I will prescribe regimen for the good of my pa•tients, according to my judgment and ability, andnever do harm to anyone. To please no one will Iprescribe a deadly drug, nor give advice which maycause his death. Nor will I give a woman a pessaryto procure abortion. But I will preserve the purity of my life and my art. . . .

-FROM THE HIPPOCRATIC OATHDEMANDED OF THE YOUNG PHYSICIANABOUT TO ENTER UPON THE PRACTICEOF HIS PROFESSION.

There is no moral obligation to conserve DNA.

—Garrett Hardin

MONDAY

OCTOBER 10

ONE

ALL HEART SURGEONS ARE BASTARDS, and Conway is

no exception. He came storming into the path labat 8:30 in the morning, still wearing his green sur•gical gown and cap, and he was furious. WhenConway is mad he clenches his teeth and speaksthrough them in a flat monotone. His face turns red, with purple blotches at the temples.

"Morons," Conway hissed, "goddamned morons."He pounded the wall with his fist; bottles in the cabinets rattled.

We all knew what was happening. Conway doestwo open-heart procedures a day, beginning the firstat

6:30. When he shows up in the path lab twohours later, there's only one reason.

"Stupid clumsy bastard," Conway said. He kickedover a wastebasket. It rolled noisily across the floor.

"Beat his brains in, his goddamned brains,"Conway said, grimacing and staring up at the ceil•ing as if addressing God. God, like the rest of us,

had heard it before. The same anger, the sameclenched teeth and pounding and profanity.Conway always ran true to form, like the rerun of

a movie.

Sometimes his anger was directed against thethoracic man, sometimes against the nurses, some•times against the pump technicians. But oddlyenough, never against Conway.

"If I live to be a hundred," Conway hissedthrough his teeth, "I'll never find a decent anesman. Never. They don't exist. Stupid, shit-eatingbastards, all of them."

We glanced at each other: this time it wasHerbie. About four times a year the blame fell onHerbie. The rest of the time he and Conway weregood friends. Conway would praise him to the sky,call him the finest anesthesiologist in the country,better than Sonderick at the Brigham, better thanLewis at the Mayo, better than anyone.

But four times a year, Herbert Landsman was re•sponsible for a DOT, the surgical slang for a deathon the table. In cardiac surgery, it happened a lot:fifteen percent for most surgeons, eight percent fora man like Conway.

Because Frank Conway was good, because hewas an eight-percenter, a man with lucky hands, a man with the touch, everyone put up with his tem•per tantrums, his moments of anger and destruc•tiveness. Once he kicked over a path microscopeand did a hundred dollars' worth of damage. No-

body blinked, because Conway was an eight-percenter.

Of course, there was scuttlebutt in Boston abouthow he kept his percentage, known privately among surgeons as the "Kill rate," down. They saidConway avoided cases with complications. Theysaid Conway avoided jerry cases.1They saidConway never innovated, never tried a new anddangerous procedure. The arguments were, ofcourse, wholly untrue. Conway kept his kill ratelow because he was a superb surgeon. It was as simple as that.

The fact that he was also a miserable person wasconsidered superfluous.

"Stupid, stinking bastard," Conway said. Helooked angrily about the room. "Who's on today?"

"I am," I said. I was the senior pathology staffmember in charge for the day. Everything had to becleared through me. "You want a table?"

"Yeah. Shit."

"When?"

"Tonight."

It was a habit of Conway's. He always did hisautopsies on the dead cases in the evening, oftengoing long into the night. It was as if he wanted topunish himself. He never allowed anyone, not evenhis residents, to be present. Some said he criedwhile he did them. Others said he giggled. The factwas that nobody really knew. Except Conway.

' Geriatrics.

"I'll tell the desk," I said. "They'll hold a lockerfor you."

"Yeah. Shit." He pounded the table. "Mother offour, that's what she was."

"I'll tell the desk to arrange everything." "Arrested before we got into the ventricle. Cold. We massaged for thirty-five minutes, but nothing.Nothing."

"What's the name?" I said. The desk would needthe name.

"McPherson," Conway said, "Mrs. McPherson."He turned to go and paused by the door. Heseemed to falter, his body sagging, his shouldersslumping.

"Jesus," he said, "a mother of four. What the hellam I going to tell him?"

He held his hands up, surgeon-style, palms fac•ing him, and stared at his fingers accusingly, as ifthey had betrayed him. I suppose in a sense theyhad.

"Jesus," Conway said. "I should have been a der•matologist. Nobody ever dies on a dermatologist." Then he kicked the door open and left the lab.

when we were alone,one of the first-year resi•dents, looking very pale, said to me, "Is he alwayslike that?"

"Yes," I said. "Always."

I turned away, looking out at the rush-hour traffic moving slowly through the October drizzle. It would have been easier to feel sympathy for Conway if I

didn't know that his act was purely for himself, a kindof ritual angry deceleration that he went through ev•ery time he lost a patient. I guess he needed it, butstill most of us in the lab wished he could be like Delong in Dallas, who did crossword puzzles inFrench, or Archer in Chicago, who went out and hada haircut whenever he lost someone.

Not only did Conway disrupt the lab, he put usbehind. In the mornings, that was particularly bad, because we had to do the surgical specimens andwe were usually behind schedule anyway.

I turned my back to the window and picked upthe next specimen. We have a high-speed tech•nique in the lab: the pathologists stand beforewaist-high benches and examine the biopsies. A mi•crophone hangs from the ceiling before each of us,and it's controlled by a foot pedal. This leaves yourhands free; whenever you have something to say, you step on the pedal and speak into the mike, re•cording your comments on tape. The secretaries type it up later for the charts.2

I've been trying to stop smoking for the pastweek, and this specimen helped me: it was a white lump imbedded in a slice of lung. The pink tag at•tached gave the name of the patient; he was down in the OR now with his chest cut open. The sur•geons were waiting for the path dx3before proceed-

2The files containing the history of treatment of patients in the hospital. Called a "chart" because the bulk of the file consists of daily charts of tem• perature, blood pressure, pulse and respiration, the so-called "vital signs."

3 Diagnosis.

ing further with the operation. If this was a benign tumor, they'd simply remove one lobe of his lung. If it was malignant, they'd take the whole lung and allhis lymph nodes.

1 stepped on the floor pedal."Patient AO—four-five-two-three-three-six. Jo•seph Magnuson, The specimen is a section of rightlung, upper lobe, measuring"—I took my foot off the pedal and measured

it—"five centimeters byseven point five centimeters. The lung tissue is pale pink in color and crepitant.4The pleural surface issmooth and glistening, with no evidence of fibrous material or adhesions. There is some hemorrhage.Within the parenchyma is an irregular mass, white in color, measuring"—

I measured the lump—"approximately two centi•meters in diameter. On cut surface, it appears whit•ish and hard. There is no apparent fibrous capsule,and there is some distortion of surrounding tissue structure. Gross impression . . . cancer of the lung,suggestive of malignancy, question mark metastatic. Period, signed, John Berry."

I cut a slice of the white lump and quick-froze it.There was only one way to be certain if the masswas benign or malignant, and that was to check itunder the microscope. Quick-freezing the tissue al•lowed a thin section to be rapidly prepared. Nor•mally, to make a microscope slide, you had to dunk

4Crepitant means it is crackly and filled with air. This is normal.

your stuff into six or seven baths; it took at least sixhours, sometimes days. The surgeons couldn't wait. When the tissue was frozen hard, I cranked out asection with the microtome, stained the slice, andtook it to the microscope. I didn't even need to go to high dry: under the low-power objective, I could seethe lacy network of lung tissue formed into delicatealveolar sacs for exchange of gas between blood andair. The white mass was something else again. I stepped on the floor button."Micro examination, frozen section. The whitish mass appears composed of undifferentiated paren•chyma cells which have invaded the normal sur•rounding tissue. The cells show many irregular, hyperchromatic nuclei and large numbers of mi•toses. There are some multinucleate giant cells.There is no clearly defined capsule. Impression is primary malignant cancer of the lung. Note markeddegree of anthracosis in surrounding tissue."

Anthracosis is accumulation of carbon particlesin the lung. Once you gulp carbon down, either as cigarette smoke or city dirt, your body never gets ridof it. It just stays in your lungs.

The telephone rang. I knew it would be Scanlondown in the OR, wetting his pants because wehadn't gotten back to him in thirty seconds flat.Scanlon is like all surgeons. If he's not cutting, he'snot happy. He hates to stand around and look at the big hole he's chopped in the guy while he waits forthe report. He never stops to think that after hetakes a biopsy and drops it into a steel dish, an or-

derly has to bring it all the way from the surgicalwing to the path labs before we can look at it.Scanlon also doesn't figure that there are elevenother operating rooms in the hospital, all going like hell between seven and eleven in the morning. We have four residents and pathologists at work duringthose hours, but biopsies get backed up. There'snothing we can do about it—unless they want torisk a misdiagnosis by us.

And they don't. They just want to bitch, likeConway. It gives them something to do. All sur•geons have persecution complexes anyway. Ask the

psychiatrists.

As I went to the phone, I stripped off one rubberglove. My hand was sweaty; I wiped it on the seat of my pants, then picked up the receiver. We are carefulabout the phone, but just to be safe it gets swabbedwith alcohol and Formalin at the end of each day. "Berry speaking."

"Berry, what's going on up there"?"After Conway, 1 felt like taking him on, but Ididn't. I just said,

"You've got a malignancy."

"I thought so," Scanlon said as if the whole pathwork-up had been a waste of time."Yeah," I said and hung up.I wanted a cigarette badly. I'd only had one atbreakfast, and I usually have two.

Returning to my table, I saw three specimenswere waiting: a kidney, a gallbladder, and an appen•dix. I

started to pull my glove back on when the in•tercom clicked.

"Dr. Berry?"

"Yes?"

The intercom has a high pickup. You can speakin a normal voice anywhere in the room, and thegirl will hear you. They mount the microphone highup, near the ceiling, because the new residents usually rush over and shout into it, not knowinghow sensitive it is. That blasts the ears off the girlat the other end.

"Dr. Berry, your wife is on the telephone."

I paused. Judith and I have an understanding: nocalls in the morning. I'm always busy from seven to eleven, six days a week, sometimes seven if one ofthe staff gets sick. She's usually very good about it. She didn't even call when Johnny drove his tricycleinto the back of a truck and had to have fifteen stitches in his forehead.

"All right," I said, "I'll take it." I looked down atmy hand. The glove was half on. I stripped it offand went back to the phone.

"Hello?"

"John?" Her voice was trembling. I hadn't heardher sound that way in years. Not since her fatherdied.

"What is it?"

"John, Arthur Lee just called."

Art Lee was an obstetrician friend of ours; he had been best man at our wedding.

"What's the problem?"

"He called here asking for you. He's in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" As I spoke, I waved to a

resident to take my place at the table. We had to

keep those surgical specimens moving.

"I don't know," Judith said, "but he's in jail."My first thought was that it was some kind of

mistake. "Are you sure?"

"Yes.  He just called. John, is it something

about----- ?"

"I don't know," I said. "I don't know any more than you do." I cradled the phone in my shoulderand stripped away my other glove. I threw themboth in the vinyl-lined wastebasket. "I'll go see himnow," I said. "You sit tight and don't worry. It's prob•ably a minor thing. Maybe he was drinking again.""All right," she said in a low voice."Don't worry," I repeated."All right."

"I'll speak to you soon."

I hung up, untied my apron, and placed it on thepeg by the door. Then I went down the hall to Sanderson's office. Sanderson was chief of the pathlabs. He was very dignified looking; at forty-eight,his hair was just turning gray at the temples. Hehad a jowly, thoughtful face. He also had as muchto fear as I did.

"Art's in jail," I said.

He was in the middle of reviewing an autopsycase. He shut the file. "Why?"

"I don't know. I'm going to see him." "Do you want me to come with you?" "No," I said. "It's better if I

go alone."

Call me, Sanderson said, peering over his halfframes, "when you know."

"I will."

He nodded. When I left him, he had opened thefile again, and was reading the case. If he had been upset by the news, he wasn't showing it. But thenSanderson never did.

In the hospital lobby I reached into my pocketfor my car keys, then realized I didn't know wherethey were holding Art, so I went to the informationdesk to call Judith and ask her. The girl at the deskwas Sally Planck, a good-natured blonde whose name was the subject of endless jokes among theresidents. I phoned Judith and asked where Artwas; she didn't know. It hadn't occurred to her toask. So I called Arthur's wife, Betty, a beautiful andefficient girl with a Ph.D. in biochem fromStanford. Until a few years ago, Betty had done re•search at Harvard, but she stopped when she hadher third child. She was usually very calm. The only time I had seen her upset was when George Kovacshad gotten drunk and urinated all over her patio.

Betty answered the phone in a state of stonyshock. She told me they had Arthur downtown, onCharles Street. He had been arrested in his homethat morning, just as he was leaving for the office.The kids were very upset, and she had kept them home from school that day, and now what did shedo with them? What was she supposed to tellthem, for Pete's sake?

I told her to say it was all a mistake and hung up.

I drove my Volkswagenout of the doctors' parkinglot, past all the shiny Cadillacs. The big cars areall owned by practicing physicians; pathologistsare paid by the hospital and can't afford all those

glistening horses.

It was 8:45, right in the middle of rush-hour traf•fic, which in Boston means a life-and-death propo• sition. Boston has the highest accident rate in theU.S., even higher than Los Angeles, as any EW5in•tern can tell you. Or pathologists: we see a lot ofautomobile trauma at autopsy. They drive like mani•acs; like

sitting in the EW as the bodies come in,you think there's a war going on. Judith says it's be•cause they're repressed. Art has always said it wasbecause they're Catholic and think God will lookafter them as they wander across the double stripe,but Art is a cynic. Once, at a medical party, a sur•geon explained how many eye injuries occur fromplastic dashboard figurines. People get into acci•dents, pitch forward, and have their eyes put out by the six-inch Madonna. It happens a lot; Art thoughtit was the funniest thing he had ever heard.

He laughed until he was crying. "Blinded by reli•gion," he kept saying, doubled over in laughter."Blinded by religion."

The surgeon did plastic stuff, and he didn't seethe humor. 1 guess because he'd repaired too many punched-out eyesockets. But Art was convulsed.

5 Emergency ward.

Most people at the party were surprised by hislaughter; they thought it was excessive and inrather poor taste. I suppose of all the people thereI was the only one who understood the significanceof this joke to Art. I was also the only one who knew the great strains under which he worked.

Art is my friend, and he has been ever since wewent to medical school together. He's a bright guy and a skilled doctor, and he believes in what he'sdoing. Like most practicing doctors, he tends to be a little too authoritarian, a little too autocratic. Hethinks he knows what's best, and nobody can knowthat all the time. Maybe he goes overboard, but Ican't really knock him. He serves a very importantfunction. After all, somebody around here has to dothe abortions.

I don't know exactly when he started. I guess itwas right after he finished his gynecology residency.It's not a particularly difficult operation—a well-trained nurse can do it with no problem. There'sonly one small catch.

It's illegal.

I remember very well when I first found outabout it. There was some talk among some of the path residents about Lee; they were getting a lot ofD & C's that were positive. The D & C's had been ordered for a variety of complaints—menstrual ir•regularity, pain, mid-period bleeding—but quite afew were showing evidence of pregnancy in thescrapings. I got concerned because the residentswere young and loose-mouthed. I told them right

there in the lab that it wasn't funny, that they couldseriously damage a doctor's reputation by suchjokes. They sobered up quickly. Then I went to seeArthur. I found him in the hospital cafeteria."Art," I said,

"something's bothering me."He was in a jovial mood, eating a doughnut andcoffee. "Not a gynecological problem, I hope." He

laughed.

"Not exactly. I overheard some of the residentssay that you had a half-dozen pregnancy-positive scrapings in the last month. Have you been noti•fied?"

Immediately, the hearty manner was gone. "Yes,"

he said, "I have."

"I just wanted you to know. There might be trou•ble in the tissue committee when these things

come up, and—"

He shook his head. "No trouble.""Well, you know how it looks." "Yes," he said. "It looks like I'm performing abor•tions."

His voice was low, almost dead calm. He waslooking directly at me. It gave me a strange feeling."We'd better have a talk," he said. "Are you freefor a drink about six tonight?""I guess so."

"Then meet me in the parking lot. And if you getsome free time this afternoon, why don't you havea look at a case of mine?""All right," I said, frowning.

"The name is Suzanne Black. The number isAO—two-two-one-three-six-five."

I scribbled the number on a napkin, wonderingwhy he should have remembered it. Doctors re•member a lot about their patients, but rarely thehospital number.

"Take a good look at this case," Art said, "anddon't mention it to anyone until you talk to me."

Puzzled, I went back to work in the lab. I was up for an autopsy that day, so I wasn't free until four inthe afternoon. Then I went to the record room andpulled the chart for Suzanne Black. I read it rightthere—it wasn't very long. She was Dr. Lee's pa•tient, first admitted at age twenty. She was a juniorat a local Boston college. Her CC6was menstrual irregularity. Upon questioning, it was revealed thatshe had recently suffered a bout of German mea•sles, had been very tired afterward, and had beenexamined by her college doctor for possible mono•nucleosis. She reported irregular spotting approxi•mately every seven to ten days, but no normal flow.This had been going on for the last two months.She was still tired and lethargic.

Physical examination was essentially normal, ex•cept that she had a mild fever. Blood tests werenormal, though hematocrit7was somewhat low.

Dr. Lee ordered a D & C to correct her irregular•ity. This was in 1956, before the advent of estrogen

6                     Chief complaint, the term for the medical disorder that brings the pa•

tient to seek treatment.

7                     A test of the amount of hemoglobin, or red cells, in the blood.

therapy. The D & C was normal; no evidence of tu•mors or pregnancy. The girl seemed to respond well to this treatment. She was followed for the next three months and had normal periods.

It looked like a straightforward case. Illness oremotional stress can disrupt a woman's biologicalclock, and throw off her menses; the D & C resetthat clock. I couldn't understand why Art hadwanted me to look at it. I checked the path reporton the tissue. It had been done by Dr. Sanderson. The write-up was brief and simple: gross appear•ance normal, micro examination normal.

I returned the chart and went back to the lab.When I got there, I still couldn't imagine what thepoint of the case was. I wandered around, doingodds and ends, and finally began the work-up on

my autopsy.

I don't know what made me think of the slide.Like most hospitals, the Lincoln keeps pathslides on file. We save them all; it is possible to go back twenty or thirty years and reexamine the mi•croscopic slides from a patient. They're stored inlong boxes arranged like card catalogs in a library.We had a whole room full of such boxes.

I went to the appropriate box and found slide1365. The label gave the case number and Dr.Sanderson's initials. It also said in large letters,

"D & C."

I took the slide back to the micro room, wherewe have ten microscopes in a long row. One was

free; I slipped the slide onto the stage and had alook.

I saw it immediately.

The tissue was a uterine scraping, all right. Itshowed a rather normal endometrium in the prolif•erative phase, but the stain stopped me. This slidehad been stained with Zenker-Formalin stain, givingeverything a brilliant blue or green color. It was a rather unusual stain, employed for special diagnos•tic problems.

For routine work, the Hematoxylin-Eosin stain isused, producing pink and purple colors. Almost ev•ery tissue slice is stained with H & E, and if this is not the case, the reasons for the unusual stain arenoted in the pathological summary.

But Dr. Sanderson had not mentioned that theslide was Zenker-Formalin.

The obvious conclusion was that the slides had been switched. I looked at the handwriting on thelabel. It was Sanderson's, no doubt about it. Whathad happened?

Almost immediately, other possibilities came to mind. Sanderson had forgotten to note in his reportthat an unusual stain was used. Or two sectionswere made, one H & E, the other Zenker-Formalin,and only the Zenker was saved. Or that there had been some legitimate mixup.

None of these alternatives was particularly con•vincing. I thought about it and waited impatientlyuntil six that evening, when I met Art in the park•ing lot and got into his car. He wanted to go some-

place away from the hospital to talk. As he drove, he said, "Read the case?"

"Yes," I said. "Very interesting."

"You checked the section?"

"Yes. Was it the original?"

"You mean, was it a scraping from Suzanne

Black? No."

"You should have been more careful. The stainwas different. That kind of thing can get you intotrouble. Where did the slide come from?"

Art smiled thinly. "A biological supply house.'Slide of normal endometrial scraping.' "

"And who made the switch?"

"Sanderson. We were new to the game, in thosedays. It was his idea to put in a phony slide and write it up as normal. Now, of course, we're muchmore refined. Every time Sanderson gets a normal scraping, he makes up a few extra slides and keepsthem around."

"I  don't  understand,"  I   said.  "You  mean Sanderson is in this with you?"

"Yes," Art said. "He has been for several years."Sanderson was a very wise, very kind, and very

proper man.

"You see," Art said, "that whole chart is a lie. Thegirl was twenty, all right. And she had German measles. And she had menstrual irregularity, too,but the reason was she was pregnant. She had been

knocked up on a football weekend by a guy she saidshe loved and was going to marry, but she wantedto finish college first, and a baby would get in the

way. Furthermore, she managed to get measles dur•ing the first trimester. She wasn't a terribly brightgirl, but she was bright enough to know what itmeant when you got measles. She was very worriedwhen she came to see me. She hemmed and hawed for a while, and then blurted it all out and asked foran

abortion.

"I was pretty horrified. I was fresh from my res•idency, and I still had a little starry idealism in me.She was in a terrible fix; she was a wreck and actedas if the world had collapsed around her. I guessin a way it had. All she could see was her problemas a college dropout, the unwed mother of a possi• bly deformed child. She was a nice enough girl, andI felt sorry for her, but I said no. I sympathized withher, feeling rotten inside, but I explained that myhands were tied.

"So then she asked me if it was a dangerous op•eration, to have an abortion. At first I thought she was planning to try it on herself, so I said it was.Then she said she knew of a man in the North Endwho would do it for two hundred dollars. He hadbeen a medical orderly in the Marines, or some• thing. And she said that if I wouldn't do it for her,she'd go to this man. And she walked out of my of•fice."

He sighed and shook his head as he drove.

"I went home that night feeling like hell. I hatedher: I hated her for intruding on my new practice, for intruding on my neatly planned life. I hated herfor the pressure she was putting on me. I couldn't

sleep; I kept thinking all night. I had a vision of hergoing to a smelly back room somewhere andmeeting a leering little guy who would letch herand maybe even manage to kill her. I thought aboutmy own wife and our year-old baby, and how happyit could all be. I thought about the amateur abor•tions I'd seen as an intern, when the girls came inbleeding and foaming at three in the morning. Andlet's face it, I thought

about the sweats I'd had incollege. Once with Betty, we sat around for sixweeks waiting for her period. I

knew perfectly wellthat anybody can get pregnant by accident. It's nothard, and it shouldn't be a crime."

I smoked a cigarette and said nothing."So I got up in the middle of the night andfought it out with six

cups of coffee, staring at thekitchen wall. By morning I had decided that thelaw was unfair. I had decided that a doctor couldplay God in a lot of crappy ways, but this was agood way. I had seen a patient in trouble and I hadrefused to help her when it was within my power.That was what bothered me—I had denied hertreatment. It was just as bad as denying penicillinto a sick man, just as cruel and just as foolish. Thenext morning, I went to see Sanderson. I knew he had liberal ideas about a lot of things. I explained the whole situation and told him I wanted to do aD & C. He said he would arrange to do the path examination himself, and he did. That was how it

all started."

"And you've been doing abortions ever since?"

"Yes," Art said. "When I've felt that they were warranted."

After that, we went to a bar in the North End, a simple place, filled with Italian and German labor•ers. Art was in a talkative, almost confessionalmood.

"I often wonder," he said, "about what medicinewould be like if the predominant religious feeling in this country were Christian Scientist. For most ofhistory, of course, it wouldn't have mattered; medi•cine was pretty primitive and ineffective. But sup•posing Christian Science was strong in the age of penicillin and antibiotics. Suppose there were pres•sure groups militating against the administration ofthese drugs. Suppose there were sick people insuch a society whoknew  perfectly well that they didn't have to die from their illness, that a simpledrug existed which would cure them. Wouldn'tthere be a roaring black market in these drugs?Wouldn't people die from home administration ofoverdoses, from impure, smuggled drugs? Wouldn'teverything be an unholy mess?"

"I see your analogy," I said, "but I don't buy it."

"Listen," he said. "Morality must keep up withtechnology, because if a person is faced with thechoice of being moral and dead or immoral andalive, they'll choose life every time. People todayknow that abortions are safe and easy. They know itisn't a long, tedious, dangerous operation. Theyknow it's simple and they want the personal happi•ness it can give them. They demand it. And one

way or another they get it. If they're rich, they go to Japan or Puerto Rico; if they're poor, they go to the

Marine orderly. But one way or another, they getthat abortion."

"Art," I said. "It's illegal."

He smiled. "I never thought you had so much re•spect for the law."

That was a reference to my career. After college,I entered law school and stuck it out for a year anda half. Then I decided I hated it and quit to trymedicine. In between, I did some army time.

"But this is different," I said. "If they catch you, they'll toss you in the clink and take away your li•cense. You know that."

"I'm doing what I have to do." "Don't be an ass."

"I believe," he said, "that what I'm doing is right."Looking at his face, I saw he meant it. And astime went

on, I personally encountered severalcases where an abortion was the obvious, humaneanswer. Art handled them. I joined Dr. Sandersonin covering up in the path department. We fixedthings so that the tissue committee never knew. That was necessary because the tissue committeeof the Lincoln was composed of all the chiefs ofservice, as well as a rotating group of six doctors.The average age of the men on the tissue commit•tee was sixty-one, and, at any given time, at least athird were Catholic.

Of course it was not a well-kept secret. Many of the younger doctors knew what Art was doing, and

most agreed with him, because he exercised carefuljudgment in deciding his cases. Most would have performed abortions too, if they had dared.

A few didn't agree with Art and would have beentempted to turn him in if they'd had the guts. Anal retentives like Whipple and Gluck, men whose re•ligion precluded compassion and common sense.

For a long time, I worried about the Whipplesand the Glucks. Later on I ignored them, turningaway from their nasty knowing glances andpinched, disapproving faces. Perhaps that was amistake.

Because now Art was down, and if his headrolled, so would Sanderson's. And so would mine.

there was no place to parknear the police sta•tion. Finally I came to a lot four blocks away andwalked quickly back to find out why Arthur Leewas in jail.

TWO

when Iwas in the armya few years back, I servedas an MP in Tokyo, and the experience taught mea lot. MP's were the most unpopular people in thecity in those days, during the last phases of the oc•cupation. In our white helmets and uniforms, we

represented the final reminders of a tiresome mili•tary authority to the Japanese. To the Americans on the Ginza, drunk with sake or whiskey if they couldafford it, we represented all that was frustrating or

constricting about rigid military life. We were there•fore a challenge to anyone who saw us, and morethan one of my friends ran into trouble. One wasblinded by a knife in the eye. Another was killed.Of course, we were armed. I remember when wewere first issued our guns, a hard-nosed captainsaid to us: "You have your weapons, now take myadvice: never use the gun. You shoot a rowdy drunk,even in

self-defense, and you'll find out later hisuncle is a congressman or a general. Keep the gunin sight, but keep it in your holster. Period."

In effect we were ordered to bluff our waythrough everything. We learned to do it. All cops

learn to do it.

I remembered this as I faced the surly police ser•geant in the Charles Street Station. He looked up at me as if he'd enjoy breaking my skull.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"I'm here to see Dr. Lee," I said.

He smiled. "The little chink's uptight, is he? Too

bad."

"I'm here to see him," I repeated.

"Can't."

He looked back at his desk and shuffled the pa•pers on it in a busy, irritable dismissal."Would you care to explain that?""No," he said. "I wouldn't care to explain that."

I took out my pen and notebook. "I'd like your badge number, please."

"What are you, a funny guy? Beat it. You can'tsee him."

"You are required by law to give your badgenumber upon request."

"That's nice."

I looked at his shirt and pretended to write downthe number. Then I started for the door.

He said casually, "Going somewhere?"

"There's a phone booth right outside."So?

"It's a shame. I'll bet your wife spent hours sew•ing those stripes on your shoulder. It takes themten seconds to get them off. They use a razor blade:doesn't even damage the uniform."

He stood up heavily behind the desk. "What'syour business here?"

"I've come to see Dr. Lee."

He looked at me evenly. He didn't know if Icould have him busted, but he knew it could bedone.

"You his lawyer?"

"That's right."

"Well, for Christ's sake, you should have said sobefore." He took a set of keys from his desk drawer.

"Come on." He smiled at me, but his eyes were stillhostile.

I followed him back through the station. He saidnothing, but grunted a couple of times. Finally he

said over his shoulder, "You can't blame me for be•ing careful. Murder is murder, you know.""Yes," I

said.

art was locked in a nice cell.It was tidy anddidn't smell much. Actually, Boston has some of thenicest cells in America. They have to: lots of fa•mous people have spent time in those cells. May•ors, public officials, people like that. You can'texpect a man to run a decent campaign for reelec•tion if he's in a lousy cell, can you? It just wouldn't look right.

Art was sitting on his bed, staring at a cigarettebetween his fingers. The stone floor was littered with butts and ash. He looked up as we came downthe hallway.

"John!"

"You have him for ten minutes," the sergeant

said.

I entered the cell. The sergeant locked the doorbehind me and stood there, leaning against the

bars.

"Thank you," I said. "You can go now."He gave me a mean look and sauntered off, rat•tling the keys.

When we were alone, I said to Art, "You all

right?"

"I think so."

Art is a small, precise man, a fastidious dresser.Originally he's from San Francisco from a largefamily of doctors and lawyers. Apparently his

nese. His skin is more olive than yellow, his eyeslack epicanthic folds, and his hair is light brown.He is very nervous, constantly moving his hands influttering movements, and the total effect is moreLatin than anything else.

He was pale now and tense. When he got up topace the cell, his movements were quick and ab•rupt.

"It was good of you to come."

"In case there's any question, I'm the representa•tive of your lawyer. That's how I got in here." I tookout my notebook. "Have you called your lawyer?"

"No, not yet."

"Why not?"

"I don't know." He rubbed his forehead and mas•saged his eyes with his fingers. "I'm not thinkingstraight. Nothing seems to make sense. . . ."

"Tell me your lawyer's name."

He told me, and I wrote it in the notebook. Arthad a good lawyer. I guess he figured he'd needone, sometime.

"Okay," I said. "I'll call him when I leave. Nowwhat'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 al-

most flunked out, and I don't remember a thing Ilearned."

"John," he said, "this is a medical problem and alegal 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 nevertouched that girl."

He was pacing faster and faster. I gripped hisarm 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 pickedme up at home this morning, about seven. Brought me in and started questioning me. At first they saidit was routine, whatever that means. Then they turned nasty."

"How many were there?"

"Two. Sometimes three."

"Did they get rough? Slap you around? Brightlights?"

"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 forroutine questioning, so it never occurred to me tocall one. I had done nothing wrong. They talked tome for an hour before they even mentioned thegirl."

"What girl?"

"Karen Randall."

"You don't meanthe Karen—"

He nodded. "J. D. Randall's daughter."

"Jesus."

"They began by asking me what 1 knew abouther, and whether I'd ever seen her as a patient. Things like that. I said yes, that she had come tome 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 hervisit. They wanted to know if that was her onlyproblem, they wanted to know how she had acted.I wouldn't tell them. I said that the patient had spo•ken in confidence. So then they switched tacks:they wanted to know where I was last night. I toldthem I had made evening rounds at the Lincolnand then taken a walk in the park. They asked meif I had gone back to my office. I said no. Theyasked me if anyone had seen me in the park thatnight. I said I couldn't remember anyone, certainly nobody I knew."

Art sucked deeply on his cigarette. His handswere trembling. "Then they started to hammer atme. Was 1 sure I hadn't returned to my office?What had I done after making rounds? Was I sureI hadn't seen Karen since last week? I didn't under•stand the point of the questions."

"And what was the point?"

"Karen Randall was brought to the Mem EW atfour this morning by her mother. She was bleeding profusely—exsanguinating actually—and was in astate of hemorrhagic shock when she arrived. Idon't know what treatment they gave her, but any•way she died. The police think I aborted her lastnight."

I frowned. It just didn't make sense. "How canthey be so sure?"

"They wouldn't say. I kept asking. Maybe the kidwas delirious and mentioned my name at the Mem.I

don't know."

I shook my head. "Art, cops fear false arrest likethey fear the plague. If they arrest you and can'tmake it stick, a lot of people are going to lose theirjobs. You're a respected member of the professional community, not some drunken bum without apenny or a friend in the world. You have recourse to good legal advice, and they know you'll get it. Theywouldn't dare charge you unless they had a strongcase."

Art waved his hand irritably. "Maybe they're juststupid."

"Of course they're stupid, but not that stupid."

"Well," he said, "I don't know what they've got onme."

"You must know."

"I don't," he said, resuming his pacing. "I can'teven 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 fingerson 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 modera•tion."

"Am I on trial for my character and personal hab•its, or for—"

"You're not on trial at all," I said, "and you don'twant to be."

He snorted.

"Tell me about Karen's visit," I said.

"There's nothing much to tell. She came askingfor an abortion, but I wouldn't do it because shewas four months' pregnant. I explained to her whyI 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. Whydidn't you?"

"Because she wasn't coming to me for treatment,she wasn't becoming my patient. I knew I'd neversee 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 goingto get me arrested, I might have done lots of things differently."

I lit a cigarette and leaned back, feeling the coldstone against my neck. I could already see that itwas a messy situation. And the small details, inno•cent in another context, could now assume greatweight 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 wasusually 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 Iheard the story, I assumed Peter had sent her to me to explain the situation, since it was obviously toolate 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 tell•ing 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 Artcould 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 doubtit very much. She was only eighteen."

"O.K.," I said. Art was probably right. I knew heusually aborted only married women, in their late twenties and thirties. He had often said he didn'twant to get involved with the younger ones, thoughhe did on occasion. Older women and marriedwomen were much safer, more closemouthed and realistic. But I also knew that he had recently beendoing more young girls, calling them "teeny-bopperscrapes," because he said to do only marriedwomen was discrimination. He meant that partly asa joke, and partly not.

"How was she," I said, "when she came to youroffice? How would you describe her?"

"She seemed like a nice girl," Art said. "She'spretty and intelligent and well poised. Very direct,as I said before. She came into my office, satdown, 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 doc•tors."

"Was she nervous?"

"Yes," he said, "but they all are. That's why thedifferential is so hard."

The differential diagnosis of amenorrhea, partic•ularly in young girls, must consider nervousness asa strong etiologic possibility. Women often delay ormiss their menstrual periods for psychological rea•sons.

"But four months?"

"Well, not likely. And she'd also had a weightgain."

"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 cometo 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 abortionelsewhere?"

"Exactly. She seemed very intelligent and percep•tive, and she seemed to follow my explanation ofthe situation. That's what I try to do in thesecases—explain to a woman why it is impossible for

her to have a safe abortion, and why she must rec•oncile 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, "haveyou?"

But Art was quick. He gave me a slow, apprecia•tive 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 be•gan clanking the key into the lock.

"Time's up,' he said.

"Five more minutes," I said,limes up.

Art said, "Have you spoken to Betty?"

"Yes," I said. "She's fine. I'll call her when I leavehere 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 trou•ble."

"No trouble." I glanced at the sergeant, standingwith the door open, waiting. "The police can't holdyou. 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 tothe City by now."

"I'll check," I said. "Don't worry about a thing." Istepped out of the cell and the sergeant locked up behind me. He said nothing as he led me out, butwhen we reached the lobby, he said, "Captainwants 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 HOMI•CIDE, and underneath, on a

hand-printed namecard, "Captain Peterson." He turned out to be astiff, burly man with close-cropped gray hair and aterse 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 loudlyover the floor. Cops, like soldiers, can be proud oftheir infirmities. You knew Peterson hadn't receivedhis 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 coldand inquiring. He waved me to a chair.

"The sergeant said he hadn't seen you around be•fore and I thought I ought to meet you. We knowmost of the criminal lawyers in Boston."

"Don't you mean trial lawyers?"

"Of course," he said easily. "Trial lawyers." Helooked at me expectantly.

I said nothing at all. A short silence passed, thenPeterson said, "Which firm do you represent?"

"Firm?"

"Yes."

"I'm not a lawyer," I said, "and I don't know whatmakes you think I am."

He pretended to be surprised. "That's not the im•pression you gave the sergeant."

"No?"

"No. You told him you were a lawyer."

"I did?"

"Yes," Peterson said, placing his hands flat on hisdesk.

"Who says so?"

He says so.

"Then he's wrong."

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

"If we had known you weren't a lawyer, you'dnever 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 Iasked 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: hewas a successful cop, a guy who had learned whento take it and when to dish it out. A very diplomaticand 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 fatigueand unused muscles. "If you are a doctor," Petersonsaid,

"my advice to you is to stay the hell away fromLee. 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 killyour 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 patholo•gist," he repeated.

"That's right. I work in hospitals, doing autopsiesand things."

Peterson was silent for some time. He frowned,scratched the back of his hand, and looked at hisdesk. Finally he said, "I don't know what you're try•ing 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 thanthat."

"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'tmatter 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 knowthat. And you can talk up a storm using the bigwords, trying to fool the jury, to impress them withyour weighty scientific evidence. But you can't getpast the central fact. You just can't get past it."

"And what fact is that?"

"A young girl bled to death in the Boston Memo•rial 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. Leeis an established and respected—"

"Listen," Peterson said, showing impatience forthe first time, "what do you think this girl was, aten-dollar doxy? This was a nice girl, a hell of a nicegirl, from a good family. She was young and prettyand sweet, and she got butchered. But she didn't goto some Roxbury midwife or some North Endquack. She had too much sense and too muchmoney 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 samequestion, and then it will be his business. And ifyou don't have an answer—"

"We have an answer."

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

Peterson said, "We have a witness who heard thegirl implicate Dr. Lee."

"The girl arrived at the hospital in a state ofshock, delirious and precomatose. Anything shesaid will constitute weak evidence."

"At the time she said it, she wasn't in a state ofshock. She said it much earlier."

"To whom?"

"To her mother," Peterson said, with a grin of sat•isfaction. "She told her mother that Lee did it. As

they were leaving for the hospital. And her motherwill swear to that."

FOUR

Itried to play it Peterson's way. I tried to keep myface blank. Fortunately you have a lot of practice at that in medicine; you are trained to show no sur•prise if a patient tells you they make love ten timesa night, or have dreams of stabbing their children,or drink a gallon of vodka daily. It is part of themystique of the doctor that nothing surprises him."I see," I said.

Peterson nodded. "'A reliable witness," he said."A mature woman, stable, careful in her judg•ments. And very attractive. She will make an excel•lent impression on the jury.""Perhaps."

"And now that I have been so frank," Petersonsaid, "perhaps you would tell me your special inter•est in

Dr. Lee."

"I have no special interest. He is my friend.""He called you before he called his lawyer." "He is allowed two telephone calls." "Yes," Peterson said, "but most people use themto call their lawyer and their wife."

"He wanted to talk to me."

"Yes," he said. "But the question is why."

"I have had some legal training," I said, "as well as my medical experience."

"You have an L.L.B.?"

"No," I said.

Peterson ran his fingers across the edge of hisdesk. "I don't think I understand."

"I'm not convinced," I said, "that it is importantthat you do."

"Could it be you are involved in this business insome way?"

"Anything is possible," I said.

"Does that mean yes?"

"That means anything is possible."

He regarded me for a moment. "You take a verytough line, Dr. Berry."

"Skeptical."

"If you are so skeptical, why are you convincedDr. Lee didn't do it?"

"I'm not the defense attorney."

"You know," Peterson said, "anyone can make amistake. Even a doctor."

when Igot outsideinto the October drizzle, I de•cided this was a hell of a time to quit smoking.Peterson had unnerved me; I smoked two cigarettesas I walked to the drugstore to buy another pack. Ihad expected him to be stupid and pointlesslytough. He was neither of those things. If what he had said was

true, then he had a case. It might notwork, but it was strong enough to protect his job.

Peterson was caught in a quandary. On the onehand, it was dangerous to arrest Dr. Lee; on theother, it was dangerous not to arrest him, if thecase seemed strong enough. Peterson was forcedinto a decision, and he had made it. Now he wouldstick by it as long as he could. And he had an es•cape: if things began to go bad, he could blame itall on Mrs. Randall. He could use the familiar lineso famous among surgeons and internists that itwas abbreviated DHJ: doing his job. That meantthat if the evidence was strong enough, you actedand did not care whether you were right or not; youwere justified in acting on the evidence.1In thatsense, Peterson's position was strengthened. He was taking no gambles: if Art was convicted,Peterson would receive no accolades. But if Art wasacquitted, Peterson was covered. Because he was doing his job.

I went into the drugstore, bought two packs of cigarettes, and made some phone calls from a payphone. First I called my lab and told them I'd begone the rest of the day. Then I called Judith andasked her to go over to the Lees' house and staywith Betty. She wanted to know if I'd seen Art, andI said I had. She asked if he was all right, and I said

This happens a lot in medicine. For example, a patient presents with fe•ver, leukocytosis—increased numbers of white cells—and pain in theright-lower quadrant of the abdomen. The obvious diagnosis is appendici•tis. The surgeon may perform an appendectomy only to find that the ap•pendix is normal. But he is vindicated, so long as he is not overhasty,because the evidence is consistent with appendicitis, and delay may be fa•tal.

everything was fine, that he'd be out in an hour orso.

I don't usually keep things from my wife. Justone or two small things, like what Cameron Jack•son did at the conference of the American Societyof Surgeons a few years back. I knew she'd be up•set for Cameron's wife, as she was when they gotdivorced last spring. The divorce was what isknown locally as an MD, a medical divorce, and ithad nothing to do with conventions. Cameron is a busy and dedicated orthopedist, and he began miss•ing meals at home, spending his life in the hospital.His wife couldn't take

it after a while. She began byresenting orthopedics and ended by resentingCameron. She got the two kids and three hundreddollars a week, but she's not happy. What she reallywants is Cameron—without medicine.

Cameron's not very happy, either. I saw him lastweek and he spoke vaguely of marrying a nurse he'd met. He knew people would talk if he did, but you could see he was thinking, "At least this one will understand—"

I often think of Cameron Jackson and the dozenpeople I know like him. Usually, I think of him lateat night, when I've been held up at the lab or whenI've been so busy I haven't had time to call homeand say I'll be late.

Art Lee and I once talked about it, and he hadthe last word, in his own cynical way. "I'm begin•ning to understand," he said, "why priests don'tmarry."

Art's own marriage has an almost stifling sort ofstability. I suppose it comes from his being Chi•nese, though that can't be the whole answer. BothArt and his wife are highly educated, and not visi•bly tied to tradition, but I think they have bothfound it difficult to shake off. Art is always guiltridden about the little time he spends with his fam•ily, and lavishes gifts on his three children; they are all spoiled silly. He

adores them, and it's often hardto stop him once he begins talking about them. His attitude toward his wife is more complex and am•biguous. At times he seems to expect her to revolvearound him like a trusting dog, and at times she seems to want this as much as he does. At othertimes she is more independent.

Betty Lee is one of the most beautiful womenI've ever seen. She is soft-spoken, gracious, and slender;

next to her Judith seems big, loud, and al•most masculine.

Judith and I have been married eight years. We met while I was in medical school and she was asenior at Smith. Judith was raised on a farm in Ver•mont, and is hardheaded, as pretty girls go.

I said, "Take care of Betty."

"I will."

"Keep her calm."

"All right."

"And keep the reporters away."

"Will there be reporters?"

"I don't know. But if there are, keep them away."

She said she would and hung up.

I then called George Bradford, Art's lawyer. Brad•ford was a solid lawyer and a man with the proper connections; he was senior partner of Bradford,Stone and Whitlaw. He wasn't in the office when Icalled, so I left a message.

Finally I called Lewis Carr, who was clinical pro•fessor of medicine at the Boston Memorial Hospi•tal. It took a while for the switchboard to page him,and as usual he came on briskly.

"Carr speaking."

"Lew, this is John Berry."

"Hi, John. What's on your mind?"

That was typical of Carr. Most doctors, whenthey receive calls from other doctors, follow a kindof ritual pattern: first they ask how you are, thenhow your work is, then how your family is. But Carrhad broken this pattern, as he had broken otherpatterns.

I said, "I'm calling about Karen Randall."

"What about her?" His voice turned cautious. Ob•viously it was a hot potato at the Mem these days.

"Anything you can tell me. Anything you'veheard."

"Listen, John," he said, "her father is a big manin this hospital. I've heard everything and I've heard

nothing. Who wants to know?"

"I do."

"Personally?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"I'm a friend of Art Lee."

"They got him on this? I heard that, but I didn'tbelieve it. I always thought Lee was too smart—"

"Lew, what happened last night?"

Carr sighed. "Christ, it's a mess. A real stinkinghell of a mess. They blew it in outpatient."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't talk about this now," Carr said. "You'dbetter come over and see me."

"All right," I said. "Where is the body now? Doyour people have it?"

"No, it's gone to the City."

"Have they performed the post yet?"

"I haven't any idea."

"O.K.," I said. "I'll stop by in a few hours. Anychance of getting her chart?"

"I doubt it," Carr said. "The old man has it now."

"Can't spring it free?"

"I doubt it," he said.

"O.K.," I said, "I'll see you later."

I hung up, put in another dime, and called themorgue at the City. The secretary confirmed that they had received the body. The secretary, Alice,was a hypothyroid; she had a voice as if she hadswallowed a bass fiddle.

"Done the post yet?" I said.

"They're just starting."

"Will they hold it? I'd like to be there."

"I don't think it's possible," Alice said, in herrumbling voice. "We have an eager beaver from theMem."

She advised me to hurry down. I said I would.

FIVE

IT ISwidely believed in boston that the best med•icalcare in the world is found here. It is so univer•sally acknowledged among the citizens of the citythat there is hardly any debate.

The best hospital in Boston is, however, a ques•tion subject to hot and passionate debate. There are three major contenders: the General, the Brigham, and the Mem. Defenders of the Mem will tell you that the General is too large and the Brigham toosmall; and the General is too coldly clinical and the Brigham too coldly scientific; that the General neg• lects surgery at the expense of medicine and theBrigham the reverse. And finally, you will be toldsolemnly that the house staffs of the General andthe Brigham are simply inferior in training and in•telligence to those of the Mem.

But on anybody's list of hospitals, the BostonCity comes near the bottom. I drove toward it,passing the Prudential Center, the proudest monu•ment to what the politicians call the New Boston.It is a vast complex of skyscrapers, hotels, shops,and plazas, with lots of fountains and wastedspace, giving it a modern look. It stands within afew minutes' lustful walk of the red-light district,

which is neither modern nor new, but like the Pru•dential Center, functional in its way.

The red-light district lies on the outskirts of theNegro slums of Roxbury, as does the Boston City. I

bounced along from one pothole to another andthought that I was far from Randall territory.

It was natural that the Randalls would practice atthe Mem. In Boston the Randalls were known asan old family, which meant that they could claim atleast one seasick Pilgrim, straight off the May•flower, contributing to the gene pool. They hadbeen a family of doctors for hundreds of years: in1776, Wilson Randall had died on Bunker Hill.

In more recent history, they had produced a longline of eminent physicians. Joshua Randall hadbeen a famous brain surgeon early in the century, aman who had done as much as anyone, evenGushing, to advance neurosurgery in America. Hewas a stern, dogmatic man; a famous, though apoc•ryphal, story had passed into medical tradition.

