopped him. “Sit down,” I said, “and start from the beginning. Very slowly.”

  He shook his head and stubbed out his cigarette. Immediately he lit another, then said, “They picked me up at home this morning, about seven. Brought me in and started questioning me. At first they said it was routine, whatever that means. Then they turned nasty.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Two. Sometimes three.”

  “Did they get rough? Slap you around? Bright lights?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Did they say you could call a lawyer?”

  “Yes. But that was later. When they advised me of my constitutional rights.” He smiled that sad, cynical smile of his. “At first, you see, it was just for routine questioning, so it never occurred to me to call one. I had done nothing wrong. They talked to me for an hour before they even mentioned the girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “Karen Randall.”

  “You don’t mean the Karen—”

  He nodded. “J. D. Randall’s daughter.”

  “Jesus.”

  “They began by asking me what I knew about her, and whether I’d ever seen her as a patient. Things like that. I said yes, that she had come to me a week ago for consultation. Chief complaint of amenorrhea.”

  “What duration?”

  “Four months.”

  “Did you tell them the duration?”

  “No, they didn’t ask me.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “They wanted to know other details about her visit. They wanted to know if that was her only problem, they wanted to know how she had acted. I wouldn’t tell them. I said that the patient had spoken in confidence. So then they switched tacks: they wanted to know where I was last night. I told them I had made evening rounds at the Lincoln and then taken a walk in the park. They asked me if I had gone back to my office. I said no. They asked me if anyone had seen me in the park that night. I said I couldn’t remember anyone, certainly nobody I knew.”

  Art sucked deeply on his cigarette. His hands were trembling. “Then they started to hammer at me. Was I sure I hadn’t returned to my office? What had I done after making rounds? Was I sure I hadn’t seen Karen since last week? I didn’t understand the point of the questions.”

  “And what was the point?”

  “Karen Randall was brought to the Mem EW at four this morning by her mother. She was bleeding profusely—exsanguinating actually—and was in a state of hemorrhagic shock when she arrived. I don’t know what treatment they gave her, but any way she died. The police think I aborted her last night.”

  I frowned. It just didn’t make sense. “How can they be so sure?”

  “They wouldn’t say. I kept asking. Maybe the kid was delirious and mentioned my name at the Mem. I don’t know.”

  I shook my head. “Art, cops fear false arrest like they fear the plague. If they arrest you and can’t make it stick, a lot of people are going to lose their jobs. You’re a respected member of the professional community, not some drunken bum without a penny or a friend in the world. You have recourse to good legal advice, and they know you’ll get it. They wouldn’t dare charge you unless they had a strong case.”

  Art waved his hand irritably. “Maybe they’re just stupid.”

  “Of course they’re stupid, but not that stupid.”

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t know what they’ve got on me.”

  “You must know.”

  “I don’t,” he said, resuming his pacing. “I can’t even begin to guess.”

  I watched him for a moment, wondering when to ask the question, knowing that I would have to, sooner or later. He noticed I was staring.

  “No,” he said.

  “No what?”

  “No, I didn’t do it. And stop looking at me that way.” He sat down again and drummed his fingers on the bunk. “Christ, I wish I had a drink.”

  “You’d better forget that,” I said.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake—”

  “You only drink socially,” I said, “and in moderation.”

  “Am I on trial for my character and personal habits, or for—”

  “You’re not on trial at all,” I said, “and you don’t want to be.”

  He snorted.

  “Tell me about Karen’s visit,” I said.

  “There’s nothing much to tell. She came asking for an abortion, but I wouldn’t do it because she was four months’ pregnant. I explained to her why I couldn’t do it, that she was too far along, and that an abortion would now require abdominal section.”

  “And she accepted that?”

  “She seemed to.”

  “What did you put in your records?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t open a file on her.”

  I sighed. “That,” I said, “could be bad. Why didn’t you?”

  “Because she wasn’t coming to me for treatment, she wasn’t becoming my patient. I knew I’d never see her again, so I didn’t open a file.”

  “How are you going to explain that to the police?”

  “Look,” he said, “if I’d known that she was going to get me arrested, I might have done lots of things differently.”

  I lit a cigarette and leaned back, feeling the cold stone against my neck. I could already see that it was a messy situation. And the small details, innocent in another context, could now assume great weight and importance.

  “Who referred her to you?”

  “Karen? I assumed Peter.”

  “Peter Randall?”

  “Yes. He was her personal physician.”

  “You didn’t ask her who referred her?” Art was usually careful about that.

  “No. She arrived late in the day, and I was tired. Besides, she came right to the point; she was a very direct young lady, no foolishness about her. When I heard the story, I assumed Peter had sent her to me to explain the situation, since it was obviously too late to arrange an abortion.”