Joshua Randall, like many surgeons of his period,had a rule that no resident working under himcould marry. One resident sneaked off and did; afew months later, Randall discovered what had hap•pened and called a meeting of all his residents. He lined them up in a row and said, "Dr. Jones, pleasetake one step forward."

The guilty doctor did, trembling slightly.

Randall said, "I understand you have gotten mar•ried." He made it sound like a disease.

"Yes, sir."

"Before I discharge you from the staff, do you have anything to say in your defense?"

The young doctor thought for a moment, thensaid, "Yes, sir. I promise I'll never do it again."

Randall, according to the story, was so amused bythis reply that he kept the resident after all.

After Joshua Randall came Winthrop Randall,the thoracic surgeon. J. D. Randall, Karen's father,was a heart surgeon, specializing in valvular re•placements. I had never met him, but I'd seen himonce or twice—a fierce, patriarchal man, with thick white hair and a commanding manner. He was theterror of the surgical residents, who flocked to himfor training, but hated him.

His brother, Peter, was an internist with his of•fices just off the Commons. He was very fashion•able, very exclusive, and supposedly quite good,though I had no way of knowing.

J. D. had a son, Karen's brother, who was in med•ical school at Harvard. A year ago there was a ru•

mor that the kid was practically flunking out, butnothing recently.

In another town, at another time, it might seemodd that a young boy with such a distinguished medical tradition would choose to try and live itdown. But not Boston: in Boston the wealthy oldfamilies had long felt only two professions wereworthy of one's attention. One was medicine andthe other was law; exceptions were made for the ac•ademic life, which was honorable enough so long asone became a professor at Harvard.

But the Randalls were not an academic family, ora legal family. They were a medical family, and any Randall who could, contrived to get himselfthrough medical school and into a house officer- ship1at the Mem. Both the medical school and theMem had, in the past, made allowances for poorgrades when it came to the Randalls, but over theyears, the family had more than repaid the trust. Inmedicine, a Randall was a good gamble.

And that was about all I knew about the family,except that they were very wealthy, firmly Episco•pal, determinedly public spirited, widely respected,and very powerful.

I would have to find out more.

THREE BLOCKS FROM THE HOSPITAL, I passed through

the Combat Zone at the corner of Mass and Co•lumbus avenues. At night it teems with whores,pimps, addicts, and pushers; it got its name be•cause doctors at the City see so many stabbingsand shootings from this area they regard it as thelocation of a limited war.2

The Boston City itself is an immense complex ofbuildings sprawling over three city blocks. It hasmore than 1,350 beds, mostly filled with alcoholicsand derelicts. Within the Boston medical establish-

1Position as an intern or resident, where one is an M.D. but not licensed to practice, and still completing education.

2Formerly the most violent area in Boston was Scollay Square, but it was demolished five years ago to make way for government buildings. Some consider that an improvement; some a step backward.

ment, the City is known as the Boston Shitty be•cause of its clientele. But it is considered a good teaching hospital for residents and interns, because one sees there many medical problems one would never see in a more affluent hospital. A good exam•ple is scurvy. Few people in modern America con•tract scurvy. To do so requires general malnutritionand a complete abstinence from fruit for five months. This is so rare that most hospitals see acase every three years; at the Boston City there area half-dozen each year, usually in the springmonths, the "scurvy season."

There are other examples: severe tuberculosis,tertiary syphilis, gunshot wounds, stabbings, acci•dents, self-abuse, and personal misfortune. What•ever the category, the City sees more of it, in amore advanced state, than any other hospital inBoston.3

THE INTERIOR OF THE CITY HOSPITAL is a maze builtby a madman. Endless corridors, above ground andbelow, connect the dozen separate buildings of thehospital. At every corner, there are large green signs

3The frequently bizarre cases mean that every doctor and surgeon has a backlog of strange stories. One surgeon is fond of telling how he was on the Accident Floor—the City's EW—when two victims of an auto acci•dent were brought in. One man had lost his leg at the knee. The other had massive crush injury to the chest, so bad that the degree of damage couldnot at first be ascertained from the heavy bleeding. On an X ray of thechest, however, it was seen that one man's foot and lower leg had been rammed into the second man's chest, where it was lodged at the time ofadmission.

pointing directions, but they don't help much; it isstill hopelessly confusing.

As I cut through the corridors and buildings, I remembered my rotation through the hospital as aresident. Small details came back. The soap: astrange, cheap, peculiar-smelling soap that was used everywhere. The paper bags hung by each sink, one for paper towels, the other for rectalgloves. As an economy, the hospital saved usedgloves, cleaned them, and used them again. The lit•tle plastic name tags edged in black, blue, and reddepending on your service. I had spent a year inthis hospital, and during that time I had done sev•eral autopsies for the medical examiner.

THERE ARE FOUR MEDICAL SITUATIONS in which thecoroner claims jurisdiction and an autopsy is re•quired by law. Every pathology resident knows thelist cold:

If the patient dies under violent or unusual cir•cumstances.

If the patient is DOA.4

If he dies within twenty-four hours of admission.

If a patient dies outside the hospital while notunder a doctor's care.

Under any of these circumstances, an autopsy isperformed at the City. Like many cities, Boston has no separate police morgue. The second floor of the Mallory Building, the pathology section of the hos-

4Dead on arrival at hospital.

pital, is given over to the medical examiner's offices.In routine cases, most of the autopsies are per• formed by first-year residents from the hospital inwhich the patient died. For the residents, new tothe game and still nervous, a coroner's autopsy canbe a tense business.

You don't know what poisoning or electrocutionlooks like, for instance, and you're worried about missing something important. The solution, passeddown from resident to resident, is to do a meticu•lous PM, to take lots of pictures and notes as yougo, and to "save everything," meaning to keeppieces of tissue from all the gross organs in case there is a court action that requires reexaminationof the autopsy

findings. Saving everything is, ofcourse, an expensive business. It requires extra jars, extra preservative, and more storage space in the freezers. But it is done without question in policecases.

Yet even with the precautions, you worry. As youdo the post, there is always that fear, that dreadful thought at the back of your mind that the prosecu•tion or the defense will demand some piece of in• formation, some crucial bit of evidence eitherpositive or negative, that you cannot supply becauseyou did not consider all the possibilities, all the var•iables, all the differentials.for some long-forgotten reason,there are twosmall stone sphinxes just inside the doors of Mallory. Each time I see them, they bother me;

somehow sphinxes in a pathology building smack ofEgyptian embalming chambers. Or something.

I went up to the second floor to talk to Alice.She was grumpy; the post hadn't been started be•cause of some delay; everything was going to hell ina wheelbarrow these days; did I know that a flu ep•idemic was expected this winter?

I said 1 did, and then asked, "Who's doing thepost on Karen Randall?"

Alice gave a disapproving frown. "They sent someone over from the Mem. His name, I believe,is

Hendricks."

I was surprised. I had expected someone big to do this case.

"He inside?" I asked, nodding toward the end ofthe hall.

"Umm," Alice said.

I walked down toward the two swinging doors,past the freezers on the right which stored the bod•ies, and past the neatly labeled sign:authorized

PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT. The  doors

were wood, without windows, markedin andout.I pushed through into the autopsy room. Two menwere talking in a far corner.

The room was large, painted a dull, institutionalgreen. The ceiling was low, the floor was concrete,and the pipes overhead were exposed; they don'tspend much on interior decoration here. In a neatrow were five stainless-steel tables, each six feetlong. They were tilted slightly and made with a lip.Water flowed constantly down the table in a thin

sheet and emptied into a sink at the lower end. Thewater was kept running all during the autopsy, to carry away blood and bits of organic matter. Thehuge exhaust fan, three feet across and built intoone frosted-glass window, was also kept on. So wasthe small chemical unit that blew scented ersatz

air-freshener into the room, giving it a phony pine-woods odor.

Off to one side was a changing room where pa•thologists could remove their street clothes and puton surgical greens and an apron. There were fourlarge sinks in a row, the farthest with a sign thatsaidthis sink for washing hands only. The otherswere used to clean instruments and specimens.Along one wall was a row of simple cabinets con•taining gloves, bottles for specimens, preservatives,reagents, and a camera. Unusual specimens wereoften photographed in place before removal.

As I entered the room, the two men looked overat me. They had been discussing a case, a body onthe

far table. I recognized one of the men, a resi•dent named Gaffen. I knew him slightly. He was very clever and rather mean. The other man I didnot know at all; I assumed he was Hendricks.

"Hello, John," Gaffen said. "What brings youhere?"

"Post on Karen Randall."

"They'll start in a minute. Want to change?"

"No, thanks," I said. "I'll just watch."

Actually I would have liked to change, but itseemed like a bad idea. The only way I could be

certain of preserving my observer's role would be toremain in street clothes. The last thing I wanted todo was to be considered an active participant in the autopsy, and therefore possibly influencing the find•ings.

I said to Hendricks, "I don't think we've met. I'mJohn Berry."

"Jack Hendricks." He smiled, but did not offer toshake hands. He was wearing gloves, and had been touching the autopsy body before them.

"I've just been showing Hendricks a few physicalfindings," Gaffen said, nodding to the body. Hestepped back so I could see. It was a young Negrogirl. She had been an attractive girl before some•body put three round holes in her chest and stom•ach.

"Hendricks here has been spending all his timeat the Mem," Gaffen said. "He hasn't seen much ofthis sort of thing. For instance, we were just dis•cussing what these little marks might represent."

Gaffen pointed to several flesh tears on the body.They were on the arms and lower legs.

Hendricks said, "I thought perhaps they werescratches from barbed wire."

Gaffen smiled sadly. "Barbed wire," he repeated.

I said nothing. I knew what they were, but I alsoknew that an inexperienced man would never beable to guess.

"When was she brought in?" I said.

Gaffen glanced at Hendricks, then said, "Fivea.m.But the time of death seems to be around midnight." To Hendricks he said, "Does that suggestanything?"

Hendricks shook his head and bit his lip. Gaffenwas giving him the business. I would have objected but this was standard procedure. Browbeating oftenpasses for teaching in medicine. Hendricks knew it.I knew it. Gaffen knew it.

"Where," Gaffen said, "do you suppose she wasfor those five hours after death?"

"I don't know," Hendricks said miserably.

"Guess."

"Lying in bed."

"Impossible. Look at the lividity.5She wasn't ly•ingflat anywhere. She was half seated, half rolledover on her side."

Hendricks looked at the body again, then shookhis head again.

"They found her in the gutter," Gaffen said. "OnCharleston Street, two blocks from the CombatZone. In the gutter."

"Oh."

"So," Gaffen said, "what would you call thosemarks now?"

Hendricks shook his head. I knew this could goon forever; Gaffen could play it for all it was worth.I cleared my throat and said, "Actually, Hendricks, they're rat bites. Very characteristic: an initial punc• ture, and then a wedge-shaped tear."

5The seeping of blood to the lowest portions of the body after death. It of•ten helps establish the position of the body.

"Rat bites," he said in a low voice.

"Live and learn," Gaffen said. He checked hiswatch. "I have a CPC now. Good to see you again,John." He stripped off his gloves and washed hishands, then came back to Hendricks.

Hendricks was still looking at the bullet holesand the bites.

"She was in the gutter for five hours?"

"Yes."

"Didn't the police find her?"

"Yes, eventually."

"Who did it to her?"

Gaffen snorted. "You tell me. She has a history ofa primary luetic oral lesion, treated at this hospital, and five episodes of hot tubes, treated at this hos•pital."

"Hot tubes?"

"P.I.D."6

"When they found her," Gaffen said, "she had forty dollars in cash in her bra."

He looked at Hendricks, shook his head, and leftthe room. When we were alone, Hendricks said to me,

"I still don't get it. Does that mean she was aprostitute?"

"Yes," I said. "She was shot to death and lay in the gutter for five hours, being chewed by sewerrats."

6Pelvic Inflammatory Disease, usually infection of the fallopian tubes by Neisseria gonococcus, the agent of gonorrhea. Gonorrhea is considered tobe the most common infectious disease of mankind. Twenty percent of prostitutes are thought to be infected.

"Oh."

"It happens," I said. "A lot."

The swinging door opened, and a man wheeledin a white-shrouded body. He looked at us and said,

"Randall?"

"Yes," Hendricks said.

"Which table you want?"

"The middle."

"All right." He moved the cart close, then swung the body over onto the stainless-steel table, shiftingthe head first, then the feet. It was already quite stiff. He removed the shroud quickly, folded it, andset it on the cart.

"You gotta sign," he said to Hendricks, holdingout a form.

Hendricks signed.

"I'm not very good at this," Hendricks said to me."This legal stuff. I've only done one before, and that was an industrial thing. Man hit on the head atwork and killed. But nothing like this . . ."

I said, "How did you get chosen for this one?"

He said, "Just lucky, I guess. I heard that Westonwas going to do it, but apparently not."

"Leland Weston?"

"Yes."

Weston was the chief pathologist of the CityHospital, a great old man and probably the best pa•thologist in Boston, bar none.

"Well," Hendricks said. "We might as well getstarted."

He went to the sink and began a long and thor-

ough scrub. Pathologists who scrub for a post al•ways annoy me. It makes them too much like par•odies of surgeons: the idiotic reverse of the coin, a man dressed in a surgical uniform—baggy pants,

V-neck short-sleeve blouse—cleaning his hands be•fore operating on a patient who was past caring whether he received sterile treatment or not.

But in Hendricks' case, I knew he was just stall•ing.autopsies are never very pretty.They are particu• larly depressing when the deceased is as young andas attractive as Karen Randall was. She lay nude on her back, her blonde hair streaming down in the water. Her clear blue eyes stared up at the ceiling.While Hendricks finished scrubbing, I looked atthe body and touched the skin. It was cold andsmooth, the color gray-white. Just what you'd ex•pect for a girl who had bled to death.

Hendricks checked to see that there was film inthe camera, then waved me aside while he tookthree pictures from different angles.

I said, "Have you got her chart?"

"No. The old man has that. All I've got is a sum•mary of the OPD discharge."

"Which was?"

"Clinical diagnosis of death secondary to vaginalhemorrhage complicated by systemic anaphylaxis."

"Systemic anaphylaxis? Why?"

"Beats me," Hendricks said. "Something hap•pened in the OPD, but I couldn't find out."

"That's interesting," I said.

Hendricks finished with his pictures and went tothe blackboard. Most labs have a blackboard, on which the pathologist can write his findings as hemakes them—surface markings of the body, weightand appearance of organs, that sort of thing. He went to the board and wrote, "Randall, K." and thecase number.

At that moment, another man entered the room. I recognized the bald, stooping figure of Leland Wes•ton. He was in his sixties, about to retire, and despitehis stoop he had a kind of energy and vigorousness.He shook hands with me briskly, then withHendricks, who seemed very relieved to see him.

Weston took over the autopsy himself. He began,as I remembered he always did, by walking aroundthe body a half-dozen times, staring at it intently, and muttering to himself. Finally he stopped andglanced at me.

"Observed her, John?"

"Yes."

"What do you make of it?"

"Recent weight gain," I said. "There are striationmarks on her hips and breasts. She is also over•weight."

"Good," Weston said. "Anything else?"

"Yes," I said. "She has an interesting hair distribu•tion. She has blond hair, but there is a thin line ofdark

hair on her upper lip, and some more on herforearms. It looks sparse and fine to me, new look•ing."

"Good," Weston said, nodding. He gave me aslight, crooked grin, the grin of my old teacher. Forthat matter, Weston had trained most of the pathol•ogistsin Boston at one time or another. "But," hesaid,

"you've missed the most important finding."

He pointed to the pubic area, which was cleanlyshaven. "That," he said.

"But she's had an abortion," Hendricks said. "Weall know that."

"Nobody," Weston said sternly, "knows anythinguntil the post is completed. We can't afford to prediagnose." He smiled. "That is a recreation re•served for the clinicians." He pulled on a pair ofgloves and said, "This autopsy report is going to be the best and most accurate we can make. Because J.D. Randall will be going over it with a fine comb.Now then." He examined the pubic area closely. "The differential of a shaved groin is difficult. It may implyan operation, but many patients do it for purely per• sonal reasons. In this case, we might note that it wascarefully done, with no nicks or small cuts at all. That is significant: there isn't a nurse in the world who can do a pre-op shave on a fleshy region likethis without making at least one small slip. Nursesare in a hurry and small cuts don't matter. So . . ."

"She shaved herself," Hendricks said.

"Probably," Weston nodded. "Of course, thatdoesn't rule in or out an operation. But it should bekept in mind."

He proceeded with the autopsy, workingsmoothly and quickly. He measured the girl at five-

four and weighed her at one-forty. Considering thefluid she had lost, that was pretty heavy. Weston wrote it on the blackboard and made his first cut.

The standard autopsy incision is a Y-shaped cutrunning down from each shoulder, meeting at themidline of the body at the bottom of the ribs, andthen continuing as a single incision to the pubicbone. The skin and muscle is then peeled away inthree flaps; the ribs are cut open, exposing thelungs and heart; the abdomen is widely incised.Then the carotid arteries are tied and cut, the colonis tied and cut, the trachea and pharynx are cut— and the entire viscera, heart, lungs, stomach, liver, spleen, kidneys, and intestine are removed in a sin•gle motion.

After that, the eviscerated body is sewn shut.The isolated organs can then be examined at lei•sure, and sections cut for microscopic examination.While the pathologist is doing this, the deaner cutsthe scalp open, removes the skullcap, and takes outthe brain if permission for brain removal has been obtained.

Then I realized: there was no deaner here.7Imentioned this to Weston.

"That's right," he said. "We're doing this one byourselves. Completely."

I watched as Weston made his cut. His hands

7Deaner is a traditional term for the man who takes care of the dissecting room. It is an ancient term, dating back to the days when anatomy dissec•tions were done by horse gelders and butchers. The deaner keeps therooms clean, cares for the corpses, and aids in the dissection.

trembled slightly, but his touch was still remarkablyswift and efficient. As he opened the abdomen,blood welled out.

"Quick," he said. "Suction."

Hendricks brought a bottle attached to a suctionhose. The abdominal fluid—dark red-black, mostly blood—was removed and measured in the bottle.Altogether, nearly three liters were withdrawn.

"I wish we had the chart," Weston said. "I'd like to know how many units they gave her in the EW."

I nodded. The normal blood volume in an aver•age person was only about five quarts. To have somuch in the abdomen implied a perforation some•where.

When the fluid was drained, Weston continued thedissection, removing the organs and placing them ina stainless-steel pan. He carried them to the sink and washed them, then examined them one by one, be• ginning at the top, with the thyroid.

"Peculiar," he said, holding it in his hands. "Itfeels like fifteen grams or so."

The normal thyroid weighed between twenty andthirty.

"But probably a normal variation," Weston said.He cut it open and examined the cut surface. Wecould see nothing unusual.

Then he incised the trachea, opening it down tothe bifurcation into the lungs, which were ex•panded and pale white, instead of their normalpink-purple.

"Anaphylaxis," Weston said. "Systemic. Any ideawhat she was hypersensitive to?"

"No," I said.

Hendricks was taking notes. Weston deftly fol•lowed the bronchi down into the lungs, thenopened the pulmonary arteries and veins.

He moved on to the heart, which he opened by making two looping incisions into the right and leftsides, exposing all four chambers. "Perfectly nor•mal." Then he opened the coronary arteries. Theywere normal too, patent with little atherosclerosis.

Everything else was normal until we got to theuterus. It was purplish with hemorrhagic blood, andnot very large, about the size and shape of a lightbulb, with the ovaries and fallopian tubes leadinginto it. As Weston turned it in his hands, we sawthe slice through the endometrium and muscle.That explained the bleeding into the peritoneal cav•ity.

But I was bothered by the size. It just didn't looklike a pregnant uterus to me, particularly if the girl was four months' pregnant. At four months, the fe•tus was six inches long, with a pumping heart, de•veloping eyes and face, and forming bones. The uterus would be markedly enlarged.

Weston thought the same thing. "Of course," he said, "she probably got some oxytocin8at the EW,but still, it's damned peculiar."

8Adrug to contract the uterus, useful for initiating birth and for stoppinguterine bleeding.

He cut through the uterine wall and opened itup. The inside had been scraped quite well andcarefully; the perforation was obviously a late devel•opment. Now, the inside of the uterus was filledwith blood and numerous translucent, yellowishclots.

"Chicken-fat clots,"9Weston said. That meant itwas postmortem.

He cleaned away the blood and clots and exam•ined the scraped endometrial surface carefully.

"This wasn't done by a total amateur," Westonsaid. "Somebody knew at least the basic principles of curettage."

"Except for the perforation."

"Yes," he said. "Except for that."

"Well," he said, "at least we already know onething. She didn't do it to herself."

That was an important point. A large proportionof acute vaginal hemorrhages are the result ofwomen attempting self-abortion, with drugs, or saltsolutions, or soaps, or knitting needles and otherdevices. But Karen couldn't have done this kind of scraping on herself. This required a general anes•thetic for the patient.

I said, "Does this look like a pregnant uterus toyou?"

"Questionable," Weston said. "Very questionable.Let's check the ovaries."

Weston incised the ovaries, looking for the cor-

9See Appendix I: Delicatessen Pathologists.

pus luteum, the yellow spot that persists after theovum has been released. He didn't find one. In it•self, that proved nothing; the corpus luteum beganto degenerate after three months, and this girl was supposedly in her fourth month.

The deaner came in and said to Weston, "Shall Iclose up now?"

"Yes," Weston said. "You might as well."

The deaner began to suture the incision andwrap the body in a clean shroud. I turned to Wes•ton.

"Aren't you going to examine the brain?"

"No permission," Weston said.

The medical examiner, though he demanded anautopsy, usually did not insist on brain examinationunless the situation suggested possible neuropathy.

"But I would have thought a family like the Ran•dalls, medically oriented . . ."

"Oh, J. D. is all for it. It's Mrs. Randall. She justrefuses to have the brain removed, absolutely re•fuses. Ever met her?"

I shook my head.

"Quite a woman," Weston said dryly.

He turned back to the organs, working down theGI tract from esophagus to anus. It was completely normal. I left before he finished everything; I hadseen what I wanted to see and knew that the finalreport would be equivocal. At least on the basis ofthe gross organs, they would be unable to say thatKaren Randall was definitely pregnant.

That was peculiar.

SIX

1 HAVE TROUBLE BUYING LIFE INSURANCE.  Most pathologists do: the companies take one look at you and shudder—constant exposure to tuberculosis, malignancies, and lethal infectious disease makesyou a very poor risk. The only person I know whohas more trouble getting insured is a biochemist named Jim Murphy.

When he was younger, Murphy played halfback for Yale and was named to the All-East team. Thatin itself is an accomplishment, but it is amazing ifyou know Murphy and have seen his eyes. Murphyis practically blind. He wears lenses an inch thick and walks with his head drooping, as if the weightof the glass burdened him down. His vision isbarely adequate under most circumstances, butwhen he gets excited or tight, he walks into things.

On the surface it would not seem that Murphy had the makings of a halfback, even at Yale. Toknow his secret, you have to see him move. Mur•phy is fast. He also has the best balance of anyoneI know. When he was playing football, his team•mates devised a series of plays especially designedto allow the quarterback to point Murphy in theproper direction and send him on his way. This

usually worked, though on several occasions Mur•phy made brilliant runs in the wrong direction,twice charging over the goal line for a safety.

He has always been drawn to unlikely sports. Atthe age of thirty, he decided to take up mountain climbing. He found it very agreeable, but hecouldn't get insured. So he switched to sports-carracing and was doing very well until he drove a Lo•tus off the track, rolled it four times, and brokeboth clavicles in several places. After that, he de•cided he'd rather be insured than active, so he gaveit all up.

Murphy is so fast he even speaks in a kind ofshorthand, as if he can't be bothered putting all the articles and pronouns into his sentences. He driveshis secretaries and technicians mad, not only be•cause of his speech, but also because of the win•dows. Murphy keeps them wide open, even inwinter, and he is an unrelenting opponent of whathe calls "bad air."

When I walked into his lab in one wing of theBLI1I found it filled with apples. There were ap•ples in the refrigerators, on the reagent benches, ondesks as paperweights. His two technicians, wear•ing heavy sweaters under their lab coats, were botheating apples as I entered.

"Wife," Murphy said, shaking hands with me."Makes a specialty. Want one? I have Delicious and

Cortland today."

1Boston Lying-in Hospital.

"No, thanks," I said.

He took a bite from one after polishing it brisklyon his sleeve. "Good. Really."

"I haven't got time," I said.

"Always in a rush," Murph said. "Jesus Christ, al•ways in a rush. Haven't seen you or Judith formonths. What've you been up to? Terry's playingguard on the Belmont first eleven."

He lifted a picture from his desk and held itunder my nose. It showed his son in a football uni•form, growling into the camera, looking like Murph:small, but tough.

"We'll have to get together soon," I said to him,"and talk about families."

"Ummmm." Murph devoured his apple with re•markable speed. "Let's do that. How's bridge game? Wife and I had an absolutely devastating time lastweekend. Two weekends ago. Playing with—"

"Murph," I said. "I have a problem."

"Probably an ulcer," Murph said, selecting an•other apple from a row along his desk. "Nervousguy I

know. Always in a rush."

"Actually," I said, "this is right up your alley."

He grinned in sudden interest. "Steroids? Firsttime in history a pathologist's interested in steroids,I bet." He sat down behind his desk and proppedhis feet up. "Ready and waiting. Shoot."

Murphy's work concerned steroid production in pregnant women and fetuses. He was located in theBLI

for a practical, if somewhat grisly, reason—heneeded to be near the source of supply, which in

his case was clinic mothers and the occasional still•births2assigned to him.

"Can you do a hormone test for pregnancy at au•topsy?" I asked.

He scratched his head in swift, nervous, flutterymovements. "Hell. Suppose so. But who'd want to?"

"I want to."

"What I mean is, can't you tell at autopsy if she'spregnant or not?"

"Actually, no, in this case. It's very confused."

"Well. No accepted test, but I imagine it couldbe done. How far along?"

"Four months, supposedly."

"Four months? And you can't tell from theuterus?"

"Murph—"

"Yeah, sure, it could be done at four months," hesaid. "Won't stand up in a courtroom or anything,but yeah. Could be done."

"Can you do it?"

"That's all we got in this lab," he said. "Steroidassays. What've you got?"

I didn't understand; 1 shook my head.

"Blood or urine. Which?"

"Oh. Blood." I reached into my pocket and drewout a test tube of blood I had collected at the au•topsy. I'd asked Weston if it was O.K., and he saidhe didn't care.

2Stillbirths, abortuses, and placentas are in hot demand at the BLI for thedozen or so groups doing hormone research. Sometimes rather bitter argu•ments break out over who needs the next dead baby most for their studies.

Murph took the tube and held it to the light. Heflicked it with his finger. "Need two cc's," he said."Plenty here. No problem."

"When will you let me know?"

"Two days. Assay takes forty-eight hours. This is post blood?"

"Yes. I was afraid the hormones might be dena•tured or something . . ."

Murph sighed. "How little we remember. Only proteins can be denatured, and steroids are not pro•teins, right? This'll be easy. See, the normal rabbittest is chorionic gonadotrophin in urine. But in thislab we're geared to measure that, or progesterone, or any of a number of other eleven-beta hydroxyl•ated compounds. In pregnancy, progesterone levelsincrease ten times. Estriol levels increase a thou•sand times. We can measure a jump like that, nosweat." He glanced at his technicians. "Even inthislab."

One of the technicians took up the challenge. "Iused to be accurate," she said, "before I got frost•bite on my fingers."

"Excuses, excuses," Murphy grinned. He turnedback to me and picked up the tube of blood."This'll be easy. We'll just pop it onto the old frac•tionating column and let it perk through," he said."Maybe we'll do two independent aliquots, just incase one gets fouled up. Who's it from?"

"What?"

He waved the test tube in front of me impa•tiently. "Whose blood?"

"Oh. Just a case," I said, shrugging.

"A four-month pregnancy and you can't be sure?John boy, not leveling with your old buddy, your old bridge opponent."

"It might be better," I said, "if I told you after•ward."

"O.K., O.K. Far from me to pry. Your own way,but youwill tell me?"

"Promise."

"A pathologist's promise," he said, standing up,"rings of the eternal."

SEVEN

the last time anyone counted,there were 25,000named diseases of man, and cures for 5,000 ofthem. Yet it remains the dream of every young doc•tor to discover a new disease. That is the fastestand surest way to gain prominence within the med•ical profession. Practically speaking, it is much bet•ter to discover a new disease than to find a cure for an old one; your cure will be tested, disputed, andargued over for years, while a new disease is readilyand rapidly accepted.

Lewis Carr, while still an intern, hit the jackpot:he found a new disease. It was pretty rare—a he•reditary dysgammaglobulinemia affecting the beta-

fraction which he found in a family of four—but that was not important. The important thing wasthat

Lewis discovered it, described it, and pub•lished his results in theNew England Journal ofMedicine.

Six years later he was made clinical professor atthe Mem. There was never any question he wouldbe;

simply a matter of waiting until somebody onthe staff retired and vacated an office.

Carr had a good office in terms of status at the Mem; it was perfect for a young hotshot internist.For one thing, it was cramped and made evenworse by the stacks of journals, texts, and researchpapers scattered all around. For another, it wasdirty and old, tucked away in an obscure corner ofthe Calder Building,

near the kidney research unit.And for the finishing touch, amid the squalor and mess sat a beautiful secretary, looking sexy, effi• cient, and wholly unapproachable: a nonfunctionalbeauty to contrast with the functional ugliness ofthe office.

"Dr. Carr is making rounds," she said withoutsmiling. "He asked for you to wait inside."

I went in and took a seat, after removing a stackof back issues of theAmerican Journal of Experi• mental Biologyfrom the chair. A few moments later, Carr arrived. He wore a white lab coat, open at the front (a clinical professor would never button hislab coat) and a stethoscope around his neck. His shirt collar was frayed (clinical professors aren't paid much), but his black shoes gleamed (clinical

professors are careful about things that reallycount). As usual, his manner was very cool, verycollected, very political.

Unkind souls said Carr was more than political,that he shamelessly sucked up to the senior staff men. But many people resented his swift successand his confident manner. Carr had a round and childlike face; his cheeks were smooth and ruddy.He had an engaging boyish grin that went over verywell with the female patients. He gave me that grin

now.

"Hi, John." He shut the door to his outer officeand sat down behind his desk. I could barely seehim over the stacked journals. He removed thestethoscope from his neck, folded it, and slipped itinto his pocket. Then he looked at me.

I guess it's inevitable. Any practicing doctor whofaces you from behind a desk gets a certain man•ner, a thoughtful-probing-inquisitive air which isunsettling if there's nothing wrong with you. LewisCarr got that way now.

"You want to know about Karen Randall," hesaid, as if reporting a serious finding.

"Right."

"For personal reasons."

"Right."

"And anything I tell you goes no further?"

"Right."

"O.K.," he said. "I'll tell you. I wasn't present, but I have followed things closely."

1 knew that he would have. Lewis Carr followed

everything at the Mem closely; he knew more localgossip than any of the nurses. He gathered his knowledge reflexively, the way some other peoplebreathed air.

'The girl presented in the outpatient ward at four this morning. She was moribund on arrival; whenthey sent a stretcher out to the car she was deliri•ous. Her trouble was frank vaginal hemorrhage. Shehad a temperature of 102, dry skin with decreased turgor, shortness of breath, a racing pulse, and lowblood pressure. She complained of thirst."1

Carr took a deep breath. "The intern looked at her and ordered a cross match so they could starta transfusion. He drew a syringe for a count andcrit2and rapidly injected a liter of D 5.3He also at•tempted to locate the source of the hemorrhage buthe could not, so he gave her oxytocin to clampdown the uterus and slow bleeding, and packed the vagina as a temporary measure. Then he found outwho the girl was from the mother and shit in hispants. He panicked. He called in a resident. Hestarted the blood. And he gave her a good dose ofprophylactic penicillin. Unfortunately, he did thiswithout consulting her chart or asking the mother about allergic reactions."

"She was hypersensitive."4

1                     Thirst is an important symptom in shock. For unknown reasons, it ap•

pears only in severe shock due to fluid loss, and is regarded as an ominous sign.

2                     White count and hematocrit.

3                     Five percent dextrose in water, used to replace lost fluid volume.

4                     Penicillin reactions occur in 9—10 percent of normal patients.

"Severely," Carr said. "Ten minutes after givingthe penicillin i.m.5the girl went into chokingspasms and appeared unable to breathe despite apatent airway. By now the chart was down from therecord room, and the intern realized what he had done. So he administered a milligram of epineph•rinei.m. When there was no response, he went toa slow IV, benadryl, cortisone, and aminophylline.They put her on positive pressure oxygen. But shebecame cyanotic,6convulsive, and died withintwenty minutes."

I lit a cigarette and thought to myself that I wouldn't like to be that intern now.

"Probably," Carr said, "the girl would have died anyway. We don't know that for sure, but there's ev•ery reason to think that at admission her blood lossalready approached fifty percent. That seems to bethe

cut-off, as you know—the shock is usually ir•reversible. So we probably couldn't have kept her.Of course, that doesn't change anything."

I said, "Why'd the intern give penicillin in thefirst place?"

"That's a peculiarity of hospital procedure," Carr said. "It's a kind of routine around here for certain presenting symptoms. Normally when we get a girlwith evidence of a vaginal bleed and a high fever— possible infection—we give the girl a D & C, puther to bed, and stick her a shot of antibiotic. Send

5Intramuscularly. 6Blue.

her home the next day, usually. And it goes down on the charts as miscarriage."

"Is that the final diagnosis on Karen Randall'srecord? Miscarriage?"

Carr nodded. "Spontaneous. We always put itdown that way, because if we do that, we don't haveto fool with the police. We see quite a few self-induced or illegally induced abortions here. Some•times the girls come in with so much vaginal soapthey foam like overloaded dishwashers. Othertimes, it's bleeding. In every case, the girl is hyster•ical and full of wild lies. We just take care of it qui•etly and send her on her way."

"And never report it to the police?"7

"We're doctors, not law-enforcement officers. We see about a hundred girls a year this way. If we re•

ported every one, we'd all spend our time in courttestifying and not practicing medicine."

"But doesn't the law require—"

"Of course," Carr said quickly. "The law requiresthat we report it. The law also requires that we re•port assaults, but if we reported every drunk whogot into a bar brawl, we'd never hear the end of it.No emergency ward reports everything it should.You just can't operate on that basis."

"But if there's been an abortion—"

"Look at it logically," Carr said. "A significantnumber of these cases are spontaneous miscar•riages. A

significant number aren't, but it doesn't

7See Appendix II: Cops and Doctors.

make sense for us to treat it any other way. Supposeyou know that the butcher of Barcelona worked on a girl; suppose you call in the police. They show upthe next day and the girl tells them it was sponta• neous. Or she tells them she tried it on herself. Buteither way she won't talk, so the police are an•noyed. Mostly, with you, because you called them

in."

"Does this happen?"

"Yes," Carr said, "I've seen it happen twice my•self. Both times, the girl showed up crazy with fear, convinced she was going to die. She wanted to nailthe abortionist, so she demanded the police becalled in. But by morning, she was feeling fine,she'd had a nice hospital D & C, and she realizedher problems were over. She didn't want to foolwith the police; she didn't want to get involved. Sowhen the cops came, she pretended it was all a bigmistake."

"Are you content to clean up after the abortion•ists and let it go?"

"We are trying to restore people to health. That's all. A doctor can't make value judgments. We cleanup after a lot of bad drivers and mean drunks, too.But it isn't our job to slap anybody's hand and give them a lecture on driving or alcohol. We just try tomake them well again."

I wasn't going to argue with him; I knew itwouldn't do any good. So I changed the subject.

"What about the charges against Lee? What hap•pened there?"

"When the girl died," Carr said, "Mrs. Randallbecame hysterical. She started to scream, so theygave her a tranquilizer and sedative. After that, she settled down, but she continued to claim that her daughter had named Lee as the abortionist. So shecalled the police."

"Mrs. Randall did?"

"That's right."

"What about the hospital diagnosis?"

"It remains miscarriage. This is a legitimate med•ical interpretation. The change to illegal abortion is made on nonclinical grounds, so far as we are con•cerned. The autopsy will show whether an abortionwas performed."

"The autopsy showed it," I said. "Quite a goodabortion, too, except for a single laceration of the endornetrium. It was done by someone with skill—but not quite enough skill."

"Have you talked with Lee?"

"This morning," I said. "He claims he didn't do it.On the basis of that autopsy, I believe him."

"A mistake—"

"I don't think so. Art's too good, too capable."

Carr removed the stethoscope from his pocketand played with it, looked uncomfortable. "This is avery messy thing," he said. "Very messy."

"It has to be cleared up," I said. "We can't hideour heads in the sand and let Lee go to hell."

"No, of course not," Carr said. "But J. D. wasvery upset."

"I imagine so."

"He practically killed that poor intern when hesaw what treatment had been given. I was there,and I

thought he was going to strangle the kid withhis bare hands."

"Who was the intern?"

"Kid named Roger Whiting. Nice kid, even though he went to P & S."

"Where is he now?"

"At home, probably. He went off at eight thismorning." Carr frowned and fiddled once morewith his stethoscope. "John," he said, "are you sureyou want to get involved in this?"

"I don't want anything to do with it," I said. "If Ihad my choice, I'd be back in my lab now. But Idon't see any choice."

"The trouble is," Carr said slowly, "that this thinghas gotten out of control. J. D. is very upset."

"You said that before."

"I'm just trying to help you understand howthings are." Carr rearranged things on his desk anddid not look at me. Finally he said, "The case is inthe proper hands. And I understand Lee has a goodlawyer."

"There are a lot of dangling questions. I want tobe sure they're all cleaned up."

"It's in the proper hands," Carr said again.

"Whose hands? The Randalls? The goons I sawdown at the police station?"

"We have an excellent police force in Boston," Carr said.

"Bullshit."

He sighed patiently and said, "What can youhope to prove?"

"That Lee didn't do it."

Carr shook his head. "That's not the point."

"It seems to me that's precisely the point."

"No," Carr said. "The point is that the daughterof J. D. Randall was killed by an abortionist, and somebody has to pay. Lee's an abortionist—thatwon't be hard to prove in court. In a Boston court,the jury is likely to be more than half Catholic.They'll convict him on general principles."

"On general principles?"

"You know what I mean," Carr said, shifting inhis chair.

"You mean Lee's the goat."

"That's right. Lee's the goat."

"Is that the official word?"

"More or less," Carr said.

"And what are your feelings about it?"

"A man who performs abortions puts himself indanger. He's breaking the law. When he aborts the daughter of a famous Boston physician—"

"Lee says he didn't do it."

Carr gave a sad smile. "Does it matter?"

EIGHT

it takes thirteen yearsfrom the time you leavecollege to the time you become a cardiac surgeon.You have four years of medical school, a year of in•ternship, three of general surgery, two of thoracicsurgery, two of cardiac surgery. Somewhere alongthe line, you spend two years working for UncleSam.1

It takes a certain kind of man to assume this bur•den, to set his sights on such a distant goal. By thetime he is ready to begin surgery on his own, he hasbecome another person, almost a new breed, es•tranged by his experience and his dedication fromother men. In a sense, that is part of the training:surgeons are lonely men.

I thought of this as I looked down through theglass-overhead viewing booth into OR 9. The boothwas built into the ceiling, allowing you a good viewof the entire room, the staff, and the procedure.Students and residents often sat up here andwatched. There was a microphone in the OR, so that you heard everything—the clink of instru•ments, the rhythmic hiss of the respirator, the quiet

1See Appendix III: Battlefields and Barberpoles.

voices—and there was a button you could press totalk to the people below. Otherwise they could not hear you.

I had come to this room after going to J. D. Ran•dall's office. I had wanted to see the chart on Ka•ren, but Randall's secretary said she didn't have it.J. D. had it, and J. D. was in surgery now. That had surprised me. I had thought he would have takenthe day off, considering. But apparently it had not entered his mind.

The secretary said the operation was probably al•most over, but one look through the glass told me it was not. The chest of the patient was still openand the heart was still incised; they had not evenbegun suturing. There I was not going to interrupt them; I'd have to come back later to try and get thechart.

But I stayed a moment to watch. There is some•thing compelling about open-heart surgery, some•thing fantastic and fabulous, a mixture of dreamand nightmare, all come true. There were sixteen people in the room below me, including four sur•geons. Everyone was moving, working, checking insmooth, coordinated movements, like a kind of bal•let, like a surrealistic ballet. The patient, draped ingreen, was dwarfed by the heart-lung machinealongside him, a giant complex as large as an auto•mobile, shining steel, with smoothly moving cylin•ders and wheels.

At the head of the patient was the anesthetist,surrounded by equipment. There were several

nurses, two pump technicians who monitored thedials and gauges on the machine, nurses, orderlies,and the surgeons. I tried to tell which was Randall,but I could not; in their gowns and masks, they alllooked the same, impersonal, interchangeable. Thatwas not true, of course. One of those four men had responsibility for everything, for the conduct of allsixteen workers present. And responsibility for the seventeenth person in that room, the man whose heart was stopped.

In one corner, displayed on a television, was theelectrocardiogram. The normal EKG is a briskly bouncing line, with spikes for every heartbeat, everywave of electrical energy that fires the heart mus•cle. This one was flat: just a meaningless squiggle.That meant that according to one major criterion of medicine, the patient was dead. I looked at thepink lungs through the open chest; they were notmoving. The patient was not breathing.

The machine did all that for him. It pumped hisblood, oxygenated it, removed the carbon dioxide.In its present form, the machine had been in usefor about ten years.

The people below me did not seem in awe of themachine or the surgical procedure. They worked matter-of-factly at their jobs. I suppose that wasone reason why it all seemed so fantastic.

I watched for five minutes without realizing thetime. Then I left. Outside, in the corridor, two res•idents slouched in a doorway, still wearing theircaps with their masks hanging loosely around their

necks. They were eating doughnuts and coffee, andlaughing about a blind date.

NINE

roger whiting, m.d.,lived near the hospital in athird-floor walk-up on the sleazy side of BeaconHill, where they dump the garbage from LouisburgSquare. His wife answered the door. She was aplain girl, about seven months' pregnant. Shelooked worried.

"What do you want?"

"I'd like to talk to your husband. My name'sBerry. I'm a pathologist at the Lincoln."

She gave me a hard suspicious glance. "My hus•band is trying to sleep. He's been on call for thelast two days, and he's tired. He's trying to sleep."

"It's very important."

A slim young man in white ducks appeared be•hind her. He looked more than tired; he looked ex•

hausted and afraid. He said, "What is it?"

"I'd like to talk to you about Karen Randall."

"I've been over it," he said, "a dozen times. Talkto Dr. Carr about it."

"I did."

Whiting ran his hands through his hair, then said

to his wife, "It's O.K., honey. Get me some coffee, would you?" He turned to me. "Want some coffee?"

"Please," I said.

We sat in the living room. The apartment wassmall, the furniture cheap and rickety. But I felt athome: it had been only a few years since I had done my own internship. I knew all about themoney problems, the stresses, the hellish hours,and the slop work you had to do. I knew about theirritating calls from nurses in the middle of thenight, asking you to okay another aspirin for patientJones. I knew how you could drag yourself out ofbed to see a patient and how you could, in thesmall hours of the morning, make a mistake. I hadnearly killed an old man with heart failure when I was an intern. With three hours of sleep during the last two days, you could do anything and not give adamn.

"I know you're tired," I said. "I won't stay long."

"No, no," he said very earnestly. "Anything I cando to help. 1 mean, now . . ."

The wife came in with two cups of coffee. Shelooked at me angrily. The coffee was weak.

"My questions," I said, "have to do with the girlwhen she first arrived. Were you in the ward?"

"No. I was trying to sleep. They called me."

"What time was this?"

"Almost exactly four."

"Describe what happened."

"I was sleeping in my clothes, in that little roomjust off the OPD. I wasn't asleep long when they

called me; I'd just gotten through putting anotherIV into a lady who pulls them out. She says shedoesn't, but she does." He sighed. "Anyway, when they called me, I was bleary as hell. I got up anddunked my head in cold water, then toweled off. When I got to the ward, they were bringing the girlin on a stretcher."

"Was she conscious?"

"Yes, but disoriented. She was pale, and she'dlost a lot of blood. She was feverish and delirious.We couldn't get a good temperature because shekept gnashing her teeth, so we figured it was about102 and got to work on the cross-matching."

"What else was done?"

"The nurses got a blanket over her and proppedher feet up with shock blocks.1Then I examinedthe lesion. It was very clearly vaginal hemorrhageand we diagnosed it as miscarriage."

"About the bleeding," I said, "was there any dis•charge accompanying it?"

He shook his head. "Just blood."

"No tissue? No signs of a placenta?"

"No. But she'd been bleeding for a long time.Her clothes . . ." He looked across the room, seeingit again in his mind. "Her clothes were very heavy.The nurses had trouble getting them off."

"During this time, did the girl say anything coher•ent?"

1Shock blocks are simply wooden blocks used to elevate the legs in casesof shock, helping to get blood to the head.

"Not really. She was mumbling every once in awhile. Something about an old man, I think. Herold man, or an old man. But it wasn't clear, and no•body was really paying any attention."

"Did she say anything else?"

He shook his head. "Just when they were cuttingher clothes off her. She would try to pull them back. Once she said 'You can't do this to me.' And then later she said, 'Where am I?' But that was justdelirious talk. She wasn't really coherent."

"What did you do about the bleeding?"

"I tried to localize it. It was hard, and things werepretty rushed. And we couldn't angle the lightsdown properly. Finally I decided to pack it withgauze pads and concentrate on getting her bloodvolume back up."

"Where was Mrs. Randall during all this?"

"She waited by the door. She seemed all right un•til we had to tell her what had happened. Then she went to pieces. Just went to pieces."

"What about Karen's records? Had she ever beenadmitted to the hospital before?"

"I didn't see her chart," he said, "until . . . later.They had to be pulled from the record room. But she had been in before. Papp smears every yearsince she was fifteen. Usual blood tests from hertwice-yearly physicals. She was well looked aftermedically, as you might expect.'

"Was there anything unusual in her past history?Besides the hypersensitivity, I mean."

He gave a sad smile. "Isn't that enough?"

For a fleeting moment I was angry with him. Hewas soaking in self-pity, despite his natural fright. But I wanted to tell him he'd better get used to theidea of people dying in front of him, lots of people.And he'd better get used to the idea that he couldmake a mistake, because they happened. Some•times the mistakes were balder than others, but itwas just degree. I wanted to tell him if he'd askedMrs. Randall about Karen's hypersensitivity, andshe'd said the girl was O.K., that Whiting would have been free and clear. The girl would still havedied, of course, but Whiting would be clear. His mistake was not killing Karen Randall; it was not asking permission first.

I thought about saying this, but I didn't.

"Any indication in the chart of psychiatric prob•lems?" I asked.

"No."

"Nothing unusual at all?"

"No." Then he frowned. "Wait a minute. Therewas one strange thing. A complete set of skull filmswere ordered about six months ago."

"Did you see the films?"

"No. I just read the radiologist's dx."

"And what was that?"

"Normal. No pathology."

"Why were the films taken?"

"It didn't say."

"Was she in an accident of some kind? A fall, oran auto accident?"

"Not that I know of."

"Who ordered the films?"

"Probably Dr. Randall. Peter Randall, that is. Hewas her doctor."

"And you don't know why the X rays were taken?"

"No."

"But there must be a reason," I said.

"Yes," he said, but he didn't seem very interested.He stared moodily at his coffee, then sipped it. Fi•nally he said, "I hope they take that abortionist andscrew him to the wall. Whatever he gets, he de•serves

worse."

I stood. The boy was under stress and almost onthe verge of tears. All he could see was a promising medical career jeopardized because he had made amistake with the daughter of a prominent physi•cian. In his anger and frustration and self-pity, he,too, was looking for a goat. And he needed oneworse than most.

"Are you planning to settle in Boston?" I asked."I was," he said with a wry look.

when Ileft the internI called Lewis Carr. Iwanted to see Karen Randall's chart more than ever.I had to find out about those X rays.

"Lew," I said, "I'm going to need your help again."

"Oh?" He sounded thrilled by the prospect.

"Yes. I've got to get her chart. It's imperative."

"I thought we went over that."

"Yes, but something new has come up. This thingis getting crazier by the minute. Why were X rays ordered——"

"I'm sorry," Carr said. "I can't help you."

"Lew, even if Randall does have the chart, hecant keep——"

"I'm sorry, John. I'm going to be tied up here forthe rest of the day and most of tomorrow. I'm justnot going to have time."

He was speaking formally, a man counting his words, repeating the sentences over to himself be•fore speaking them aloud.

"What happened? Randall get to you and buttonyour mouth?"

"I feel," Carr said, "that the case should be left inthe hands of those best equipped to deal with it.I'm not, and I don't think other doctors are, either."

I knew what he was saying and what he meant.Art Lee used to laugh about the elaborate way doc•tors back out of things, leaving behind a spoor ofdouble-talk. Art called it The Pilate Maneuver.

"O.K.," I said, "if that's the way you feel."

I hung up.

In a way, I should have expected it. Lewis Carr always played the game, following all the rules justlike a good boy. That was the way he always hadbeen, and the way he always would be.

TEN

my route from whitingto the medical school tookme past the Lincoln Hospital. Standing out in frontnear

the taxi stand was Frank Conway, hunchedover, his hands in his pockets, looking down at thepavement. Something about his stance conveyedsadness and a deep, dulling fatigue. I pulled over tothe curb.

"Need a ride?"

"I'm going to Children's," he said. He seemedsurprised that I had stopped. Conway and I aren'tclose friends. He is a fine doctor but not pleasantas a man. His first two wives had divorced him, thesecond after only six months.

"Children's is on the way," I said.

It wasn't, but I'd take him anyway. I wanted to talk to him. He got in and I pulled out into traffic.

"What takes you to Children's?" I said.

"Conference. They have a congenital CPC oncea week. You?"

"Just a visit," I said. "Lunch with a friend."

He nodded and sat back. Conway was young,only thirty-five. He had breezed through his resi•dencies, working under the best men in the coun•try. Now he was better than any of them, or so it

was said. You couldn't be sure about a man likeConway: he was one of the few doctors who be•come so famous so fast that they take on some as•pects of politicians and movie stars; they acquireblindly loyal fans and blindly antagonistic critics;one either loves them or loathes them. Physical•ly, Conway was a commanding presence, a stocky,powerful man with gray-flecked hair and deep,piercing blue eyes.

"I wanted to apologize," Conway said, "about thismorning. I didn't mean to blow up that way."

"It's O.K."

"I have to apologize to Herbie. I said somethings..."

"He'll understand."

"I feel like hell," Conway said. "But when youwatch a patient just collapse under you, just fallapart before your very eyes. . . . You don't know howit is."

"I don't," I admitted.

We drove for a while in silence, then I said, "Can I ask you a favor?"Sure.

"Tell me about J. D. Randall."

He paused. "Why?"

"Just curious."

"Bullshit."

"All right," I said.

"They got Lee, didn't they?" Conway said.

"Yes."

"Did he do it?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"I believe what he tells me," 1 said.Conway sighed. "John," he said, "you're not afool. Suppose somebody hung this thing on you.Wouldn't you deny it?""That's not the question.""Sure it is. Anybody'd deny it.""Isn't it possible Art didn't do it?""It's not merely possible. It's likely.""Well then?"

Conway shook his head. "You're forgetting theway it works. J. D. is a big man. J. D. lost a daugh•ter. There happens to be a convenient Chinaman inthe neighborhood, who is known to do the nasty deed. A perfect situation."

"I've heard that theory before. I don't buy it.""Then you don't know J. D. Randall.""That's true."

"J. D. Randall," Conway said, "is the arch-prickof the universe. He has money and power and pres•tige. He can have whatever he wants—even a littleChinaman's head."

I said, "But why should he want it?"Conway laughed. "Brother, where have youbeen?"

I must have looked puzzled."Don't you know about . . ." He paused, seeingthat I did not. Then he very deliberately folded hisarms across his chest and said nothing. He staredstraight ahead.

"Well?" I said.

"Better ask Art."

"I'm asking you," I said.

"Ask Lew Carr,' Conway said. "Maybe he'll tell you. I won't."

"Well then," I said, "tell me about Randall."

"As a surgeon."

"All right, as a surgeon."

Conway nodded. "As a surgeon," he said, "heisn't worth shit. He's mediocre. He loses people he shouldn't lose. Young people. Strong people."

I nodded.

"And he's mean as hell. He chews out his resi•dents, puts them through all sorts of crap, keepsthem miserable. He has a lot of good young menworking under him, and that's how he controlsthem. I know; I did two years of thoracic underRandall before I did my cardiac at Houston. I was twenty-nine when I

first met Randall, and he was forty-nine. He comes on very strong with his busymanner and his Bond Street suits and his friends with chateaux in France. None of it means he's agood surgeon, of course, but it carries over. Itthrows a halo around him. It makes him look good."

I said nothing. Conway was warming to his sub•ject, raising his voice, moving his strong hands. Ididn't want him to stop.

"The trouble," Conway said, "is that J. D. is inthe old line. He started surgery in the forties andfifties, with

Gross and Chartriss and Shacklefordand the boys. Surgery was different then; manual

skill was important and science didn't really count.Nobody knew about electrolytes or chemistry, and Randall's never felt comfortable with it. The new boys are; they've been weaned on enzymes and se•rum sodium. But it's all a troublesome puzzle toRandall."

"He has a good reputation," I said.

"So did John Wilkes Booth," Conway said. "For awhile."

"Do I sense a professional jealousy?"

"I can cut circles around him with my left hand," Conway said. "Blindfolded."

I smiled.

"And hung over," he added. "On a Sunday."

"What's he like personally?"

"A prick. Just a prick. The residents say he walksaround with a hammer in his pocket and a half-dozen nails, just in case he sees the opportunity tocrucify somebody."

"He can't be that unpleasant."

"No," Conway admitted. "Not unless he's in es•pecially good form. Like all of us, he has his offdays."

'You make him sound very grim.'

"No worse than the average bastard," he said."You know, the residents say something else, too."

"Oh?"

"Yes. They say J. D. Randall likes cutting heartsbecause he never had one of his own."

ELEVEN

NO ENGLISHMAN IN HIS RIGHT MIND would ever go to

Boston, particularly in 1630. To embark on a longsea journey to a hostile wilderness took more than courage, more than fortitude—it required despera•tion and fanaticism. Above all it required a deepand irreconcilable break with English society.

Fortunately, history judges men by their actions,not their motivations. It is for that reason that Bos•tonians can comfortably think of their ancestors asproponents of democracy and freedom, Revolution•ary heroes, liberal artists and writers. It is the city of Adams and Revere, a city that still cherishes theOld North Church and Bunker Hill.

But there is another face to Boston, a darkerface, which lies hidden in the pillory, the stocks, the dunking stool, and the witch hunts. Hardly aman now alive can look at these devices of torturefor what they are: evidences of obsession, neurosis,and perverse cruelty. They are proofs of a societyencircled by fear of sin, damnation, hellfire, dis•ease, and Indians—in roughly that order. A tense,fearful, suspicious society. In short, a society of re•actionary religious fanatics.

There is also a geographical factor, for Boston

was once a swamp. Some say this accounts for itsoutstandingly bad weather and uniformly humid cli•

mate; others say it is unimportant.

Bostonians are inclined to overlook much of thepast. Like a slum kid who makes good, the city has swung far from its origins, and attempted to concealthem. As a colony of common men, it has established an untitled aristocracy to rival the most ancient andrigid of Europe. As a city of religion, it has developeda scientific community unrivaled in the East. It is also strongly narcissistic—a trait it shares with another city of questionable origin, San Francisco.

Unfortunately for both these cities, they cannever quite escape their past. San Francisco cannot quite shake off its booming, crude, gold-rush spiritto become a genteel Eastern town. And Boston, nomatter how hard it tries, cannot quite elude Puri•tanism and become English again.

We are all tied to the past, individually andcollectively. The past shows through in the very structure of our bones, the distribution of our hair,and the coloring of our skin, as well as the way wewalk, stand, eat, dress—and think.

I was reminded of this as I went to meet WilliamHarvey Shattuck Randall, student of medicine.

ANYONE NAMED AFTER WILLIAM HARVEY1to say noth•ing of William Shattuck, must feel like a damned

1The English court physician who, in 1628, discovered that blood circu•lated in a closed loop.

fool. Like being named after Napoleon or CaryGrant, it places too great a burden on a child, too much of a challenge. Many things in life are diffi•cult to live down, but nothing is more difficult thana name.

George Gall is a perfect example. After medicalschool, where he suffered through countless jokesand puns, he became a surgeon, specializing in liverand gallbladder disease. It was the worst possiblething he could do with a name like that, but hewent into it with a strange, quiet certainty, as if ithad all been foreordained. In a sense perhaps ithad. Years later, when the jokes began to wear verythin, he wished he could change his name, but thatwas impossible.2

I doubted that William Harvey Shattuck Randall would ever change his own name. Though a liabil•ity, it was also an asset, particularly if he remainedin Boston; besides, he seemed to be bearing upwell. He was husky and blond and open-faced in apleasant way. There was an Ail-American whole•somenessabout him which made his room incon•gruous and faintly ridiculous.

William Harvey Shattuck Randall lived on thefirst floor of Sheraton Hall, the medical-school dor•mitory. Like most rooms in the dorm, his was a sin•gle, though rather more spacious than most. Cer-

2A doctor cannot change his name after receiving his M.D. degree with•out invalidating that degree. This means that there is a great rush in the fi•nal weeks of med school among doctors flocking into court to change theirnames before they receive their diplomas.

tainly more spacious than the fourth-floorpigeonhole I had occupied when I was a student. The top-floor rooms are cheaper.

They'd changed the paint color since my day. Itwas dinosaur-egg gray, then; now it was vomitgreen. But it was still the same old dorm—thesame bleak corridors, the same dirty stairs, thesame stale odor of sweat socks, textbooks, and hex•achlorophene.

Randall had fixed his room up nicely. The decor was antique; the furniture looked as if it had beenbought at a Versailles auction. There was a faded, nostalgic splendor about it, with its tattered red vel•vet and chipped gilded wood.

Randall stood back from the door. "Come in," hesaid. He didn't ask who I was. He had taken onelook and smelled doctor. You get so you can do it,when you've been around them long enough.

I came into the room and sat down.

"Is it about Karen?" He seemed more preoccu•pied than sad, as if he had just returned fromsomething important or were about to leave.

"Yes," I said. "I know this is a bad time . . ."

"No, go ahead."

I lit a cigarette and dropped the match into agilded Venetian-glass ashtray. It was ugly but expensive.

"I wanted to talk to you about her."Sure.

I kept waiting for him to ask who I was, but hedidn't really seem to care. He sat down in an arm-

chair across from me, crossed his legs, and said,"What do you want to know?"

"When did you see her last?"

"Saturday. She came in from Northampton onthe bus, and I picked her up at the terminal after lunch. I

had a couple of hours free. I drove her outto the house."

"How did she seem?"

He shrugged. "Fine. There was nothing wrongwith her, she seemed very happy. Talked all aboutSmith and her roommate. Apparently she had thiswild roommate. And she talked about clothes, that sort of thing."

"Was she depressed? Nervous?"

"No. Not at all. She acted the same as always.Maybe a little excited about coming home after be•ing away. I think she was a little worried aboutSmith. My parents treat her as the baby of the fam•ily, and she thought they didn't have confidence inher ability to make it. She was a little . . . defiant,I guess you'd say."

"When did you see her before last Saturday?"

"I don't know. Not since late August, I guess."

"So this was a reunion."

"Yes," he said. "I was always glad to see her. Shewas very bubbly, with a lot of energy, and she wasa good mimic. She could give you an imitation of aprofessor or a boyfriend and she was hysterical. Infact, that was how she got the car."

"The car?"

"Saturday night," he said. "We were all at dinner.Karen, myself, Ev, and Uncle Peter."

"Ev?"

"My stepmother," he said. "We all call her Ev."

"So there were five of you?"

"No, four."

"What about your father?"

"He was busy at the hospital."

He said it very matter-of-factly, and I let it drop.

"Anyway," William said, "Karen wanted a car forthe weekend and Ev refused, saying she didn't wanther to be out all night. So Karen turned to UnclePeter, who is a softer touch, and asked if she couldborrow his car. He was reluctant, so she threatened to imitate him, and he immediately loaned her thecar.

"What did Peter do for transportation?"

"I dropped him off at his place that night, on myway back here."

"So you spent several hours with Karen on Satur•day."

"Yes. From around one o'clock to nine or ten."

"Then you left with your uncle?"

"Yes."

"And Karen?"

"She stayed with Ev."

"Did she go out that night?"

"I imagine so. That was why she wanted the car."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"Over to Harvard. She had some friends in thecollege."

"Did you see her Sunday?"

"No. Just Saturday."

"Tell me," I said, "when you were with her—didshe look any different to you?"

He shook his head. "No. Just the same. Ofcourse, she'd put on a little weight, but I guess allgirls do that when they go to college. She was veryactive in the summer, playing tennis and swim•ming. She stopped that when she got to school, andI guess she put on a few pounds." He smiled slowly."We kidded her about it. She complained about thelousy food, and we kidded her about eating somuch of it that she still gained weight."

"Had she always had a weight problem?"

"Karen? No. She was always a skinny little kid, areal tomboy. Then she filled out in a real hurry. Itwas like a caterpillar, you know, and the cocoon."

"Then this was the first time she'd ever beenoverweight?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. To tell you the truth,I never paid that much attention."

"Was there anything else you noticed?"

"No, nothing else."

I looked around the room. On his desk, next tocopies of Robbins'Pathology and Surgical Anatomy,

was a photograph of the two of them. They bothlooked tanned and healthy. He saw me looking andsaid,

"That was last spring, in the Bahamas. Foronce the whole family managed to get a week offtogether. We had a great time."

I got up and took a closer look. It was a flattering

picture of her. Her skin was darkly tanned, con•trasting nicely with her blue eyes and blonde hair.

"I know it's a peculiar question," I said, "but hasyour sister always had dark hair on her lips andarms?"

"That was funny," he said, in a slow voice. "Nowthat you mention it. She had just a little bit there,on

Saturday, Peter told her she'd better bleach it orwax it. She got mad for a couple of minutes, andthen she laughed."

"So it was new?"

"I guess so. She might have had it all along, butI never noticed it until then. Why?"

"I don't know," I said.

He stood and came over to the picture. "You'dnever think she would be the type for an abortion,"he said. "She was such a great girl, funny andhappy and full of energy. She had a real heart of gold. I know that sounds stupid, but she did. Shewas kind of the family mascot, being the youngest.Everybody loved her."

I said, "Where was she this summer?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Well, not exactly. In theory, Karen was on theCape, working in an art gallery in Provincetown."He paused. "But I don't think she was there much.I think she spent most of her time on the Hill. Shehad some kooky friends there; she collected oddballtypes."

"Men friends? Women friends?"

"Both." He shrugged. "But I don't really know. She only mentioned it to me once or twice, in ca•sual references. Whenever I tried to ask her aboutit, she'd laugh and change the subject. She was veryclever about discussing only what she wanted to."

"Did she mention any names?"

"Probably, but I don't remember. She could be maddening about names, talking about people ca•sually as if you knew them intimately. Using justtheir first names. It was no good reminding her thatyou'd never heard of Herbie and Su-su and Alliebefore." He laughed. "I do remember she once didan imitation of a girl who blew bubbles."

"But you can't remember any names?"

He shook his head. "Sorry."

I stood to go. "Well," I said, "you must be verytired. What are you on these days?"

"Surgery. We just finished OB-GYN."

"Like it?"

"It's O.K.," he said blandly.

As I was leaving, I said, "Where did you do yourOB?"

"At the BLI." He looked at me for a moment andfrowned. "And to answer your question, I assistedon several. I know how to do one. But I was onduty at the hospital Sunday night. All night long. Sothere it is."

"Thanks for your time," I said.

"Sure," he said.

as Ileft the dormitory,I saw a tall, lean, silver-haired man walking toward me. Of course I recog•nized him, even from a distance.

J. D. Randall was, if nothing else, distinctive.

TWELVE

The sun was setting,and the light on the quadran•gle was turning yellow-gold. I lit a cigarette andwalked up to Randall. His eyes widened slightly ashe saw me, and then he smiled.

"Dr. Berry."

Very friendly. He held out his hand. I shook it:dry, clean, scrubbed to two inches above the elbowfor ten minutes. A surgeon's hand.

"How do you do, Dr. Randall."

He said, "You wanted to see me?"

I frowned.

"My secretary," he said, "told me you had stoppedby my office. About the chart."

"Oh, yes," I said, "the chart."

He smiled benignly. He was half a head taller thanI. "I think we had better clear up a few things."

"All right."

"Come with me."

He didn't intend it as a command, but it cameout that way. I was reminded that surgeons were

the last autocrats in society, the last class of menwho were given total control over a situation. Sur•geons assumed the responsibility for the welfare ofthe patient, the staff, everything.

We walked back toward the parking lot. I had thefeeling that he had come especially to see me. Ihad no idea how he knew I was there, but the feel•ing was very strong. As he walked, he swung hisarms loosely at his sides. For some reason, Iwatched them; I remembered the neurologist's lawof swinging arms.1I saw his hands, which werehuge, all out of proportion to the rest of his body,huge hands, thick and hairy and red. His nails weretrimmed to the required one-millimeter surgicallength. His hair was cut short and his eyes werecold, gray, and businesslike.

"Several people have mentioned your name to me lately," he said.

"Oh?"

"Yes."

We came into the parking lot. His car was a sil•ver Porsche; he stopped beside it and leaned casu•ally against the polished fender. Something abouthis manner told me I was not invited to do thesame. He looked at me for a moment in silence, hiseyes flicking over my face, and then he said, "Theyspeak highly of you."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"A man of good judgment and good sense."

1A paralyzed man will swing a paralyzed arm less than a good arm.

I shrugged. He smiled at me again, then said,"Busy day?"

"Busier than some days."

"You're at the Lincoln, is that right?"

"Yes."

"You're well thought of there."

"I try to do a good job."

"I'm told your work is excellent."

"Thank you." His approach was throwing me off;I didn't see where he was going. I didn't have towait long.

"Did you ever think of changing hospitals?"

"What do you mean?"

"There may be other . . . possibilities. Openings."

"Oh?"

"Indeed."

"I'm quite happy where I am."

"For the present," he said.

"Yes, for the present."

"Do you know William Sewall?"

William Sewall was chief pathologist of theMem. He was sixty-one and would shortly retire. Ifound myself disappointed in J. D. Randall. Thelast thing I had expected him to be was obvious.

"Yes, I know Sewall," I said. "Slightly."

"He will soon retire—"

"Timothy Stone is second man there, and he's ex•cellent."

"I suppose," Randall said. He stared up at thesky. "I suppose. But many of us are not happy withhim."

"I hadn't heard that."

He smiled thinly. "It isn't widely known."

"And many of you would be happier with me?"

"Many of us," Randall said carefully, "are lookingfor a new man. Perhaps someone from the outside, to bring a new viewpoint to the hospital. Changethings around a bit; shake things up."

"Oh?"

"That is our thinking," Randall said.

"Timothy Stone is a close friend," I said.

"I don't see the relevance of that."

"The relevance," I said, "is that I wouldn't screwhim."

"I would never suggest that you do."

"Really?"

"No," Randall said.

"Then maybe I'm missing the point," I said.

He gave his pleasant smile. "Maybe you are."

"Why don't you explain?"

He scratched the back of his head reflectively. I could see he was about to change tactics, to try a different approach. He frowned.

"I'm not a pathologist, Dr. Berry," he said, "but Ihave some friends who are."

"Not Tim Stone, I'll bet."

"Sometimes I think pathologists work harderthan surgeons, harder than anyone. Being a pathol•ogist seems to be a full-time job."

"That may be right," I said.

"I'm surprised you have so much free time," hesaid.

'"Well, you know how it is," I said. I was begin•ning to be angry. First the bribe, then the threat.Buy him off or scare him off. But along with my an•ger, I had a strange curiosity: Randall was not afool, and I knew he wouldn't be talking this way to me unless he was afraid of something. 1 wonderedfor a moment whether he had done the abortionhimself, and then he said, "You have a family?"

"Yes," I said.

"Been in Boston some time?"

"I can always leave," I said, "if I find the patho•logical specimens too distasteful."

He took that very well. He didn't move, didn'tshift his weight on the fender of the car. He justlooked at me with those gray eyes and said, "I see."

"Maybe you'd better come right out and tell mewhat's on your mind."

"It's quite simple," he said. "I'm concerned aboutyour motives. I can understand the ties of friend•ship, and I can even see how personal affection canbe blinding. I admire your loyalty to Dr. Lee,though I would admire it more if you chose a lessreprehensible subject. However, your actions seemto extend beyond loyalty. Whatare your motives,Dr. Berry?"

"Curiosity, Dr. Randall. Pure curiosity. I want toknow why everybody's out to screw an innocent guy. I want to know why a profession dedicated to theobjective examination of facts has chosen to bebiased and uninterested."

He reached into his suit pocket and took out a

cigar case. He opened it and withdrew a single slimcigar, clipped off the end, and lit it.

"Let's be sure," he said, "that we know what we'retalking about. Dr. Lee is an abortionist. Is that cor•

rect?"

"You're talking," I said. "I'm listening."

"Abortion is illegal. Furthermore, like every surgi•cal procedure, it carries with it a finite risk to the patient—even if practiced by a competent person,and not a drunken . . ."

"Foreigner?" I suggested.

He smiled. "Dr. Lee," he said, "is an abortionist,operating illegally, and his personal habits are ques• tionable. As a doctor, his ethics are questionable.As a citizen of the state, his actions are punishablein a court of law. That's what's on my mind, Dr.Berry. I want to know why you are snooping around, molesting members of my family—"

"I hardly think that's the word for it."

"—and making a general nuisance of yourself inthis matter when you have better things to do,things for which the Lincoln Hospital pays you asalary. Like every other doctor, you have duties and responsibilities. You are not fulfilling those duties.Instead you are interfering in a family matter, creat•ing a disturbance, and attempting to throw a smokescreen around a reprehensible individual, a manwho has violated all the codes of medicine, aman who has chosen to live beyond the limits ofthe law, to thumb his nose at the dictates of theframework of society—"

"Doctor," I said. "Looking at this as purely a fam•ily matter: What would you have done if yourdaughter had come to you with the news that shewas pregnant? What if she had consulted you in•stead of going directly to an abortionist? Whatwould you have done?"

"There is no point in mindless conjecture," hesaid.

"Surely you have an answer."

He was turning a bright crimson. The veins inhis neck stood out above his starched collar. Hepursed his lips, then said, "Is this your intention?To slander my family in the wild hope of helpingyour so-called friend?"

I shrugged. "It strikes me as a legitimate ques•tion," I said, "and there are several possibilities." Iticked them off on my fingers. "Tokyo, Switzerland, Los Angeles, San Juan. Or perhaps you have a good friend in New York or Washington. That would bemuch more convenient. And cheaper."

He turned on his heel and unlocked the door tohis car.

"Think about it," I said. "Think hard about whatyou would have done for that family name."

He started the engine and glared at me.

"While you're at it," I said, "think about why shedidn't come to you for help."

"My daughter," he said, his voice trembling with rage, "my daughter is a wonderful girl. She is sweetand beautiful. She doesn't have a malicious or dirty

thought in her head. How dare you drag her downto your—"

"If she was so sweet and pure," I said, "how didshe get pregnant?"

He slammed the door shut, put the car in gear, and roared off in a cloud of angry blue exhaust.

THIRTEEN

when Ireturned home,the house was dark andempty. A note in the kitchen told me that Judithwas still over at the Lees with the kids. I walked around the kitchen and looked into the refrigerator;I was hungry but restless, unwilling to sit down andmake a sandwich. Finally I settled for a glass ofmilk and some leftover cole slaw, but the silence ofthe house depressed me. I finished and went over to the Lees; they live just a block away.

From the outside, the Lee house is brick, mas•sive, New England, and old, like all the otherhouses on the street. It had absolutely no distin•guishing characteristics. I had always wonderedabout the house; it didn't seem suited to Art.

Inside, things were grim. In the kitchen, Bettysat with a rigid smile on her face as she fed theyear-old baby; she looked tired and ragged; normallyshe was immaculately dressed with an unwilting,

indefatigable manner. Judith was with her and Jane,our youngest, was holding on to Judith's skirt. She had begun that just a few weeks earlier.

From the living room, I heard the sound of theboys playing cops and robbers with cap pistols.With every bang, Betty shuddered. "I wish they'dstop," she said, "but I haven't the heart. . . ."

I went into the living room. All the furniture was overturned. From behind an easy chair Johnny, our four-year-old, saw me and waved, then fired hisgun. Across the room the two Lee boys were hud•dled behind the couch. The air was acrid withsmoke and the floor littered with rolls of papercaps.

Johnny fired, then called, "I got you."

"Did not," said Andy Lee, who was six.

"I did too. You're dead."

"I'm not dead," Andy said and fanned his gun.He was out of caps, though, and made only a click•ing noise. He ducked down and said to Henry Lee,"Cover me while I reload."

"O.K., partner."

Andy reloaded, but his fingers were slow, and hegrew impatient. Halfway through he stopped,aimed his gun, and shouted "Bang! Bang!" Then hecontinued.

"No fair," Johnny called, from behind the chair."You're dead."

"So are you," Henry said. "I just got you."

"Oh, yeah?" Johnny said and fired three morecaps. "You only winged me."

"Oh, yeah?" Henry said. "Take that."

The shooting continued. I walked back to thekitchen, where Judith was standing with Betty.Betty said,

"How is it?"

I smiled. "They're arguing over who got whom."

"What did you find out today?"

"Everything's going to be all right," I said. "Don'tworry."

She gave me a wry smile. Art's smile. "Yes, Doc•tor."

"I'm serious."

"I hope you're right," she said, putting a spoon ofapple sauce into the baby's mouth. It dribbled out over her chin; Betty scooped it up and tried again.

"We just had some bad news," Judith said.

"Oh?"

"Bradford called. Art's lawyer. He won't take thecase."

"Bradford?"

"Yes," Betty said. "He called half an hour ago."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing. Just that he couldn't take it at thistime."

I lit a cigarette and tried to be calm. "I'd bettercall him," I said.

Judith looked at her watch. "It's five-thirty. He probably won't be—"

"I'll try anyway," I said. I went into Art's study. Ju•dith came with me. I shut the door, closing off the sounds of gunfire.

Judith said, "What's really happening?"

I shook my head.

"Bad?"

"It's too early to say," I said. I sat down behindArt's desk and started to call Bradford.

"Are you hungry? Did you get anything to eat?"

"I stopped for a bite," I said, "on my way over."

"You look tired."

"I'm O.K.," I said. She leaned over the desk andI kissed her cheek.

"By the way," she said, "Fritz Werner has beencalling. He wants to talk to you."

I might have expected that. Count on Fritz toknow everything. Still, he might have somethingimportant;

he might be very helpful. "I'll call himlater."

"And before I forget," she said, "there's that partytomorrow."

"I don't want to go."

"We have to," she said. "It's George Morris."

I had forgotten. "All right," I said. "What time?"

"Six. We can leave early."

"All right," I said.

She went back to the kitchen as the secretary an•swered the phone and said, "Bradford, Wilson and

Sturges."

"Mr. Bradford, please."

"I'm sorry," the secretary said. "Mr. Bradford hasgone for the day."

"How can I reach him?"

"Mr. Bradford will be in the office at nine tomor•row morning."

"I can't wait that long."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Don't be sorry," I said. "Just find him for me.This is Dr. Berry calling." I didn't know if the namewould mean anything, but I suspected it might.

Her tone changed immediately. "Hold the lineplease, Doctor."

There was a pause of several seconds while Iwaited in the mechanical humming silence of the "Hold" button. Being on the "Hold" button is thetechnological equivalent of purgatory. That waswhat Art used to say. He hates telephones andnever uses them unless he has to.

The secretary came back on. "Mr. Bradford isjust leaving, but he will speak to you now."

"Thank you."

A mechanical click.

"George Bradford speaking."

"Mr. Bradford, this is John Berry."

"Yes, Dr. Berry. What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to speak to you about Art Lee."

"Dr. Berry, I'm just leaving—"

"Your secretary told me. Perhaps we could meetsomewhere."

He hesitated and sighed into the phone. Itsounded like a hissing, impatient serpent. "Thatwon't serve any purpose. I'm afraid my decision isquite firm. The matter is out of my hands."

"Just a short meeting."

He paused again. "All right. I'll meet you at my

club in twenty minutes. The Trafalgar. See youthen."

I hung up. The bastard: his club was downtown.I would have to run like hell to make it in time. I

straightened my tie and hurried off to my car.

the Trafalgar clubis located in a small, dilapi•dated house on Beacon Street, just down from the Hill. Unlike the professional clubs of larger cities,the Trafalgar is so quiet that few Bostonians evenknow of its existence.

I had never been there before, but I could havepredicted the decor. The rooms were paneled in mahogany; the ceilings were high and dusty; thechairs heavy, padded tan leather, comfortable and wrinkled; the carpets were worn Orientals. In atmo•sphere, it reflected its members—stiff, aging, and masculine. As 1 checked my coat, I saw a signwhich stated crisply,female guests may be enter•tained BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 AND 5:30 O'CLOCKon Thursdays only.Bradford met me in the lobby.

He was a short, compact man, impeccablydressed. His black chalk-stripe suit was unwrinkledafter a day of work, his shoes gleamed, and hiscuffs protruded the proper length beyond his jacketsleeves. He wore a pocket watch on a silver chain, and his Phi Beta Kappa key contrasted nicely withthe dark material of his vest. I didn't have to lookhim up inWho's Who to know that he lived some•place like Beverly Farms, that he had attended Har•vard College and Harvard Law School, that his wife

had gone to Vassar and still wore pleated skirts, cashmere sweaters, and pearls, or that his children attended Groton and Concord. Bradford wore it all,quietly and confidently.

"I'm ready for a drink," he said as we shookhands. "How about you?" "Fine."

The bar was on the second floor, a large roomwith high windows looking out on Beacon Streetand the Commons. It was a subdued room, smell•ing faintly of cigar smoke. Men spoke in low voicesand talked in small groups. The bartender knewwhat everyone drank without being told: everyone,that is, except me. We sat in two comfortable chairsby the window and I ordered a vodka Gibson. Brad•ford just nodded to the bartender. While we waited for the drinks, he said, "I am sure you must be dis•appointed in my decision, but frankly——"

"I'm not disappointed," I said, "because I'm noton trial."

Bradford reached into his pocket, looked at hiswatch, and put it back.

"No one," he said crisply, "is on trial at this mo•ment."

"I disagree. I think a great many people are ontrial."

He rapped the table irritably and frowned acrossthe room at the bartender. The psychiatrists callthat displacement.

"And what," he said, "is that supposed to mean?"

"Everybody in this town is dropping Art Lee as ifhe had bubonic plague."

"And you suspect a dark conspiracy?"

"No," I said. "I'm just surprised."

"I have a friend," Bradford said, "who claims that all doctors are essentially naive. You don't strike me as naive."

"Is that a compliment?"

"That's an observation."

"I try," I said.

"Well, there's really no mystery and no conspiracyhere. In my case, you must realize that I have many clients, of whom Mr. Lee is just one."

"Dr. Lee."

"Quite right. Dr. Lee. He is just one of my cli•ents, and I have obligations to all of them which I discharge as I am best able. It happens that I spoke with the district attorney's office this afternoon, to determine when Dr. Lee's case would come up forhearing. It seems that Dr. Lee's case will conflictwith another I have previously accepted. I cannotbe in two courtrooms at once. I explained this toDr. Lee."

The drinks came. Bradford raised his glass."Cheers."

"Cheers."

He sipped his drink and looked at the glass."When I explained my position to him, Dr. Lee ac•cepted it. I also told him that my firm would makeevery effort to see that he had excellent legal coun-

sel. We have four senior partners, and it is quitelikely that one of them will be able to——"

"But not certain?"

He shrugged. "Nothing is certain in this world."

I sipped the drink. It was lousy, mostly vermouthwith a touch of vodka.

"Are you a good friend of the Randalls?" I asked.

"I know them, yes."

"Does that have anything to do with your deci•sion?"

"Certainly not." He sat up quite stiffly. "A lawyerlearns very early to separate clients and friends. It's frequently necessary."

"Especially in a small town."

He smiled. "Objection, Your Honor."

He sipped his drink again. "Off the record, Dr.Berry, you should know that I am in complete sym•pathy with Lee. We both recognize that abortion is a fact of life. It happens all the time. The last fig•ures I saw listed American abortions at a millionyearly; it's very common. Speaking practically, it isnecessary. Our laws relating to abortion are hazy, ill-defined, and absurdly strict. But I must remind youthat the doctors are much more strict than the lawitself. The abortion committees in hospitals areovercautious. They refuse to perform abortionsunder circumstances where the law would never in•tervene. In my opinion, before you can change theabortion laws, you must change the prevailing cli•mate of medical opinion."

I said nothing. The Passing of the Buck is a time-

honored ceremony, to be observed in silence. Brad•ford looked at me and said, "You don't agree?"

"Of course," I said. "But it strikes me as an inter•esting defense for an accused man."

"I wasn't proposing it as a defense."

"Then perhaps I misunderstood you."

"I wouldn't be surprised," he said dryly.

"Neither would I," I said, "because you haven'tbeen making much sense. I always thought lawyers got right to the problem, instead of running circlesaround it."

"I am trying to clarify my position."

"Your position is quite clear," I said. "I'm worriedabout Dr. Lee."

"Very well. Let's talk about Dr. Lee. He has beenindicted under a seventy-eight-year-old Massachu•setts law which makes any abortion a felony pun•ishable by fines and imprisonment up to five years.If the abortion results in death, the sentence may be from seven to twenty years."

"Is it second-degree murder or manslaughter?"

"Neither, technically. In terms of——"

"Then the charge is bailable?"

"Conceivably so. But in this case not, becausethe prosecution will attempt a murder charge under a common law act which says any death resultingfrom a felony is murder."

"I see."

"In terms of the progress of the case, the prose•cution will bring forth evidence—good evidence, I'm sure—that Dr. Lee is an abortionist. They will

show that the girl, Karen Randall, previously visitedDr. Lee and that he inexplicably kept no records of her visit. They will show that he cannot account forseveral crucial hours during Sunday evening. And they will present Mrs. Randall's testimony that thegirl told her Lee performed the abortion.

"In the end, it will come down to a conflict oftestimony. Lee, a proven abortionist, will say hedidn't do it; Mrs. Randall will say he did. If youwere the jury, whom would you believe?"

"There is no proof that Dr. Lee aborted that girl.The evidence is wholly circumstantial."

"The trial will be held in Boston."

"Then hold it elsewhere," I said.

"On what grounds? That the moral climate hereis unfavorable?"

"You're talking technicalities. I'm talking about saving a man."

"In the technicalities lies the strength of the law."

"And the weaknesses."

He gave me a thoughtful look. "The only way to'save' Dr. Lee, as you say, is to demonstrate that he did not perform the operation. That means the realabortionist must be found. I think the chances ofdoing so are slim."

"Why?"

"Because, when I talked to Lee today, I cameaway convinced he was lying through his teeth. Ithink he did it, Berry. I think he killed her."

FOURTEEN

WHEN I RETURNED TO THE HOUSE, I found that Ju-

dith and the kids were still at Betty's. I made myselfanother drink—a strong one, this time—and sat inthe living room, dead tired but unable to relax.

I have a bad temper. I know that, and I try tocontrol it, but the truth is I am clumsy and abruptwith people. I guess I don't like people much;maybe that's why I became a pathologist in the firstplace. Looking back over the day, I realized I hadlost my temper too often. That was stupid; therewas no percentage in it; no gain, and potentially agreat deal of loss.

The telephone rang. It was Sanderson, head ofthe path labs at the Lincoln. The first thing he saidwas,

"I'm calling from the hospital phone."

"O.K.," I said.

The hospital phone had at least six extensions. Inthe evening, anyone could listen in.

"How was your day?" Sanderson said.

"Interesting," I said. "How was yours?"

"It had its moments," Sanderson said.

I could imagine. Anyone who wanted me out ofhis hair would put the squeeze on Sanderson. Itwas the most logical thing to do, and it could be

managed quite subtly. A few jokes: "Say, I hearyou're shorthanded these days." A few earnest in•quiries:

"What's this I hear about Berry being sick?Oh? I heard that he was. But he hasn't been in, has he?" Then a few choice words from the chiefs ofservice: "Sanderson, how the hell do you expect me to keep my medical staff in line when you're letting your path people take off all the time?" And finally someone from the administration: "We run a ship•shape hospital here, everybody has his job and ev•erybody does it, no deadwood on board."

The net effect would be an intense pressure toget me back in the lab or find a new man.

"Tell them I've got tertiary syphilis," I said. "Thatshould hold them."

Sanderson laughed. "There's no problem," hesaid. "Yet. I've got a pretty tough old neck. I cankeep it stuck out a while longer."

Then he paused, and said, "How much longer doyou think it will be?"

"I don't know," I said. "It's complicated."

"Come by and see me tomorrow," he said. "We can discuss it."

"Good," I said. "Maybe by then I'll know more.Right now, it's just as bad as the Peru case."

"I see," Sanderson said. "Tomorrow, then."

"Right."

I hung up, certain he knew what I was talkingabout. I had meant that there was something wrong with the Karen Randall business, something out ofplace. It was like a case we had three months ago,

a rare thing called agranulocytosis, the completeabsence of white cells in the blood. It's a serious condition because without white cells, you can'tfight infection. Most people are carrying disease or•ganisms around in their mouth or body normally—staph or strep, sometimes diphtheria and pneumo- coccus—and if your bodily defenses go down, you infect yourself.

Anyhow, the patient was American, a doctorworking for the Public Health Service in Peru. Hewas taking a Peruvian drug for asthma, and one dayhe began to get sick. He had sores in his mouthand a temperature, and he felt lousy. He went to adoctor in Lima and had a blood test. His whitecount was

600.1The next day it was down to 100,and the next day it was zero. He got a plane to Bos•ton and checked into our hospital.

They did a bone-marrow biopsy, sticking a hollowneedle into his sternum2and drawing out some mar• row. I looked at it microscopically and was puzzled. He had lots of immature cells of the granulocyte se• ries in his marrow, and while it was abnormal, it was not terribly bad. I thought, "Hell, something is wrong here," so I went to see his doctor.

His doctor had been tracing the Peruvian drugthe patient was taking. It turned out to contain asubstance removed from the American market in1942 because it suppressed white-cell formation.

The doctor figured this was what was wrong withhis patient—he had suppressed his own white cells,and now he was infecting himself. The treatmentwas simple: take him off the drug, do nothing, andwait for his marrow to recover.

I told the doctor that the marrow didn't look so bad on the slide. We went to see the patient andfound he was still sick. He had ulcers in his mouth,and staph infections on his legs and back. He hada high fever, was lethargic, and answered questionsslowly.

We couldn't understand why his marrow should seem so basically normal when he was so damnedsick; we puzzled over this for most of the afternoon. Finally, about four, I asked the doctor if there had been any infection at the site of biopsy, where theyhad made the puncture to draw marrow. The doctorsaid he hadn't checked. We went to the patient andexamined his chest.

Surprise: unpunctured. The marrow biopsyhadn't been taken from this patient. One of thenurses or residents had screwed up the tags,mislabeling a marrow sample from a man with sus•pected leukemia. We immediately drew a samplefrom our patient and found a very suppressed mar•row indeed.

The patient later recovered, but I would never forget our puzzling over the lab results.

1Normal white count is 4-9,000 cells/cubic centimeter. With infection, this may double or triple.

2Breastbone.

Ihad the same feeling now— something waswrong, something was out of place. I couldn't put

my finger on it, but I had the suspicion that peoplewere working at cross-purposes, almost as if wewere talking about different things. My own posi•tion was clear: Art was innocent until proven guilty,and that wasn't proven yet.

Nobody else seemed to care whether Art wasguilty or not. The issue that was crucial to me was irrelevant to them.

Now why was that?

TUESDAY

OCTOBER 11

ONE

WHEN I AWOKE IT FELT LIKE A NORMAL DAY. I was exhausted and it was drizzling outside,

cold, gray, anduninviting. I pulled off my pajamas and took a hotshower. While I was shaving, Judith came in andkissed me, then went to the kitchen to make break•fast. I smiled into the mirror and caught myselfwondering what the surgical schedule would belike.

Then I remembered: I wasn't going to the hospi•tal today. The whole business came back to me.

It was not a normal day.

I went to the window and stared at the drizzle onthe glass. I wondered then for the first timewhether I ought to drop everything and go back to work. The prospect of driving to the lab, parking inthe lot, hanging up my coat, and putting on myapron and gloves—all the familiar details ofroutine—seemed suddenly very appealing, almostenticing. It was my job; I was comfortable at it;there were no stresses or strains; it was what I wastrained to do. I had no business playing amateurdetective. In the cold morning light, the ideaseemed ludicrous.

Then I began to remember the faces I had seen.Art's face, and the face of J. D. Randall, and

Brad•ford's smug confidence. And I knew that if I didn'thelp Art, nobody would.

In one sense, it was a frightening, almost terrify•ing thought.

judith sat with me at breakfast.The kids werestill asleep; we were alone.

"What are you planning today?" she said.

"I'm not sure."

I had been asking myself that very question. Ihad to find out more, lots more. About Karen, and Mrs. Randall particularly. I still didn't know verymuch about either of them.

"I'll start with the girl," I said.

"Why?"

"From what I've been told, she was all sweetnessand light. Everybody loved her; she was a wonder•ful girl."

"Maybe she was."

"Yes," I said, "but it might be good to get theopinion of someone besides her brother and her fa•ther."

"How?"

"I'll begin," I said, "with Smith College."

smith college,Northampton, Massachusetts,2,200 girls getting an exclusive education in the middle of nowhere. It was two hours on the turn•pike to the Holyoke exit; another half-hour on smallroads until I passed under the train tracks andcame into the town. I've never liked Northampton.It has a peculiarly repressed atmosphere for a col•lege town; you can almost smell irritation and frus•tration in the air, the heavy combined frustration of2,200 pretty girls consigned to the wilderness forfour years, and the combined irritation of the na•tives who are forced to put up with them for thattime.

The campus is beautiful, particularly in autumn,when the leaves are turning. Even in the rain, it's beautiful. I went directly to the college informationoffice and looked up Karen Randall in the paper•back directory of students and faculty. I was givena map of the campus and set out for her dorm,Henley Hall.

It turned out to be a white frame house onWilbur Street. There were forty girls living inside.On the ground floor was a living room done inbright, small-print fabric, rather foolishly feminine.Girls wandered around in dungarees and long,ironed hair. There was a bell desk by the door.

"I'd like to see Karen Randall," I said to the girl.

She gave me a startled look, as if she thought Imight be a middle-aged rapist.

"I'm her uncle," I said. "Dr. Berry."

"I've been away all weekend," the girl said. "I

haven't seen Karen since I got back. She went toBoston this weekend."

I was in luck: this girl apparently didn't know. Iwondered whether the other girls did; it was impos•sible to tell. It seemed likely that her housemotherwould know, or would find out soon. I wanted toavoid the housemother.

"Oh," said the girl behind the desk. "There'sGinnie. Ginnie's her roommate."

A dark-haired girl was walking out the door. Shewore tight dungarees and a tight poor-boy sweater, but the overall effect remained oddly prim. Some•thing about her face disowned the rest of her body.

The desk girl waved Ginnie over and said, "This is Dr. Berry. He's looking for Karen."

Ginnie gave me a shocked look. She knew. Iquickly took her and steered her to the living room,and sat her down.

"But Karen's—"

"I know," I said. "But I want to talk to you."

"I think I'd better check with Miss Peters,"Ginnie said. She started to get up. I pushed hergently back down.

"Before you do," I said, "I'd better tell you that Iattended Karen's autopsy yesterday."

Her hand went to her mouth.

"I'm sorry to be so blunt, but there are serious questions that only you can answer. We both knowwhat

Miss Peters would say."

"She'd say I can't talk to you," Ginnie said. She

was looking at me suspiciously, but I could see Ihad caught her curiosity.

"Let's go someplace private," I said.

"I don't know . . ."

"I'll only keep you a few minutes."

She got up and nodded toward the hall. "Men aren't normally allowed in our rooms," she said,"but you're a relative, aren't you?"

"Yes," I said.

Ginnie and Karen shared a room on the groundfloor, at the back of the building. It was small and cramped, cluttered with feminine mementos—pictures of boys, letters, joke birthday cards, pro•grams from Ivy football games, bits of ribbon,schedules of classes, bottles of perfume, stuffed toyanimals. Ginnie sat on one bed and waved me to adesk chair.

"Miss Peters told me last night," Ginnie said,"that Karen had . . . died in an accident. She askedme not to mention it to anyone for a while. It'sfunny. I never knew anybody who died—I mean,my age, that kind of thing—and it's funny. I meanpeculiar, I didn't feel anything, I couldn't get veryworked up. I guess I don't really believe it yet."

"Did you know Karen before you were room•mates?"

"No. The college assigned us."

"Did you get along?"

She shrugged. Somehow, she had learned tomake every bodily gesture a wiggle. But it was un-

real, like a practiced gesture perfected before themirror.

"I guess we got along. Karen wasn't your typicalfreshman. She wasn't scared of the place, and shewas always going away for a day or the weekend.She practically never went to class, and she alwaystalked about how she hated it here. That's the thingto say, you know, but she meant it, she really did.I think she reallydid hate it."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because of the way she acted. Not going toclass, always leaving campus. She'd sign out forweekends, saying she was going to visit her parents. But she never did, she told me. She hated her par•ents."

Ginnie got up and opened a closet door. Inside,tacked to the door, was a large glossy photograph of J. D. Randall. The picture was covered with minutepunctures.

"You know what she used to do? She used tothrow darts at this picture. That's her father, he's asurgeon or something; she threw darts at him everynight, before going to sleep."

Ginnie closed the door.

"What about her mother?"

"Oh, she liked her mother. Her real mother; she died. There's a stepmother now. Karen never likedher

very much."

"What else did Karen talk about?"

"Boys," Ginnie said, sitting on the bed again."That's all any of us talk about. Boys. Karen went to

private school around here someplace, and sheknew a lot of boys. Yalies were always coming tosee her."

"Did she date anyone in particular?"