  “Why did you assume that?”

  He shrugged. “I just did.”

  It wasn’t making sense. I was sure he wasn’t telling me everything. “Have other members of the Randall family been referred to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said.”

  “I don’t think it’s relevant,” he said.

  “It might be.”

  “I assure you,” he said, “it’s not.”

  I sighed and smoked the cigarette. I knew Art could be stubborn when he wanted to. “O.K.,” I said. “Then tell me more about the girl.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Had you ever seen her before?”

  “No.”

  “Ever met her socially?”

  “No.”

  “Ever helped any of her friends?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Oh, hell,” he said, “I can’t be sure, but I doubt it very much. She was only eighteen.”

  “O.K.,” I said. Art was probably right. I knew he
usually aborted only married women, in their late twenties and thirties. He had often said he didn’t want to get involved with the younger ones, though he did on occasion. Older women and married women were much safer, more closemouthed and realistic. But I also knew that he had recently been doing more young girls, calling them “teeny-bopper scrapes,” because he said to do only married women was discrimination. He meant that partly as a joke, and partly not.

  “How was she,” I said, “when she came to your office? How would you describe her?”

  “She seemed like a nice girl,” Art said. “She’s pretty and intelligent and well poised. Very direct, as I said before. She came into my office, sat down, folded her hands in her lap, and reeled it all off. She used medical terms too, like amenorrhea. I suppose that comes from being in a family of doctors.”

  “Was she nervous?”

  “Yes,” he said, “but they all are. That’s why the differential is so hard.”

  The differential diagnosis of amenorrhea, particularly in young girls, must consider nervousness as a strong etiologic possibility. Women often delay or miss their menstrual periods for psychological reasons.

  “But four months?”

  “Well, not likely. And she’d also had a weight gain.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifteen pounds.”

  “Not diagnostic,” I said.

  “No,” he said, “but suggestive.”

  “Did you examine her?”

  “No. I offered to, but she refused. She had come to me for an abortion, and when I said no, she left.”

  “Did she say what her plans were?”

  “Yes,” Art said. “She gave a little shrug and said, ‘Well, I guess I’ll just have to tell them and have the kid.’ ”

  “So you thought she would not seek an abortion elsewhere?”

  “Exactly. She seemed very intelligent and perceptive, and she seemed to follow my explanation of the situation. That’s what I try to do in these cases—explain to a woman why it is impossible for her to have a safe abortion, and why she must reconcile herself to having the child.”

  “Obviously she changed her mind.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I wonder why.”

  He laughed. “Ever meet her parents?”

  “No,” I said, and then seeing my chance, “have you?”

  But Art was quick. He gave me a slow, appreciative grin, a kind of subtle salute, and said, “No. Never. But I’ve heard about them.”

  “What have you heard?”

  At that moment, the sergeant came back and began clanking the key into the lock.

  “Time’s up,” he said.

  “Five more minutes,” I said.

  “Times up.”

  Art said, “Have you spoken to Betty?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She’s fine. I’ll call her when I leave here and tell her you’re all right.”

  “She’s going to be worried,” Art said.

  “Judith will stay with her. It’ll be O.K.”

  Art grinned ruefully. “Sorry to cause all this trouble.”

  “No trouble.” I glanced at the sergeant, standing with the door open, waiting. “The police can’t hold you. You’ll be out by the afternoon.”

  The sergeant spit on the floor.

  I shook hands with Art. “By the way,” I said, “where’s the body now?”

  “Perhaps at the Mem. But it’s probably gone to the City by now.”

  “I’ll check,” I said. “Don’t worry about a thing.” I stepped out of the cell and the sergeant locked up behind me. He said nothing as he led me out, but when we reached the lobby, he said, “Captain wants to see you.”

  “All right.”

  “Captain’s very interested in having a little talk.”

  “Just lead the way,” I said.

  THREE

  THE SIGN ON THE FLAKING GREEN DOOR SAID HOMICIDE, and underneath, on a hand-printed name card, “Captain Peterson.” He turned out to be a stiff, burly man with close-cropped gray hair and a terse manner. He came around the desk to shake hands with me, and I noticed he had a limp in his right leg. He made no effort to hide it; if anything, he exaggerated it, allowing his toe to scrape loudly over the floor. Cops, like soldiers, can be proud of their infirmities. You knew Peterson hadn’t received his in an auto accident.

  I was trying to determine the cause of Peterson’s injury and had decided that it was probably a bullet wound—rarely does anyone get cut with a knife in the calf—when he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Captain Peterson.”

  “John Berry.”

  His handshake was hearty, but his eyes were cold and inquiring. He waved me to a chair.