"I don't think so. She had lots of guys. They wereall chasing her."

"Popular?"

"Or something," Ginnie said, wrinkling her nose."Listen, it isn't nice to say things about her now,you know? And I have no reason to think it'strue. Maybe it's all a big story."

"What's that?"

"Well, you get here as a freshman and nobodyknows you, nobody's everheard of you before, andyou can tell people anything you like and get awaywith it. I used to tell people I was a high-school cheerleader, just for the fun of it. Actually I went toprivate school, but I always wanted to be a high- school cheerleader."

"I see."

"They're so wholesome, you know?"

"What kind of stories did Karen tell you?"

"I don't know. They weren't exactly stories. Justsort of implications. She liked people to believethat she was wild, and all her friends were wild.Actually, that was her favorite word:wild. And sheknew how to make something sound real. Shenever just told you straight out, in a whole long thing. It was little comments here and there. Abouther abortions and all."

"Her abortions?"

"She said she had had two before she ever got tocollege. Now that's pretty incredible, don't youthink? Two abortions? She was only seventeen, af•ter all. I told her I didn't believe it, so she went into this explanation of how it was done, the completeexplanation. Then I wasn't so sure."

A girl from a medical family could easily acquirea knowledge of the mechanics of a D & C. Thatdidn't prove she'd had an abortion herself.

"Did she tell you anything specific about them?Where they were done?"

"No. She just said she'd had them. And she kept saying things like that. She wanted to shock me, Iknow that, but she could be pretty crude when shewanted. I remember the first—no, the secondweekend we were here, she went out Saturday night, and she got back late. I went to a mixer. Ka•ren came in all a mess, crawled into bed with the lights out, and said, 'Jesus, I love black meat.' Justlike that. I didn't know

what to say, I mean, I didn'tknow her well then, so 1 didn't say anything. I justthought she was trying to shock me."

"What else did she say to you?"

Ginnie shrugged. "I can't remember. It was al•ways little things. One night, as she's getting readyto go out for the weekend, and she's whistling infront of the mirror, she says to me, 'I'm really goingto get it this weekend.' Or something like that, I don't remember the exact words."

"And what did you say?"

"I said, 'Enjoy yourself.' Whatcan you say when

you get out of the shower and somebody says thatto you? So she said, 'I will, I will.' She was always coming up with shocking little comments."

"Did you ever believe her?"

"After a couple of months, I was beginning to."

"Did you ever have reason to think she was preg•nant?"

"While she was here? At school? No."

"You're sure?"

"She never said anything. Besides, she was onthe pill."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Yeah, I think so. At least, she made this big cer•emony of it every morning. The pills are rightthere."

"Where?"

Ginnie pointed. "Right there on her desk. In that little bottle."

I got up and went to the desk, and picked up theplastic bottle. The label was from Beacon Phar•macy; there were no typed directions. I took out my notebook and wrote down the prescription numberand the name of the doctor. Then I opened the bot•tle and shook out a pill. There were four left.

"She took these every day?"

"Every single day," Ginnie said.

I was no gynecologist and no pharmacologist, butI knew several things. First, that most birth-controlpills were now sold in a dispenser to help a womankeep track of the days. Second, that the initial hor•mone dosage had been cut from ten milligrams a

day to two milligrams. That meant the pills weresmall.

These pills were huge in comparison. There wereno surface markings of any kind; they were chalkywhite

and rather crumbly to the touch. I slippedone into my pocket and replaced the others in the bottle. Even without checking, I had a pretty goodidea what the pills were.

"Did you ever meet any of Karen's boyfriends?" 1asked.

Ginnie shook her head.

"Did Karen ever talk about them? Talk about herdates?"

"Not really. Not personally, if you know what Imean. She'd talk about how they'd been in bed, butit was usually just gross stuff. She was always tryingto gross you out. You know, the earthy bit. Wait aminute."

She got up and went to Karen's dresser. Therewas a mirror over the dresser; stuck into the frame were several pictures of boys. She plucked out twoand handed them to me.

"This guy was one she talked about, but I don'tthink she was seeing him anymore. She used todate him over the summer or something. He goesto Harvard."

The picture was a standard publicity pose of aboy in a football uniform. He had the number 71,and was crouched down in a three-point stance,snarling into the camera.

"What's his name?"

"I don't know."

I picked up a Harvard-Columbia football pro•gram and looked up the roster. Number 71 was aright guard, Alan Zenner. I wrote the name in mynotebook and gave the picture back to Ginnie.

"This other one," she said, handing me the sec•ond picture, "is a newer guy. I think she was seeinghim. Some nights, she'd come back and kiss thepicture before she went to bed. His name wasRalph, I think. Ralph or Roger."

The picture showed a young Negro standing in a tight, shiny suit with an electric guitar in one hand.He was smiling rather stiffly.

"You think she was seeing him?"

"Yes, I think so. He's part of a group that plays inBoston."

"And you think his name is Ralph?"

"Something like that."

"You know the name of the group?"

Ginnie frowned. "She told me once. Probably more than once, but I don't remember. Karen sortof liked to keep her boys a mystery. It wasn't likesome girl sitting down and telling you every littlething about her boyfriend. Karen never did that, itwas always bits and snatches."

"You think she was meeting this fellow when shewent away for weekends?"

Ginnie nodded.

"Where did she go on weekends? Boston?"

"I imagine. Boston or New Haven."

I turned the picture over in my hands. On theback it said, "Photo by Curzin, Washington Street."

"Can I take this picture with me?"

"Sure," she said. "I don't care."

I slipped it into my pocket, then sat down again.

"Did you ever meet any of these people? Any ofthe boys?"

"No. I never met any of her friends. Oh—wait aminute. I did, once. A girl."

"A girl?"

"Yes. Karen told me one day that this good friendof hers was coming up for a day. She told me allabout how cool this girl was, how wild. This bigbuild-up. I was really waiting for something spec•tacular. Then when she showed up . . ."

"Yes?"

"Really strange," Ginnie said. "Very tall, with reallong legs, and all the time Karen kept saying howshe wished she had long legs like that, and the girljust sort of sat there and didn't say anything. She was pretty, I guess. But really strange. She actedlike she was asleep. Maybe she was up on some•thing; I don't know. Finally she began to talk, afterabout an hour of just sitting there, and she saidthese weird things."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Weird things. 'The rain in Spain ismainly down the drain.' And she made up poetryabout people running in spaghetti fields. It waspretty dull, I mean, not what you'd call good."

"What was this girl's name?"

"I don't remember. Angie, I think."

"Was she in college?"

"No. She was young, but she wasn't in college.She worked. I think Karen said she was a nurse."

"Try to remember her name," I said.

Ginnie frowned and stared at the floor, thenshook her head. "I can't," she said. "I didn't pay thatmuch attention."

I didn't want to let it go, but it was getting late. I said, "What else can you tell me about Karen?Was she

nervous? Jittery?"

"No. She was always very calm. Everybody elsein the house was nervous, especially around hourlytime, when we have our exams, but she didn't seemto care,"

"Did she have a lot of energy? Was she bouncyand talkative?"

"Karen? Are you kidding? Listen, she was alwayshalf dead, except for her dates, when she'd perk up, but otherwise she was always tired and always com•plaining about how tired she was."

"She slept a lot?"

"Yes. She slept through most of her classes."

"Did she eat a lot?"

"Not particularly. She slept through most of hermeals, too."

"She must have lost weight, then."

"Actually, it went up," Ginnie said. "Not too much, but enough. She couldn't get into most ofher dresses, after six weeks. She had to buy somemore."

"Did you notice any other changes?"

"Well, only one, but I'm not sure it really matters.I mean, it mattered to Karen, but nobody elsecared."

"What was that?"

"Well, she had the idea that she was gettinghairy. You know, arms and legs and on her lip. She complained that she was shaving her legs all thetime."

I looked at my watch and saw that it was nearlynoon. "Well, I don't want to keep you from your classes."

"Doesn't matter," Ginnie said. 'This is interest•ing."

"How do you mean?"

"Watching you work, and all."

"You must have talked with a doctor before."

She sighed. "You must think I'm stupid," shesaid, in a petulant voice "I wasn't born yesterday."

"I think you're very intelligent," I said.

"Will you want me to testify?"

"Testify? Why?"

"In court, at the trial."

Looking at her, I had the feeling she was practic•ing before the mirror once again. Her face had a se•

cretly wise expression, like a movie heroine.

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"You can admit it to me," she said. "I know you'rea lawyer."

"Oh."

"I figured it out ten minutes after you arrived.You want to know how?"

"How?"

"When you picked up those pills and looked atthem. You did it very carefully, not like a doctor atall. Frankly, I think you'd make a terrible doctor."

"You're probably right," I said.

"Good luck with your case," she said as I wasleaving.

"Thanks."

Then she winked at me.

TWO

The x-ray roomon the second floor of the Memhad a fancy name: Radiological Diagnosis. It didn'tmatter what they called it, it was the same inside asevery other X-ray room anywhere. The walls weresheets of white frosted glass, and there were littlejam-clips for the films. It was quite a large room,with sufficient space for a half-dozen radiologists towork at once.

I came in with Hughes. He was a radiologist atthe Mem that I'd known for a long time; he and hiswife sometimes played bridge with Judith and me.They were good players, blood players, but I didn'tmind. Sometimes I get that way myself.

I hadn't called Lewis Carr because I knew hewouldn't help me. Hughes was low on the Generaltotem pole and didn't give a damn whether Iwanted to look at films from Karen Randall or theAga Khan, who had come here for a kidney opera•tion some years ago. He took me right up to theX-ray room.

On the way I said, "How's your sex life?"

That's a standard rib for a radiologist. It's wellknown that radiologists have the shortest lifespan ofany medical specialist. The exact reasons are un•known, but the natural assumption is that the Xrays get to them. In the old days, radiologists usedto stand in the same room as the patient when thefilms were taken. A few years of that, and they'd soak up enough gamma to finish them. Then, too, in the old days the film was less sensitive, and ittook a whopping big dose to get a decent contrastexposure.

But even now, with modern techniques and bet•ter knowledge, a ribald tradition remains, and radi•

ologists are condemned to suffer through a lifetimeof jokes about their lead-lined jockstraps and their

shriveled gonads. The jokes, like the X rays, are anoccupational hazard. Hughes took it well.

"My sex life," he said, "is a damn sight betterthan my bridge game."

As we came into the room, three or four radiol•ogists were at work. They were each seated in frontof an envelope full of films and a tape recorder;they took out films individually and read off the pa-

tient's name and unit number, and the kind of filmit was—AP or LAO, IVP, or thorax, and so forth—

and then they slapped it up against the frosted glassand dictated their diagnosis.1

One wall of the room was given over to the in•tensive care patients. These were seriously ill peo•ple, and their films were not stored in manilaenvelopes. Instead they were hung on revolvingracks. You pressed a button and waited until therack came around to the films of the patient youwanted to see. It meant you could get to a criticallyill patient's films rapidly.

The film storeroom was adjacent to the X-rayroom. Hughes went in and pulled Karen Randall's films, and brought them back. We sat down in front of a sheet of glass, and Hughes clipped up the firstpicture.

"Lateral skull film," he said, peering at it. "Knowwhy it was ordered?"

"No," I said.

I, too, looked at the plate, but I could make littleof it. Skull films—X rays of the head—are difficultto interpret. The cranium is a complex piece ofbone, producing a confusing interlocking pattern of light and dark. Hughes examined it for some time,occasionally tracing lines with the cap of his foun•tain pen.

1AP is anteroposterior, indicating that the X rays penetrated from front toback, where they struck the plate. LAO is left anterior oblique and IVP is contrast media in the genitourinary tract, a film showing kidneys, ureters,and bladder.

"Seems normal," he said at last. "No fractures, no abnormal calcification, no evidence of air or hema•toma. Of course, it'd be nice to have an arteriogramor a PEG."2

"Let's have a look at the other views," he said. Hepulled down the lateral view and put up theface-on, AP film. "This looks normal, too," he said."I wonder why they were taken—was she in an autoaccident?"

"Not that I know of."

He rummaged in the file. "No," he said. "Obvi•ously. They didn't do face films. Only skull films."

Face films were a separate series of angles, uti•lized to check for fractures of the facial bones.

Hughes continued to examine the AP film, then put the lateral back up. He still could find nothing abnormal.

"Damned if I can figure it," he said, tapping theplate. "Nothing. Not a goddamned thing there, formy money."

"All right," I said, standing up. 'Thanks for yourhelp."

As I left I wondered whether the X rays hadhelped clear things up or just made everythingworse.

2These are ways of making skull films easier to interpret. An arteriogramis an X ray taken after the cerebral arteries have been filled with radioopaque liquid. A PEG, or pneumoencephalogram, consists of draining all the cerebrospinal fluid and pumping in air to increase contrast in the ven•tricles. It is a painful procedure which cannot be done under anesthesia. Both techniques are considered minor surgery, and are not done unless there is good evidence for their necessity.

THREE

Istepped into Aphone booth near the hospital lobby. I got out my notebook and found the phar•macy number and the prescription number. I alsofound the pill I had taken from Karen's room.

I chipped off a flake with my thumbnail andground it into the palm of my hand. It crushed eas•ily into a soft powder. I was pretty sure what it was,but to be certain I touched the tip of my tongue tothe powder.

There was no mistaking the taste. Crushed aspi•rin on your tongue tastes terrible.

I dialed the pharmacy.

"Beacon Pharmacy."

"This is Dr. Berry at the Lincoln. I'd like to knowa drug as follows—"

"Just a minute while I get a pencil."

A short pause.

"Go ahead, Doctor."

"The name is Karen Randall. The number is one-four-seven-six-six-seven-three. Prescribing doctor

Peter Randall."

"I'll check that for you."

The phone was put down. I heard whistling andpages flipping, then: "Yes, here it is. Darvon, twenty

capsules, 75 milligram. Orders—'Once every fourhours as needed for pain.' It was refilled twice. Doyou want the dates?"

"No," I said. "That's fine."

"Is there anything else?"

"No, thanks. You've been very helpful."

"Any time."

I replaced the receiver slowly. Things were get•ting more and more screwy. What kind of girl pre•

tended to take birth-control pills but actually tookaspirin, which she stored in an empty bottle thatonce

contained pills for menstrual cramps?

FOUR

Death from abortionis a relatively rare event. This basic fact tends to be obscured in all the fan•fare and statistics. The statistics, like the fanfare,are emotional and imprecise. Estimates vary widely, but most people agree that about a million illegalabortions are performed each year, and about 5,000women die as a result of them. This means that theoperative mortality is about 500/100,000.

This is a very high figure, especially in the lightof mortality in hospital abortions. Death in hospital abortions ranges from 0-18/100,000, which makes

it, at worst, about as dangerous as a tonsillectomy(17/100,000).

All this means is that illegal abortions are abouttwenty-five times as deadly as they have to be.Most people are horrified by this. But Art, whothought clearly and carefully about such things, wasimpressed by the statistic. And he said somethingvery interesting: that one reason abortion remainedillegal was because it was so safe.

"You have to look at the volume of business," heonce said. "A million women is a meaninglessnumber. What it comes down to is one illegal abor•tion every thirty seconds, day in, day out, year afteryear. That makes it a very common operation, andfor better or worse, it's safe."

In his cynical way, he talked about the Death Threshold, as he called it. He defined the DeathThreshold as the number of people who must dieeach year of needless, accidental causes before any•one gets excited about it. In numerical terms, the Death Threshold was set at about 30,000 a year—the number of Americans who died of automobileaccidents.

"There they are," Art said, "dying on the high•ways at the rate of about eighty a day. Everybodyaccepts it as a fact of life. So who's going to careabout the fourteen women who die every day ofabortions?"

He argued that in order to force doctors and law•yers into action, the abortion death figures wouldhave to approach 50,000 a year, and perhaps more.

At the current mortality rates, that meant ten mil•lion abortions a year.

"In a way, you see," he said, "I'm doing a disserv•ice to society. 1 haven't lost anybody in abortion, so I'm keeping those death figures down. That's goodfor my patients, of course, but bad for society as a whole. Society will only act out of fear and gross guilt. We are attuned to large figures; small statis•tics don't impress us. Who'd give a damn if Hitlerhad only killed ten thousand Jews?"

He went on to argue that by doing safe abortions he was preserving the status quo, keeping the pres•sure off legislators to change the laws. And then hesaid something else.

"The trouble with this country," he said, "is thatthe women have no guts. They'd rather slink offand have a dangerous, illegal operation performedthan change the laws. The legislators are all men,and men don't bear the babies; they can afford tobe moralistic. So can the priests: if you had womenpriests, you'd see a hell of a quick change in reli•gion. But politics and religion are dominated by themen, and the women are reluctant to push toohard. Which is bad, because abortion is theirbusiness—their infants, their bodies, their risk. If a million women a year wrote letters to their con•gressmen, you might see a little action. Probablynot, but you might. Only the women won't do it."

I think that thought depressed him more thananything else. It came back to me as I drove to

meet a woman who, from all reports, had plenty ofguts: Mrs. Randall.

north of cohasset,about half an hour fromdowntown Boston, is an exclusive residential com•munity built along a stretch of rocky coast. It israther reminiscent of Newport—old frame houseswith elegant lawns, looking out at the sea.

The Randall house was enormous, a four-storyGothic white frame building with elaboratebalconies and turrets. The lawn sloped down to the water; altogether there were probably five acres ofland surrounding the house. I drove up the longgravel drive and parked in the turnabout next totwo Porsches, one black, the other canary-yellow. Apparently the whole family drove Porsches. Therewas a garage tucked back to the left of the housewith a gray Mercedes sedan. That was probably forthe servants.

I got out and was wondering how I would everget past the butler when a woman came out of thefront door and walked down the steps. She waspulling on her gloves as she went, and seemed in agreat hurry. She stopped when she saw me.

"Mrs. Randall?"

"Yes," she said.

I don't know what I was expecting, but certainlynothing like her. She was tall, and dressed in abeige Chanel suit. Her hair was jet black andglossy, her legs long, her eyes very large and dark. She couldn't have been older than thirty. You couldhave cracked ice-cubes on her cheekbones, she wasso hard.

I stared at her in dumb silence for several mo•ments, feeling like a fool but unable to help myself.She frowned at me impatiently. "What do youwant? I haven't got all day."

Her voice was husky and her lips were sensual.She had the proper accent, too: flattened inflectionand the slightly British intonation.

"Come on, come on," she said. "Speak up."

"I'd like to talk to you," I said, "about your daugh•ter."

"My stepdaughter," she said quickly. She wassweeping past me, moving toward the blackPorsche.

"Yes, your stepdaughter."

"I've told everything to the police," she said. "AndI happen to be late for an appointment, so if youwill excuse me . . ." She unlocked the door to hercar and opened it.

I said, "My name is—"

"I know who you are," she said. "Joshua was talk•ing about you last night. He told me you might tryto see me."

"And?"

"And he told me, Dr. Berry, to suggest that you go to hell."

She was doing her best to be angry, but I couldsee she was not. There was something else showing in her face, something that might have been curios•ity or might have been fear. It struck me as odd.

She started the engine. "Good day, Doctor."

I leaned over toward her. "Following your hus•band's orders?"

"I usually do."

"But not always," I said.

She was about to put the car in gear, but shestopped, her hand resting on the shift. "I beg yourpardon,"

she said.

"What I mean is that your husband doesn't quiteunderstand everything," I said.

"I think he does."

"You know he doesn't, Mrs. Randall."

She turned off the engine and looked at me. "I'llgive you thirty seconds to get off this property," shesaid,

"before I call the police." But her voice wastrembling, and her face was pale.

"Call the police? I don't think that's wise."

She was faltering; her self-confidence drainingaway from her.

"Why did you come here?"

"I want you to tell me about the night you tookKaren to the hospital. Sunday night."

"If you want to know about that night," she said,"go look at the car." She pointed to the yellowPorsche.

I went over and looked inside.

It was like a bad dream.

The upholstery had once been tan, but now itwas red. Everything was red. The driver's seat wasred. The passenger seat was deep red. The dash-

board knobs were red. The steering wheel was redin places. The floor carpet was crusty and red.

Quarts of blood had been lost in that car.

"Open the door," Mrs. Randall said. "Feel theseat."

I did. The seat was damp.

"Three days later," she said. "It still hasn't driedout. That's how much blood Karen lost. That's whathe

did to her."

I shut the door. "Is this her car?"

"No. Karen didn't have a car. Joshua wouldn't lether have one until she was twenty-one."

"Then whose car is it?"

"It's mine," Mrs. Randall said.

I nodded to the black car she was sitting in. "Andthis?"

"It's new. We just bought it yesterday."

"We?"

"I did. Joshua agreed."

"And the yellow car?"

"We have been advised by the police to keep it, in case it is needed as evidence. But as soon as we

can

I said, "What exactly happened Sunday night?"

"I don't have to tell you anything," she said, tight•ening her lips.

"Of course not." I smiled politely. I knew I hadher; the fear was still in her eyes.

She looked away from me, staring straight for•ward through the glass of the windshield.

"I was alone in the house," she said. "Joshua was

at the hospital with an emergency. William was atmedical school. It was about three-thirty at nightand Karen was out on a date. I heard the hornblowing on the car. It kept blowing. I got out of bedand put on a bathrobe and went downstairs. My car was there, the motor running and the lights on. Thehorn was still blowing. I went outside . . . and sawher. She had fainted and fallen forward onto thehorn button. There was blood everywhere."

She took a deep breath and fumbled in her pursefor cigarettes. She brought out a pack of Frenchones. I

lit one for her.

on.

"There isn't any more to tell. I got her into the other seat and drove to the hospital." She smokedthe cigarette with a swift, nervous movement. "Onthe way, I tried to find out what had happened. Iknew where she was bleeding from, because herskirt was all wet but her other clothes weren't. Andshe said,

'Lee did it.' She said it three times. I'llnever forget it. That pathetic, weak little voice . . ."

"She was awake? Able to talk to you?"

"Yes," Mrs. Randall said. "She passed out againjust as we got to the hospital."

"How do you know it was an abortion?" I said."How do you know it wasn't a miscarriage?"

"I'll tell you," Mrs. Randall said. "Because when I looked at Karen's purse, I found her checkbook.The last check she had made out was to 'cash.' Andit was for three hundred dollars. Dated Sunday.That's how I know it was an abortion."

"Was the check ever cashed? Have you in•quired?"

"Of course it wasn't cashed," she said. "The manwho has that check is now in jail."

"I see," I said thoughtfully.

"That's good," she said. "And now you must ex•cuse me."

She got out of the car and hurried back up thesteps to the house.

"I thought you were late for an appointment," Isaid.

She paused and looked back at me. "Go to hell,"she said, and then slammed the door behind her.

I walked back to my car, considering her per•formance. It was very convincing. There were onlytwo flaws that I could spot. One was the amount ofblood in the yellow car. I was bothered that therewas more blood on the passenger seat.

Then too, apparently Mrs. Randall didn't knowthat Art's fee for an abortion was $25—just enoughto cover the lab costs. Art never charged more. Itwas a way, in his own mind, of keeping himselfhonest.

FIVE

The sign was battered: curzin photos.Under•neath, in small, yellowing print, "Photos for allPurposes. Passports, Publicity, Friends. One-HourService."

The shop stood on a corner at the north end ofWashington Street, away from the lights of themovie houses and the big department stores. I wentinside and found a little old man and a little oldwoman, standing side by side.

"Yes?" said the man. He had a gentle manner, al•most timid.

"I have a peculiar problem," I said.

"Passport? No problem at all. We can have thepictures for you in an hour. Less, if you're in a rush. We've done it thousands of times."

"That's right," said the woman, nodding primly."More than thousands."

"My problem is different," I said. "You see, mydaughter is having her sweet-sixteen party, and—"

"We don't do engagements," said the man."Sorry."

"No indeed," the woman said.

"It's not an engagement, it's a sweet-sixteenparty."

"We don't do them," the man said. "Out of thequestion."

"We used to," explained the woman. "In the olddays. But they were such a fright."

I took a deep breath. "What I need," I said, "is some information. My daughter is mad about a rock-'n-'roll group, and you took their picture. 1want this to be a surprise, so I thought that I'd—"

"Your daughter is sixteen?" He seemed suspi•cious.

"That's right. Next week."

"And we took a picture of a group?"

"Yes," I said. I handed him the photograph.

He looked at it for a long time.

"This isn't a group, this is one man," he said fi•nally.

"I know, but he's part of a group."

"It's just one man."

"You took the picture, so I thought thatperhaps—"

By now the man had turned the picture over in his hand.

"We took this picture," he announced to me."Here, you can see our stamp on the back. Curzin Photos, that's us. Been here since 1931. My fatherhad it before I did, God rest his soul."

"Yes," said the woman.

"You say this is a group?" the man asked, wavingthe picture at me.

"One member of a group."

"Possibly," he said. He handed the picture to thewoman. "Did we do any groups like that?"

"Possibly," she said. "I can never keep themclear."

"I think it was a publicity picture," I offered.

"What's the name of this group?"

"I don't know. That's why I came to you. The pic•ture had your stamp—"

"I saw it, I'm not blind," the man snapped. Hebent over and looked under the counter. "Have tocheck the files," he said. "We keep everything onfile."

He began producing sheafs of pictures. I wassurprised; he really had photographed dozens ofgroups.

He shuffled through them very fast. "My wifecan never remember them, but I can. If I can seethem all, I remember them. You know? That'sJimmy and the Do-Dahs." He flipped through rap•idly. "The Warblers. The Coffins. The Cliques. TheSkunks. The names stick with you. Funny thing.The Lice. The Switchblades. Willy and the Willies.The Jaguars."

I tried to glance at the faces as he went, but hewas going very fast.

"Wait a minute," I said, pointing to one picture. "I think that's it."

The man frowned. "The Zephyrs," he said, histone disapproving. "That's what they are, the Zeph•yrs."

I looked at the five men, all Negro. They were

dressed in the same shiny suits that I'd seen in thesingle photo. They were all smiling uneasily, as ifthey disliked having their picture taken.

"You know the names?" I said.

He turned the picture over. The names werescrawled there. "Zeke, Zach, Roman, George, andHappy. That's them."

"O.K.," I said. I took out my notebook and wrotethe names down. "Do you know how I can reach them?"

"Listen, you sure you want them for your girl'sparty?"

"Why not?"

The man shrugged. "They're a little tough."

"Well, I think they'll be O.K. for one night."

"I don't know," he said doubtfully. "They're prettytough."

"Know where I can find them?"

"Sure," the man said. He jerked his thumb down the street. "They work nights at the Electric Grape.All the niggers hang out there."

"O.K.," I said. I went to the door.

"You be careful," the woman advised me.

"I will."

"Have a nice party," the man said.

I nodded and shut the door.

ALAN ZENNER WAS A HUGE MOUNTAIN OF A KID. Hewasn't as big as a Big Ten tackle, but he was plentylarge. I guessed he was about six-one and two-twenty.

Give or take.

I found him as he was leaving the Dillon Field House at the end of practice. It was late afternoon; the sun was low, casting a golden glow over Sol•diers' Field stadium and the buildings nearby—theField House, the Hockey Rink, the indoor tenniscourts. On a side field, the freshman squad wasstill scrimmaging, raising a cloud of yellow-browndust in the fading light.

Zenner had just finished showering; his shortblack hair was still damp and he was rubbing it, asif remembering the coach's admonition not to goout with wet hair.

He said he was in a hurry to eat dinner and startstudying, so we talked as we crossed over the Lars Anderson bridge toward the Harvard houses. For awhile I made small talk. He was a senior inLeverett House, the Towers, and he was majoring in history. He didn't like his thesis topic. He wasworried about getting into law school; the law school didn't give athletes a break. All they caredabout were grades. Maybe he would go to Yale lawinstead. That was supposed to be more fun.

We cut through Winthrop House and walked uptoward the Varsity Club. Alan said he was eatingtwo meals a day there, lunch and dinner, during the season. The food was O.K. Better than the regularcrap anyway.

Finally, I shifted the conversation to Karen.

"What, you, too?"

"I don't understand."

"You're the second one today. Foggy was hereearlier."

"Foggy?"

"The old man. That's what she used to call him."

"Why?"

"I don't know. It was her name for him, that's all.She had lots of names for him."

"You talked with him?"

Zenner said carefully, "He came to see me."

"And?"

Zenner shrugged. "I told him to go away."

"Why is that?"

We came to Massachusetts Avenue. The trafficwas heavy. "Because," he said, "I didn't want to get involved."

"But you already are involved."

"Like hell I am." He started across the street,deftly maneuvering among the cars.

I said, "Do you know what happened to her?"

"Listen," he said, "I know more about it than any•body. Even her parents. Anybody."

"But you don't want to get involved."

"That's the picture."

I said, "This is very serious. A man has been charged with murdering her. You have to tell mewhat you know."

"Look," he said. "She was a nice girl, but she had problems. We had problems together. For a while it was O.K., and then the problems got too big, and itwas over. That's all. Now get off my back."

I shrugged. "During the trial," I said, "the defense

will call you. They can make you testify underoath."

"I'm not testifying in any trial."

"You won't have a choice," I said. "Unless, per•haps, there never is a trial."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning we'd better have a talk."

Two blocks down Massachusetts Avenue towardCentral Square was a dirty little tavern with an out-

of-focus color TV over the bar. We ordered two beers and watched the weather report while wewaited. The forecaster was a cheerful little pudgyfellow who smiled as he predicted rain tomorrow,and the next day.

Zenner said, "What's your interest in all this?"

"I think Lee is innocent."

He laughed. "You're the only one who does."

The beers came. I paid. He sipped his and lickedthe foam off his lips.

"O.K.," he said, settling back in the booth. "I'lltell you how it was. I met her at a party last spring,around April. We got along well, right off. Itseemed just great. I didn't know anything about herwhen I met her, she was just a good-looking girl. Iknew she was young. I didn't know how young untilthe next morning when I practically flipped. Imean, Christ, sixteen. . . . But I liked her. Shewasn't cheap."

He drank half the glass in a single gulp.

"So, we started seeing each other. And little bylittle, I found out about her. She had a way of ex-

plaining things in bits and snatches. It was verytantalizing, like the old movie serials. Come backnext

Saturday for the next installment, that kind ofthing. She was good at it."

"When did you stop seeing her?"

"June, early June. She was graduating from Con•cord, and I said I'd come out to see the graduation.She didn't want that. I said why. And then thewhole thing came out about her parents and how Iwouldn't get along. You see," he said, "my name wasZemnick before, and I grew up in Brooklyn. It's that way. She made her point, and I kissed her off. I wasreally pissed at the time. Now, I don't care any•more."

"You never saw her again?"

"Once. It must have been late July. I had a con•struction job on the Cape, a real soft one, and a lotof my friends were out there. I'd heard some thingsabout her, things I hadn't heard when I was dating her. And how she collects jocks. About her prob•lems with her parents and how she hated her oldman. Things began to make sense when they hadn't made sense before. And I heard that she'd had anabortion and was telling people it was my kid."

He finished his beer and motioned to the bar•tender. I had another with him.

"One day I run into her out by Scusset. She's ina gas station getting her car filled and I happen topull in. So we have a little talk. I ask her if it was true about the abortion, and she says yes. I ask herif it was my kid, and she says in a real steady voice

that she doesn't know who the father is. So I tellher to go to hell and walk off. Then she comes run•ning up and says she's sorry, can't we be friendsagain and see each other. I say no we can't. So shestarts to cry. Well, hell, that's awful to have a girlcrying in a gas station. So I said I'd take her outthat night."

"Did you?"

"Yeah. It was terrible. Alan, do this; Alan, dothat; faster, Alan, now slower. Alan, you sweat somuch. She never shut up."

"Was she living on the Cape last summer?"

"She said she was. Working in an art gallery orsomething. But I heard she spent most of her timein

Beacon Hill. She had some crazy friends."

"What friends?"

"1 don't know. Friends."

"Did you ever meet any of them?"

"Only one. At a party one time on the Cape. Somebody introduced me to a girl named Angelawho was supposed to be a friend of Karen's. AngelaHarley or Hardy, something like that. Damnedgood-looking

girl, but strange."

"How do you mean?"

"Just strange. Far out. When I met her, she washigh on something. She kept saying strange thingslike

'The nose of God has the power of sour.' You couldn't talk to her; she was out of it. Too bad, shewas damned good-looking."

"Did you ever meet her parents?"

"Yeah," he said. "Once. Quite a pair. Old stiff upper lip and warm lower lips. No wonder she hated them."

"How do you know she hated them?"

"What do you think she talked about? Her par•ents. Hour after hour. She hated Foggy. She some•times called him Good Old Dad, because of theinitials. She had names for her stepmother, too, butyou wouldn't believe them. The funny thing is, though, that she was very close to her mother. Herreal mother. She died when Karen was about four•teen or fifteen. I think that was when it all started."

"What started?"

"The wild stuff. All the drugs and the action. Shewanted people to think she was wild. She wantedto be shocking. As if she had to prove it. She wasvery big on drugs and always took them in public.Some people said she was addicted to ampheta•mines, but I don't know if that was true. A lot ofpeople on the Cape had been stung by her, andthere were lots of nasty stories. They used to saythat Karen Randall would go up on anything, anddown on everything." He grimaced slightly as hesaid it.

"You liked her," I said.

"Yeah," he said, "as long as I could."

"That time on the Cape, was it the last time yousaw her?"

"Yeah."

The next beer came. He looked at his glass andtwisted it around in his hands for a few seconds.

"No," he said, "that's not true."

"You saw her again?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

"When?"

"Sunday," he said, "last Sunday."

SIX

It was almost lunchtime,"Zenner said. "I washung over from a party after the game. Really hung.Too

hung. I was worried about looking good atpractice Monday, because I had missed a few playson Saturday. The same play: an end sweep. I wasn'tpulling fast enough, it kept happening. So I was alittle worried.

"Anyway, I was in my room trying to get dressedfor lunch. Tying my tie. I had to do it three times, because I kept getting it crooked. I was really hung.And I had a bad headache; and in she walks, right into the room, just like I was expecting her."

"Were you?"

"I never wanted to see anyone less in my life. Ihad finally gotten over her, you know, worked it allout of my system. Then she shows up again, look•ing better than ever. A little heavy, but still good.My roommates had all gone to lunch, so I was theonly one there. She asked me if I would take her tolunch."

"What did you say?"

"I said no."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want to see her. She was likethe plague, she infected you. I didn't want her around. So I asked her to please leave, but shedidn't. She sat down and lit a cigarette and said she knew it was all over with us, but she needed some•body to talk to. Well, I'd heard that one before, andI wasn't having any. But she wouldn't leave. She satthere on the couch and wouldn't leave. She said Iwas the only person she could talk to.

"So finally I just gave up. I sat down and said,'O.K., talk.' And I kept telling myself that I was afool and that I'd regret it, just the way I regrettedthe last time. There are some people you just can'tbe around."

"What did you talk about?"

"Her. That was all she ever talked about. Herself,her parents, her brother—"

"Was she close to her brother?"

"In a way. But he's kind of straight arrow, like Foggy. Fired for the medical bit. So Karen never told him a lot of things. Like the drugs and stuff.She just never mentioned it to him." "Go on."

"So I sat there and listened to her talk. Shetalked about school for a while, and then aboutsome mystical thing she was starting where youmeditated twice a day for half an hour. It was sup•posed to be like washing out your mind, or dipping

a cloth in ink, or something. She had just started itbut she thought it was great."

"How did she act during this time?"

"Nervous," Zenner said. "She smoked a pack just while she sat there, and she kept fiddling with her hands. She had a Concord Academy ring. She kept pulling it off, and putting it on, and twisting it. The whole damned time."

"Did she say why she had come down fromSmith for the weekend?"

"I asked her," Zenner said. "And she told me."

"Told you what?"

"That she was going to have an abortion."

I sat back and lit a cigarette. "What was your re•action?"

He shook his head. "I didn't believe her." Heglanced quickly at me, then sipped the beer. "Ididn't believe anything about her anymore. Thatwas the trouble. I was just turned off, I wasn't pay•ing attention. I couldn't let myself, because she still.. . had an effect on me."

"Was she aware of that?"

"She was aware of everything," he said. "Shedidn't miss anything. She was like a cat; she workedby her instincts and they were always right. Shecould walk into a room and just look around, andshe immediately knew everything about everyone.She had this sense for emotions."

"Did you talk to her about the abortion?"

"No. Because I didn't believe her. I just let itdrop. Only she came back to it, about an hour later.

She said she was scared, that she wanted to be with me. She kept saying she was scared.""Did you believe that?"

"I didn't know what to believe. No. No, I didn'tbelieve her." He finished his beer in a gulp and putthe mug down. "But look," he said, "what the hellwas I supposed to do? She was nuts, that girl. Ev•erybody knew it and it was true. She had this thingwith her parents and with everybody else, and itpushed her over the brink. She was crazy.""How long did you talk with her?" "About an hour and a half. Then I said I had toeat lunch and study and that she'd better go. So she left."

"You don't know where she was going?""No. I asked her, and she just laughed. She saidshe never knew where she was going."

SEVEN

ItWAS LATE INthe day when I left Zenner, but Icalled Peter Randall's office anyway. He wasn'tthere. I said it was urgent so his nurse suggested Itry his lab. He often worked late in his lab on Tues•day and Thursday nights.

I didn't call. I went right over.

Peter Randall was the only member of the Ran-

dall family I had ever met before. I'd run into him once or twice at medical parties. It was impossibleto miss him—first, because he was so physicallyoutstanding, and second because he liked partiesand attended every one he heard about.

He was a titanic fat man, jowled and jovial, witha hearty laugh and a flushed face. He smoked con•

tinuously, drank exorbitantly, talked amusingly, andwas in general the treasure of every hostess. Peter

could make a party. He could revive one instantly. Betty Gayle, whose husband was chief of medicine at the Lincoln, had once said, "Isn't he a marveloussocial animal?" She was always saying things like that, but for once she was right. Peter Randall was a social animal—gregarious, extroverted, relaxed,

good-humored. His wit and his manner gave him aremarkable kind of freedom.

For instance, Peter could successfully tell themost foul and revolting dirty joke, and you wouldlaugh. Inside, you would be thinking, "That's apretty dirty joke," but you would be laughing,spite yourself, and all the wives would be laughing,too. He could also flirt with your wife, spill hisdrink, insult the hostess, complain, or do anythingelse. You never minded, never frowned.

I wondered what he would have to say aboutKaren.

HIS LAB WAS ON THE FIFTH FLOOR of the biochemwing of the medical school. I walked down the cor•ridor, smelling the smell of laboratories—a combi-

nation of acetone, Bunsen burners, pipette soap,and reagents. A clean, sharp smell. His office was small. A girl behind the desk was typing a letter,wearing a white lab coat. She was strikingly attract•ive, but I suppose I should have expected that.

"Yes? May I help you?" She had a slight accent.

"I'm looking for Dr. Randall."

"Is he expecting you?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "I called earlier, but he maynot have gotten my message."

She looked at me and sized me up for a clinician.There was that slightly supercilious look in her eyesthat all researchers get when they are around clini•cians. Clinicians don't use their minds, you see.They fool with dirty, unscientific things like pa•tients. A researcher, on the other hand, inhabits aworld of pure, satisfying intellectualism.

"Come with me," she said. She got up andwalked down the hall. She wore wooden shoeswithout heels—that explained her accent. Follow•ing behind her, I watched her bottom and wishedshe was not wearing a lab coat.

"He's about to start a new incubation run," shesaid over her shoulder. "He'll be very busy."

"I can wait."

We entered the lab. It was bare, at a corner ofthe wing, looking down over the parking lot. So latein the day, most of the cars were gone.

Randall was bent over a white rat. As the girlcame in, he said, "Ah, Brigit. You're just in time."Then he saw me. "Well now, what have we here?"

"My name is Berry," I said. "I——"

"Of course, of course. I remember you well." He dropped the rat and shook hands with me. The rat scampered across the table but stopped at the edge,looking down at the floor and sniffing.

"John, isn't it?" Randall said. "Yes, we've met sev•eral times." He picked up the rat again and chuck•led.

"In fact, my brother just called me about you.You've got him quite ruffled—a snot-nosed snoop, Ibelieve his words were."

He seemed to find this very amusing. Helaughed again and said, "It's what you get for pes•tering his dearly beloved. Apparently you upsether."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be," Peter said cheerfully. He turned toBrigit and said, "Call the others, will you? We haveto get this thing going."

Brigit wrinkled her nose, and Peter winked ather. When she was gone, he said, "Adorable crea•ture, Brigit. She keeps me in shape."

"In shape?"

"Indeed," he said, patting his stomach. "One ofthe great pitfalls to modern, easy living is weak eye muscles. Television's to blame; we sit there anddon't exercise our eyes. The result is flabby eyes, aterrible tragedy. But Brigit prevents all that. Preven•tive medicine of the finest sort." He sighed happily."But what can I do for you? I can't imagine whyyou'd want to see me. Brigit, yes, but not me."

I said, "You were Karen's physician."

"So I was, so I was."

He took the rat and placed it in a small cage.Then he looked among a row of larger cages for an•other.

"Those damned girls. I keep telling them dye ischeap, but they never put enough on. There!" Hishand darted in and brought out a second rat. "We'retaking all the ones with dye on the tail," he ex•plained. He held the rat so I could see the spot ofpurple color. "They were injected with parathyroidhormone yesterday morning. Now," he said, "I re•gret to say they are going to meet their Maker.Know anything about killing rats?"

"A little."

"You wouldn't care to dispatch them for me,would you? I hate to sacrifice them."

"No, thanks."

He sighed. "I thought so. Now, about Karen: yes,I was her physician. What can I tell you?"

He seemed apparently friendly and open.

"Did you treat her in the middle of the summer for an accident?"

"An accident? No."

The girls came in. There were three, includingBrigit. They were all attractive, and whether bychance or design, one was blonde, one brunette,and one redhead. They stood in a line in front ofhim, and Peter smiled benignly at each of them, asif he were about to bestow presents.

"We have six tonight," he said, "and then we canall go home. Is the dissecting equipment set out?"

'Yes," Brigit said. She pointed to a long table withthree chairs. In front of each chair was a cork pad, some pins, a pair of forceps, a scalpel, and an icebath.

"What about the agitation bath? All ready?"

"Yes," said another girl.

"Good," Peter said. "Then let's get started."

The girls took their places at the table. Randalllooked at me and said, "I guess I'll have to gothrough with it. I really hate this. Someday I'll getso worried about the little beasts' last moments thatI'll chop off my fingers as well as their heads."

"What do you use?"

"Well, that's a long story." He grinned. "You seebefore you the squeamish connoisseur of rat- dispatching. I have tried everything—chloroform,neck breaking, squeezing. Even a little guillotinethat the British are so fond of. I have a friend inLondon who sent me one—he swears by it—but itwas always getting clogged with fur. So," he said, picking up one rat and examining it thoughtfully, "Iwent back to basics. I use a meat cleaver."

"You're kidding."

"Oh, I know it sounds bad. It looks bad, too, butit's the best way. You see, we have to get the dis•

section done quickly. The experimental designdemands that."

He took the rat over to the sink. A heavy butch•er's block was there, by the rim of the basin. He set the rat on the block and put a wax bag in the sink.Then he went over to the cabinet and brought out

a meat cleaver, a heavy, stubby thing with a solidwooden handle.

"They sell these things," he said, "in the chemicalsupply houses. But they're too delicate and theynever stay sharp. I bought this one secondhand from a butcher. It's superb."

He sharpened the edge on a stone briefly, thentested it on a piece of paper. It cut through cleanly.

The telephone rang at that moment, and Brigit jumped up to answer it. The other girls relaxed, ob•viously glad for a delay. Peter also seemed relieved.

Brigit spoke for a moment, then said, "It's therental agency. They are going to deliver the car."

"Good," Peter said. "Tell them to leave it in theparking lot and leave the keys over the sun visor."

While Brigit was relaying the instructions, Peter said to me, "Damned nuisance. My car's been sto•len."

"Stolen?"

"Yes. Quite annoying. It happened yesterday."

"What kind of a car was it?"

"A little Mercedes sedan. Battered, but I wasfond of it. If I had my way," he said with a grin, "I'dsee the thieves arrested for kidnapping, not cartheft. I was very fond of that car."

"Have you reported it to the police?"

"Yes." He shrugged. "For whatever it's worth."

Brigit hung up and returned to her seat. Petersighed, picked up the cleaver, and said, "Well, bet•ter get on with it."

He held the rat by the tail. The rat tried to pull

away, spread-eagling its body on the block. In aswift motion, Peter lifted the cleaver over his headand brought it down. There was a loudthump! asthe blade struck the block. The girls stared away. Ilooked back and saw Peter holding the wrigglingdecapitated body over the sink. The blood drained out for a few moments. Then he carried it over toBrigit and placed it on the cork pad.

"Number one," he said briskly. He returned tothe block, pushed the head into the paper bag, and selected a second rat.

I watched Brigit work. With swift, practicedmoves she pinned the body on its back to the cork.Then she cut into the legs, clearing away the fleshand muscle around the bones. Next she clipped thebones free of the body and dropped them into theice bath.

"A minor triumph," Peter said, preparing the nextrat on the block. "In this lab, we perfected the firstin vitrobone cultures. We are able to keep isolated bone tissue alive for as long as three days. The real problem is getting the bone out of the animal andinto the bath before the cells die. We've got it downto a fine art now."

"What exactly is your field?"

"Calcium metabolism, particularly as it relates toparathyroid hormone and thyrocalcitonin. I want to know how those hormones work to release calciumfrom bone."

Parathyroid hormone was a little-understood sub•stance secreted by four small glands attached to the

thyroid. Nobody knew much about it, except that the parathyroids seemed to control calcium levelsin the blood, and that these levels were strictlyregulated—much more so than, say, blood sugar orfree fatty acid. Blood calcium was necessary fornormal nerve transmission and normal muscle con•traction, and it was theorized that calcium wasshunted to and from the bone, as occasion de•manded. If you had too much calcium in your blood, you deposited it in bone. If you had too lit•tle, you drew it out of bone. But nobody knew quitehow this was accomplished.

"The time course is crucial," Peter continued. "Ionce performed an interesting experiment. I took adog and put in an arterial bypass. I was able to take his blood, treat it with chemicals to remove all cal•cium, and put it back again. I ran this thing forhours, taking out literally pounds of calcium. Yetthe blood levels remained normal, readjusting in•stantly. That dog was draining large quantities ofcalcium out of his bone and into his blood at a veryrapid rate."

The cleaver swung down again with a heavysound. The rat wriggled and was still. It was givento the second girl.

"I got interested in all this," Peter said. "Thewhole problem of calcium storage and release. It's fine to say you can put your calcium into bone, ortake it out; but bone is a crystal, it's hard and rigidlystructured. We can apparently build it up or tear it

down in fractions of a second. I wanted to knowhow."

He reached into a cage and produced another ratwith a purple tail.

"So I decided to set up anin vitro system tostudy bone. Nobody thought I could do it. Bonemetabolism was too slow, they said. Impossible tomeasure. But I succeeded, several hundred ratslater." He sighed.

"If the rats ever take over theworld, I'll be tried for my war crimes."

He positioned the rat on the block.

"You know, I've always wanted to find a girl to do this work for me. I kept looking for a cold-blooded German girl, or a sadist of some sort. Never foundone. All of those"—he nodded to the three at the table—"came to work only after I agreed that theywould never have to kill the animals."

"How long have you been doing this work?"

"Seven years now. I started very slowly, half a day a week. Then it got to be every Tuesday. Pretty soonit was Tuesdays and Thursdays. Then it was allweekend as well. I've cut down my practice asmuch as I can. This work is really addicting."

"You like it?"

"I adore it. It's a game, a big wonderful game. Apuzzle where nobody knows the answer. If you'renot careful, though, you can become obsessed withthe answer. Some people in the biochem depart•ment work longer hours than any practicing doctor.They drive themselves. But I won't let that happento me."

"How do you know?"

"Because whenever I feel the symptoms comingon—the urge to work round the clock, to keep go•ing until midnight, or to come in at five in themorning—I say to myself, it's just a game. I repeatthat over and over. And it works: I settle down."

The cleaver finished the third rat.

"Ah," Peter said, "halfway there." He scratched his stomach reflectively. "But enough about me.What about you?"

"I'm just interested in Karen."

"Ummm. And you wanted to know about an ac•cident? There was none, that I recall."

"Why were skull films taken last summer?"

"Ohthat."  He stroked the fourth victim sooth•ingly and set it on the block. "That was typical Ka•ren."

"What do you mean?"

"She came into my office and said, 'I'm goingblind.' She was very concerned, in her own breath•less way. You know how sixteen-year-old girls canbe: she was losing her vision, and her tennis gamewas suffering. She wanted me to do something. SoI drew some blood and ordered a few tests. Draw•ing blood always impresses them. And I checkedher blood pressure and listened to her and generallygave the impression I was being very thorough.'

"And you ordered skull films."

"Yes. That was part of the cure."

"I don't follow you."

"Karen's problems were purely psychosomatic,"

he said. "She's like ninety percent of the women Isee. Some little thing goes wrong—like your tennis game—and bang! you have a medical problem. Yougo to see your doctor. He can find nothing physi• cally wrong with you. But does this satisfy you? No:on to another doctor, and still another, until youfind one who will pat your hand and say, 'Yes, you'rea very sick woman.'" He laughed.

"So you ordered all these tests as a diversion?"

"Largely," he said. "Not entirely. I believe in cau•tion, and when one hears a complaint as serious as vision loss, one must investigate. I checked her fundi. Normal. I did a visual fields. Normal, butshe said it came and went. So I took a blood sam•ple and ordered tests of thyroid function and hor•mone levels. Normal. And the skull films. Theywere normal, too, or have you already seen them?"

"I saw them," I said. I lit a cigarette as the next rat died. "But I'm still not sure why—"

"Well, put it together. She's young, but it's stillpossible—vision and headache, slight weight gain,lethargy. That could be pan hypopituitarism withoptic nerve involvement."

'You mean a pituitary tumor?"

"It's possible, just possible. I figured the testswould show if she was pan hypopit. The skull filmsmight show something if she was really badly off.But everything came back negative. It was all in hermind.'

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"The labs might have made a mistake.""That's true. I would have run a second test, justto be sure."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because she never came back," Peter said."That's the key to it all. One day she comes in nearhysteria because she's going blind. I say come back in a week, and my nurse makes the appointment. Aweek later, no show. She's out playing tennis, hav•ing a fine time. It was all in her mind.""Was she menstruating

when you saw her?""She said her periods were normal," he said. "Ofcourse, if she were four months'

pregnant at thetime of her death, she would just have conceivedwhen I saw her."

"But she never came back to you?""No. She was rather scatterbrained, actually."He killed the last rat. All the girls were nowbusily working. Peter collected the carcasses andput them into the paper bag, then dropped the baginto a wastebasket. "Ah," he said, "at last." Hewashed his hands vigorously.

"Well," I said, "thanks for your time.""Not at all." He dried his hands on a paper towel, then stopped. "I suppose I ought to make some sortof official statement," he said, "since I'm the uncleand so forth."I waited.

"J. D. would never speak to me again if he knew I'd had this conversation with you. Try to keep thatin mind if you talk to anybody else."

"O.K.," I said.

"I don't know what you're doing," Peter said, "and I don't want to know. You've always struck me as pretty level and sensible, and I assume you're notwasting your time."

I didn't know what to say. I couldn't see what hewas leading up to, but I knew he was leading up to something.

"My brother, at this moment, is neither level norsensible. He's paranoid; you can't get anything outof him. But I understand that you were present atthe autopsy."

"That's right."

"What's the dx1there?"

"It's uncertain on the basis of the gross," I said."Nothing clear at all."

"And the slides?"

"I haven't seen them yet."

"What was your impression at autopsy?"

I hesitated, then made my decision. He had beenhonest with me; I'd be honest with him.

"Not pregnant," I said.

"Hmmm," he said. "Hmmmm."

He scratched his stomach again, then held outhis hand.

"That's very interesting," he said.

We shook hands.

1See Appendix IV: Abbreviations.

EIGHT

whenIgot home, a big squad car with a flashing light was waiting at the curb. Captain Peterson, still crew-cut and tough-looking, leaned against thefender and stared at me as I pulled into my drive•way.

I got out of my car and looked at the nearbyhouses. People had noticed the flasher and werestaring out of their windows.

"I hope," I said, "that I didn't keep you waiting."

"No," Peterson said with a little smile. "Just ar•rived. I knocked at the door and your wife said you weren't back yet, so I waited out here."

I could see his bland, smug expression in the al•ternating flashes of red from the light. I knew hehad kept the light on to irritate me.

"Something on your mind?"

He shifted his position on the car. "Well, yes, ac•tually. We've had a complaint about you, Dr. Berry."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"From whom?"

"Dr. Randall."

I said innocently, "What kind of complaint?"

"Apparently you have been harassing members of

his family. His son, his wife, even his daughter'scollege friends."

"Harassing?"

"That," said Peterson carefully, "was what hesaid."

"And what did you say?"

"I said I'd see what could be done."

"So here you are."

He nodded and smiled slowly.

The flasher was beginning to get on my nerves.Down the block, one or two kids were standing inthe street, watching in silence.

I said, "Have I broken any law?"

"That hasn't been determined yet."

"If I have broken a law," I said, "then Dr. Randallmay go to court about it. Or he may go to court ifhe feels he can show material damage as a result ofmy alleged actions. He knows that, and so do you." I smiled at him, giving him some of his own. "Andso do I."

"Maybe we should go down to the station andtalk about it."

I shook my head. "Haven't got time."

"I can take you in for questioning, you know."

"Yes," I said, "but it wouldn't be prudent."

"It might be quite prudent."

"I doubt it," I said. "I am a private citizen actingwithin my rights as a private citizen. I did not forcemyself upon anyone, did not threaten anyone. Anyperson who did not wish to speak with me did nothave to."

"You trespassed on private property. The Randallhome."

"That was quite inadvertent. I was lost, and Iwanted to ask directions. I passed a large building,so large it never occurred to me it might be a pri•vate dwelling. I thought it was some kind of institu•tion."

"Institution?"

"Yes. Like an orphanage, you know. Or a nursinghome. So I drove in to ask questions. Imaginemy surprise when I discovered that by purestchance—"

"Chance?"

"Can you prove otherwise?"

Peterson gave a fair imitation of a good-naturedchuckle. 'You're being very clever."

"Not really," I said. "Now why don't you turn offthat flasher and stop drawing attention? Because otherwise I will file a complaint of harassment by the police. And I'll file it with the Chief of Police,the District Attorney's office, and the Mayor's of•fice."

He reached indolently through the window andflicked a switch. The light stopped.

"Someday," he said, "all this may catch up withyou.

"Yes," I said. "Me, or somebody else."

He scratched the back of his hand, as he haddone in his office. "There are times," he said,"when I think you're either an honest man or acomplete fool."

"Maybe both."

He nodded slowly. "Maybe both." He opened thedoor and swung into the driver's seat.

I went up to the front door and let myself in. AsI closed the door, I heard him pull away from thecurb.

NINE

I DIDNT FEEL MUCH LIKE ATTENDING A COCKTAIL

party, but Judith insisted. As we drove to Cam•bridge, she said, "What was it all about?"

"What?"

"The business with the police?"

"It was an attempt to call me off."

"On what grounds?"

"Randall filed a complaint. Harassment."

"Justified?"

"I think so."

I told her quickly about the people 1 had seenthat day. When I was finished, she said, "It sounds complicated."

"I'm sure I've barely scratched the surface."

"Do you think Mrs. Randall was lying about thecheck for three hundred dollars?"

"She might have been," I admitted.

Her question stopped me. I realized then that

things had been happening so fast, I hadn't hadtime to consider everything I had learned, to sift itout and put it together. I knew there were incon•sistencies and trouble spots—several of them—butI hadn't worked on them in any logical way.

"How's Betty?"

"Not good. There was an article in the paper to•day. . . ."

"Was there? I didn't see it."

"Just a small article. Arrest of physician for abor•tion. Not many details, except his name. She's got•ten a couple of crank calls."

"Bad?"

"Pretty bad. I try to answer the phone, now."

"Good girl."

"She's trying to be very brave about it, trying togo on as if everything was normal. I don't know ifthat's worse or better. Because she can't. Thingsaren't normal, and that's all there is to it."

"Going over there tomorrow?"

"Yes."

I parked on a quiet residential block in Cam•bridge not far from the Cambridge City Hospital. Itwas a pleasant area of old frame houses and mapletrees along the road. Brick-paved sidewalks; the |whole Cambridge bit. As I parked Hammondpulled up on his motorcycle.

Norton Francis HammondIIIrepresents thehope of the medical profession. He doesn't know it, and it's just as well; if he did, he'd be insufferable.Hammond comes from San Francisco, from what

he calls "a long line of shipping." He looks like awalking advertisement for the California life—tall,blond, tanned, and handsome. He is an excellentdoctor, a second-year resident in medicine at theMem, where he is considered so good that the staffoverlooks things like his hair, which reaches almost to his shoulders, and his moustache, which is long,curling and flamboyant.

What is important about Hammond, and the fewother young doctors like him, is that they are break•ing old patterns without rebelling against the Estab•lishment. Hammond is not trying to antagonizeanyone with his hair, his habits, or his motorcycle;he simply doesn't give a damn what the other doc•tors think of him. Because he takes this attitude,the other doctors cannot object—he does, after all,know his medicine. Though they find his appear•ance irritating, they have no ground for complaint.

So Hammond goes his way unmolested. And be•cause he is a resident, he has a teaching function.He influences the younger men. And therein lies the hope of future medicine.

Since World War II, medicine has undergone great change, in two successive waves. The firstwas an outpouring of knowledge, techniques, andmethods, beginning in the immediate postwar pe•riod. It was initiated by the introduction of antibiot•ics, continued with understanding of electrolytebalances, protein structure, and gene function. Forthe most part, these advances were scientific andtechnical, but they changed the face of medical

practice drastically, until by 1965 three of the fourmost commonly prescribed drug classes—antibi•otics, hormones (mostly The Pill), and tranquil•izers—wereall postwar innovations.1

The second wave was more recent and involvedsocial, not technical, change. Social medicine, and socialized medicine, became real problems to be solved, like cancer and heart disease. Some of theolder physicians regarded socialized medicine as acancer in its own right, and some of the youngerones agreed. But it has become clear that, like it ornot, doctors are going to have to produce bettermedical care for more people than they ever havebefore.

It is natural to expect innovation from the young, but in medicine this has not been easy, for the old doctors train the young ones, and too often the stu•dents become carbon copies of their teachers.Then, too, there is a kind of antagonism betweengenerations in medicine, particularly now. Theyoung men are better prepared than the old guard; they know more science, ask deeper questions, de•mand more complex answers. They are also, likeyoung men everywhere, hustling for the older men's

jobs.

That was why Norton Hammond was so remark-

1The fourth class, analgesics, was mostly that old standby, aspirin, synthe•sized in 1853. Aspirin is as much a wonder drug as any other. It is apainkiller, a swelling-reducer, a fever-breaker, and an antiallergic drug.None of its actions can be explained.

able. He was effecting a revolution without a rebel•lion.

He parked his motorcycle, locked it, patted itfondly, and dusted off his whites.2Then he saw us.

"Hiya, kids." As nearly as I could tell, Hammondcalled everyone kid.

"How are you, Norton?"

"Hanging in." He grinned. "Against all obstacles."He punched my shoulder. "Hey, I hear you've goneto war, John."

"Not exactly."

"Any scars yet?"

"A few bruises," I said.

"Lucky," he said, "taking on old A. R."

Judith said, "A. R.?"

"Anal Retentive: that's what the boys on the third floor call him."

"Randall?"

"None other." He smiled at Judith. "The kid's bit•ten off quite a chunk."

"I know."

"They say A. R. prowls the third floor like awounded vulture. Can't believe anybody'd opposehis majestic self."

"I can imagine," I said.

"He's been in a terrible state," Hammond said."He even chewed out Sam Carlson. You know Sam?He's a resident up there, working under A. R., root•ing about in the nether regions of surgical politics.

2See Appendix V: Whites.

Sam is A.R.'s golden boy. A.R. loves him, and no•body can figure out why. Some say it's because he is stupid, Sam is, blindingly stupid. Crushingly,awesomely stupid."

"Is he?" I said.

"Beyond description," Hammond said. "But Samgot chewed out yesterday. He was in the cafeteria, eating a chicken-salad sandwich—no doubt afterasking the serving ladies what a chicken was— when Randall came in, and said, 'What are youdoing here?' And Sam said, 'Eating a chicken-saladsandwich.' And A. R. said, "What the hell for?' "

"What did Sam say?"

Hammond grinned broadly. "I have it on good au•thority, that Sam said, 'I don't know, sir.' And he put aside the sandwich and walked out of the cafete•ria."

"Hungry," I said.

Hammond laughed. "Probably." He shook hishead. "But you can't really blame A. R. He's lived inthe

Mem for a hundred years or so, and never hada problem. Now, with the headhunt, and then hisdaughter

. . ."

"Headhunt?" Judith said.

"My, my, the grapevine is collapsing. The wivesare usually the first to know. All hell's broken out atthe

Mem over the Clinic pharmacy."

I said, "They lose something?"

"You bet."

"What?"

"A gross of morphine ampoules. Hydromorphine

hydrochloride. That's three to five times more pow•erful on a weight basis than morphine sulfate."

"When?"

"Last week. The pharmacist nearly got theax—he was off hustling a nurse when it happened. It was lunchtime."

"They haven't found the stuff?"

"No. Turned the hospital upside down, but noth•ing."

"Has this ever happened before?" I said.

"Apparently it has, a few years back. But only acouple of ampoules were taken then. This was amajor haul."

I said, "Paramedical?"

Hammond shrugged. "Could be anybody. Person•ally, I think it must have been a commercial move.

They took too much. The risk was too great: canyou imagine yourself waltzing into the Mem outpa•tient clinic and waltzing out with a box of morphinebottles under your arm?"

"Not really."

"Guts."

"But surely that's too much for one person," Isaid.

"Of course. That's why I think it was commercial.I think it was a robbery, carefully planned."

"By somebody outside?"

"Ah," he said. "Now you get down to the ques•tion."

"Well?"

"The thinking is that somebody did it from theinside."

"Any evidence?"

"No. Nothing."

We walked up the stairs to the wooden framehouse. I said, "That's very interesting, Norton."

"You bet your ass it's interesting."

"Know anybody who's up?"

"On the staff? No. The word is that one of thegirls in cardiac cath used to shoot speeds,3but she kicked it a year ago. Anyhow, they went over her pretty hard. Stripped her down, checked for needlemarks. She was clean."

I said, "How about—"

"Doctors?"

I nodded. Doctors and drugs are a taboo subject.A reasonable number of doctors are addicts; that'sno secret, any more than it's a secret that doctorshave a high suicide rate.4Less widely known is aclassic psychiatric syndrome involving a doctor andhis son, in which the son becomes an addict andthe doctor supplies his needs, to the mutual satis•faction of both. But nobody talks about these things.

"The doctors are clean," Hammond said, "as faras I know."

"Anybody quit their job? Nurse, secretary, any•body?"

3Injected amphetamines, such as methedrene, intravenously.

4Psychiatrists have the highest suicide rate of all, more than ten times that of the GP.

He smiled. "You're really hot on this, aren't you?"

I shrugged.

"Why? Think it's related to the girl?"

"I don't know."

"There's no reason to connect the two,"Hammond said. "But it would be interesting."

"Yes."

"Purely speculative."

"Of course."

"I'll call you," Hammond said, "if anything turnsup."

"Do that," I said.

We came to the door. Inside, we could hear partysounds: tinkling glasses, talk, laughter.

"Good luck with your war," Hammond said. "I hope to hell you win."

"So do I."

"You will," Hammond said. "Just don't take anyprisoners."

I smiled. "That's against Geneva Conventions."

"This," Hammond said, "is a very limited war."

THE PARTY WAS HELD BY GEORGE MORRIS, chief resi•dent in medicine at the Lincoln. Morris was aboutto finish his residency and begin private practice, soit was a kind of coming-out party, given for himself.It was done very well, with an understated comfortability that must have cost him more thanhe could afford. I was reminded of those lavish par•ties given by manufacturers to launch a new prod•uct, or a new line. In a sense, that was what it was.

George Morris, twenty-eight, with a wife and twochildren, was deeply in debt: any doctor in his position would be. Now he was about to startburrowing out from under, and to do that heneeded patients. Referrals. Consults. In short, heneeded the good will and help of established physi•cians in the area, and that was why he had invited200 of them to his home and filled them to theneck with the best booze he could buy and the bestcanapes the caterers could provide.

As a pathologist, I was flattered to have received an invitation. I couldn't do anything for Morris; pa•thologists deal with corpses and corpses don't need referrals. Morris had invited Judith and me becausewe were friends.

I think we were his only friends at the party thatnight.

I looked around the room: the chiefs of service from most of the big hospitals were there. So werethe

residents, and so were the wives. The wives hadclustered in a corner, talking babies; the doctorswere clustered into smaller groups, by hospital orby specialty. It was a kind of occupational division,very striking to see.

In one corner, Emery was arguing the therapeu•tic advantage of lower I131doses in hyperthyroidism;in another, Johnston was talking about hepatic pres•sures in porto caval shunts; in still another,Lewiston could be heard muttering his usual lineabout the inhumanity of electroshock therapy for

depressives. From the wives, occasional words like"IUD" and "chickenpox" drifted out.

Judith stood next to me, looking sweet and ratheryoung in a blue A-line. She was drinking herScotch quickly—she's a gulper—and obviously pre•paring to plunge into the group of wives.

"I sometimes wish," she said, "that they'd talk about politics or something. Anything but medi•cine."

I smiled, remembering Art's line about doctorsbeing illpolitical. He meant it the way you usedwords like illiterate. Art always said doctors notonly held no real political views, but also were inca•pable of them.

"It's like the military," he had oncesaid. "Political views are considered unprofes•sional." As usual, Art was exaggerating, but therewas something to what he said.

I think Art likes to overstate his case, to shockand irritate and goad people. It is a characteristic ofhis. But I think he is also fascinated by the thinline that separates truth from untruth, statementfrom overstatement. It is a characteristic of his toconstantly throw out his comments and see whopicks them up and how they react to them. Hedoes this particularly when he is drunk.

Art is the only doctor I know who will get drunk.The others can apparently pour back fantasticquantities of alcohol without really showing it; theyget talkative for a while, and then sleepy. Art getsdrunk, and when he is drunk he is particularly an•gry and outrageous.

I have never understood this about him. For awhile I thought he was a case of pathological intox•ication,5but later I decided it was a sort of personalindulgence, a willingness to let himself go when others kept themselves rigidly in control. Perhapshe needs this indulgence; perhaps he can't help it; perhaps he actively seeks it as an excuse to blow offsteam.

Certainly he is bitter toward his profession.Many doctors are, for various reasons: Jones be•cause he is hooked on research and can't make asmuch money as he'd like; Andrews because urology cost him his wife and a happy family life; Telser be•cause he is surrounded in dermatology by patientswhom he considers neurotic, not sick. If you talk toany of these men, the resentment shows itselfsooner or later. But they are not like Art. Art is re•sentful against the medical profession itself.

I suppose in any profession you meet men whodespise themselves and their colleagues. But Art isan extreme example. It is almost as if he went into medicine to spite himself, to make himself unhappyand angry and sad.

In my blackest moments, I think he does abor•tions only to jar and irritate his colleagues. That isunfair, I

think, but I can never be sure. When he issober, he talks intellectually, unreeling arguments

5Defined as a person who becomes more inebriated than his blood alco•hol levels would explain. In the most extreme cases, a single drink maymake a man a raving, destructive lunatic.

for abortion. When he is drunk, he talks emotions,attitudes, stances, complacency.

I think he feels hostility toward medicine andgets drunk so that he can release his hostility withan excuse—he's drunk. Certainly he has gotten intobitter, almost vicious fights with other doctors whenhe was drunk; he once told Janis that he'd abortedhis wife and Janis, who didn't know, looked as ifhe'd been kicked in the balls. Janis is Catholic buthis wife isn't. Art managed to end a perfectly happydinner party right on the spot.

I attended that party, and I was annoyed with Artafterward. He apologized to me a few days later, andI told him to apologize to Janis, which he did. Forsome strange reason, Janis and Art subsequently be• came close friends, and Janis became a convert to abortion. I don't know what Art said to him or howhe convinced him, but whatever it was, it worked.

Because I know Art better than most people, I attach a great importance to his being Chinese. Ithink his origin and his physical appearance havebeen a great influence on him. There are a lot ofChinese and Japanese men in medicine, and there are a lot of jokes about them—half-nervous jokesabout their energy and their cleverness, their driveto success. It is precisely the kind of jokes onehears about Jews. I think Art, as a Chinese-American, has fought this tradition, and he has alsofought his upbringing, which was essentially con•servative. He swung the other way, became radicaland leftist. One proof of this is his willingness to

accept all things new. He has the most modern of•fice equipment of any OB man in Boston. When•ever a new product comes out, he buys it. Thereare jokes about this, too—the gadget-orientedOrientals—but the motivation is different. Art isfighting tradition, routine, the accepted way.

When you talk to him, he seems bursting withideas. He has a new method for doing the Pappsmear.6He wants to abandon the routine, digitalpelvic exam as a waste of time. He thinks that basaltemperature as an indicator of ovulation is more ef•fective than reported. He thinks forceps should beeliminated from all deliveries, no matter how com• plicated. He thinks that general anesthesia in deliv•eries should be abandoned in favor of heavy dosesof tranquilizers.

When you first hear these ideas and theories, you are impressed. Only later do you realize that he is compulsively attacking tradition, finding fault whenever and wherever he can.

I suppose it is only natural that he should begin performing abortions. And I suppose that I should question his motives. But I don't usually, because Ifeel that a man's reasons for doing something areless important than the ultimate value of what hedoes. It is a historical truth that a man may do thewrong thing for the right reasons. In that casehe loses. Or he may do the right thing for thewrong reasons. In that case, he is a hero.

6The Papp smear is the most accurate diagnostic test in all of medicine.

Of all the people at the party, one might be ableto help me. That was Fritz Werner, but I didn't seehim; I

kept looking.

Instead I ran into Blake. Blake is a senior pathol•ogist at the General, but he is principally known forhis head, which is enormous, round, and smooth. The features of his face are small and childlike, atiny jaw and wide-set eyes, so that Blake looks likeeverybody's vision of future man. He is coldly,sometimes

maddeningly intellectual man, and he isfond of games. He and I have played one game, offand on, for years.

He greeted me with a wave of his martini glassand, "Ready?" "Sure."

"Moans to Rocky," he said.

It sounded easy. I took out my notebook and pen•cil and tried it out. At the top of the page I wrote

MOANS and at the bottom, ROCKY. Then I tried to fit things together.

MOANS

LOANS

LOINS

LOONS

BOONS

BOOKS

ROOKS

ROCKS

ROCKY

It took only a few moments."How many?" Blake said."Nine."

He smiled. "I'm told it can be done in five. I haveseven." He took the pad from me and wrote:

MOANS

LOANS

LOONS

LOOKS

ROOKS

ROCKS

ROCKY

I reached into my pocket and gave him a quarter.He had won the last three in a row, and over theyears, he had beaten me consistently. But thenBlake beat everybody.

"By the way," he said, "I heard another argument.Do you know the DNA template one?"7

"Yes," I said.

He shook his head. "Pity. I enjoy it. Springing iton people, I mean."

I smiled at him, barely able to conceal my plea•sure.

"You know the latest on Youth in Asia? The oneabout the right to refuse medication? You can fit itinto the fluoride arguments, very neatly."8

7See Appendix VI: Arguments on Abortion. 8See Appendix VII: Medical Morals.

I'd heard that one, too, and I told him so. Thisseemed to depress him. He wandered off to try hisluck with someone else.

Blake collects arguments on medical philosophy. He is never happier than when he is logically dem• onstrating to a surgeon that he has no right to op•erate, or to an internist that he is ethically bound tokill every patient he can. Blake likes words andtosses around ideas the way small children playsoftball in the street. It is easy for him, effortlessand amusing. He and Art get along well together.Last year the two of them had a four-hour argu•ment over whether an obstetrician was morally re• sponsible for all children born under his direction,from the time they were born until they died.

In retrospect, all of Blake's arguments seem nomore useful or important than watching an athleteexercise in a gym, but at the time they can be fas•cinating. Blake has a keen sense of the arbitrary,and it stands him in good stead when working withmembers of the most arbitrary profession on earth.

Wandering around the party, I heard snatches ofjokes and conversations; it was, I thought, a typical medical party.

"Did you hear about the French biochemist whohad twins. He baptized one and kept the other asa control."

"They all get bacteremia sooner or later, any•way...."

"And he was walking around—walking around,

mind you, with a blood pH of seven-point-six and apotassium of one. . . ."

"Well, what the hell do you expect of a Hopkinsman?"

"So he said, 'I gave up smoking, but I'll bedamned if I'll give up drinking.'"

"Sure, you can correct the blood gases, but it doesn't help the vasculature. . . ."

"She was always a nice girl. Very well dressed. They must have spent a fortune on her clothes. . . ."

"...course he's pissed. Anybody'd be pissed. . . ."

". . . oliguric my ass. He wasan uric for five days,and he still survived. . . ."

". . . in a seventy-four-year-old man, we just ex•cised it locally and sent him home. It's slow grow•ing, anyhow. . . ."

". . . liver reached down to his knees, practically.But no hepatic failure. . . ."

"She said she'd sign herself out if we didn't oper•ate, so naturally, we . . ."

". . . but the students are always bitching; it's anonspecific response. . . ."

"Well, apparently this girl had bitten it off ofhim. . . ."

"Really? Harry, with that little nurse in Seven?The blonde?"

". . . don't believe it. He publishes more journalarticles than most people can read in a life•time. . . ."

". . . metastases to theheart . . ."

"Anyway, it goes like this: there's this desert

prison, see, with an old prisoner, resigned to hislife, and a young one just arrived. The young onetalks constantly of escape, and, after a few months,he makes a break. He's gone a week, and then he'sbrought back by the guards. He's half dead, crazy with hunger and thirst. He describes how awful itwas to the old prisoner. The endless stretches ofsand, no oasis, no signs of life anywhere. The oldprisoner listens for a while, then says, 'Yep. I know.I tried to escape myself, twenty years ago.' The young prisoner says, 'You did? Why didn't you tellme, all these months I was planning my escape?Why didn't you let me know it was impossible?'And the old prisoner shrugs, and says, 'So who pub•lishes negative results?'"

At eight,I was beginning to get tired. I saw FritzWerner come in, waving to everyone and talkinggaily. I

started over toward him, but Charlie Frankcaught me on the way.

Charlie stood half hunched over, with a twisted, painful expression on his face as if he'd just been stabbed in the stomach. His eyes were wide andsad. Altogether, it was quite a dramatic effect, but Charlie always looked that way. He wore an air ofimpending crisis and imminent tragedy on hisshoulders, and it burdened him, crushing him to the floor. I had never seen him smile.

In a tense, half whisper, he said, "How is he?"

"Who?"

"Art Lee."

"He's all right." I didn't want to talk about Lee with Charlie Frank.

"Is it true he's been arrested?"

"Yes."

"Oh, my God." He gave a little gasp.

"I think it will turn out all right in the end," Isaid.

"Do you?"

"Yes," I said, "I do."

"Oh, my God." He bit his lip. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I don't think so."

He was still holding on to my arm. I lookedacross the room at Fritz, hoping Charlie'd noticeand let go. He didn't.

"Say, John . . ."

"Yes?"

"What's this I heard about you, ah, getting in•volved?"

"Let's say I'm interested."

"I ought to tell you," Charlie said, leaning close, "that there's talk in the hospitals. People are saying that you're concerned because you're mixed up in ityourself."

"Talk is cheap."

"John, you could make a lot of enemies."

In my mind, I was thinking over Charlie Frank's friends. He was a pediatrician, and very successful: he worried over his young patients more than theirmothers and that comforted them.

"Why do you say that?"

"It's just a feeling I get," he said with a sad look.

"What do you suggest I do?"

"Stay away from it, John. It's ugly. Really ugly."

"I'll remember that."

"A lot of people feel very strongly—"

"So do I."

"—that this is something to be left to the courts."

"Thanks for the advice."

His grip on my arm hardened. "I'm saying this asa friend, John."

"O.K., Charlie. I'll remember."

"It's really ugly, John."

"I'll remember."

"These people won't stop at anything," he said.

"What people?"

Quite abruptly, he let go of my arm. He gave anembarrassed little shrug. "Well, you have to do whatyou think is best, in any case."

And he turned away.

Fritz werner was standing,as usual, by the bar.He was a tall, painfully thin, almost emaciatedman. He kept his hair trimmed short, and this em•phasized his large, dark, brooding eyes. He had abirdlike manner, a gawky walk, and a habit of cran•ing his thin neck forward when he was addressed,as if he could not hear well. There was an intensity about him, which might have stemmed from hisAustrian ancestry or from his artistic nature. Fritz painted and sketched as a hobby, and his office al• ways had a cluttered, studiolike appearance. But he

made his money as a psychiatrist, listening patientlyto bored, middle-aged matrons who had decided ata late date that there was something wrong withtheir minds.

He smiled as we shook hands. "Well, well, if itisn't poison ivy."

"I'm beginning to think so myself." ,

He looked around the room. "How many lecturesso far?"

"Just one. Charlie Frank."

"Yes," Fritz said, "you can always count on him for bad advice."

"And what about you?"

He said, "Your wife is looking very charming to•night. Blue is her color."

"I'll tell her."

"Very charming. How is your family?"

"Good, thanks. Fritz—"

"And your work?"

"Listen, Fritz. I need help."

He laughed softly. "You need more than help. Youneed rescue."

"Fritz—"

"You've been seeing people," he said. "I imagine you've met them all by now. What did you think of

Bubbles?"

"Bubbles?"

"Yes."

I frowned. I had never heard of anyone namedBubbles. "You mean, Bubbles the stripper?"

"No. I mean Bubbles the roommate."

"Herroommate?"

"Yes."

"The one at Smith?"

"God, no. The one from last summer, on the Hill.Three of them shared an apartment. Karen, and Bubbles, and a third girl who had some kind ofmedical connections—nurse, or technician, orsomething. They made quite a group."

"What's the real name of this girl Bubbles? Whatdoes she do?"

Someone came up to the bar for another drink.Fritz looked out at the room and said in a profes•sional voice, "This sounds quite serious. I suggestyou send him to see me. As it happens, I have afree hour tomorrow at two-thirty."

"I'll arrange it," I said.

"Good," he said. "Nice to see you again, John."

We shook hands.

JUDITH WAS TALKING TO NORTON  HAMMOND,  whowas leaning against the wall. As I walked up, Ithought to myself that Fritz was right: she was look•ing good. And then I noticed that Hammond was smoking a cigarette. There was nothing wrong withthat, of course, except that Hammond didn'tsmoke.

He didn't have a drink in his hand, and he wassmoking rather slowly and deeply."Say," I said, "you want to watch that."He laughed. "My social protest for the night."

Judith said, "I tried to tell him somebody wouldsmell it."

"Nobody here can smell anything," Hammondsaid. It was probably true; the room was thick withblue smoke. "Besides, remember Goodman andGilman."9

"Still. Be Careful."

"Think of it," he said, taking a deep drag. "No bronchogenic carcinoma, no oat-cell carcinoma, no chronic bronchitis and emphysema, no arterioscle•roticheart disease, no cirrhosis, no Wernicke- Korsakoff. It's beautiful."

"It's illegal."

He smiled and pulled at his moustache. "You'reup for abortion but not maryjane, is that it?"

"I can only take one crusade at a time."

A thought came to me as I watched him suck ina mouthful of smoke and exhale clear air. "Norton,you live on the Hill, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you know anybody named Bubbles?"

He laughed. "Everybody knows Bubbles. Bubblesand Superhead. They're always together."

"Superhead?"

"Yeah. That's her bag at the moment. He's anelectronic musician. A composer. He likes things

9Goodman and Gilman,The Pharmacological Basis of Therapeutics, the definitive text of pharmacology used by doctors. There is a discussion ofthe effects of marijuana on page 300 which has been widely quoted in re•cent legal proceedings.

that sound like ten dogs howling. They're living to•gether."

"Didn't she live with Karen Randall?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Why?"

"What's her real name? Bubbles."

He shrugged. "I never heard her called anythingelse. But the guy: his name is Samuel Archer."

"Where does he live?"

"Over behind the State House somewhere. In abasement. They have it fixed up like a womb."

"A womb?"

"You have to see it to believe it," Norton said,and he gave a relaxed, satisfied sigh.

TEN

JUDITH SEEMED TENSE ON THE DRIVE BACK. She satwith her knees together and her hands claspedaround them. She was squeezing her hands hard;the knuckles were white.

"Something wrong?"

"No," she said. "Just tired."

I said, "Was it the wives?"

She smiled slightly. "You've become very famous.Mrs. Wheatstone was so upset that she missed abid at this afternoon's game, I understand."

"What else did you hear?"

"They all asked me why you were doing it, help•ing Art. They thought it was a marvelous exampleof a man sticking by his friend. They thought it washeartwarming and humane and wonderful."

"Uh-huh."

"And they kept asking why."

"Well, I hope you told them it's because I'm anice guy."

She smiled in the darkness. "I wish I'd thought ofthat."

Her voice was sad, though, and her face in thereflected light of the headlights was drawn. I knew it wasn't easy for her to be with Betty all the time.But somebody had to do it.

For some reason, I remembered my student days and Purple Nell. Purple Nell was a seventy-eight-

year-old former alcoholic who had been dead a yearbefore she became our cadaver. We called her Nell, and a lot of other things, small grim jokes to help us get through our work. I remembered my desireto quit, to stop cutting the cold, damp, stinkingflesh, to stop peeling away the layers. I dreamed ofthe day I would be finished with Nell, when Icould forget her, and the smells, and the feel ofgreasy, long-dead flesh. Everyone said it got easier.I wanted to stop, to be finished and done. But Inever quit until all the dissections had been com•pleted, all the nerves and arteries traced out andlearned.

After my initial harsh experience with cadavers, Iwas surprised to find I was interested in pathology.

I like the work and have learned to push from mymind the smells and the sight of each new corpse, each new postmortem. But somehow autopsies aredifferent, in some strange sense more hopeful. Atautopsy you are dealing with a man, newly dead,and you know his story. He is not a faceless, anon•ymous cadaver but a person who had recentlywaged a very private battle, the only private battlein life, and lost. Your job is to find out how, andwhy, he lost, in order to help others who will soondo battle—and yourself. It is a far cry from the dis•section cadavers, which exist in a kind of sickening, professional death, as if their only purpose in theirtwilight, embalmed afterlife is to be thoroughly,inspectably dead.

when we got home,Judith went in to check onthe kids and call Betty. I took the sitter home. Shewas a short, pert girl named Sally, a cheerleader atBrookline High. Normally, when I drove her homewe talked

about neutral, safe things: how she likedschool, where she wanted to go to college, things like that. But tonight I was feeling inquisitive, and old, and out of touch, like a man returning to his country after an extended time abroad. Everythingwas different, even the kids, even youth. Theyweren't doing what we had done. They had differ•ent challenges and different problems. At least,they had different drugs. Perhaps the problemswere still the same. At least, that was what youwanted to think.

Finally I decided I had had too much to drink atthe party, and had better keep my mouth shut. SoI let Sally talk about passing her driver's test, andnothing more. As she talked, I felt both cowardlyand relieved. And then I thought that it was foolish,that there was no reason for me to be curious aboutmy babysitter, no reason to get to know her, andthat if I tried it might be interpreted wrongly. It wassafer to talk about drivers' licenses; solid, respecta•ble, reasonable ground.

Then, for some reason, I thought of Alan Zenner.And something Art had said. "If you want to know about this world, turn on your television to an inter•view program, and turn off the sound." I did, a few days later. It was bizarre: the faces moving, the tongues going, the expressions and the hands. Butno sound. Nothing at all. You had no idea what theywere saying.

Ifound the address in the phone book: Samuel F.Archer, 1334 Langdon Street. I dialed the number.A

recorded voice came on.

"I am sorry, sir, the number you have dialed is notin service at this time. If you hold the line, an op•erator will give you further information."

I waited. There was a series of rhythmic clicks, like the beat of a telephone heart, and then the op•

erator. "Information. What number are you calling?"

"Seven-four-two-one-four-four-seven."

"That number has been disconnected."

"Do you have another listing?"

"No, sir."

Probably Samuel F. Archer had moved, but per•haps he hadn't. I drove there directly. The apart•ment was located on a steep hill on the east slopeof Beacon Hill, in a battered apartment building.The hallway smelled of cabbage and baby formula.I went down a flight of creaking wooden stairs tothe basement, where a green light flashed, illumi•nating a door painted flat black.

A sign said,God Grows His Own.

I knocked.

From inside, I could hear screeches, whines,warbles, and something that sounded like groans.The door opened and I faced a young man in histwenties with a full beard and long, damp blackhair. He wore dungarees, sandals, and a purplepolka-dot shirt. He looked at me blandly, showingneither surprise nor interest. "Yes?"

"I am Dr. Berry. Are you Samuel Archer?" "No."

"Is Mr. Archer in?"

"He's busy right now."

"I'd like to see him."

"You a friend of his?"

He was staring at me with open suspicion. Iheard more sounds—a grating, a rumble, and along, drawnout whistle.

"I need his help," I said.

He seemed to relax slightly. "This is a bad time."

"It's urgent."

"You're a doctor?"

"Yes."

"You have a car?"

"Yes."

"What kind?"

"Chevrolet. Nineteen-sixty-five."

"What's the license?"

"Two-one-one-five-sixteen."

He nodded. "O.K.," he said. "Sorry, but you knowhow it is these days. You can't trust anyone.1Come in." He stepped back from the door. "But don't sayanything, all right? I'll tell him first. He's compos•ing, and he gets pretty wrapped up. It's the seventhhour and it should be O.K. But he does flip outeasy. Even late."

We walked through what seemed to be a living room. There were studio couches and a few cheap lamps. The walls were white, and painted in weird,flowing designs in fluorescent colors. An ultraviolet lamp heightened the effect.

"Wild," I said, hoping that was the right thing.

"Yeah, man."

We went into the next room. The lighting was low. A pale, short boy with an immense head of curly blond hair squatted on the floor surroundedby electronic equipment. Two speakers stood by the far wall. A tape recorder was running. The pale boy was working with his equipment, twirling knobs,producing the sounds. He did not look up at us as

1The Federal narcotics agents, or "narcs," are known in Boston to favorChevrolets with licenses

beginning with 412 or 414.

we entered. He seemed to be concentrating hard,but his movements were slow.

"Stay here," said the bearded boy. "I'll tell him."

I stood by the door. The bearded boy approachedthe other and said gently, "Sam. Sam."

Sam looked up at him. "Hi," he said.

"Sam, you have a visitor."

Sam seemed puzzled. "I do?" He still had not no•ticed me.

"Yes. He is a very nice man. A very nice man. Doyou understand that? He is very friendly."

"Good," Sam said slowly.

"He needs your help. Will you help him?"

"Sure," Sam said.

The bearded boy beckoned to me. I came over and said to him, "What is it?"

"Acid," he said. "Seventh hour. He should becoming down now. But go easy, right?"

"O.K.," I said.

I squatted down so I was on Sam's level. Samlooked at me with blank eyes.

"I don't know you," he said finally.

"I'm John Berry."

Sam did not move. "You're old, man," he said."Reallyold."

"In a way," I said.

"Yeah, man, wow. Hey, Marvin," he said, lookingup at his friend, "did you see this guy? He's really

old:

"Yes," Marvin said. "Hey, wow, old."

"Sam," I said, "I'm your friend."

I held out my hand, slowly, so as not to frightenhim. He did not shake it; he took it by the fingersand held it to the light. He turned it slowly, looking at the palm, then the back. Then he moved the fin•gers.

"Hey, man," he said, "you're a doctor."

"Yes," I said.

"You have doctor's hands. I can feel it."

"Yes."

"Hey, man. Wow. Beautiful hands."

He was silent for a time, examining my hands,squeezing them, stroking them, feeling the hairs onthe back, the fingernails, the tips of the fingers.

"They shine," he said. "I wish I had hands likethat."

"Maybe you do," I said.

He dropped my hands and looked at his own. Fi•nally he said, "No. They're different."

"Is that bad?"

He gave me a puzzled look. "Why did you comehere?"

"I need your help."

"Yeah. Hey. O.K."

"I need some information."

I did not realize this was a mistake until Marvinstarted forward. Sam became agitated; I pushedMarvin back.

"It's O.K., Sam. It's O.K."

"You're a cop," Sam said.

"No. No cop. I'm not a cop, Sam."

"You are, you're lying."

"He often gets paranoid," Marvin said. "It's his bag. He's worried about freaking out."

"You're a cop, a lousy cop."

"No, Sam. I'm not a cop. If you don't want tohelp me, I'll leave."

'You're a rock, a cop, a sock, a lock."

"No, Sam. No. No."

He settled down then, his body relaxing, hismuscles softening.

I took a deep breath. "Sam, you have a friend.Bubbles."

"Yes."

"Sam, she has a friend named Karen."

He was staring off into space. It was a long time before he answered. "Yes. Karen."

"Bubbles lived with Karen. Last summer."

Yes.

"Did you know Karen?"

"Yes."

He began to breathe rapidly, his chest heaving,and his eyes got wide.

I put my hand on his shoulder, gently. "Easy,Sam. Easy. Easy. Is something wrong?"

"Karen," he said, staring across the room. "Shewas . . . terrible."

"Sam—"

"She was the worst, man. The worst."

"Sam, where is Bubbles now?"

"Out. She went to visit Angela. Angela . . ."

"Angela Harding," Marvin said. "She and Karenand Bubbles all roomed together in the summer."

"Where is Angela now?" I asked Marvin.

At that moment, Sam jumped up and began toshout "Cop! Cop!" at the top of his lungs. Heswung at me, missed, and tried to kick me. I caughthis foot, and he fell, striking some of the electronic equipment. A loud, high-pitched whee-whee-wheefilled the room.

Marvin said, "I'll get the thorazine."2

"Screw the thorazine," I said. "Help me." I grabbed Sam and held him down. He screamed over the howl of the electronic sound.

"Cop! Cop! Cop!"

He kicked and thrashed. Marvin tried to help,but he was ineffectual. Sam was banging his headagainst the floor.

"Get your foot under his head."

He didn't understand.

"Move!" I said.

He got his foot under, so Sam would not hurt hishead. Sam continued to thrash and twist in mygrip. Abruptly, I released him. He stopped writhing,looked at his hands, then looked at me.

"Hey, man. What's the matter?"

"You can relax now," I said.

2Thorazine is a tranquilizer, universally used as an antidote to LSD and employed to end bad trips. However, when other psychedelic compounds such as STP are used, thorazine heightens the drug effect instead of abol•ishing it. Thus physicians who see LSD psychosis in the EW no longer au•tomatically administer thorazine.

"Hey, man. You let me go."

I nodded to Marvin, who went and unpluggedthe electronic equipment. The howls stopped. The room became strangely silent.

Sam sat up, staring at me. "Hey, you let me go.You really let me go."

He looked at my face.

"Man," he said, touching my cheek, "you're beau•tiful."

And then he kissed mewhen Igot home,Judith was lying awake in bed.

"What happened?"

As I undressed, I said, "I got kissed."

"By Sally?" She sounded amused.

"No. By Sam Archer."

"The composer?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"It's a long story," I said.

"I'm not sleepy," she said.

I told her about it, then got into bed and kissedher. "Funny," I said, "I've never been kissed by aman before."

She rubbed my neck. "Like it?"

"Not much."

"That's strange," she said, "I like it fine," and shepulled me down to her.

"I bet you've been kissed by men all your life," Isaid.

"Some are better than others."

"Who's better than others?""You're better than others.""Is that a promise?"

She licked the tip of my nose with her tongue."No," she said, "that's a come-on."

WEDNESDAY

OCTOBER 12

ONE

Once a month,the Lord takes pity on the Cradleof Liberty and lets the sun shine on Boston. Todaywas that day: cool, bright and clear, with an autumn crispness in the air. I awoke feeling good, with thesharp expectation that things would happen.

I had a large breakfast, including two eggs, whichI ate with guilty relish, savoring their cholesterol.Then I went into my study to plan the day. I beganby drawing up a list of everyone I had seen and try•ing to determine if any of them were suspects. No•body really was.

The first person to suspect in any abortion ques•tion is the woman herself, since so many are

self-induced. The autopsy showed that Karen must havehad anesthetic for the operation; therefore she didn't do it.

Her brother knew how to do the procedure, buthe was on duty at the time. I could check that, and235

might, later on, but for the moment, there was noreason to disbelieve him.

Peter Randall and J. D. were both possibilities,technically speaking. But somehow I couldn't imag•ine either of them doing it.

That left Art, or one of Karen's Beacon Hillfriends, or somebody I hadn't met yet and didn'teven know existed.

I stared at the list for a while, and then calledthe Mallory Building at the City. Alice wasn't there;I talked with another secretary.

"Have you got the path diagnosis on Karen Ran•dall?"

"What's the case number?"

"I don't know the case number."

Very irritably, she said, "It would help if you did."

"Please check it anyway," I said.

I knew perfectly well that the secretary had afilecard system right in front of her, with all the fin•ished posts for a month arranged alphabetically andby number. It would be no trouble for her.

After a long pause, she said, "Here it is. Vaginalhemorrhage secondary to uterine perforation and lacerations, following attempted dilation and curet•tagefor three-month pregnancy. The secondary diagnosis is systemic anaphylaxis."

"I see," I said, frowning. "Are you sure?"

"I'm just reading what it says," she said.

"Thanks," I said.

I hung up, feeling odd. Judith gave me a cup ofcoffee and said, "What happened?"

"The autopsy report says Karen Randall was preg•nant."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Wasn't she?"

"I never thought so," I said.

I knew I could be wrong. It might have been proven in the micro exam, where the gross hadshown nothing. But somehow it didn't seem likely.

I called Murph's lab to see if he had finishedwith the blood-hormone assay, but he hadn't; itwouldn't be finished until after noon. I said I'd callhim back.

Then I opened the phone book and looked upthe address of Angela Harding. She was living onChestnut

Street, a very good address.