  “The sergeant said he hadn’t seen you around before and I thought I ought to meet you. We know most of the criminal lawyers in Boston.”

  “Don’t you mean trial lawyers?”

  “Of course,” he said easily. “Trial lawyers.” He looked at me expectantly.

  I said nothing at all. A short silence passed, then Peterson said, “Which firm do you represent?”

  “Firm?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not a lawyer,” I said, “and I don’t know what makes you think I am.”

  He pretended to be surprised. “That’s not the impression you gave the sergeant.”

  “No?”

  “No. You told him you were a lawyer.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes,” Peterson said, placing his hands flat on his desk.

  “Who says so?”

  “He says so.”

  “Then he’s wrong.”

  Peterson leaned back in his chair and smiled at me, a very pleasant, let’s-not-get-all-excited smile.

  “If we had known you weren’t a lawyer, you’d never have been allowed to see Lee.”

  “That’s possible. On the other hand, I was not asked for my name or my occupation. Nor was I asked to sign in as a visitor.”

  “The sergeant was probably confused.”

  “That’s logical,” I said, “considering the sergeant.”

  Peterson smiled blankly. I recognized his type: he was a successful cop, a guy who had learned when to take it and when to dish it out. A very diplomatic and polite cop, until he got the upper hand.

  “Well?” he said at last.

  “I’m a colleague of Dr. Lee.”

  If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “A doctor?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You doctors certainly stick together,” he said, still smiling. He had probably smiled more in the last two minutes than he had in the last two years.

  “Not really,” I said.

  The smile began to fall, probably from fatigue and unused muscles. “If you are a doctor,” Peterson said, “my advice to you is to stay the hell away from Lee. The publicity could kill your practice.”

  “What publicity?”

  “The publicity from the trial.”

  “There’s going to be a trial?”

  “Yes,” Peterson said. “And the publicity could kill your practice.”

  “I don’t have a practice,” I said.

  “You’re in research?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m a pathologist.”

  He reacted to that. He started to sit forward, caught himself, and leaned back again. “A pathologist,” he repeated.

  “That’s right. I work in hospitals, doing autopsies and things.”

  Peterson was silent for some time. He frowned, scratched the back of his hand, and looked at his desk. Finally he said, “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, Doctor. But we don’t need your help, and Lee is too far gone to—”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Peterson shook his head. “You know better than that.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “Do you know,” Peterson said, “what a doctor could claim in a false-arrest suit?”

  “A million dollars,” I said.

  “Well, let’s say
five hundred thousand. It doesn’t matter much. The point is essentially the same.”

  “You think you have a case.”

  “We have a case.” Peterson smiled again. “Oh, Dr. Lee can call you as a witness. We know that. And you can talk up a storm using the big words, trying to fool the jury, to impress them with your weighty scientific evidence. But you can’t get past the central fact. You just can’t get past it.”

  “And what fact is that?”

  “A young girl bled to death in the Boston Memorial Hospital this morning, from an illegal abortion. That fact, straight and simple.”

  “And you allege Dr. Lee did it?”

  “There is some evidence,” Peterson said mildly.

  “It had better be good,” I said, “because Dr. Lee is an established and respected—”

  “Listen,” Peterson said, showing impatience for the first time, “what do you think this girl was, a ten-dollar doxy? This was a nice girl, a hell of a nice girl, from a good family. She was young and pretty and sweet, and she got butchered. But she didn’t go to some Roxbury midwife or some North End quack. She had too much sense and too much money for that.”

  “What makes you think Dr. Lee did it?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  I shrugged. “Dr. Lee’s lawyer will ask the same question, and then it will be his business. And if you don’t have an answer—”

  “We have an answer.”

  I waited. In a sense, I was curious to see just how good, just how diplomatic Peterson was. He didn’t have to tell me anything; he didn’t have to say another word. If he did say more, it would be a mistake.

  Peterson said, “We have a witness who heard the girl implicate Dr. Lee.”

  “The girl arrived at the hospital in a state of shock, delirious and precomatose. Anything she said will constitute weak evidence.”

  “At the time she said it, she wasn’t in a state of shock. She said it much earlier.”

  “To whom?”

  “To her mother,” Peterson said, with a grin of satisfaction. “She told her mother that Lee did it. As they were leaving for the hospital. And her mother will swear to that.”

  FOUR

  I TRIED TO PLAY IT PETERSON’S WAY. I tried to keep my face blank. Fortunately you have a lot of practice at that in medicine; you are trained to show no surprise if a patient tells you they make love ten times a night, or have dreams of stabbing their children, or drink a gallon of vodka daily. It is part of the mystique of the doctor that nothing surprises him. “I see,” I said.