I went over to see her.

chestnut street ISoff Charles,near the bottomof the Hill. It's a very quiet area of town houses, an•tique shops, quaint restaurants, and small grocerystores; most of the people who live here are young professionals—doctors and lawyers and bankers—who want a good address but can't yet afford to move out to Newton or Wellesley. The other peoplewho live here are old professionals, men in their fif• ties and sixties whose children are grown and mar•ried, permitting them to move back to the city. Ifyou

are going to live anywhere in Boston, you haveto live on Beacon Hill.There were, of course, some students living here,

but usually they were stacked three or four deep insmall apartments; it was the only way they could af• ford the rents. Older residents seemed to like thestudents; they added a little color and youth to the neighborhood. That is, they liked the students solong as the students looked clean and behaved themselves.

Angela Harding lived on the second floor of awalk-up; I knocked on the door. It was answered bya slim, dark-haired girl wearing a miniskirt and asweater. She had a flower painted on her cheek,and large, blue-tinted granny glasses.

"Angela Harding?"

"No," said the girl. "You're too late. She's alreadygone. But maybe she'll call back."

I said, "My name is Dr. Berry. I'm a pathologist."

"Oh."

The girl bit her lip and stared at me uncertainly.

"Are you Bubbles?"

"Yes," she said. "How did you know?" And thenshe snapped her fingers. "Of course. You were theone with Superhead last night."

"Yes."

"I heard you'd been around."

"Yes."

She stepped back from the door. "Come in."The apartment had almost no furniture at all. Asingle couch in the living room, and a couple of pil•lows on the floor; through an open door, I saw anunmade bed.

"I'm trying to find out about Karen Randall," Isaid.

"I heard."

"Is this where you all lived last summer?"

"Yeah."

"When did you last see Karen?"

"I haven't seen her for months. Neither hasAngela," she said.

"Did Angela tell you that?"

"Yes. Of course."

"When did she say that to you?"

"Last night. We were talking about Karen lastnight. You see, we'd just found out about her, uh, accident."

"Who told you?"

She shrugged. "The word got around."

"What word?"

"That she got a bad scrape.'

"Do you know who did it?"

She said, "They've picked up some doctor. Butyou know that."

'Yes," I said.

"He probably did it," she said, with a shrug. Shebrushed her long black hair away from her face.She had very pale skin. "But I don't know."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, Karen was no fool. She knew the score.Like, she'd been through the routine before. In•cluding last summer."

"An abortion?"

"Yeah. That's right. And afterward she was real

depressed. She took a couple of down-trips, realfreaks, and it shook her up. She had this thingabout babies, and she knew it was rotten because itgave her freak trips. We didn't want her to fly for awhile after the abortion, but she insisted, and itwas bad. Real bad."

I said, "How do you mean?"

"One time she became the knife. She was scrap•ing out the room and screaming the whole timethat it was bloody, that all the walls were coveredwith blood. And she thought the windows were ba•bies and that they were turning black and dying.Really bad news."

"What did you do?"

"We took care of her." Bubbles shrugged. "Whatelse could we do?"

She reached over to a table and picked up a jarand a small wire loop. She swung the loop in theair and

a stream of bubbles floated out and driftedgently downward. She watched them. One after an•other, they fell to the floor and popped.

"Real bad."

"Last summer," I said, "who did the abortion?"

Bubbles laughed. "I don't know."

"What happened?"

"Well, she got knocked up. So she announcesthat she's going to get rid of it, and she takes off for a day, and then comes back all smiling and happy."

"No problems?"

"None." She swung out another stream of bub-

bles and watched them. "None at all. Excuse me aminute."

She went into the kitchen, poured a glass of wa•ter, and swallowed it with a pill.

"I was coming down," she said, "you know?"

"What was it?"

"Bombs."

"Bombs?"

"Sure. You know." She waved her hand impa•tiently. "Speed. Lifts. Jets. Bennies."

"Amphetamine?"

"Methedrene."

"You on it all the time?"

"Just like a doctor." She brushed her hair backagain. "Always asking questions."

"Where do you get the stuff?"

I had seen the capsule. It was at least five milli•grams. Most of the black-market material is one milligram.

"Forget it," she said. "All right? Just forget it."

"If you wanted me to forget it," I said, "why didyou let me see you take it?"

"A shrink, too."

"Just curious."

"I was showing off," she said.

"Maybe you were."

"Maybe I was." She laughed.

"Was Karen on speed, too?"

"Karen was on everything." Bubbles sighed. "Sheused to shoot speed."

I must have looked puzzled, because she made

jabbing motions at her elbow with her finger, imi•tating intravenous injection.

"Nobody else shoots it," Bubbles said. "But Ka•ren went all out."

I said, "Her trips . . ."

"Acid. Once, DMT."

"How did she feel afterward?"

"Like hell. She was really turned off. Wired out.Down, you know, they were really down-trips."

"Did she stayed turned off?"

"Yeah. The rest of the summer. Never made itonce with a guy for the rest of the summer. Likeshe was afraid."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yeah," she said. "Sure."

I looked around the apartment. "Where isAngela?"

"Out."

"Where did she go? I'd like to talk to her."

"She really needs to talk to you, right now."

I said, "Is she in some kind of trouble?"

"No."

"I'd like to talk to her."

Bubbles shrugged. "If you can find her, talk toher."

"Where did she go?"

"I told you. Out."

"I understand she's a nurse," I said.

"That's right," Bubbles said. "You got the—"

At this point, the door opened and a tall girl

burst into the room. She said, "That bastard isn'tanywhere, he's hiding, the rotten—"

She stopped when she saw me.

" 'Lo, Ang," Bubbles said. She nodded to me."You got an oldie but goodie here to see you."

Angela Harding swept into the room andslumped on the couch, and lit a cigarette. She worea very short black dress, black-net stockings, andpatent-leather black boots. She had long dark hairand a hard, classically beautiful face with bones that looked chiseled; the face of a model. I hadtrouble picturing her as a nurse.

"You're the one who wants to know about Ka•ren?"

I nodded.

"Sit down," she said. "Take a load off."

Bubbles said, "Ang, I didn't tell him—"

"Get me a Coke, would you, Bubbles?" Angelasaid. Bubbles nodded quietly and went into thekitchen.

"You want a Coke?"

"No, thanks."

She shrugged. "Suit yourself." She sucked on thecigarette and stubbed it out. Her movements werequick but she kept her composure, a calm in her face. She lowered her voice. "I didn't want to talkabout Karen in front of Bubbles. She's pretty upset about it."

"Karen?"

"Yes. They were close."

"And you?"

"Not so close."

"How's that?"

"She came on strong, in the beginning. Nice girl, a little wild, but fun. Very strong in the beginning.So we decided to share a room, the three of us.Then later Bubbles moves in with Superhead, andI'm stuck with Karen. It wasn't so easy."

"Why?"

"She was a crazy kid. She was nuts."

Bubbles came back with the Coke. "She wasn't."

"Not around you. She had an act for you."

"You're just mad because of—"

"Yeah. Right. Sure." Angela tossed her head andshifted her long legs. She turned to me and said,"She's talking about Jimmy. Jimmy was a resident Iknew, in OB."

"That was the service you were on?"

"Yes," she said. "Jimmy and I had a thing, and Ithought it was good. Itwas good. Then Karenstepped in."

Angela lit another cigarette and avoided my eyes.I could not really tell whether she was talking to me or to Bubbles. Obviously the two girls did notagree.

"I never thought she'd do it," Angela said. "Notyour own roommate. I mean, there are rules.'.."

"She liked him," Bubbles said.

"Sheliked him. Yeah, I suppose so. For a quickseventy-two hours."

Angela stood up and paced up and down theroom. Her dress barely reached to mid thigh. She

was a strikingly beautiful girl, much more beautifulthan Karen.

"You're not fair," Bubbles said.

"I don'tfeel fair."

"You know what you're saying is a lie. You know that Jimmy—"

"I don't know anything," Angela said. "All I knowis that Jimmy's in Chicago now finishing his resi•dency, and I am not with him. Maybe if I was—"She stopped.

"Maybe," Bubbles said.

"Maybe what?" I said.

"Skip it," Angela said.

I said, "When did you last see Karen?"

"I don't know. It must have been August some•time. Before she started school."

"You didn't see her last Sunday?"

"No," she said, still pacing. She didn't even breakstep. "No."

"That's funny. Alan Zenner saw her last Sunday."

"Who?"

"Alan Zenner. He was a friend of hers."

"Uh-huh."

"He saw her, and she told him she was comingover here."

Angela and Bubbles exchanged looks. Bubblessaid, "The dirty little—"

"It's not true?" I asked.

"No," Angela said tightly. "We didn't see her."

"But he was positive—"

"She must have changed her mind. She usually

did, you know. Karen changed her mind so oftenyou wondered if she had one."

Bubbles said, "Ang, listen . . ."

"Get me another Coke, will you?"

There was no mistaking the command in thevoice. Bubbles got up meekly for another Coke.

"Bubbles is nice," Angela said, "but a little naive.She likes everything to be sweet and nice in theend. That's why what happened to Karen bothersher so much."

"I see."

She stopped pacing and stood in front of me.Her body took on a rigidity that melted slowly intoan icy calm. "Was there anything in particular youwanted to ask me?"

"Just if you'd seen Karen."

"No. The answer is no."

I stood. "Well then, thank you for your time."

Angela nodded. I went to the door. As I left Iheard Bubbles say, "Is he leaving?"

And Angela said, "Shut up."

TWO

Shortly before noonI called Bradford's office andwas told that one of the staff was taking Dr. Lee'scase. The man was named George Wilson. My call

was put through to him. Over the phone hesounded smooth and self-confident; he agreed tomeet me for drinks at five, but not at the TrafalgarClub. We would meet at Crusher Thompson's, abar downtown.

After that, I had lunch in a drive-in and read the morning papers. The story about Art's arrest had fi•nally broken, big, hitting all the front pages, thoughthere was still no link to Karen Randall's death. Along with the story was a picture of Art. Therewere dark, sadistic circles under his eyes. Hismouth drooped in a sinister way and his hair wasdisheveled. He could have been any cheap hood.

The stories didn't say much, just a bare outline ofthe facts of his arrest. They didn't have to saymuch: the picture said it all. In a way it was clever.You couldn't move for a prejudicial pretrial publicityon the basis of an unflattering picture.

After lunch I smoked a cigarette and tried to putit all together. I didn't have much success. The de• scriptions I had heard of Karen were too conflict•ing, too uncertain. I had no clear picture of her, orwhat she might have done. Particularly what shemight have done if she arrived in Boston for a weekend, pregnant, and needing an abortion.

At one I called Murphy's lab again. Murph an•swered the phone.

"Hormones Unlimited."

"Hello, Murph. What's the word?"

"On Karen Randall?"

"Murph, you've been doing homework."

"Not exactly," he said. "The City just called. Wes-ton was on the phone. Wanted to know if you'd brought in a blood sample."

"And what did you say?"

Yes.

"And what did he say?"

"Wanted to know the results. I told him."

"What are the results?"

"All the hormone and excretion metabolite levelsare flat low. She wasn't pregnant. Absolutely impos•

sible."

"O.K.," I said. "Thanks."

Murph had just put some life back into my the•ory. Not much, but some.

"You going to explain all this, John?"

"Not now," I said.

"You promised."

"I know," I said. "But not now."

"I knew you'd do this to me," Murph said. "Sarahwill hate me." Sarah was his wife. She thrived on gossip.

"Sorry, but I just can't."

"Hell of a thing to do to an old friend." "Sorry."

"If she divorces me," Murph said, "I'm naming you as co-defendant."

THREE

I ARRIVED AT THE MALLORY PATH LABS AT THREE. The

first man I ran into was Weston, who was lookingtired. He gave me a lopsided smile of greeting.

"What did you find out?" I said.

"The findings are negative," he said, "for preg•nancy."

"Oh?"

"Yes." He picked up the folder containing thepath protocol and thumbed through it. "No ques•tion."

"I called here earlier and was told the report was three months' pregnancy."

Weston said carefully, "Whom did you talk with?"

"A secretary."

"There must have been some kind of mistake."

"I guess," I said.

He handed me the folder. "Want to see theslides, too?"

"Yes. I'd like to."

We walked to the pathologists' reading room, along room divided into individual cubicles, wherethe pathologists kept their microscopes and slides,and wrote up their autopsies.

We stopped at one booth.

"There it is," Weston said, pointing to a box ofslides. "I'll be curious to have your opinion on themwhen you're through."

He left me, and I sat down in front of the scope,switched on the light, and began work. There were thirty slides in the box, made from all the major or•gans. Six had been made from different parts of theuterus: I

began with them.

It was immediately clear that the girl was notpregnant. The endometrium was not hyperplastic.If anything, it appeared dormant and atrophic, witha thin proliferative layer, few glands, and decreased vascularity. I checked several other slides to be sure. They were all the same. Some contained thromboses from the scraping, but that was the only difference.

As I looked at the slides I considered their mean•ing. The girl had not been pregnant, yet she hadbeen convinced she was. Therefore her periodsmust have stopped. That could account for the dor•mant appearance of the endometrium. But whathad caused the periods to stop? I ran through thedifferential in my mind.

In a girl of this age, neurogenic factors came im•mediately to mind. The pressures and excitementof beginning school and moving to a new environ•ment might have temporarily suppressed menstruation—but not for three months, and notwith the associated signs: obesity, change in hair distribution, and so on.

Then there were hormonal disorders. Adrenal vir-

ilizing syndromes, Stein-Leventhal, irradiation. Allof them seemed unlikely for one reason or another,but there was one quick way to find out.

I put the adrenal slide under the stage. Therewas good evidence of cortical atrophy, particularlyin the cells of the zona fascicularis. The zona glo•merulosaappeared normal.

Rule out virilizing syndromes and adrenal tumor.

Next I looked at the ovaries. Here the changeswere striking. The follicles were small, immature, withered-looking. The whole organ, like the uterineendometrium, had a dormant appearance.

Rule out Stein-Levanthal and ovarian tumor.

Finally, I put the thyroid slide under the stage.Even under the lowest power, the atrophy of thegland was apparent. The follicles were shrunkenand the lining cells were low. Clear hypothyroidism.

That meant that the thyroid, adrenals, and ova•ries were all atrophic. The diagnosis was clear,though the etiology was not. I opened the folderand read through the official report. Weston haddone it; the style was brisk and direct. I came tothe micro write-ups. He had noted the endome•trium was low and aberrant-looking, but he had considered the other glands to be "of normal ap•pearance, question mark early atrophic changes."

I shut the folder and went to see him.

his office was large,lined with books, and veryneat. He sat behind an old, heavy desk smoking a briar pipe, looking scholarly and venerable.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

I hesitated. I had been wondering whether hehad covered up, whether he had joined the otherswho were out to frame Art. But that was ridiculous;Weston couldn't be bought, not at his age, not withhis reputation. Nor was he particularly close to the Randall family. He would have no reason to falsifythe

report.

"Yes," I said. "I wondered about your micro diag•nosis."

He puffed the pipe calmly. "Oh?"

"Yes. I've just reviewed the slides, and they seempretty atrophic to me. I thought perhaps—"

"Well, John," Weston said, chuckling, "I knowwhat you're going to say. You thought perhaps I'dwant to review them." He smiled at me. "Ihave re•viewed them. Twice. This is an importantpostmortem and I did it as carefully as I know how.The first time I examined the slides, I felt as youdid, that they seemed to show pan hypopituitarismaffecting all three target organs—thyroid, adrenals,gonads. I felt that very strongly, so I went back tothe gross organs. As you yourself say, the gross or•gans were not strikingly abnormal."

"It might have been recently acquired," I said.

"Yes," he said, "it might. That's what makes it sodifficult. Then, too, we'd like a look at the brain, to check for evidence of neoplasm or infarction. Butthat's not possible; the body was cremated this morning."

"I see."

He smiled up at me. "Sit down, John. It makesme nervous to have you standing like that." WhenI was sitting, he said, "Anyway I looked at the gross,and then went back to the slides. This time I wasless certain. I wasn't fully convinced. So I checkedsome old cases of pan hypopit, reviewed the oldslides, and finally looked at the Randall slides athird time. By then I felt I could not be certain ofa diagnosis of pituitary dysfunction. The more Ilooked, the less certain I felt. I wanted some kindof corroboratory evidence—brain pathology, or Xrays, or blood hormones. That was why I called JimMurphy."

"Oh?"

"Yes." His pipe went out; he relit it again. "I sus•pected you'd taken the blood sample to do estradiol tests, and that you'd get Murphy to do it. I wantedto know if you'd also decided to have other hor•mone levels checked—TSH, ACTH, T4, anythingthat might help."

"Why didn't you just call me?"

"I did, but your lab didn't know where you were."

I nodded. Everything he had said made perfect sense. I felt my body slowly relaxing.

"By the way," Weston said, "I understand someskull films of Karen Randall were taken a whileback. Any idea what they showed?"

"Nothing," I said. "They were negative."

Weston sighed. "Pity."

"I'll tell you something interesting though," Isaid.

"What's that?"

"They were ordered because she complained of blurring vision."

Weston sighed. "John, do you know the mostcommon cause of blurring vision?"

"No."

"Lack of sleep," Weston said. He pushed the pipe to the side of his mouth and held it in histeeth. "What would you do if you were in my posi•tion? Make a diagnosis on the basis of a complaintwhich led to negative X rays?"

"The slidesare suggestive," I reminded him.

"But only suggestive." He shook his head slowly."This is already a confused case, John. I'm not go•ing to make it more confused by throwing in a di•agnosis I'm not sure about. After all, I may becalled into court to defend it. I'd rather not stickmy neck out. If the prosecution or the defensewants to find a pathologist to review the material and stickhis neck out, that's fine. The material is here for anyone to see. But I'm

not going to do it.My years in the courtroom have taught me onething, at least."

"What's that?"

"Never take a position unless you are certain itcan be defended against any onslaught. That maysound like good advice to a general," he said, smil•ing, "but then, a courtroom is nothing more than avery civilized war."

FOUR

Ihad to see Sanderson. I had promised to seehim, and now I needed his advice badly. But as I entered the lobby of the Lincoln Hospital, the firstperson I saw was Harry Fallon.

He was slinking down a corridor, wearing a rain•coat and hat pulled down over his forehead. Harry is

an internist with a large suburban practice inNewton; he is also a former actor and something ofa clown. I

greeted him and he raised the brim ofhis hat slowly. His eyes were bloodshot and his facesallow.

"I hab a code," Harry said.

"Who are you seeing?"

"Gordon. The cheeb residend." He took out aKleenex and blew his nose loudly. "Aboud my batcode."

I laughed. "You sound like you've swallowed cot•ton."

"Thang you bery mugh." He sniffled. "This is nolabbing madder."

He was right, of course. All practicing doctorsfeared getting sick. Even small colds were consid•ered bad for your image, for what is loosely called"patient rapport," and any serious illness became a

matter for the utmost secrecy. When old Henley fi•nally developed chronic glomerulonephritis, hewent to

elaborate lengths to be sure his patientsnever found out; he would visit his doctor in themiddle of the night, sneaking about like a thief.

"It doesn't sound like a bad cold," I told Harry.

"Hah. You thingh so? Listen to me." He blew hisnose again, a long, honking sound, somewhere be•

tween a foghorn and the death rattle of a hippopot•amus.

"How long have you had it?"

"Du days. Du miberable, miberable days. Mypadends are nodicing."

"What are you taking for it?"

"Hod toddies," he said. "Besd thing for a virus.Bud the world is againsd me, John. Today, on tob ovmy code, I got a tickud."

"A thickud?"

"Yes. For double-barking."

I laughed, but at the back of my mind, some•thing was bothering me, something I knew 1 shouldbe remembering and thinking about, something Ihad forgotten and ignored.

It was a strange and irritating feeling.

I MET SANDERSON IN THE PATH LIBRARY. It's a square

room with lots of chairs, the folding kind, and aprojector and screen. Path conferences are heldhere, in which autopsies are reviewed, and they areso frequent you can practically never get in to use the library books.

On the shelves, in boxes, were autopsy reportsfor every person done in the Lincoln since 1923, the year we began to keep good records. Prior tothat time, nobody had a very good idea of howmany people were dying from what diseases, but asknowledge of medicine and the human body in•creased that information became vitally important.One proof of increased interest was the number ofautopsies performed in 1923 all the reports filledone slim box—but by 1965 it required half a shelffor all the records. At present, more than seventypercent of all patients who died in the hospitalwere autopsied, and there was talk of microfilmingthe reports for the library.

In one corner of the room was a portable electriccoffeepot, a bowl of sugar, a stack of paper cups,and a sign that said, "5 cents a cup. Scout's honor."Sanderson was fussing with the pot, trying to get itto work. The pot represented an ancient challenge:it was said nobody was permitted to finish his path residency at the Lincoln until he had mastered itsworkings.

"Someday," Sanderson muttered, "I'm going toelectrocute myself on this damned thing." Heplugged it in;

crackling sounds were heard. "Me, orsome other poor bastard. Cream and sugar?"

"Please," I said.

Sanderson filled two cups, holding the pot atarm's length. Sanderson was notoriously bad withanything

mechanical. He had a superb, almost in•stinctive understanding of the human body and its

functions of flesh and bone, but mechanical, steel,and electrical objects were beyond him. He lived in constant fear that his car, or his TV, or his stereowould break down; he regarded them all as poten•tial traitors and deserters.

He was a tall, powerfully built man who hadonce rowed stroke for the Harvard heavyweights.His forearms and wrists were as thick as mostmen's calves. He had a solemn, thoughtful face: hemight have been a judge, or an excellent pokerplayer.

"Did Weston say anything else?" he asked.No.

"You sound unhappy."

"Let's say I'm worried."

Sanderson shook his head. "I think you're barkingup the wrong tree here," he said. "Weston wouldn't fake a report for anybody. If he says he was unsure,then he was."

"Maybe you should examine the slides yourself."

"I'd like to," Sanderson said, "but you know that'simpossible."

He was right. If he showed up at Mallory andasked to see the slides, it would be taken as a per•sonal insult by Weston. That kind of thing justwasn't done.

I said, "Maybe if he asked you . . ."

"Why should he?"

"I don't know."

"Weston has made his diagnosis and signed his

name to it. The matter closes there, unless it comesup again during the trial."

I felt a sinking feeling. Over the past days, I hadcome to believe very strongly that there must notbe a trial. Any trial, even an acquittal, would seri•ously damage Art's reputation, his standing, and hispractice. A trial had to be prevented.

"But you think she was hypopit," Sanderson said.

"Yes."

"Etiology?"

"Neoplasm, I think."

"Adenoma?"1

"I imagine. Maybe craniopharyngioma."

"How long?"

"It couldn't be very long," I said. "X rays four months ago were normal. No enlargement or ero•sion of the sella turcica. But she did complain of vi•sion trouble."

"What about pseudotumor?"

Pseudotumor cerebri is a disorder of women andyoung children. Patients get all the symptoms of a tumor, but don't actually have one. It is related towithdrawal of steroid therapy; women sometimesget it when taking birth-control pills. But as far asI knew, Karen wasn't taking pills. I told Sanderson.

"Too bad we don't have slides of the brain," hesaid.

I nodded.

1A chromophobe adenoma is the most common tumor of the pituitary. Itis slow-growing and relatively benign, but it presses on the optic nerve, causing visual symptoms, and it may create endocrine dysfunction.

"On the other hand," Sanderson said, "an abor•tion was performed. We can't forget that."

"I know," I said. "But it's just another indicatorthat Art didn't do it. He wouldn't have aborted herwithout doing a bunny test first, and such a testwould have been negative."

"That's only circumstantial evidence, at best.""I know," I said, "but it's something. A start.""There is another possibility," Sanderson said."Supposing the abortionist was willing to takeKaren's word that she was pregnant."

I frowned. "I don't understand. Art didn't knowthe girl; he had never seen her before. He would

never-

"I'm not thinking of Art," Sanderson said. He wasstaring at his feet, as if he had something embar•rassing on his mind.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, this is all highly speculative. . . ."

I waited for him.

"A lot of muck has been thrown already. I hate toadd to it," he said.

I said nothing.

"I never knew it before," Sanderson continued. "Ithought I was pretty well informed about thesethings, but I never knew it until today. As you canimagine, the whole medical community is buzzing.J. D. Randall's girl dies from an abortion—you can'tkeep other doctors from talking aboutthat."  Hesighed.

"Anyway, it was something one of the wivestold my wife. I don't even know if it's true."

I wasn't going to push Sanderson. He could takehis time in telling me; I lit a cigarette and waited patiently.

"Oh hell," Sanderson said, "it's probably just a ru•mor. I can't imagine I'd never heard of it before."

"What?" I said finally.

"Peter Randall. Peter does abortions. Very quietand exclusive, but he does them."

"Jesus," I said, sitting down in a chair.

"It's hard to believe," Sanderson said.

I smoked a cigarette and thought it over. If Peterdid abortions, did J. D. know? Did he think Peterhad done it, and was covering up for him? Was that what he meant by "a family matter"? If so, why hadArt been dragged into this?

And why would Peter abort the girl in the firstplace? Peter had evidence that there might be something wrong with the girl. He was a goodenough doctor to think of a pit tumor. If the girlcame to him saying she was pregnant, he'd certainlythink back to her vision trouble. And he'd run tests.

"Peter didn't do it," I said.

"Maybe she put pressure on him. Maybe she wasin a hurry. She only had one weekend."

"No. He wouldn't respond to pressure from her."

"She was family."

"She was a young and hysterical girl," I said, re•membering Peter's description.

Sanderson said, "Can you be sure Peter didn't doit?"

"No," I admitted.

"Let's suppose he did. And let's suppose Mrs.Randall knew about the abortion. Or that the girltold her, as she was bleeding to death, that Peterhad done it. What would Mrs. Randall do? Turn inher

brother-in-law?"

I could see where he was leading me. It certainlyprovided an explanation for one of the puzzles ofthe case—why Mrs. Randall had called in the po•lice. But I didn't like it, and I told Sanderson so.

"The reason you don't like it is you're fond of Pe•ter."

"That may be."

"You can't afford to exclude him or anyone else.Do you know where Peter was last Sunday night?"

"No."

"Neither do I," Wes Sanderson said, "but I thinkit's worth checking."

"No," I said, "it's not. Peter wouldn't do it. Andeven if he did, he wouldn't have botched it so badly.No professional would have."

"You're prejudging the case," Sanderson said.

"Look, if Peter could have done it—without tests,without anything—then so could Art."

"Yes," Sanderson said mildly. "That has occurredto me."

FIVE

Iwas feeling irritable when I left Sanderson. Icouldn't decide exactly why. Perhaps he was right;perhaps

I was unreasonably and illogically search•ing for fixed points, for things and people to believein.

But there was something else. In any court ac•tion, there was always the chance that Sanderson and I could be implicated, and our role in foolingthe tissue committee brought out. Both Sanderson and I had a large stake in this business, a stake aslarge as Art's. We hadn't talked about that, but it was there in the back of my mind, and I was surein the back of his as well. And that put a differentinterpretation on things.

Sanderson was perfectly correct: we could putthe squeeze on Peter Randall. But if we did, we'dnever know why we did. We could always say it wasbecause we believed Peter was guilty. Or because itwas expedient, to save a falsely accused man.

But we would always wonder whether we did itsimply to protect ourselves.

Before I did anything, I would have to get moreinformation. Sanderson's argument made no dis•tinction between Mrs. Randall knowing that Peter

had done the abortion and merely suspecting that he had.

And there was another question. If Mrs. Randallsuspected that Peter had done the abortion andwished to keep him from being arrested, why hadshe named Art? What did she know about Art?

Art Lee was a circumspect and cautious man. Hewas hardly a household word among the pregnant women of Boston. He was known to a few physi•cians and a relatively small number of patients. His clientele was carefully chosen.

How had Mrs. Randall known he performedabortions? There was one man who might know theanswer: Fritz Werner.

fritz wernerlived in a town house on BeaconStreet. The ground floor was given over to hisoffice—an anteroom and a large, comfortable room with desk, chair, and couch—and to his library. Theupper two floors comprised his living quarters. I went directly to the second floor and entered theliving room to find it the same as always: a largedesk by the window, covered with pens, brushes, sketchbooks, pastels; drawings by Picasso and Miro on the walls; a photograph of T. S. Eliot gloweringinto the camera; an informal, signed portrait of Marianne Moore talking with her friend FloydPatterson.

Fritz was sitting in a heavy armchair, wearingslacks and an enormous bulky sweater. He had

stereophonic earphones on his head, was smoking a

thick cigar, and crying. The tears rolled down his flat, pale cheeks. He wiped his eyes when he sawme, and took off the earphones.

"Ah, John. Do you know any Albinoni?"

"No," I said.

"Then you don't know the adagio."

"I'm afraid not."

"It always makes me sad," he said, dabbing hiseyes. "Infernally, infernally sad. So sweet. Do sitdown."

I sat. He turned off his record player and took offthe record. He dusted it carefully and replaced it inthe jacket.

"It was good of you to come. How was your day?"

"Interesting."

"You've looked up Bubbles?"

'Yes, I did."

"How did you find her?"

"Confusing."

"Why do you say that?"

I smiled. "Don't analyze me, Fritz. I never pay my doctor bills."

"No?"

"Tell me about Karen Randall," I said.

"This is very nasty, John."

"Now you sound like Charlie Frank."

"Charlie Frank is not acomplete fool," Fritz said."By the way, did I tell you I have a new friend?"

"No," I said.

"I do, a marvelous creature, most amusing. Wemust talk about him sometime."

"Karen Randall," I said, bringing him back to the point.

"Yes, indeed." Fritz took a deep breath. "Youdidn't know the girl, John," he said. "She was not a nice

child. Not at all. She was a mean, lying, un•pleasant little child with severe neuroses. Borderingon psychosis, if you ask me."

He walked into the bedroom, stripping off hissweater. I followed him in and watched as he puton a clean shirt and a tie.

"Her problems," Fritz said, "were sexual in na•ture, stemming from a repressed childhood withher parents. Her father is not the most well-adjusted man I know. Marrying that woman is aperfect example. Have you met her?"

"The present Mrs. Randall?"

"Yes. Ghastly,ghastly woman."

He shuddered as he knotted his tie and straight•ened it in the mirror.

"Did you know Karen?" I asked.

"It was my misfortune to do so. I knew herparents as well. We first met at that marvelous, glo•rious party given by the Baroness de—"

"Just tell me," I said.

Fritz sighed. "This girl, this Karen Randall," hesaid, "she presented her parents with their ownneuroses. In a sense she acted out their fantasies."

"What do you mean?"

"Breaking the mold—being sexually free, not car•ing what people said, dating the wrong kinds of

people, and always with sexual undertones. Ath•letes. Negroes. That sort of thing."

"Was she ever your patient?"

He sighed. "No, thank God. At one point it was suggested that I take her, but I refused. I had threeother adolescent girls at the time, and they were quite enough. Quite enough."

"Who asked you to take her?"

"Peter, of course. He's the only one with anysense in the family."

"What about Karen's abortions?"

"Abortions?"

"Come on, Fritz."

He went to a closet and found a sports coat,pulled it on, and tugged at the lapels. "People never understand," he said. "There is a cycle here, a pat•tern which is as easily recognizable, as familiar, asan MI.1You learn the pattern, the symptoms, the trouble. You see it acted out before you again and again. A rebellious child chooses the weak point ofits parent—with unfailing, uncanny accuracy—and proceeds

to exploit it. But then when punishmentcomes, it must be in terms of the same weak point.It must all fit together: if someone asks you a ques•tion in French, you must answer in French."

"I don't understand."

"For a girl like Karen, punishment was important.She wanted to be punished, but her punishment, like her rebellion, had to be sexual in nature. She

1Myocardial infarction, a heart attack.

wanted to suffer the pain of childbirth, so shecould compensate for breaking with her family, her society, her morality. . . . Dylan put it beautifully; Ihave the poem here somewhere." He began rum•maging through a bookshelf.

"It's all right," I said.

"No, no, a lovely quotation. You'd enjoy it." Hesearched for a few more moments, then straight•ened.

"Can't find it. Well, never mind. The point is that she needed suffering, but never experienced it.That was why she kept getting pregnant."

"You talk like a psychiatrist."

"We all do, these days."

"How many times did she get pregnant?"

"Twice, that I know of. But that is just what Ihear from my other patients. A great many womenfelt threatened by Karen. She impinged upon theirsystem of values, their framework of right andwrong. She challenged them, she implied that theywere old and sexless and timid and foolish. A middle-aged woman can't stand such a challenge; itis terrifying. She must respond, must react, mustform an opinion which vindicates herself—andtherefore condemns Karen."

"So you heard a lot of gossip."

"I heard a lot of fear."

He smoked his cigar. The room was filled withsunlight and blue smoke. He sat on the bed and began pulling on his shoes.

"Frankly," he said, "after a while I began to resent

Karen myself. She went overboard, she did toomuch, she went too far."

"Perhaps she couldn't help it."

"Perhaps," Fritz said, "she needed a good spank•ing."

"Is that a professional opinion?"

He smiled. "That is just my human irritationshowing through. If I could count the number ofwomen who have run out and had affairs—disastrous affairs—just because of Karen. . . ."

"I don't care about the women," I said, "I careabout Karen."

"She's dead now," Fritz said.

"That pleases you?"

"Don't be silly. Why do you say that?"Fritz . . .

"Just a question."

"Fritz," I said, "how many abortions did Karenhave before last weekend?"

"Two."

"One last summer," I said, "in June. And one be•fore that?"

"Yes."

"And who aborted her?"

"I haven't the slightest," he said, puffing on hiscigar.

"It was somebody good," I said, "because Bubblessaid that Karen was only gone for an afternoon. It must have been very skillful and nontraumatic."

"Very likely. She was a rich girl, after all."

I looked at him, sitting there on the bed, tying

his shoes and smoking the cigar. Somehow, I wasconvinced he knew.

"Fritz, was it Peter Randall?"

Fritz grunted. "If you know, why ask?"

"I need confirmation."

"You need a strong noose around your neck, ifyou ask me. But yes: it was Peter."

"Did J. D. know?"

"Heaven help us! Never!"

"Did Mrs. Randall know?"

"Hmmm. There I am not certain. It is possiblebut somehow I doubt it."

"Did J. D. know that Peter did abortions?"

"Yes. Everyone knows that Peter does abortions.He isthe abortionist, believe me."

"But J.D. never knew Karen had been aborted."

"That's correct."

"What's the connection between Mrs. Randalland Art Lee?"

"You are very acute today," Fritz said.

I waited for an answer. Fritz puffed twice on hiscigar, producing a dramatic cloud around his face,and looked away from me.

"Oh," I said. "When?"

"Last year. Around Christmas, if I recall."

"J. D. never knew?"

"If you will remember," Fritz said, "J. D. spentthe months of November and December in Indialast year working for the State Department. Somekind of goodwill tour, or public health thing."

"Then who was the father?"

"Well, there is some speculation about that. Butnobody knows for sure—perhaps not even Mrs. Randall."

Once again, I had the feeling that he was lying.

"Come on, Fritz. Are you going to help me ornot?"

"Dear boy, you are immensely clever." He stood,walked to the mirror, and straightened his jacket. He ran his hands over his shirt. It was somethingyou always noticed about Fritz: he was continuallytouching his body, as if to assure himself that hehad not disappeared.

"I have often thought," Fritz said, "that the pres•ent Mrs. Randall might as well have been Karen's mother, since they are both such bitches in heat."

I lit a cigarette. "Why did J. D. marry her?"

Fritz gave a helpless shrug and fluffed a handker•chief in his pocket. He tugged his shirt cuffs downhis jacket sleeves. "God only knows. There wasgreat talk at the time. She comes from a good fam•ily, you know—a Rhode Island family—but theysent her to a Swiss school. Those Swiss schools willdestroy a girl. In any event, she was a poor choicefor a man in his sixties, and a busy surgeon. Shegrew rapidly bored sitting around her cavernoushome. The Swiss schools teach you to be bored inany case."

He buttoned his jacket and turned away from themirror, with a final glance over his shoulder at him•self.

"So," he said, "she amused herself."

"How long has this been going on?"

"More than a year."

"Did she arrange Karen's abortion?"

"I doubt it. One can't be sure, but I doubt it.More likely it would be Signe."

"Signe?"

"Yes. J. D.'s mistress."

I took a deep breath and wondered if Fritz waskidding me. I decided he wasn't.

"J. D. had a mistress?"

"Oh, yes. A Finnish girl. She worked in the car•diology lab of the Mem. Quite a stunner, I'm told."

"You never met her?"

"Alas."

"Then how do you know?"

He smiled enigmatically.

"Karen liked this Signe?"

"Yes. They were good friends. Rather close inages, actually."

I ignored the implications in that.

"You see," Fritz continued, "Karen was very closeto her mother, the first Mrs. Randall. She died two years ago of cancer—rectum, I think—and it was agreat blow for Karen. She never liked her father much, but had always confided in her mother. Theloss of a confidante at the age of sixteen was a great blow to her. Much of her subsequent . . . activitycan be attributed to bad advice."

"From Signe?"

"No. Signe was quite a proper girl, from what I'mtold."

"I don't get it."

"One of the reasons Karen disliked her fatherwas that she knew about his propensities. You see,he has always had women friends. Young ones. Thefirst was Mrs. Jewett, and then there was—"

"Never mind," I said. I had already gotten thepicture. "He cheated on his first wife, too?"

"Wandered," Fritz said. "Let us say wandered."

"And Karen knew?"

"She was quite a perceptive child."

"There's one thing I don't understand," I said. "IfRandall likes variety, why did he remarry?"

"Oh, that's quite clear. One look at the presentMrs. Randall and you'd know. She is a fixture in hislife, a decoration, an ornament to his existence.Rather like an exotic potted plant—which is not farfrom the truth, considering how much she drinks."

"It doesn't make sense," I said.

He gave me an amused, askance look. "Whatabout that nurse you have lunch with twice aweek?"

"Sandra is a friend. She's a nice girl." As I said it,it occurred to me that he was astonishingly well in•

formed.

"Nothing further?"

"Of course not," I said, a little stiffly.

"You just happen to run into her at the cafeteriaon Thursdays and Fridays?"

"Yes. Our schedules—"

"What do you think this girl feels about you?"

"She's just a girl. She's ten years younger than Iam."

"Aren't you flattered?"

"What do you mean?" I said, knowing exactlywhat he meant.

"Don't you derive satisfaction from talking withher?"

Sandra was a nurse on the eighth-floor medicalservice. She was very pretty, with very large eyesand a very small waist, and a way of walking, . ..

"Nothing has happened," I said.

"And nothing will. Yet you meet her twice aweek."

"She happens to be a welcome change from mywork," I said. "Twice a week. A rendezvous in the intimate, sexually charged atmosphere of the Lin•coln Hospital cafeteria."

"There's no need to raise your voice."

"I'm not raising my voice," I said, lowering it.

"You see," Fritz said, "men handle things differ•ently. You feel no compulsion to do more than talkto this girl. It is enough that she be there, hanging on your every word, mildly in love with you—"

"Fritz—"

"Look," Fritz said. "Let's take a case from my ex•perience. I had a patient who felt a desire to kill

people. It was a very strong desire, difficult to con•trol. It bothered the patient; he was in constant fearof actually killing someone. But this man finally gota job in the Midwest, working as an executioner. He electrocuted people as his livelihood. And hedid it very well; he was the best electrocutioner inthe history of the state. He holds several patents,

little techniques he has developed to do the jobfaster, more painlessly. He is a student of death. Helikes his work. He is dedicated. He sees his meth•ods and his advances much as a doctor does: a re•lief of suffering, an improvement, a bettering."

"So?"

"So I am saying that normal desires can takemany forms, some legitimate, some not. Everyonemust find a way to deal with them."

"We're a long way from Karen," I said.

"Not really. Have you ever wondered why shewas so close to her mother and so estranged fromher father? Have you ever wondered why, when hermother died, she chose the particular mode of be•hayior she did? Sex, drugs, self-humiliation? Evento the point of befriending her father's mistress?"

I sat back. Fritz was being rhetorical again.

"The girl," he said, "had certain stresses andstrains. She had certain reactions, some defensive,some offensive, to what she knew was going onwith her parents. She reacted to what she knew. She had to. In a sense, she stabilized her world."

"Some stability."

"True," Fritz said. "Unpleasant, nasty, perverse.But perhaps it was all she could manage."

I said, "I'd like to talk with this Signe."

"Impossible. Signe returned to Helsinki sixmonths ago."

"And Karen?"

"Karen," Fritz said, "became a lost soul. She had

no one to turn to, no friends, no aid. Or so she

felt."

"What about Bubbles and Angela Harding?"

Fritz looked at me steadily. "What about them?"

"They could have helped her."

"Can the drowning save the drowning?"

We walked downstairs.

SIX

Crusher Thompsonused to be a wrestler in the fif•ties. He was distinguished by a flat, spatulalikehead, which he used to press down on his oppo•nent's chest once the man was down, and thuscrush him. For a few years, it was good for somelaughs—and enough money to buy a bar which hadbecome a hangout

for young professional men. Itwas a well-run bar; Thompson, despite the shape ofhis head, was no fool. He had some cornytouches—you wiped your feet on a wrestling mat as you entered—and the inevitable pictures of himselfon the walls, but the overall effect was pleasing.

There was only one person in the bar when I ar•rived, a heavyset, well-dressed Negro sitting at thefar end, hunched over a martini. I sat down and or•dered a Scotch. Thompson himself was bartending,

his sleeves rolled up to expose massive, hairy fore•arms.

I said, "You know a fellow named George Wil•son?"

"Sure," Thompson said, with a crooked grin.

"Tell me when he comes in, will you?"

Thompson nodded to the man at the far end ofthe bar. "That's him, right there."

The Negro looked up and smiled at me. It was ahalf-amused, half-embarrassed look. I went over and shook his hand.

"Sorry," I said. "I'm John Berry."

"It's all right," he said, "this is new for me, too."

He was young, in his late twenties. There was apale scar running down his neck from his right ear, disappearing below his shirt collar. But his eyeswere steady and calm as he tugged at his redstriped tie and said, "Shall we go to a booth?"

"All right."

As we walked to a booth, Wilson turned over hisshoulder and said, "Two more of the same,Crusher."

The man behind the bar winked.

I said, "You're with Bradford's firm, is that it?"

"Yes. I was hired a little over a year ago."

I nodded.

'"It was the usual thing," Wilson said. "They gaveme a good office with a view out to the receptiondesk, so that people coming in and out could see me. That kind of thing."

I knew what he was saying, but I still felt a twist

of irritation. I had several friends who were younglawyers, and none of them had gotten an office of any kind for several years after joining a firm. Byany objective standard, this young man was lucky,but it was no good telling him that, because weboth knew why he was lucky—he was a kind offreak, a product which society had suddenlydeemed valuable, an educated Negro. His horizonswere now open and his future was good. But hewas still a freak.

"What kind of work have you been doing?'

"Tax, mostly. A few estates. One or two civil pro•ceedings. The firm doesn't have many criminalcases, as you might expect. But when I joinedthem, I expressed an interest in trial work. I neverexpected they'd drop this one on me."

"I see."

"I just want you to understand."

"I think I do. They've stuck you with a deadhorse, is that it?"

"Maybe." He smiled. "At least, that's what theythink."

"And what do you think?"

"I think," he said, "that a case is decided in thecourtroom, not before."

"You have an approach?"

"I'm working on one," Wilson said. "It's going to take a lot of work, because it will have to be good. Because that jury's going to see an uppity Negro de•fending a Chinese abortionist, and they won't likeit."

I sipped my drink. The second round wasbrought and set at one side of the table.

"On the other hand," Wilson said, "this is a big break for me."

"If you win."

"That," he said evenly, "is my intention."

I suddenly thought that Bradford, whatever hisreasons for giving Wilson the case, had made a verywise decision. Because this kid was going to wantto win. Badly.

"Have you talked with Art?"

"This morning."

"What was your impression?"

"Innocent. I'm sure of it."

"Why?"

"I understand him," Wilson said.

Over the second drink,I outlined what I haddone for the last few days. Wilson listened in si•lence, not interrupting me, though he occasionallymade notes. When I was through, he said, "You'vesaved me a lot of work."

"In what way?"

"From what you've already told me, we can closethe case. We can get Dr. Lee off easily."

"You mean because the girl wasn't pregnant?"

He shook his head. "In several cases, amongthemCommonwealth versus Taylor, it was con•cluded that pregnancy is not an essential element.Nor does it matter if the fetus was already deadprior to the abortion."

"In other words, it makes no difference thatKaren Randall wasn't pregnant?"

"None."

"But isn't it evidence that the job was done by an amateur, a person who did not first run a pregnancy test? Art would never perform an abortion withoutchecking first."

"Is that going to be your case? That Dr. Lee istoo skilled an abortionist to make so simple a mis•take?"

I was chagrined. "No, I guess not."

"Look," Wilson said, "you can't conduct a defensebased on the character of the accused. It won'twork, no matter how you try it." He flipped throughhis notebook. "Let me give you a rundown on thelegal situation. In 1845, a Massachusetts General Law stated that it was an offense to procure an abortion, by any means. If the patient did not die,the sentence was not more than seven years; if thepatient did die, it was five to twenty. Since then thelaw has been enlarged upon. Some years later, itwas decided that an abortion, if necessary to savethe life of the mother, was not an unlawful abor•tion. That doesn't apply in this case."

"No."

"Later revisions includeCommonwealth versus Viera,which decided that use of an instrumentwith intent constituted a crime, even without proofthat miscarriage or death resulted. This might bevery important. If the prosecution attempts, as I am sure they will, to show that Dr. Lee is an abortionist

of many years' standing, they will then imply thatan absence of direct evidence is not sufficient toget Lee off the hook."

"Can they do that?"

"No. But they can try, and it would be immenselydamaging to our case."Go on.

"There are two other rulings that are important,because they show how the laws are slanted against the abortionist, with no interest in the women in•volved.Commonwealth versus Wood  ruled that theconsent

of the patient was immaterial and did notconstitute a justification of abortion. The samecourt also concluded that the ensuing death of awoman is only an aggravation of the offense. In ef•fect, this means that your investigation of KarenRandall is, from a legal standpoint, a waste oftime."

"But I thought—"

"Yes," he said, "I said that the case is closed. Andit is."

"How?"

"There are two alternatives. The first is to pre•sent the Randall family with the material at hand,before the trial. Point out the fact that Peter Ran•dall, the deceased's personal physician, is an abor•tionist. The fact that he aborted her previously. Thefact that Mrs. Randall, the wife, had had an abor•tion from Dr. Lee, and hence might be bearing agrudge against him, causing her to lie about whatKaren had said. The fact that Karen was an unsta-

ble and unsavory young lady, whose dying words inany case were open to question. We could present all this to the family, in the hope of persuadingthem to drop charges before the trial."

I took a deep breath. This kid played rough. "Andthe second alternative?"

"The second is an extension, within the court•room. Clearly, the crucial questions concern the re• lationships of Karen, Mrs. Randall, and Dr. Lee.The prosecution's case now stands on Mrs. Ran•dall's testimony. We must discredit it, and her. We must destroy her until no juror dares believe a wordshe says. Then we must examine Karen's personal•ity and behavior. We must demonstrate that shewas an habitual drug-user, a promiscuous person,and a pathological liar. We must convince the jurythat anything Karen said, whether to her step• mother or anyone else, is of doubtful veracity. We can also demonstrate that she was twice aborted byPeter Randall and that in all likelihood he per•formed the third abortion."

"I'm certain Peter Randall didn't do it," I said.

"That may be," Wilson said, "but it is immate•rial."

"Why?"

"Because Peter Randall is not on trial. Dr. Lee is,and we must use anything we can to free him."

I looked at him. "I'd hate to meet you in a darkalley."

"You don't like my methods?" He smiled slightly.

"No, frankly."

"Neither do I," Wilson said. "But we are forcedinto this by the nature of the laws. In many in•stances, laws are slanted against a doctor in thedoctor-patient relationship. We had a case only last year of an intern at the Gorly Clinic who performeda pelvic and rectal exam on a woman. At least, thatwas what he said. The woman claimed he rapedher. There was no nurse present at the examination;no witnesses. The woman had been treated threetimes in mental institutions for paranoia and schiz• ophrenia. But she won the case, and the intern wasout of luck—and out of a profession."

"I still don't like it."

"View it rationally," Wilson said. "The law is clear.Right or wrong, it is clear. It offers both the prose• cution and the defense certain patterns, certain ap•proaches, certain tactics in regard to the present statutes. Unfortunately, for both prosecution and defense, these approaches will come down to char• acter assassinations. The prosecution will attemptto discredit Dr. Lee as thoroughly as they knowhow. We, the defense, will attempt to discredit the deceased, Mrs. Randall, and Peter Randall. Theprosecution will have, as an advantage, the innatehostility of a Boston jury to anyone accused of abor•tion. We will have as an advantage the desire of any random jury from Boston to witness the defilementof an old family."

"Dirty."

He nodded. "Very dirty."

"Isn't there another way to handle it?"

"Yes," he said. "Of course. Find the real abortion•ist."

"When will the trial be?"

"A preliminary hearing next week."

"And the trial itself?"

"Perhaps two weeks later. It's gotten some kind ofpriority. I don't know how, but I can guess."

"Randall pushing his weight around."

Wilson nodded.

"And if an abortionist isn't found by the trial?" Iasked.

Wilson smiled sadly. "My father," he said, "was apreacher. In Raleigh, North Carolina. He was theonly educated man in the community. He liked to read. I remember once asking him if all the peoplehe read, like Keats and Shelley, were white. He saidyes. I asked him if there were any coloreds that he read. He said no." Wilson scratched his forehead,hiding his eyes with his hands. "But anyway, he was a preacher, and he was a Baptist, and he was strict.He believed in a wrathful god. He believed in thun•derbolts from heaven striking a sinner to theground. He believed in hellfire and damnation foreternity. He believed in right and wrong."

"Do you?"

"I believe," Wilson said, "in fighting fire withfire."

"Is the fire always right?"

"No," he said. "But it is always hot and compel•ling."

"And you believe in winning."

He touched the scar along his neck. "Yes."

"Even without honor?"

"The honor," he said, "is in winning."

"Is it?"

He stared at me for a moment. "Why are you soeager to protect the Randalls?"

"I'm not."

"You sound like you are."

"I'm doing what Art would want."

"Art," Wilson said, "wants to get out of jail. I'mtelling you I can get him out. Nobody else in Bos•ton will touch him; he's a hot potato. And I'm tell•ing you I can get him out."

"It's dirty."

"Yes, Christ, it's dirty. What did you expect—acroquet game?" He finished his drink and said,"Look, Berry. If you were me, what would you do?"

"Wait," I said.

"For what?"

"The real abortionist."

"And if he doesn't turn up?"

I shook my head. "I don't know," I said.

"Then think about it," he said and left the bar.

SEVEN

wilson had irritated me,but he had also left mewith plenty to think about. I drove home, pouredmyself a vodka on the rocks, and sat down to put ittogether. I thought about everyone I talked to, andI realized that there were significant questions Ihad never asked. There were gaps, big gaps. Likewhat Karen had done Saturday night, when shewent out in Peter's car. What she had said to Mrs.Randall the next day. Whether she had returned Pe•ter's car—it was now stolen; when had Peter gotten it back?

I drank the vodka and felt a calm settle over me.I had been too hasty; I had lost my temper too of•ten; I

had reacted more to people than to informa•tion, more to personalities than to facts.

I would be more careful in the future.

The telephone rang. It was Judith. She was overat the Lees.

"What's going on?"

In a very steady voice, she said, "You'd bettercome over here. There's some kind of demonstra•tion outside."

"Oh?"

"There's a mob," Judith said, "on the lawn."

"I'll be right over," I said and hung up. I grabbedmy coat and started for the car, then stopped.

It was time to be more careful.

I went back and quickly dialed the city desk oftheGlobe. I reported a demonstration at the Lees'

address. I made it a breathless and melodramaticcall; I was sure they'd act on it.

Then I got in my car and drove over.

When I got to the Lees', the wooden cross wasstill smoldering on the front lawn. A police car wasthere and a large crowd had gathered, mostly neigh•borhood kids and their stunned parents. It was stillearly evening; the sky was deepening blue and thesmoke from the cross curled straight upward.

I pushed through the crowd toward the house.Every window that I could see had been smashed. Someone was crying inside. A cop stopped me atthe door.

"Whore you?"

"Dr. Berry. My wife and children are inside."

He stepped aside and I went in.

They were all in the living room. Betty Lee wascrying; Judith was taking care of the children.There was broken glass all around. Two of the chil•dren had been cut deeply but not seriously. A po•liceman was questioning Mrs. Lee. He wasn'tgetting anywhere. All she said was, "We asked forprotection. We asked for it. We pleaded with you,but you never came. . . ."

"Jesus, lady," said the cop.

"We asked. Don't we have any rights?"

"Jesus, lady," he said again.

I helped Judith bandage the kids.

"What happened?"

Suddenly the cop turned on me. "Who're you?"

"I'm a doctor."

"Yeah, well, high time," he said and turned backto Mrs. Lee.

Judith was subdued and pale. "It started twenty minutes ago," she said. "We've been getting threatsall day, and letters. Then it finally happened: fourcars pulled up and a bunch of kids got out. Theyset up the cross and poured gasoline over it andlighted it. There must have been about twenty of them. They all stood there and sang 'Onward Chris•tian Soldiers.' Then they started to throw rockswhen they saw us looking at them through the win•dow. It was like a nightmare."

"What did the kids look like? Were they well-dressed? What were the cars like?"

She shook her head. "That was the worst part.They were young, nice-looking kids. If they hadbeen old bigots, I could understand, but they werejust teen-agers. You should have seen their faces."

We finished bandaging the children and got themout of the room.

"I'd like to see the letters you've received," I said.

Just then the Lees' year-old baby crawled intothe living room. He was smiling and making little gurgling, drooling noises. The glinting glass on thecarpet obviously intrigued him.

"Hey!" I said to the cop at the door. "Get him!"

The cop looked down. He had been watching thebaby all along.

Now he bent over and stopped the baby by hold•ing on to his pudgy ankle.

"Pick him up," I said to the cop. "He can't hurtyou."

Reluctantly, the cop picked him up. He handledthe baby as if he might be diseased. You could seethe distaste on his face: abortionist's baby.

Judith walked over, her shoes crunching on theglass. She took the baby from the cop. The babydidn't know how the cop felt. He had been happilyplaying with the cop's shiny buttons and droolingon his blue uniform. He didn't like it when Judithtook him away from those buttons.

I heard the other cop say to Mrs. Lee, "Well,look, we get threats all the time. We can't respondto them all."

"But we called when they burned that . . . thatthingon the lawn."

"That's a cross."

"I know what it is," she said. She was no longercrying. She was mad.

"We came as fast as we could," the cop said."That's the truth, lady. As fast as we could."

Judith said to me, "It took them fifteen minutes.By that time, all the windows were broken and the teenagers were gone."

I went over to the table and looked at the letters.They had been carefully opened and stacked in aneat pile. Most were handscrawled; a few were type-

written. They were all short, some just a sentence,and they all had the breathless hiss of a curse.

Dirty comminist Jewlover Nigger lover killer. You and youre kind will get what you deserve, baby killers. Youare the scum of the earth. You may think you are inGermany but you are not.Unsigned.

Our Lord and Saviour spake this 'Suffer the littlechildren to come to me.' You have sinned against the Lord Jesus Our God and you will suffer theretrobution at his Almighty Hands. Praise God in hisinfinite wisdom and mercy.Unsigned.

The decent Godfearing people of the Commonwealthwill not sit idly by. We shall fight you wherever the fight is to be. We shall drive you from your homes, weshall drive you from this country. We shall drive all ofyou out, until our Commonwealth is a decent placefor all to live.Unsigned.

We caught you. We'll catch all your friends. Doctorsthink they can do anything, a) Driving those big Cadillacs. b) charging high costs. c) making patients,wait that's why they call them patients because they wait patiently. d) But you are all evil. You will bestopped.Unsigned.

You like to kill kids? See how it feels to have yourskilled.Unsigned.

Abortion is a crime against God and man and societyand the newborn yet to be. You will pay on this earth.But the Lord in his infinite way will burn you in hellforever.Unsigned.

Abortion is worse than murder. What did they ever doto you? Answer that and you will see I am right. Mayyou rot in jail and your family die.Unsigned.

There was a final letter, written in a neat femi•nine hand.

Iam sorry to hear of your misfortune. I know this must be a trying time for all of you. I only wanted to say that I am very grateful for what you did for melust year, and that I believe in you and what you are doing. You are the most wonderful doctor I have everknown, and the most honest. You have made my life much better than it would be otherwise, and my hus•band and I are eternally grateful. I shall pray for youevery night.

Mrs. Allison Banks

I slipped it into my pocket. It wouldn't do tohave that one lying around.

I heard voices behind me.

"Well, well, well. Fancy that."

I turned. It was Peterson.

"My wife called me."

"Fancy that." He looked around the room. Withall the broken windows, it was getting chilly as night fell.

"Quite a mess, isn't it?"

"You might say so."

"Yes, indeed." He walked around the room."Quite a mess."

Watching him, I had a sudden horrifying visionof a uniformed man in heavy boots strugglingamong ruins. It was a generalized vision, nonspe•cific, attached to no particular time or place or era.

Another man pushed into the room. He wore araincoat and had a pad in his hand.

"Who're you?" Peterson said.

"Curtis. From theGlobe, sir."

"Now who called you, fella?"

Peterson looked around the room. His eyesrested on me.

"Not nice," Peterson said. "Not nice at all."

"It's a reputable newspaper. This boy will reportthe facts accurately. You surely can't object to that."

"Listen," Peterson said. "This is a city of two anda half million and the police department is under•staffed. We can't investigate every crackpot com• plaint and lunatic threat that comes along. We can't do that if we want to do the regular things, like di•rect traffic."

"Family of an accused," I said. I was aware that

the reporter was watching me closely. "Family of anaccused receives threats by telephone and letter. Wife and young family. She's afraid. You ignore her."

"That's not fair and you know it."

"Then something big happens. They start to burn a cross and tear the place apart. The wife calls forhelp. It takes your boys fifteen minutes to get here.How far away is the nearest station?"

"That's not the point."

The reporter was writing.

"You'll look bad," I said. "Lots of citizens in thistown are opposed to abortion, but still more areagainst the wanton, lawless destruction of privateproperty by a band of young hoodlums—"

"They weren't hoodlums."

I turned to the reporter. "Captain Peterson ex•presses the opinion that the kids who burned thecross and broke every window in the house werenot young hoodlums."

"That's not what I meant," Peterson said quickly.

"It's what he said," I told the reporter. "Further•more, you may be interested to know that two chil•dren were seriously lacerated by flying glass.Children ages three and five, seriously lacerated."

"That's not what I was told," Peterson said. "The cuts were only—"

"I believe," I said, "that I am the only doctorpresent at this time. Or did the police bring a doc•tor when

they finally answered the call for help?"

He was silent.

"Did the police bring a doctor?" the reporterasked."No.""Did they summon a doctor?"

"No."

The reporter wrote swiftly.

"I'll get you, Berry," Peterson said. "I'll get you for this."

"Careful. You're in front of a reporter."

His eyes shot daggers. He turned on his heel.

"By the way," I said, "what steps will the policenow take to prevent a recurrence?"

He stopped. "That hasn't been decided yet."

"Be sure," I said, "to explain to this reporter how unfortunate it all is and how you'll post a twenty- four-hour guard. Be sure to make that clear."

He curled his lips, but I knew he would do it.That's all I wanted—protection for Betty, and a lit•tle pressure on the police.

EIGHT

judith took the kids home;I stayed with Bettyand helped her board up the windows. It tooknearly an hour, and with each one I did, I got an•grier.

Betty's kids were subdued, but would not go to

sleep. They kept coming downstairs to complainthat their cuts hurt or that they wanted a glass ofwater. Young Henry in particular complained abouthis foot, so I removed the bandage to be certain Ihad not missed any glass. I found a small sliver stilllodged in the wound.

Sitting there, with his small foot in my hand, andBetty telling him not to cry as I cleaned the woundagain, I suddenly felt tired. The house smelled ofburning wood, from the cross. It was chilly anddrafty from the broken windows. Everything was ashambles; it would take days to clean it up.

All so unnecessary.

When I finished with Henry's foot, I went backto the letters Betty had received. Reading themmade me feel more tired. I kept wondering howpeople could do it, what they must have beenthinking. The obvious answer was that they werethinking nothing. They were simply reacting, as Ihad been reacting, as everyone had been reacting.

I suddenly wanted it finished. I wanted the let•ters to stop, the windows to be fixed, the wounds toheal, and life to return to normal. I wanted it verybadly.

So I called George Wilson.

"1 thought you might call," Wilson said.

"How'd you like to take a trip?"

"Where?"

"J. D. Randall's."

"Why?"

"To call off the dogs," I said.

"Meet me in twenty minutes," he said and hungup.

Aswe drove toward the South Shore and theRandall house, Wilson said, "What made youchange your mind?"

"A lot of things."

"The kids?"

"A lot of things," I repeated.

We drove for a while in silence, then he said,"You know what this means, don't you? It means weput the squeeze on Mrs. Randall and on Peter."

"That's all right," I said.

"I thought he was your buddy."

"I'm tired."

"I thought doctors never got tired."

"Lay off, will you?"

It was late, approaching nine. The sky was black.

"When we get to the house," Wilson said, "I'll dothe talking, right?"

"O.K.," I said.

"It's no good if we both talk. It has to be justone."

"You can have your moment," I said.

He smiled. "You don't like me much, do you?"

"No. Not much."

"But you need me."

"That's right," I said.

"Just so we understand each other," he said.

"Just so you do the job," I said.

I did not remember exactly where the house was,

so I slowed the car as I approached. Finally I foundit and was about to turn into the drive when I stopped. Up ahead, in the gravel turnabout in frontof the house, were two cars. One was J. D. Ran•dall's silver Porsche. The other was a gray Mercedessedan.

"What's the matter?"

I doused my lights and backed away.

"What's going on?" Wilson said.

"I'm not sure," I said.

"Well are we going in, or not?"

"No," I said. I backed across the road and parked on the opposite side, near the shrubs. I had a good view up the drive to the house and could see bothcars clearly.

"Why not?"

"Because," I said, "there's a Mercedes parkedthere."

"So?"

"Peter Randall owns a Mercedes."

"All the better," Wilson said. "We can confrontthem together."

"No," I said. "Because Peter Randall told me hiscar was stolen."

"Oh?"

"That's what he said."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

I thought back. Something was beginning tobother me, to pick at my mind. Then I remem-

bered: the car I had seen in the Randall garagewhen I had visited Mrs. Randall.

I opened my door. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"I want to see that car," I said.

We stepped out into the night, which was dampand unpleasant. Walking up the drive, I reachedinto my pocket and felt my little penlight. I alwayscarried it; a throwback to my days as an intern. 1 was glad to have it now.

"You realize," Wilson whispered, "that we're tres•passing on private property."

"I realize."

We moved from the crunching gravel to the softgrass and climbed the hill toward the house. Therewere lights burning on the ground floor, but theshades were drawn, and we could not see inside.

We came to the cars and stepped onto the gravel again. The sounds of our footsteps seemed loud. I

reached the Mercedes and flicked on my penlight.The car was empty; there was nothing in the backseat.

I stopped.

The driver's seat was soaked in blood.

"Well, well," Wilson said.

I was about to speak when we heard voices anda door opening. We hurried back to the grass and slipped behind a bush near the drive.

J. D, Randall came out of the house. Peter waswith him. They were arguing about something inlow voices; I heard Peter say, "All ridiculous," and

J. D. said, "Too careful"; but otherwise their voiceswere inaudible. They came down the steps to the cars. Peter got into the Mercedes and started theengine. J. D. said, "Follow me," and Peter nodded.Then J. D. got into the silver Porsche and starteddown the drive.

At the road, they turned right, heading south.

"Come on," I said.

We sprinted down the drive to my car, parked onthe opposite side of the road. The other two carswere already far away; we could barely hear theirengines, but we could see their lights moving downthe coast.

I started the car and followed them.

Wilson had reached into his pocket and was fid•dling with something.

''What have you got there?"

He held it over so I could see. A small, silvertube.

"Minox."

"You always carry a camera?"

"Always," he said.

1 stayed back a good distance, so the other carswould not suspect. Peter was following J. D. closely.

After a five-minute drive, the two cars enteredthe ramp for the southeast expressway. I came on a moment later.

"1 don't get it," Wilson said. "One minute you'redefending the guy, and the next minute you'retracking him like a bloodhound."

"I want to know," I said. "That's all. I just want toknow."

I followed them for half an hour. The road nar•rowed at Marshfield, becoming two lanes instead ofthree. Traffic was light; I dropped even fartherback.

"This could be completely innocent," Wilsonsaid. "The whole thing could be a—"

"No," I said. I had been putting things togetherin my own mind. "Peter loaned this car to Karenfor the weekend. The son, William, told me that.Karen used that car. There was blood on it. Thenthe car was garaged in the Randall house, and Peterreported it as stolen. Now . . ."

"Now they're getting rid of it," Wilson said.

"Apparently."

"Hot damn," he said. "This one's in the bag."

The cars continue south, past Plymouth, downtoward the Cape. The air here was chilly and tangywith salt. There was almost no traffic.

"Doing fine," Wilson said, looking at the taillightsahead. "Give them plenty of room."

"As the road became more deserted, the two carsgained speed. They were going very fast now, near eighty. We passed Plymouth, then Hyannis, and outtoward Provincetown. Suddenly, I saw their brake lights go on, and they turned off the road to the right, toward the coast.

We followed, on a dirt road. Around us were scrubby pine trees. 1 doused my lights. The windwas gusty and cold off the ocean.

"Deserted around here," Wilson said.

I nodded.

Soon I could hear the roar of the breakers. Ipulled off the road and parked. We walked on foottoward the ocean and saw the two cars parked, sideby side.

I recognized the place. It was the east side of theCape, where there was a long, one-hundred-footsandy drop to the sea. The two cars were at theledge, overlooking the water. Randall had gotten out of his Porsche and was talking with Peter. They ar•gued for a moment, and then Peter got back in thecar and drove it until the front wheels were inchesfrom the edge. Then he got out and walked back.

J. D. had meanwhile opened the trunk to thePorsche and taken out a portable can of gasoline.Together the two men emptied the can of gaso•line inside Peter's car.

I heard a click near me. Wilson, with the littlecamera pressed to his eye, was taking pictures.

"You don't have enough light."

"Tri-X," he said, still taking pictures. "You canforce it to 2400, if you have the right lab. And Ihave the right lab."

I looked back at the cars. J. D. was returning thetank to his trunk. Then he started the Porsche en•gine and backed the car around, so it was facingthe road, away from the ocean.

"Ready for the getaway," Wilson said. "Beautiful."

J. D. called to Peter and got out of the car. Hestood by Peter, then I saw the brief flare of a

match. Suddenly the interior of the Mercedes burstinto flames.

The two men immediately ran to the rear of thecar and leaned their weight against the car. Itmoved slowly, then faster, and finally began theslide down the sandy slope. They stepped back and watched its descent. At the bottom, it apparentlyexploded, 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 ofthe water, was the burning, smashed hulk of the Mercedes.

Wilson took several pictures, then put his cameraaway and looked at me.

He was grinning broadly. "Baby," he said, "havewe got a case."

NINE

On the way back,I turned off the expressway at theCohasset 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 thehook. I still intend to do it."

"Uh-uh," Wilson said. "Not now. Not after whatwe 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. Un•beatable. 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 aphotograph. We have them by the balls."

"No," I said.

He sighed. "Before, it was going to be a bluff. Iwas going to walk in there and bullshit my way through it. I was going to scare them, to frightenthem, to make them think we had evidence whenwe didn't. But

now, it's all different. We have theevidence. 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'llblow our whole case."

"I'll make them quit."

"Berry, you'll blow it. Because they've just donesomething 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 totrial."

Wilson scratched his scar again, running his fin•ger down his neck. "Listen," he said, "don't youwant 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 anddrove up the drive. "Don't tell me," I said- "Tellthem."

"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 basketballcourt, an immense room with a huge fireplace.Seated around the roaring fire were Mrs. Randall,in lounging pajamas, and Peter and J. D., both withlarge 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 backand 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 bowand said, "I believe you know Dr. Berry, Dr. Randall. I

am George Wilson. I am Dr. Lee's defenseattorney."

"That's lovely," J. D. said. He glanced at hiswatch. "But it's nearly midnight, and I am relaxingwith my family. I have nothing to say to either ofyou until we meet in court. So if you will—"

"If you will pardon me, sir," Wilson said, "wehave come a long way to see you. All the way fromthe

Cape, in fact."

J. D. blinked once and set his face rigidly. Petercoughed back a laugh. Mrs. Randall said, "Whatwere you doing on the Cape?"

"Watching a bonfire," Wilson said.

"A bonfire?"

"Yes," Wilson said. He turned to J. D. "We'd likesome 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 wasleaving, he said, "Small ones, Herbert. They won'tbe staying long."

Then he turned to his wife. "If you will, mydear."

She nodded and left the room.

"Sit down, gentlemen."

"We prefer to stand," Wilson said. The butlerbrought two small crystal snifters. Wilson raised hisglass.

"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 Ran•dall 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 mistak•en," 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 arewasting your time. There has been no mistake, andthere is nothing to reconsider."

Wilson said softly, "In that case, it must go tocourt."

"Indeed it must," Randall said, nodding.

"And you will be called to account for your ac•tions tonight," Wilson said.

"Indeed we may. But we will have Mrs. Randall'sfirm testimony that we spent the evening playingchess." 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 firsttime. And he chuckled.

"How did you do it?" Wilson said.

"Bishop to knight's twelve," Peter said and chuck•led again. "He is a terrible chess player. If I've toldhim 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. Hefolded his arms across his massive belly and saidnothing more.

J. D. Randall savored a moment of silence, thensaid, "Was there anything else, gentlemen?"

"You son of a bitch,"I said to Wilson. "You blewit."

"I did my best."

"You got him angry. You were forcing him intocourt."

"I did my best."

"That was the lousiest, rottenest—"

"Easy," Wilson said, rubbing his scar.

'You could have scared him. You could have toldthem 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 tocourt. They—"

"Yes," I said, "thanks to you. Strutting around likea self-satisfied bastard. Making cheap threats like a penny tough. Demanding a brandy—that was beau•tiful, that was."

"I attempted to persuade them," Wilson said.

"Crap."

He shrugged.

"I'll tell you what you did, Wilson. You pushedthem into a trial, because you want one. You want an arena, a chance to show your stuff, a chance tomake a name for yourself, to prove that you're aruthless hotshot. You know, and I know, that if thecase ever comes to trial, Art Lee—no matter whatthe outcome—will lose. He'll lose his prestige, his patients, maybe even his license. And if it comes totrial, the Randalls will also lose. They'll be smeared, shot through with half-truths and implications, de•stroyed. 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 an•gry. I was getting him.

"That's a fact."

"You heard J. D. You heard how unreasonable hewas."

"You could have made him listen."

"No," Wilson said. "But he'll listen in court." Hesat back in the car and stared forward for a mo•ment, thinking over the evening. "You know, I'msurprised at you, Berry. You're supposed to be a sci•entist. You're supposed to be objective about evidence. You've had a bellyful of evidence tonightthat Peter Randall is guilty, and you're still un•happy."

"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 ajury believe it, too."

"What if you're wrong?"

"Then it's too bad. Just the way it's too bad thatMrs. 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 conspiracyof silence. You'd like to see it handled nice and qui• etly, very diplomatic, with no hard feelings at theend."

"Isn't that the best way? The business of a law•yer," 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 yourown glory."

"The trouble with you, Berry, is that you're likeall doctors. You can't believe that one of your ownis rotten. What you'd really like to see is an ex-armymedical orderly or a nurse on trial. Or a nice little

old midwife. That's who you'd like to stick with thisrap. Not a doctor."

"I'd like to stick the guilty person," I said, "no•body else."

"You know who's guilty," Wilson said. "You knowdamned well."

Idropped wilson off, then drove home andpoured myself a very stiff vodka. The house was si•lent; it was after midnight.

I drank the vodka and thought about what I hadseen. As Wilson had said, everything pointed to Pe•ter Randall. There had been blood on his car, and he had destroyed the car. I had no doubt that a gal•lon of gasoline on the front seat would eliminate all evidence. He was clean, now—or would be, if wehadn't seen him burning the car.

Then, too, as Wilson had said, everything madesense. Angela and Bubbles were right in claiming that

they hadn't seen Karen; she had gone to Peterthat Sunday night. And Peter had made a mistake; Karen had gone home and begun to bleed. She hadtold Mrs. Randall, who had taken her to the hospi•tal in her own car. At the hospital, she hadn'tknown 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 bro•ken loose.

Everything made sense.

Except, I thought, for the original premise. Peter

Randall had been Karen's physician for years. Heknew 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 tumorwhich could mimic pregnancy. So he would cer•tainly have tested.

Then again, he had apparently sent her to ArtLee. Why? If he had been willing to see her abor•ted, 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 hadsaid: "You doctors certainly stick together." I real•ized he, and Wilson, were right. I wanted to believethat Peter was innocent. Partly because he was adoctor, partly because I liked him. Even in the faceof serious evidence, I wanted to believe he was in•nocent.

I sighed and sipped my drink. The fact was I had seen something very serious that night, something clandestine and incriminating. I could not overlookit. I could not pass it off as accident or coinci•dence. I had to explain it.

And the most logical explanation was that PeterRandall was the abortionist.

THURSDAY

OCTOBER 13

ONE

Iawoke feeling mean. Like a caged animal,trapped, enclosed. I didn't like what was happeningand didn't see any way to stop it. Worst of all, Ididn't see any way to beat Wilson. It was hardenough to prove Art Lee was innocent; to prove Pe•ter 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, reach•ing for a towel. "I can't believe Peter would do it,"I said.

312

"Charitable of you."

I shook my head. "No," I said, "it's just that get•ting 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 your•self in the technicalities. I've been with Betty Leefor three days."

"I know it's been hard—"

"I'm not talking about me," she said. "I'm talkingabout her. Or have you forgotten last night?"

"No," I said, thinking to myself that last nighthad started it all, the whole mess. My decision tocall in

Wilson.

"Betty has been through hell," Judith said."There's no excuse for it, and the Randalls are toblame. 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'tmake him innocent."

"It doesn't make him guilty."

"I don't care who's guilty anymore. I just want itfinished and Art set free."

"Yes," I said. "I know how you feel."

While I shaved, I stared at my face. A rather or•dinary 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 crisisaffecting 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 unim• portant facts? Suppose the real heart of the matterwas still unexplored?

Trying to save Peter again.

Well, why not? He was as much worth saving asanyone else.

It occurred to me then that Peter Randall was asmuch worth saving as Art. They were both men,both doctors, both established, both interesting,both a little noncomformist. When you came downto it, there was nothing really to choose betweenthem. Peter was humorous, Art was sarcastic. Peterwas fat and Art was thin.

But essentially the same.

I pulled on my jacket and tried to forget thewhole 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 mo•ment later, Judith called, "It's for you."

I picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

A familiar, booming voice said, "John, this is Pe•ter. I'd like you to come by for lunch."

"Why?" I said.

"I want you to meet the alibi I haven't got,' hesaid.

"What does that mean?""Twelve-thirty?" he asked."See you then," I said.

TWO

PETER RANDALL LIVED WEST OF NEWTON, in a mod•em house. It was small but beautifully furnished:Breuer chairs, a Jacobsen couch, a Rachmann cof•fee table. The style was sleekly modern. He met meat the door with a drink in his hand.

"John. Come in." He led the way into the livingroom. "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."

"About what?"

"Everything."

"You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to,"he said, coming back with a glass of Scotch.

"Did you know Wilson took pictures?"

"I had a suspicion. That boy is ambitious."

"Yes," I said.

"And I'm in hot water?"

"It looks that way," I said.

He stared at me for a moment, then said, "Whatdo you think?"

"I don't know what to think anymore."

"Do you know, for example, that I do abortions?"

"Yes," I said.

"And Karen?"

"Twice," I said.

He sat back in a Breuer chair, his rounded bulkcontrasting with the sharp, linear angles of thechair.

'Three times," he said, "to be precise."

"Then you—"

"No, no," he said. "The last was in June."

"And the first?"

"When she was fifteen." He sighed. "You see, I'vemade some mistakes. One of them was trying tolook after Karen. Her father was ignoring her, andI was . . . fond of her. She was a sweet girl. Lostand confused, but sweet. So I did her first abortion,as I have done abortions for other patients fromtime to time. Does that shock you?"

"No."

"Good. But the trouble was that Karen kept get•ting pregnant. Three times in three years; for a girlof that age, it wasn't wise. It was pathological. So Ifinally decided that she ought to bear the fourthchild."

"Why?"

"Because she obviously wanted to be pregnant.She kept doing it. She obviously needed the shameand trouble of an illegitimate child. So I refusedthe fourth time."

"Are you sure she was pregnant?"

"No," he said. "And you know why I had mydoubts. That vision business. One wonders about primary pituitary dysfunction. I wanted to do tests,but Karen refused. She was only interested in anabortion, and when I wouldn't give it to her, she be•came angry."

"So you sent her to Dr. Lee."

"Yes," he said.

"And he did it?"

Peter shook his head. "Art is far too clever forthat. He would have insisted on tests. Besides, shewas four months' pregnant, or so she claimed. Sohe wouldn't have done it."

"And you didn't, either," I said.

"No. Do you believe that?"

"I'd like to."

"But you aren't fully convinced?"

I shrugged. "You burned your car. It had blood init."

"Yes," he said. "Karen's blood."

"How did it happen?"

"I lent Karen my car for the weekend. I did notknow at the time that she planned an abortion."

"You mean she drove your car to the abortion, had it, and drove it back to her home, bleeding? Then she switched to the yellow Porsche?"

"Not exactly," Peter said. "But you can get a bet•ter explanation from someone else." He called,"Darling. Come on out."

He smiled at me. "Meet my alibi."

Mrs. Randall came into the room, looking tautand hard and sexy. She sat in a chair next to Peter.

"You see," Peter said, "what a bind I am in."

I said, "Sunday night?"

"I am afraid so."

"That's embarrassing," I said, "but also conve•nient."

"In a sense," Randall said. He patted her handand lifted himself heavily out of the chair. "I don'tcall it either embarrassing or convenient."

"You were with her all night Sunday?"

He poured himself another Scotch. "Yes."

"Doing what?"

"Doing," Peter said, "what I would rather not ex•plain under oath."

"With your brother's wife?" I said.

He winked at Mrs. Randall. "Are you my broth•er's wife?"

"I've heard a rumor," she said, "but I don't believeit."

"You see, I'm letting you into some quite privatefamily affairs," Peter said.

"They are family affairs, if nothing else."

"You're indignant?"

"No," I said. "Fascinated."

"Joshua," Peter said, "is a fool. You know that, ofcourse. So does Wilson. That is why he could be so

confident. But unfortunately, Joshua marriedEvelyn."

"Unfortunately," Evelyn said.

"Now we are in a bind," Peter said. "She cannotdivorce my brother to marry me. That would be im•

possible. So we are resigned to our life as it is."

"Difficult, I imagine."

"Not really," Peter said, sitting down again with afresh drink. "Joshua is very dedicated. He oftenworks long into the night. And Evelyn has manyclubs and civic functions to attend."

"He'll find out sooner or later."

"He already knows," Peter said.

I must have reacted, because he said quickly,"Not consciously, of course. J. D. knows nothing consciously. But in the back of his mind, he realizesthat he has a young wife whom he neglects andwho is finding . . . satisfaction elsewhere."

I turned to Mrs. Randall, "Would you swear Pe•ter was with you Sunday night?"

"If I had to," she said.

"Wilson will make you. He wants a trial."

"I know," she said.

"Why did you accuse Art Lee?"

She turned away from me and glanced at Peter.

Peter said, "She was trying to protect me."

"Art was the only other abortionist she knew?"

"Yes," Evelyn said.

"He aborted you?"

"Yes. Last December."

"Was it a good abortion?"

She shifted in the chair. "It worked, if that's whatyou mean."

"That's what I mean," I said. "Do you know Artwouldn't implicate you?"

She hesitated, then said, "I was confused. I wasfrightened. I didn't know what I was doing."

"You were screwing Art."

"Yes," she said, "that was how' it turned out."

"Well," I said, "you can clear him now."

"How?"

"Drop the charges."

Peter said, "It's not that easy."

"Why not?"

"You saw for yourself last night, J. D. is fixed onthe battle, once the lines are drawn. He has a sur•geon's view of right and wrong. He sees only blackand white, day and night. No gray. No twilight.'

"No cuckolds."

Peter laughed. "He may be a lot like you."

Evelyn got up and said, "Lunch will be ready infive minutes. Will you have another drink?"

"Yes," I said, looking at Peter, "I'd better."

When Evelyn had gone, Peter said, "You see meas a cruel and heartless beast. Actually I'm not.There has been a long chain of errors here, a longlist of mistakes. I would like to see it cleaned up—"

"With no harm done."

"More or less. Unfortunately my brother is nohelp. Once his wife accused Dr. Lee, he took it asgospel truth. He pounced upon it as truth the waya man grasps a life preserver. He will never relent."

"Go on," I said.

"But the central fact remains. I insist—and youcan believe it or not—that I did not do the abor•tion. You are equally certain that Dr. Lee did not doit. Who is left?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Can you find out?"

"You're asking me to help you?"

"Yes," he said.

Over lunch,I said to Evelyn, "What did Karen re•ally say to you in the car?"

"She said, 'That bastard.' Over and over again.Nothing else."

"She never explained?"

"No."

"Did you have any idea who she meant?"

"No," Evelyn said, "I didn't."

"Did she say anything else?'

"Yes," she said. "She talked about the needle.Something about how she didn't want the nee• dle, didn't want it in her, didn't want it around her.The needle."

"Was it a drug?"

"I couldn't tell," Evelyn said.

"What did you think at the time?"

"I didn't think anything," Evelyn said. "I was driv•ing her to the hospital and she was dying right be•fore my eyes. I was worried that Peter might havedone it, even though I didn't think he had. I was

worried that Joshua would find out. I was worriedabout a lot of things."

"But not her?"

"Yes," she said, "her, too."

THREE

The meal was good.Toward the end, staring at thetwo of them, I found myself wishing I had notcome and did not know about them. I didn't wantto know, didn't want to think about it.

Afterward, I had coffee with Peter. From thekitchen I heard the sounds of Evelyn washingdishes. It was hard to imagine her washing dishes,but she acted differently around Peter; it was al•most possible to like her.

"I suppose," Peter said, "that it was unfair to askyou here today."

"It was," I said.

He sighed and straightened his tie down his mas•sive belly. "I've never been in this kind of situation before."

"How's that?"

"Caught," he said.

I thought to myself that he had done it to him•self, going in with both eyes wide open. I tried toresent him for that but could not quite manage it.

"The terrible thing," he said, "is to think backand wonder what you'd do differently. I keep doing that. And I never find the point I'm looking for, thatone crucial point in time where I made the wrongturn in the maze. Getting involved with Ev, I sup•pose. But I'd do that again. Getting involved withKaren. But I'd do that again, too. Each individualthing was all right. It was the combination. . . ."

I said, "Get J. D. to drop the charges."

He shook his head. "My brother and I," he said,"have never gotten along. For as long as I can remember. We are different in every way, evenphysically. We think differently, we act differently.When I was young I used to resent the fact that hewas my brother, and I secretly suspected that hewas not, that he had been adopted or something. Isuppose he thought the same thing."

He finished his coffee and rested his chin on hischest. "Ev has tried to convince J. D. to drop char•ges,"

he said. "But he's firm, and she can't really—"

"Think of an excuse?"

"Yes."

"It's too bad she ever named Lee in the first place."

'Yes," he said. "But what's done is done."

He walked with me to the door. I stepped out•side into a gray, pale sunlight. As I went down tomy car, he said, "If you don't want to get involved,I'll understand."

I looked back at him. "You knew damned well I'dhave no choice."

"I didn't," he said. "But I was hoping."

when Igot into my car,I wondered what I woulddo next. I had no idea, no leads, nothing. PerhapsI could call Zenner again and see if he could re•member more of his conversation. Perhaps I couldvisit Ginnie at Smith, or Angela and Bubbles, andsee if they remembered more. But I doubted theywould.

I reached into my pocket for the keys and feltsomething. I brought it out: a picture of a Negro ina shiny suit. Roman Jones.

I had forgotten all about Roman. Somewherealong the line he had disappeared in the rush, thestream of faces. I stared at the picture for a longtime, trying to read the features, to measure theman. It was impossible; the pose was standard, thecocky look of a silver-suited stud, swaggering, halfgrinning, half leering. It was a pose for the crowds,and it told me nothing at all.

I am not good with words, and it has always beensurprising to me that my son, Johnny, is. When heis alone, he plays with his toys and makes up wordgames; he rhymes or tells himself stories. He hasvery sharp ears and always comes to me for expla•nations. Once he asked me what an ecdysiast was, pronouncing the word perfectly but carefully, as if itwere fragile.

So I was not really surprised when, as I wasminding my own business, he came up and said,"Daddy, what's an abortionist mean?"

"Why?"

"One of the policemen said Uncle Art was anabortionist. Is that bad?"

"Sometimes," I said.

He leaned against my knee, propping his chin onit. He has large brown eyes; Judith's eyes.

"But what's it mean, Daddy?"

"It's complicated," I said, stalling for time.

"Does it mean a kind of doctor? Like neurolo•gist?"

"Yes," I said. "But an abortionist does otherthings." I hoisted him up on my knee, feeling the weight of his body. He was getting heavy, growingup. Judith was saying it was time for another.

"It has to do with babies," I said.

"Like obsetrician?"

"Obstetrician," I said. "Yes."

"He takes the baby out of the mommy?"

"Yes," I said, "but it is different. Sometimes thebaby isn't normal. Sometimes it is born so it can'ttalk—"

"Babies can't talk," he said, "until later."

"Yes," I said. "But sometimes it is born withoutarms or legs. Sometimes it is deformed. So a doctorstops the baby and takes it away early."

"Before it's grown up?"

"Yes, before it's grown up."

"Was I taken away early?"

"No," I said and hugged him.

"Why do some babies have no arms or legs?"

"It's an accident," I said. "A mistake."

He stretched out his hand and looked at it, flex•ing the fingers.

"Arms are nice," he said.

"Yes."

"But everybody has arms."

"Not everybody."

"Everybody I know."

"Yes," I said, "but sometimes people are bornwithout them."

"How do they play catch without arms?"

"They can't."

"I don't like that," he said. He looked at his handagain, closing his fingers, watching them.

"Why do you have arms?" he asked.

"Because." It was too big a question for me.

"Because what?"

"Because inside your body there is a code."

"What's a code?"

"It's instructions. It tells the body how it is goingto grow."

"A code?"

"It's like a set of instructions. A plan."

"Oh."

He thought about this.

"It's like your erector set. You look at the picturesand you make what you see. That's a plan."

"Oh."

I couldn't tell if he understood or not. He consid-ered what I had said, then looked at me. "If youtake the baby out of the mommy, what happens toit?"

"It goes away."

"Where?"

"Away," I said, not wanting to explain further.

"Oh," he said. He climbed down off my knee. "IsUncle Art really an abortionist?"

"No," I said. I knew I had to tell him that, oth•erwise I would get a call from his kindergartenteacher about his uncle the abortionist. But I feltbadly, all the same.

"Good," he said, "I'm glad."

And he walked off.

JUDITH SAID, "YOU'RE NOT EATING."

I pushed my food away. "I'm not very hungry."

Judith turned to Johnny and said, "Clean yourplate, Johnny."

He held the fork in a small, tight fist. "I'm nothungry," he said and glanced at me.

"Sure you are," I said.

"No," he said, "I'm not."

Debby, who was barely big enough to see overthe table, threw her knife and fork down. "I'm nothungry either," she said. "The food tastes icky."

"I think it tastes very good," I said and dutifullyate a mouthful. The kids looked at me suspiciously. Especially Debby: at three, she was a very level•headed little girl.

"You just want us to eat, Daddy."

"I like it," I said, eating more.

"You're pretending."

"No, I'm not."

"Then why aren't you smiling?" Debby said.

Fortunately, Johnny decided at that moment to eat more. He rubbed his stomach. "It's good," hesaid.

"It is?" Debby said.

"Yes," Johnny said, "very good."

Debby nibbled. She was very tentative. She tookanother forkful, and as she moved it to her mouth,she spilled it on her dress. Then, like a normalwoman, she got mad at everyone around her. Sheannounced that it was terrible and she didn't like it;she wouldn't eat any more. Judith began to call her"Young lady," a sure sign that Judith was gettingmad. Debby backed off while Johnny continued toeat until he held up his plate and showed it to usproudly: clean.

It was another half-hour before the kids were in bed. I stayed in the kitchen; Judith came back andsaid,

"Coffee?"

"Yes. I'd better."

"Sorry about the kids," she said. "They've had awearying few days."

"We all have."

She poured the coffee and sat down across thetable from me.

"I keep thinking," she said, "about the letters.The ones Betty got."

"What about them?"

"Just what they mean. There are thousands ofpeople out there, all around you, waiting for theirchance. Stupid, bigoted, small-minded—"

"This is a democracy," I said. "Those people run

the country."

"Now you're making fun of me.""No," I said. "I know what you mean.""Well, it frightens me," Judith said. She pushed

the sugar bowl across the table to me and said, "I

think I want to leave Boston. And never come

back.""It's the same everywhere," I said. "You might aswell get used to it."

Ikilled two hours in my study, looking over oldtexts and journal articles. I also did a lot of think•ing. I tried to put it together, to match up KarenRandall, and Superhead, and Alan Zenner, andBubbles and Angela. I tried to make sense of Wes-ton, but in the end nothing made sense.

Judith came in and said, "It's nine."

I got up and put on my suit jacket.

"Are you going out?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

I grinned at her. "To a bar," I said. "Downtown."

"Whatever for?"

"Damned if I know."

The Electric Grape was located just off Washing•ton Street. From the outside it was unimpressive,an old brick building with large windows. The win•dows were covered with paper, making it impossibleto see inside. On the paper was written: "The Zeph-

yrs Nightly. Go-Go Girls." I could hear jarring rock-'n'-roll sounds as I approached.

It was tenp.m. Thursday night, a slow night. Veryfew sailors, a couple of hookers, down the block, standing with their weight on one hip, their pelvisesthrust outward. One cruised by in a little sports carand batted her mascara at me. I entered the build•ing.

It was hot, damp, smelly, animal heat, and thesound was deafening: vibrating the walls, filling theair, making it thick and liquid. My ears began toring. I paused to allow my eyes to adjust to thedarkness of the room. There were cheap woodentables in the center booths along one wall, and abar along another. A tiny dance floor near the band•stand; two sailors were dancing with two fat, dirty-looking girls. Otherwise the place was empty.

On stage, the Zephyrs were beating it out. Fiveof them—three steel guitars, a drummer, and asinger who caressed the microphone and wrappedhis legs around it. They were making a lot of noise,but their faces were oddly bland, as if they werewaiting for something, killing time by playing.

Two discotheque girls were stationed on eitherside of the band. They wore brief costumes, bikiniswith fringes. One was chubby and one had a beau•tiful face on a graceless body. Their skins were

chalky-white under the lights.

I stepped to the bar and ordered straight Scotchon the rocks. That way, I'd get Scotch and water,which was what I wanted.

I paid for my drink and turned to watch thegroup. Roman was one of the guitarists, a wiry mus•cular man in his late twenties, with a thick head of curly black hair. The grease shone in the pink stagelights. He stared down at his fingers as he played.

"They're pretty good," I said to the bartender.

He shrugged. "You like this kinda music?"

"Sure. Don't you?"

"Crap," the bartender said. "All crap."

"What kind of music do you like?"

"Opera," he said and moved down to anothercustomer. I couldn't tell if he was kidding me ornot.

I stood there with my drink. The Zephyrs fin•ished their piece, and the sailors on the dance floorclapped. Nobody else did. The lead singer, stillswaying from the song, leaned into the microphoneand said,

"Thank you, thank you," in a breathlessvoice, as if thousands were wildly applauding.

Then he said, "For our next song we want to doan old Chuck Berry piece."

It turned out to be "Long Tall Sally." Really old. Old enough for me to know it was a Little Richard song, not Chuck Berry. Old enough for me to re•member from the days before my marriage, when Itook girls to places like this for a wild evening, fromthe days when Negroes were sort of amusing, notpeople at all, just a musical sideshow. The dayswhen white boys could go to the Apollo in Harlem.

The old days.

They played the song well, loud and fast. Judithloathes rock 'n' roll, which is sad; I've always kepta taste for it. But it wasn't fashionable when ourgeneration was growing up. It was crude and lowerclass. The deb set was still fixed on Lester Laninand Eddie Davis, and Leonard Bernstein hadn'tlearned the twist yet.

Times change.

Finally the Zephyrs finished. They hooked a rec•ord player to their amplifiers and started the rec•ords going. Then they climbed down off the stage and headed for the bar. As Roman walked towardme, I came up to him and touched his arm.

"Buy you a drink?"

He gave me a surprised look. "Why?"

"I'm a fan of Little Richard."

His eyes swept up and down me. "Get off it," hesaid.

"No, seriously."

"Vodka," he said, sitting down next to me.

I ordered a vodka. It came, and he gulped itdown quickly.

"We'll just have another," he said, "and then wecan go talk about Little Richard, right?"

"O.K.," I said.

He got another vodka and carried it to a tableacross the room. I followed him. His silver suitshimmered in the near darkness. We sat down, andhe looked at the drink and said, "Let's see the silver plate."

"What?"

He gave me a pained look. "The badge, baby. The

little pin. I don't do nothing unless you got thebadge."

I must have looked puzzled.

"Christ," he said, "when they gonna get somebright fuzz?'

"I'm not fuzz," I said.

"Sure." He took his drink and stood up.

"Wait a minute," I said. "Let me show you some•thing."

I took out my wallet and flipped to my M.D. card. It was dark; he bent down to look at it.

"No kidding," he said, his voice sarcastic. But he sat down again.

"It's the truth. I'm a doctor."

"O.K.," he said. "You're a doctor. You smell like acop to me, but you're a doctor. So let's have therules: you see those four guys over there?" He nod•ded toward his group. "If anything happens, they alltestify you showed me a doctor's card and no badge.That's entrapment, baby. Don't hold in court.Clear?"

"I just want to talk."

"No kidding," he said and sipped the drink. Hesmiled slightly. "Word sure does get around."

"Does it?"

"Yeah," he said. He glanced at me. "Who told you about it?"

"I have ways."

"What ways?"

I shrugged. "Just . . . ways."

"Who wants it?"

"I do."

He laughed. "You? Get serious, man. You don'twant nothing."

"All right," I said. I stood up and started to go."Maybe I got the wrong man."

"Just a minute, baby."

I stopped. He was sitting at the table, looking atthe drink, twisting the glass in his hands. "Sitdown."

I sat down again. He continued to stare at theglass. "This is good stuff," he said. "We don't cut itwith nothing. It's the finest quality and the price is high, see?"

"O.K.," I said.

He scratched his arms and his hands in a quick, nervous way. "How many bags?"

"Ten. Fifteen. Whatever you have."

"I got as much as you want."

"Then fifteen," I said. "But I want to see it first."

"Yeah, yeah, right. You can see it first, it's good."

He continued to scratch his arms through the sil•ver material, then smiled. "But one thing first."

"What's that?"

"Who told you?"

I hesitated. "Angela Harding," I said.

He seemed puzzled by this. I could not decidewhether I had said something wrong. He shifted inhis chair, as if making up his mind, then said, "Shea friend of yours?"

"Sort of."

"When did you see her last?"

"Yesterday," I said.

He nodded slowly. "The door," he said, "is overthere. I'll give you thirty seconds to get out of herebefore

I tear you to pieces. You hear me, cop?Thirty seconds."

I said, "All right, it wasn't Angela. It was a friendof hers."

"Who's that?"

"Karen Randall."

"Never heard of her."

"I understand you knew her quite well."

He shook his head: "Nope."

"That's what I was told."

"You was told wrong, baby. Dead wrong."

I reached into my pocket and brought out his picture. "This was in her room at college."

Before I knew what was happening, he hadsnatched the picture from my hand and torn it up.

"What picture?" he said evenly. "I don't know nopicture. I never even seen the girl."

I sat back.

He regarded me with angry eyes. "Beat it," hesaid.

"I came here to buy something," I said. "I'll leavewhen I have it."

"You'll leave now, if you know what's good foryou."

He was scratching his arms again. I looked athim and realized that I would learn nothing more.He wasn't going to talk, and I had no way to makehim.

"All right," I said. I got up, leaving my glasses onthe table. "By the way, do you know where I can get some thiopental?"

For a moment, his eyes widened. Then he said, "Some what?"

"Thiopental."

"Never heard of it. Now beat it," he said, "before one of those nice fellas at the bar picks a fight withyou and beats your head in."

1 walked out. It was cold; a light rain had startedagain. I looked toward Washington Street and the bright lights of the other rock-'n'-roll joints, stripjoints, clip joints: I waited thirty seconds, thenwent back.

My glasses were still on the table. I picked themup and turned to leave, my eyes sweeping theroom.

Roman was in the corner, talking on a pay phone.

That was all I wanted to know.

FOUR

Around the cornerat the end of the block was astand-up, self-service greasy spoon. Hamburgerstwenty cents. It had a large glass window in front.Inside I saw a few teen-age girls giggling as theyate, and one or two morose derelicts in tattered

overcoats that reached almost to their shoes. At one side, three sailors were laughing and slapping each other on the back, reliving some conquest or plan•ning the next. A telephone was in the back.

I called the Mem and asked for Dr. Hammond.I was told he was on the EW that night; the desk put the call through.

"Norton, this is John Berry."

"What's up?"

"I need more information," I said, "from the rec•ord room."

"You're lucky," he said. "It seems to be a slownight here. One or two lacerations and a couple of drunken fights. Nothing else. What do you need?"

"Take this down," I said. "Roman Jones, Negro,about twenty-four or -five. I want to know whetherhe's ever been admitted to the hospital and whetherhe's been followed in any of the clinics. And I wantthe dates."

"Right," Hammond said. "Roman Jones. Admis•sions and clinic visits. I'll check it out right away."

"Thanks," I said.

"You going to call back?"

"No. I'll drop by the EW later."

That, as it turned out, was the understatement ofthe year.

When Ifinished the callI was feeling hungry, soI got a hot dog and coffee. Never a hamburger in aplace like this. For one thing, they often use horse-meat or rabbit or entrails or anything else they can

grind up. For another, there's usually enough path•ogens to infect an army. Take trichinosis—Bostonhas six times the national rate of infection fromthat. You can't be too careful.

I have a friend who's a bacteriologist. He spends his whole time running a hospital lab where theyculture out organisms that have infected the pa• tients. By now this guy is so worked up that hepractically never goes out to dinner, even to Jo• seph's or Locke-Ober. Never eats a steak unless it'swell done. He really worries. I've been to dinnerwith him, and it's terrible—he sweats all throughthe main course. You can see him imagining ablood agar petri dish, with those little colonies streaked out. Every bite he takes, he sees those col•onies. Staph. Strep. Gram negative bacilli. His life is ruined.

Anyway, hot dogs are safer—not much, but some—so I had one and took it over to the stand-up counter with my coffee. I ate looking out the win•dow at the crowd passing by.

Roman came to mind. I didn't like what he'd toldme. Clearly, he was selling stuff, probably strongstuff. Marijuana was too easy to get. LSD was nolonger being made by Sandoz, but lysergic acid, the precursor, is produced by the ton in Italy, and any college kid can convert it if he steals a few reagents and flasks from his chem lab. Psilocybin and DMTare even easier to make.

Probably Roman was dealing in opiates, mor•phine or heroin. That complicated matters a great

deal—particularly in view of his reaction to men•tion of Angela Harding and Karen Randall. I wasn'tsure

what the connection was but I felt, somehow,that I'd find out very soon.

I finished the hot dog and drank my coffee. As Ilooked out the window, I saw Roman hurry by. Hedid not see me. He was looking forward, his faceintent and worried.

I gulped the rest of my coffee and followed him.

[Ed note: the three-step synthesis of lysergic acid diethylamine (LSD) from common precursors has been omitted from thismanuscript.]

FIVE

I LET HIM GET HALF A BLOCK AHEAD OF ME. He washurrying through the crowds, pushing and shoving.I kept him in sight as he walked toward StuartStreet. There he turned left and headed for the ex•pressway. I followed him. This end of Stuart wasdeserted; I dropped back and lit a cigarette. Ipulled my raincoat tighter and wished I had a hat.If he looked back over his shoulder, he would cer•tainly recognize me.

Roman walked one block, then turned left again.He was doubling back. I didn't understand,but Iplayed it more cautiously. He was walking in a quick,jerky way, the movements of a frightened man.

We were on Harvey Street now. There were acouple of Chinese restaurants here. I paused tolook at the menu in one window. Roman was notlooking back. He went another block, then turnedright.

I followed.

South of the Boston Commons, the character ofthe town changes abruptly. Along the Commons, on Tremont Street, there are elegant shops and high-class theaters. Washington Street is one block over,and it's a little sleazier: there are bars and tarts and nude movie houses. A block over from that, thingsget even tougher. Then there's a block of Chineserestaurants, and that's it. From then on, you're inthe wholesale district. Clothes mostly.

That's where we were now.

The stores were dark. Bolts of cloth stood upright in the windows. There were large corrugated doors where the trucks pulled up to load and unload. Sev•eral little dry-goods stores. A theatrical supply shop, with costumes in the window—chorus girl stock•ings, an old military uniform, several wigs. A base•ment pool hall, from which came the soft clickingof balls.

The streets were wet and dark. We were quitealone. Roman walked quickly for another block,then he stopped.

I pulled into a doorway and waited. He looked

back for a moment and kept going. I was right afterhim.

Several times, he doubled back on his own path,and he frequently stopped to check behind him.Once a car drove by, tires hissing on the wet pave•ment. Roman jumped into a shadow, then steppedout when the car had gone.

He was nervous, all right.

I followed him for perhaps fifteen minutes. I couldn't decide whether he was being cautious or just killing time. He stopped several times to lookat something he held in his hand—perhaps awatch, perhaps something else. I couldn't be sure.

Eventually he headed north, skirting along sidestreets, working his way around the Commons andthe

State House. It took me awhile to realize thathe was heading for Beacon Hill.

Another ten minutes passed, and I must havegotten careless, because I lost him. He dartedaround a corner, and when I turned it momentslater, he was gone: the street was deserted. Istopped to listen for footsteps, but heard nothing. Ibegan to worry and hurried forward.

Then it happened.

Something heavy and damp and cold struck myhead, and I felt a cool, sharp pain over my fore•head, and then a strong punch to my stomach. Ifell to the pavement and the world began to spinsickeningly. I heard a shout, and footsteps, andthen nothing.

SIX

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE PECULIAR VIEWS YOU HAVE, likea dream where everything is distorted. The build•ings were black and very high, towering above me,threatening to collapse. They seemed to rise for•ever. I felt cold and soaked through, and rain spat•tered my face. I lifted my head up from thepavement and saw that it was all red.

I pulled up on one elbow. Blood dripped downonto my raincoat. I looked stupidly down at the red pavement. Hell of a lot of blood. Mine?

My stomach churned and I vomited on the side•walk. I was dizzy and the world turned green for awhile.

Finally, I forced myself to get to my knees.

In the distance, I heard sirens. Far off but gettingcloser. I stood shakily and leaned on an automobile parked by the curb. I didn't know where I was; the street was dark and silent. I looked at the bloody sidewalk and wondered what to do.

The sirens were coming closer.

Stumbling, I ran around the corner, then stoppedto catch my breath. The sirens were very close now;a blue light flashed on the street I had just left.

I ran again. I don't know how far I went. I don'tknow where I was.

I just kept running until I saw a taxi. It wasparked at a stand, the motor idling.

I said, "Take me to the nearest hospital."

He looked at my face.

"Not a chance," he said.

I started to get in.

"Forget it, buddy." He pulled the door shut and drove away, leaving me standing there.

In the distance, I heard the sirens again.

A wave of dizziness swept over me. I squattedand waited for it to pass. I was sick again. Bloodwas still dripping from somewhere on my face. Lit•tle red drops spattered into the vomit.

The rain continued. I was shivering cold, but ithelped me to stay conscious. I got up and tried toget my bearings; I was somewhere south of Wash•ington Street; the nearest signpost said CurleyPlace. It didn't mean anything to me. I started walking, unsteady, pausing frequently.

I hoped I was going in the right direction. I knewI was losing blood, but I didn't know how much.Every few steps, I had to stop to lean on a car andcatch my breath. The dizziness was getting worse.

I stumbled and fell. My knees cracked into thepavement and pain shot through me. For an in•stant, it cleared my head, and I was able to getback to my feet. The shoes, soaked through,

squeaked. My clothes were damp with sweat and

rain.

I concentrated on the sound of my shoes andforced myself to walk. One step at a time. Three blocks ahead, I saw lights. I knew I could make it.

One step at a time.

I leaned against a blue car for a moment, just amoment, to catch my breath.

"That's it.That's the boy." Somebody was lifting meup. I was in a car, being lifted out. My arm was thrown over a shoulder, and I was walking. Brightlights ahead. A sign: "Emergency Ward." Blue-lighted sign. Nurse at the door.

"Just go slow, boy. Just take it easy."My head was loose on my neck. I tried to speakbut my mouth was too dry. I was terribly thirsty andcold. I looked at the man helping me, an old manwith a grizzled beard and a bald head. I tried tostand better so he wouldn't have to support me, butmy knees were rubber, and I was shivering badly."Doing fine, boy. No problem at all."His voice was gruffly encouraging. The nurse came forward, floating in the pool of light near the EW door, saw me, and ran back inside. Two interns came out and each took an arm. They were strong;I felt myself lifted up until my toes were scraping through the puddles. I felt rain on the back of myneck as my head drooped forward. The bald manwas running ahead to open the door.

They helped me inside where it was warm. They

put me on a padded table and started pulling offmy clothes, but the clothes were wet and blood-soaked; they clung to my body, and finally they hadto cut them off with a scissors. It was all very dif•ficult and it took hours. I kept my eyes closed be•cause the lights overhead were painfully bright.

"Get a crit and cross-match him," said one of theinterns. "And set up a four kit with sutures in roomtwo."

People were fussing with my head; I vaguely felthands and gauze pads being pressed against myskin. My forehead was numb and cold. By nowthey had me completely undressed. They dried mewith a hard towel and wrapped me in a blanket, then transferred me to another padded table. Itstarted to roll down the hall. I opened my eyes andsaw the bald man looking down at me solicitously.

"Where'd you find him?" one of the internsasked.

"On a car. He was lying on a car. I saw him andthought he was a drunk passed out. He was half in the street, you know, so I figured he could get runover and stopped to move him. Then I saw he was nicely dressed and all bloody. I didn't know whathappened, but he looked bad, so I brought himhere."

"You have any idea what happened?" the internasked.

"Looks beat up, if you ask me," the man said.

"He didn't have a wallet," the intern said. "Heowe you money for the fare?"

"That's all right," the bald man said. "I'm sure he'll want to pay you.""That's all right," the cabby said. "I'll just gonow."

"Better leave your name at the desk," the intern

said.

But the man was already gone.

They wheeled me into a room tiled in blue. Thesurgical light over my head switched on. Facespeered down at me. Rubber gloves pulled on, gauzemasks in place.

"We'll stop the bleeding," the intern said. "Thenget some X rays." He looked at me. "You awake,sir?"

I nodded and tried to speak.

"Don't talk. Your jaw may be broken. I'm just go•ing to close this wound on your forehead, and then we'll see."

The nurse bathed my face, first with warm soap.The sponges came away bloody.

"Alcohol now," she said. "It may sting a little."

The interns were talking to each other, looking atthe wound. "Better mark that as a six-centimeter superficial on the right temple."

I barely felt the alcohol. It felt cool and tingled slightly, nothing more.

The intern held the curved suture needle in aneedle holder. The nurse stepped back and hemoved over my head. I expected pain, but it wasnothing more than a slight pricking on my forehead.

The intern who was sewing said, "Damned sharpincision here. Looks almost surgical."

"Knife?"

"Maybe, but I doubt it."

The nurse put a tourniquet on my arm and drewblood. "Better give him tetanus toxoid as well," theintern said, still sewing. "And a shot of penicillin."He said to me, "Blink your eyes once for yes, twicefor no. Are you allergic to penicillin?"

I blinked twice.

"Are you sure?"

I blinked once.

"O.K.," said the intern. He returned to his sew•ing. The nurse gave me two injections. The other intern was examining my body, saying nothing.

I must have passed out again. When I openedmy eyes, I saw a huge X-ray machine poised by myhead. Someone was saying, "Gently, gently," in an irritated voice.

I passed out again.

I awoke in another room. This was painted light green. The interns were holding the dripping-wet Xrays up to the light, talking about them. Then oneleft and the other came over to me.

'You seem all right," he said. "You may have a fewloose teeth, but no fractures anywhere that we can see."

My head was clearing; I was awake enough toask, "Has the radiologist looked at those films?"

That stopped them cold. They froze, thinkingwhat I was thinking, that skull films were so hard

to interpret and required a trained eye. They also didn't understand how I knew to ask such a ques•tion.

"No, the radiologist is not here right now."

"Well, where is he?"

"He just stepped out for coffee."

"Get him back," I said. My mouth was dry andstiff; my jaw hurt. I touched my cheek and felt alarge swelling, very painful. No wonder they hadbeen worried about a fracture.

"What's my crit?" I said.

"Pardon, sir?"

It was hard for them to hear me, my tongue wasthick and my speech unclear.

"I said, what's my hematocrit?"

They glanced at each other, then one said, "Forty,

sir."

"Get me some water."

One of them went off to get water. The otherlooked at me oddly, as if he had just discovered Iwas a human being. "Are you a doctor, sir?"

"No," I said, "I'm a well-informed Pygmy."

He was confused. He took out his notebook andsaid, "Have you ever been admitted to this hospital

before, sir?"

"No," I said. "And I'm not being admitted now."

"Sir, you came in with a laceration—"

"Screw the laceration. Get me a mirror."

"A mirror?"

I sighed. "I want to see how good your sewing is,"

I said.

"Sir, if you're a doctor—"

"Get the mirror."

With remarkable speed, a mirror and a glass ofwater were produced. I drank the water first,quickly; it tasted marvelous.

"Better go easy on that, sir."

"A crit of forty isn't bad," I said. "And you know it."I held up the mirror and examined the cut on my forehead. I was angry with the interns, and it helpedme forget the pain and soreness in my body. I looked at the cut, which was clean and curved, sloping downfrom above one eyebrow toward my ear.

They had put about twenty stitches in.

"How long since I came in?" I said.

"An hour, sir."

"Stop calling me sir," I said, "and do another he•matocrit. I want to know if I'm bleeding internally."

"Your pulse is only seventy-five, sir, and your skincolor—"

"Do it," I said.

They took another sample. The intern drew fivecc's into a syringe. "Jesus," I said, "it's only a hemat•

ocrit.'

He gave me a funny apologetic look and quickly left. Guys on the EW get sloppy. They need only a fraction of a cc to do a crit; they could get it from a drop of blood on a finger.

I said to the other intern, "My name is JohnBerry. I am a pathologist at the Lincoln."

"Yes, sir."

"Stop writing it down."

"Yes, sir." He put his notebook aside."This isn't an admission and it isn't going to beofficially recorded."

"Sir, if you were attacked and robbed—""I wasn't," I said. "I stumbled and fell. Nothing else. It was just a stupid mistake."

"Sir, the pattern of contusions on your bodywould indicate—"

"I don't care if I'm not a textbook case. I'm tellingyou what happened and that's it." "Sir—"

"No," I said. "No arguments."I looked at him. He was dressed in whites and hehad some spatterings of blood on him; I guessed itwas my blood.

"You're not wearing your name tag," I said."No."

"Well, wear it. We patients like to know whowe're talking to."

He took a deep breath, then said, "Sir, I'm afourth-year student." "Jesus Christ." "Sir—"

"Look, son. You'd better get some things straight." I was grateful for the anger, the fury, which gave me energy. "This may be a kick for you to spend onemonth of your rotation in the EW, but it's no kicksat all for me. Call Dr. Hammond.""Who, sir?"

"Dr. Hammond. The resident in charge.""Yes, sir."

He started to go, and I decided I had been too hard on him. He was, after all, just a student, andhe seemed a nice enough kid.

"By the way," I said, "did you do the suturing?"

There was a long, guilty pause. "Yes, I did."

"You did a good job," I said.

He grinned. "Thanks, sir."

"Stop calling me sir. Did you examine the inci•sion before you sutured it up?"

"Yes, s—. Yes."

"What was your impression?"

"It was a remarkably clean incision. It looked likea razor cut to me."

I smiled. "Or a scalpel?"

"I don't understand."

"I think you're in for an interesting night," I said. "Call Hammond."

Alone,I had nothing to think about but the pain.My stomach was the worst; it ached as if I had swallowed a bowling ball. I rolled over onto myside, and it was better. After a while, Hammondshowed up, with the fourth-year student trailingalong behind.

Hammond said, "Hi, John."

"Hello, Norton. How's business?"

"I didn't see you come in," Norton said,"otherwise—"

"Doesn't matter. Your boys did a good job."

"What happened to you?"

"I had an accident."

"You were lucky," Norton said, bending over thewound and looking at it. "Cut your superficial tem•

poral. You were spurting like hell. But your crit doesn't show it."

"I have a big spleen," I said.

"Maybe so. How do you feel?"

"Like a piece of shit."

"Headache?"

"A little. Getting better."

"Feel sleepy? Nauseated?"

"Come on, Norton—"

"Just lie there," Hammond said. He took out hispenlight and checked my pupils, then looked intothe fundi with an ophthalmoscope. Then hechecked my reflexes, arms and legs, both sides.

"You see?" I said. "Nothing."

"You still might have a hematoma."

"Nope."

"We want you to stay under observation fortwenty-four hours," Hammond said.

"Not a chance." I sat up in bed, wincing. Mystomach was sore. "Help me get up."

"I'm afraid your clothes—"

"Have been cut to shreds. I know. Get me somewhites, will you?"

"Whites? Why?"

"I want to be around when they bring the othersin," I said.

"What others?"

"Wait and see," I said.

The fourth-year student asked me what size

whites I wore, and I told him. He started to getthem when Hammond caught his arm.

"Just a minute." He turned to me. "You can havethem on one condition."

"Norton, for Christ's sake, I don't have a hema•toma. If it's subdural, it may not show up for weeksor months anyway. You know that."

"It might be epidural," he said.

"No fractures on the skull films," I said. An epi•dural hematoma was a collection of blood insidethe skull from a torn artery, secondary to skull frac•ture. The blood collected in the skull and could killyou from the compression of the brain.

"You said yourself, they haven't been read by a ra•diologist yet."

"Norton, for Christ's sake. You're not talking toan eighty-year old lady. I—"

"You can have the whites," he said calmly, "if youagree to stay here overnight."

"I won't be admitted."

"O.K. Just so you stay here in the EW."

I frowned. "All right," I said finally, "I'll stay."

The fourth-year student left to get me theclothes. Hammond stood there and shook his headat me.

"Who beat you up?"

"Wait and see."

"You scared hell out of the intern and that stu•dent."

"I didn't mean to. But they were being kind ofcasual about things."

"The radiologist for the night is Harrison. He's afuck-off."

"You think that matters to me?"

"You know how it is," he said.

"Yes," I said, "I do."

The whites came, and I climbed into them. Itwas an odd feeling; I hadn't worn whites for years.I'd been proud of it then. Now the fabric seemedstiff and uncomfortable.

They found my shoes, wet and bloody; I wipedthem off and put them on. I felt weak and tired,but I had to keep going. It was all going to be fin•ishedtonight. I was certain of it.

I got some coffee and a sandwich. I couldn'ttaste it, it was like eating newspaper, but I thought the food was necessary. Hammond stayed with me.

"By the way," he said, "I checked on RomanJones for you."

"And?"

"He was only seen once. In the GU1clinic.Came in with what sounded like renal colic, sothey did a urinalysis."

"Yes?"

"He had hematuria, all right. Nucleated red cells."1 see.

It was a classic story. Patients often showed up in clinic complaining of severe pain in the lower abdo•

men and decreased urine output. The most likelydiagnosis was a kidney stone, one of the five most

1Genitourinary.

painful conditions there are; morphine is given al•most immediately when the diagnosis is made. Butin order to prove it, one asks for a urine sample and examines it for slight blood. Kidney stones are usu• ally irritating and cause a little bleeding in the uri•nary tract.

Morphine addicts, knowing the relative ease ofgetting morphine for kidney stones, often try tomimic renal colic. Some of them are very good at it;they know the symptoms and can reproduce themexactly. Then when they're asked for a urine sam•ple, they go into the bathroom, collect the sample,prick their fingers, and allow a small drop of bloodto fall in.

But some of them are squeamish. Instead of usingtheir own blood, they use the blood of an animal, like a chicken. The only trouble is that chicken red cellshave nuclei, while those of humans do not. So nucle• ated red cells in a patient with renal colic almost al•ways meant someone faking the symptoms, and that usually meant an addict.

"Was he examined for needle marks?"

"No. When the doctor confronted him, he leftthe clinic. He's never been seen again."

"Interesting. Then he probably is an addict."

"Yes. Probably."

After the food, I felt better. I got to my feet, feel•ing the exhaustion and the pain. I called Judith andtold her I was at the Mem OPD and that I wasfine, not to worry. I didn't mention the beating or

the cut. I knew she would have a fit when I gothome, but I wasn't going to excite her now.

I walked down the corridor with Hammond, try•ing not to wince from the pain. He kept asking mehow I felt, and I kept telling him I felt fine. In fact,I didn't. The food was beginning to make me nau•seated, and my headache was worse standing up.But the worst thing was the fatigue. I was terribly,terribly tired.

We went to the emergency entrance of the EW.It was a kind of stall, an open-ended garage where the ambulances backed up and unloaded their car•goes. Swinging, automatic doors, operated by

foot-pressure pads, led into the hospital. We walked out and breathed the cool night air. It was a rainy, mistynight, but the cool air felt good to me.

Hammond said, "You're pale."

"I'm O.K."

"We haven't even begun to evaluate you for inter•nal hemorrhage."

"I'm O.K.," I said.

"Tell me if you're not," Hammond said. "Don't bea hero."

"I'm not a hero," I said.

We waited there. An occasional automobile drovepast us, tires hissing on the wet streets; otherwiseit was silent.

"What's going to happen?" Hammond said.

"I'm not sure. But I think they're going to bringin a Negro and a girl."

"Roman Jones? Is he involved in all this?"

"I think so."

In fact, I was almost certain that it had been Ro•man Jones who had beaten me up. I didn't remember exactly any more; the events right before the accidentwere hazy. I might have expected that. I didn't have true retrograde amnesia, which is common with con•cussions and extends back for fifteen minutes before the accident. But I was a little confused.

It must have been Roman, I thought. He was theonly logical one. Roman had been heading for Bea•con

Hill. And there was only one logical reason forthat, too.

We would have to wait.

"How do you feel?"

"You keep asking," I said. "And I keep telling youI'm fine."

"You looked tired."

"I am tired. I've been tired all week."

"No. I mean you look drowsy."

"Don't jump the gun," I said. I glanced at my watch. Nearly two hours had passed since I hadbeen beaten up. That was plenty of time. Morethan enough time.

I began to wonder if something had gone wrong.

At that moment, a police car came around thecorner, tires squealing, siren going, blue light flash•ing. Immediately afterward an ambulance pulledup, followed by a third car. As the ambulancebacked in, two men in business suits jumped out ofthe third car: reporters. You could tell by their eagerlittle faces. One had a camera.

"No pictures," I said.

The ambulance doors were opened and a bodyon a stretcher was brought out. The first thing Isaw was the clothes—slashed and ripped across thetrunk and upper limbs, as if the body had beencaught in some kind of monstrous machine. Then,in the cold fluorescent light of the EW entrance, Isaw the face: Roman Jones. His skull was caved inon the right side like a deflated football, and hislips were purple-black.The flashbulbs popped.

Right there in the alleyway, Hammond went towork. He was quick: in a single movement, hepicked up the wrist with his left hand, put his earover the chest, and felt the carotids in the neckwith his right hand. Then he straightened and with•out a word began to pound the chest. He did itwith one hand flat and the heel of the other thump•ing against the flat hand in sharp, hard, rhythmicbeats.

"Call anesthesia," he said, "and get the surgical resident. Get an arrest cart here. I want aramine, one-in-a-thousand solution. Oxygen by mask. Posi•tive pressure. Let's go."

We moved him inside the EW and down to oneof the little treatment rooms. Hammond continuedthe cardiac massage all the time, not breaking his rhythm. When we got to the room the surgical res•ident was there."Arrested?"

"Yes," Hammond said. "Apneic, no pulses any•where."

The surgeon picked up a paper packet of size-eight gloves. He didn't wait for the nurse to open them for him; he took them out of the paper him•self and yanked them over his fingers. He nevertook his eyes off the motionless figure of RomanJones.

"We'll open him up," the surgeon said, flexing hisfingers in the gloves.

Hammond nodded, continuing his pounding of the chest. It didn't seem to be doing much good: Roman's lips and tongue were blacker. His skin, especially inthe face and ears, was blotchy and dark.

An oxygen mask was slapped on.

"How much, sir?" said the nurse.

"Seven liters," said the surgeon. He was given ascalpel. Roman's already shredded clothes weretorn away from his chest; nobody bothered to striphim down completely. The surgeon stepped for•ward, his face blank, the scalpel held tightly in hisright hand with his index finger over the blade.

"All right," he said and made the incision, slop•ing, across the ribs on the left side. It was a deep incision and there was bleeding, which he ignored.He exposed the whitish glistening ribs, cut betweenthem, and then applied retractors. The retractorswere pulled wide and there was a crunching, snap•ping sound as the ribs snapped. Through the gapingincision, we could see Roman's lungs, collapsed

and wrinkled-looking, and his heart, large, bluish, not beating, but wriggling like a bag of worms.

The surgeon reached into the chest and began tomassage. He did it smoothly, contracting his little finger first, then all the others in his hand up to theindex finger, expelling blood from the heart. Hesqueezed very hard and grunted rhythmically.

Someone had slapped on a blood-pressure cuffand Hammond pumped it up to take a reading. He watched the needle for a moment, then said,"Nothing."

"He's fibrillating," the resident said, holding theheart. "No epinephrine. Let's wait."

The massage continued for one minute, thentwo. Roman's color turned darker still.

"Getting weaker. Give me five cc's in one to a  |thousand."

A syringe was prepared. The surgeon injected itdirectly into the heart, then continued squeezing.Several more minutes passed. I watched thesqueezing heart, and the rhythmic inflation of thelungs from the respirator. But the patient was de-dining. Finally, they stopped.

"That's it," the surgeon said. He removed hishand from the chest, looked at Roman Jones, andstripped off his gloves. He examined the lacerationsacross the chest and arms and the dent in the skull."Probably primary respiratory arrest," he said."He was hit pretty hard over the head." To Ham•mond: "You going to do the death certificate?""Yeah," Hammond said, "I'll do it."

At that moment, a nurse burst into the room."Dr. Hammond," she said, "Dr. Jorgensen needsyou. They've got a girl in hemorrhagic shock."

Out in the hall,the first one I saw was Peterson.He was standing there in a suit, looking both con•fused and annoyed. When he saw me he did a dou•ble take and plucked at my sleeve.

"Say, Berry—"

"Later," I said.

I was following Hammond and the nurse downto another treatment room. A girl was there, lyingflat, very pale. Her wrists were bandaged. She wasconscious, but just barely—her head rolled back and forth, and she made moaning sounds.

Jorgensen, the intern, was bent over her. "Got asuicide here," he said to Hammond. "Slashedwrists. We've stopped the bleeding and we're get•ting whole blood in."

He was finding a vein for the IV feeder. Workingon the leg.

"She's cross-matched," he said, slipping theneedle in. "We're getting more blood from thebank. She'll take at least two units. Hematocrit's O.K., but that doesn't mean anything."

"Why the legs?" Hammond said, nodding to the IV.

"Had to bandage her wrists. Don't want to foolwith upper extremities."

I stepped forward. The girl was Angela Harding.She did not look so pretty now; her face was the

color of chalk, with a grayish tinge around themouth.

"What do you think?" Hammond said toJorgensen.

"We'll keep her," he said. "Unless something goeswrong."

Hammond examined the wrists, which werebandaged.

"Is this the lesion?"

"Yes. Both sides. We've sutured it."

He looked at the hands. The fingers were staineddark brown. He looked at me. "Is this the girl youwere talking about?"

"Yes," I said, "Angela Harding."

"Heavy smoker," Hammond said.

"Try again."

Hammond picked up one hand and smelled thestained fingers.

"These aren't tobacco," he said.

"That's right."

"Then . . ."

I nodded. "That's right."

". . . she's a nurse."

"Yes."

The stains were from tincture of iodine, used asa disinfectant. It was a brownish-yellowish liquid,and it stained tissues it came in contact with. Itwas employed for scrubbing a surgical incision be• fore cutting, and for such other practices as intro•duction of an IV feeder.

"I don't get it," Hammond said.

I held up her hands. The balls of the thumb andthe backs of the hands were covered with minuteslashes which were not deep enough to draw blood.

"What do you make of this?"

"Testing." A classic finding in suicides by wrist-slashing is one or more preliminary cuts on thehand as if the suicide victim wishes to test thesharpness of the blade or the intensity of the painthat would result.

"No," I said.

"Then what?"

"Ever seen a fellow who's been in a knife fight?"

Hammond shook his head. Undoubtedly, he neverhad. It was the kind of experience one had only as a pathologist: small cuts on the hands were the hall•mark of a knife fight. The victim held up his handsto ward off the knife; he ended up with small cuts.

"Is this the pattern?"

"Yes."

"You mean she was in a knife fight?"

"Yes."

"But why?"

"Tell you later," I said.

I went back to Roman Jones. He was still in thesame room, along with Peterson and another man in a suit, examining the eyes of the body.

"Berry," Peterson said, "you show up at thedamnedest times."

"So do you."

"Yeah," Peterson said, "but it's my job."

He nodded toward the other man in the room.

"Since you were so worried the last time, Ibrought a doctor along. A police doctor. This is acoroner's

case now, you know."

"I know."

"Fellow by the name of Roman Jones. We gotthat from the wallet."

"Where'd you find him?"

"Lying on the street. A nice quiet street in Bea•con Hill. With his skull bashed in. Must have fallenon his head. There was a broken window two floorsup, in an apartment owned by a girl named AngelaHarding. She's here, too."

"I know."

"You know a lot tonight, don't you?"

I ignored him. My headache was worse; it wasthrobbing badly, and I felt terribly tired. I was readyto lie down and go to sleep for a long, long time.But I wasn't relaxed; my stomach was churning.

I bent over the body of Roman Jones. Someonehad stripped off the clothing to expose multiple, deep lacerations of the trunk and upper arms. The legswere untouched. That, I thought, was characteristic.

The doctor straightened and looked at Peterson."Hard to tell now what the cause of death was," hesaid. He nodded to the gaping chest wound."They've messed it up pretty bad. But I'd say crush injury to the cranium. You said he fell from a win•dow?"

"That's the way we figure it," Peterson said, glanc•ing at me.

"I'll handle the forms," the doctor said. "Give me the wallet."

Peterson gave him Roman Jones' wallet. The doc•tor began to write on a clipboard at one side of the room. I continued to look at the body. I was partic•ularly interested in the skull. I touched the inden• tation, and Peterson said, "What're you doing?"

"Examining the body."

"On whose authority?"

I sighed. "Whose authority do I need?"

He looked confused then.

I said, "I'd like your permission to conduct a su•perficial examination of the body."

As I said it, I glanced over at the doctor. He wasmaking notes from the wallet, but I was sure hewas listening.

"There'll be an autopsy," Peterson said.

"I'd like your permission," I said.

"You can't have it."

At that point, the doctor said, "Oh, for shit'ssake, Jack."

Peterson looked from the police doctor, to me,and back again. Finally he said, "Okay, Berry. Exam•ine. But don't disturb anything."

I looked at the skull lesion. It was a cup-shaped indentation roughly the size of a man's fist, but ithadn't been made by any fist. It had been made by the end of a stick, or a pipe, swung with consider•able force. I looked more closely and saw smallbrown slivers of wood sticking to the bloody scalp.I didn't touch them.

"You say this skull fracture was caused by a fall?"

"Yes," Peterson said. "Why?"

"Just asking."

"Why?"

"What about the lacerations of the body?" I said.

"We figure he got those in the apartment. Appar•ently he had a fight with this girl, Angela Harding.There was a bloody kitchen knife in the apartment.She must have gone after him. Anyway, he fell outof the window or was pushed out. And he got thisfracture, which killed him."

He paused and looked at me.

"Go on," I said.

"That's all there is to tell," he said.

I nodded, left the room, and returned with a nee•dle and syringe. I bent over the body and jabbedthe needle into the neck, hoping for the jugularvein. There was no point in fooling with arm veins, not now.

"What're you doing?"

"Drawing blood," I said, pulling back the syringeand drawing out several milliliters of bluish blood.

"What for?"

"I want to know whether he was poisoned," 1said. It was the first thought, the first answer, thatcame into my head.

"Poisoned?"

"Yes."

"Why do you think he was poisoned?"

"Just a hunch," I said.

I dropped the syringe into my pocket and started

to leave. Peterson watched me, then said, "Just wait a minute."

I paused.

"I have one or two questions for you."

"Oh?"

"The way we figure it," Peterson said, "this fellowand Angela Harding had a fight. Then Jones fell,and the girl attempted suicide."

"You already told me that."

"There's only one problem," Peterson said. "Jonesis a big fellow. He must have gone one-ninety, two hundred. You think a little girl like Angela Hardingcould have shoved him out?"

"Maybe he fell."

"Maybe she had help."

"Maybe she did."

He looked at my face, at the bandage coveringmy cut. "Have some trouble tonight?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"I fell on the wet streets."

"Then you have an abrasion?"

"No. I fell against one of the city's excellent park•ing meters. I have a laceration."

"A jagged laceration."

"No, quite fine."

"Like Roman Jones'?"

"I don't know."

"Ever met Jones before?"

"Yes."

"Oh? When?"

"Tonight. About three hours ago."

"That's interesting," Peterson said.

"Do your best with it," I said. "I wish you luck."

"I could take you in for questioning."

"Sure you could," I said. "But on what charge?"

He shrugged. "Accessory. Anything."

"And I'd have a lawsuit on you so fast your headwould swim. I'd have two million dollars out of yourhide before you knew what hit you."

"Just for questioning?"

"That's right," I said. "Compromising a doctor'sreputation. A doctor's reputation is his life, youknow. Anything, even the slightest shadow of suspi•cion, is potentially damaging—financially damag•ing. I could very easily prove damages in court."

"Art Lee doesn't take that attitude."

I smiled. "Want to bet?"

I continued on. Peterson said, "How much doyou weigh, Doctor?"

"One hundred and eighty-five pounds," I said."The same as I weighed eight years ago."

"Eight years ago?"

"Yes," I said, "when I was a cop."

MY HEAD FELT AS IF IT WERE IN A VISE. The pain wasthrobbing, aching, agonizing. On my way down thecorridor, I felt sudden and severe nausea. I stoppedin the men's room and vomited up the sandwichand coffee I had eaten. I felt weak, with cold sweat afterward, but that passed and I was better. I wentback and returned to Hammond.

"How do you feel?"

"You're getting monotonous," I said.

"You look like hell," he said. "Like you're about tobe sick."

"I'm not," I said.

I took the syringe with Jones' blood from my pocket and set it on the bedside table. I picked upa fresh syringe and went.

"Can you find me a mouse?" I said.

"A mouse?"

"Yes."

He frowned. "There are some rats in Cochran's lab; it may be open now."

"I need mice."

"I can try," he said.

We headed for the basement. On the way, anurse stopped Hammond to say that AngelaHarding's parents had been called. Hammond saidto let him know when they arrived or when the girlrecovered consciousness.

We went down to the basement and movedthrough a maze of corridors, crouching beneath pipes. Eventually we came to the animal-storage area. Like most large hospitals connected with a university, the Mem had a research wing, and many animals wereused in experiments. We heard barking dogs and the soft flutter of birds' wings as we passed room afterroom. Finally we came to one which saidminor sub• jects.Hammond pushed it open.

It was lined, floor to ceiling, with row after rowof rats and mice. The smell was strong and distinc-

tive. Every young doctor knew that smell, and it was just as well, because it had clinical signifi•cance. The breath of patients in hepatic failurefrom liver disease had a peculiar odor known asfe•tor hepaticus; it was very similar to the smell of aroom full of mice.

We found one mouse and Hammond plucked itfrom the cage in the accepted manner, by the tail.The mouse squirmed and tried to bite Hammond'shand, but had no success. Hammond set it down on the table and held the animal by a fold of looseflesh just behind the head.

"Now what?"

I picked up the syringe and injected some of the blood from Roman Jones' body. Then Hammond dropped the mouse in a glass jar.

For a long time, the mouse did nothing but runaround the jar in circles.

"Well?" Hammond said.

"It's your failing," I said. "You aren't a pathologist.Have you ever heard of the mouse test?"

"No."

"It's an old test. It used to be the only bioassayavailable."

"Bioassay? For what?"

"Morphine," I said.

The mouse continued to run in circles. Then itseemed to slow, its muscles becoming tense, andthe tail stuck straight up in the air.

"Positive," I said.

"For morphine?"

"Right."

There were better tests now, such as nalorphine, but for a dead person, the mouse test remained asgood as any.

"He's an addict?" Hammond said.Yes.

"And the girl?"

"We're about to find out," I said.

She was conscious when we returned, tired andsad-eyed after taking three units2of blood. But she was no more tired than I was. I felt a deep, over•powering fatigue, a kind of general weakness, agreat desire to sleep.

There was a nurse in the room who said, "Herpressure's up to one hundred over sixty-five."

"Good," I said. I fought back the fatigue andwent up to her, patted her hand. "How are you feel•ing, Angela?"

Her voice was flat. "Like hell."

"You're going to be all right."

"I failed," she said in a dull monotone.

"How do you mean?"

A tear ran down her cheek. "I failed, that's all. Itried it and I failed."

"You're all right now."

"Yes," she said. "I failed."

"We'd like to talk to you," I said.

She turned her head away. "Leave me alone."

"Angela, this is very important."

2A liter and a half.

"Damn all doctors," she said. "Why couldn't youleave me alone? I wanted to be left alone. That'swhy I

did it, to be left alone."

"The police found you."

She gave a choking laugh. "Doctors and cops."

"Angela, we need your help."

"No." She raised her bandaged wrists and lookedat them. "No. Never."

"I'm sorry, then." I turned to Hammond and said,"Get me some nalorphine."

I was certain the girl had heard me, but she didnot react.

"How much?"

"Ten milligrams," I said. "A good dose.'

Angela gave a slight shiver, but said nothing.

"Is that all right with you, Angela?"

She looked up at me and her eyes were filledwith anger and something else, almost hope. Sheknew what it meant, all right.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"I said, is it all right if we give you ten milligramsof nalorphine."

"Sure," she said. "Anything. I don't care."

Nalorphine was an antagonist of morphine.3Ifthis girl was an addict, it would bring her downwith brutal swiftness—possibly fatal swiftness, ifwe used enough.

A nurse came in. She blinked when she did not

3Actually a partial agonist, meaning that in low doses it has amorphinelike effect, but in high doses in an addict, it induces withdrawal symptoms.

recognize me, but recovered quickly. "Doctor, Mrs.Harding is here. The police called her."

"All right. I'll see her."

I went out into the corridor. A woman and manwere standing there nervously. The man was tall,wearing clothes he had obviously put on hurriedly—his socks didn't match. The woman was handsomeand concerned. Looking at her face, I had the strangefeeling I had met her before, though I was certain Ihad not. There was something very, almost hauntingly,familiar about her features.

"I'm Dr. Berry."

"Tom Harding." The man held out his hand andshook mine quickly, as if he were wringing it. "AndMrs. Harding."

"How do you do."

I looked at them both. They seemed like nice fifty-year-old people, very surprised to find them•selves in a hospital EW at four in the morning witha daughter who'd just slashed her wrists.

Mr. Harding cleared his throat and said, "The, uh, nurse told us what happened. To Angela."

"She's going to be all right," I said.

"Can we see her?" Mrs. Harding said.

"Not right now. We're still conducting sometests."

"Then it isn't—"

"No," I said, "these are routine tests."

Tom Harding nodded. "I told my wife it'd be allright. Angela's a nurse in this hospital, and I toldher they'd take good care of her."

"Yes," I said. "We're doing our best."

"Is she really all right?" Mrs. Harding said.

"Yes, she's going to be fine."

Mrs. Harding said to Tom, "Better call Lelandand tell him he doesn't have to come over."

"He's probably already on his way."

"Well, try," Mrs. Harding said.

"There's a phone at the admitting desk," I said.

Tom Harding left to call. I said to Mrs. Harding,"Are you calling your family doctor?"

"No," she said, "my brother. He's a doctor, and hewas always very fond of Angela, ever since she wasa little girl. He—"

"Leland Weston," I said, recognizing her face.

"Yes," she said. "Do you know him?"

"He's an old friend."

Before she could answer, Hammond returnedwith the nalorphine and syringe. He said, "Do youreally think we should—"

"Dr. Hammond, this is Mrs. Harding," I saidquickly. "This is Dr. Hammond, the chief medical resident."

"Doctor." Mrs. Harding nodded slightly, but hereyes were suddenly watchful.

"Your daughter's going to be fine," Hammondsaid.

"I'm glad to hear that," she said. But her tonewas cool.

We excused ourselves and went back to Angela.

"Ihope to hell you know what you're doing,"Hammond said as we walked down the hall.

"I do." I paused at a water fountain and filled acup with water. I drank it down, then filled it again. My headache was now very bad, and my sleepinesswas terrible. I wanted to lie down, to forget every•thing, to sleep....

But I didn't say anything. I knew what Hammondwould do if he found out.

"I know what I'm doing," I said.

"I hope so," he said, "because if anything goes wrong, I'm responsible. I'm the resident in charge."

"I know. Don't worry."

"Worry, hell. Ten milligrams of this stuff will shove her into cold turkey so fast—"

"Don't worry."

"It could kill her. We ought to be doing gradeddoses. Start with two, and if there's no effect intwenty minutes, go to five, and so on."

"Yes," I said. "But graded doses won't kill her."

Hammond looked at me and said, "John, are youout of your mind?"

"No," I said.

We entered Angela's room. She was turned awayfrom us, rolled over on her side. I took the ampouleof nalorphine from Hammond and set it with thesyringe on the table just alongside her bed; Iwanted to be sure she read the label.

Then I walked around to the other side of thebed, so her back was to me.

I reached across her and picked up the ampoule

and syringe. Then I quickly filled the syringe withwater from the cup.

"Would you turn around, Angela, please?"

She rolled onto her back and held out her arm.Hammond was too astonished to move; I put the tourniquet on her arm and rubbed the veins in thecrook of her elbow until they stood out. Then I slipped the needle in and squeezed out the con•tents. She watched me in silence.

When it was done, I stood back and said, "Therenow."

She looked at me, then at Hammond, then back to me.

"It won't be long," I said.

"How much did you give me?"

"Enough."

"Was it ten? Did you give me ten?"

She was becoming agitated. I patted her arm re•assuringly. "There's nothing to worry about."

"Was it twenty?"

"Well, no," I said. "It was only two. Two milli•grams."

"Two!"

"It won't kill you," I said mildly.

She groaned and rolled away from us.

"Disappointed?" I said.

"What are you trying to prove?" she said.

"You know the answer to that, Angela."

"But two milligrams. That's—"

"Just enough to give you symptoms. Just the cold

sweats and the cramps and the pain. Just the begin•nings of withdrawal."

"Jesus."

"It won't kill you," I said again. "And you know it."

"You bastards. I didn't ask to come here, I didn'task to be—"

"But you are here, Angela. And you have nalor•phinein your veins. Not much, but enough."

She began to break out into a sweat. "Stop it,"she said.

"We can use morphine."

"Stop it. Please. I don't want it."

"Tell us," I said. "About Karen."

"First stop it."No.

Hammond was bothered by all this. He startedforward toward the bed. I pushed him back.

"Tell us, Angela."

"I don't know anything."

"Then we'll wait until the symptoms start. Andyou'll have to tell us while you scream from thepain."

Her pillow was soaked with sweat. "I don't know,I don't know."

"Tell us."

"I don't know anything."

She began to shiver, slightly at first, and thenmore uncontrollably, until her whole body shook.

"It's starting, Angela."

She gritted her teeth. "I don't care."

"It will get worse, Angela."

"No...no...no. . . ."

I produced an ampoule of morphine and set it onthe table in front of her.

"Tell us."

Her shivering got worse, until her whole bodywas wracked with spasms. The bed shook violently.I would have felt pity if I had not known that shewas causing the reaction herself, that I had not in•jected any nalorphine at all.

"Angela."

"All right," she said, gasping. "I did it. I had to."

"Why?"

"Because of the heat. The heat. The clinic andthe heat."

"You'd been stealing from the surgery?"

"Yes . . . not much, just a little . . . butenough . . ."

"How long?"

"Three years . . . maybe four..."

"And what happened?"

"Roman robbed the clinic . . . Roman Jones."

"When?"

"Last week."

"And?"

"The heat was on. They were checking every•body . . ."

"So you had to stop stealing?"

"Yes . . ."

"What did you do?"

"I tried to buy from Roman."

"And?"

"He wanted money. A lot."

"Who suggested the abortion?"

"Roman."

"To get money?"

"Yes."

"How much did he want?"

I already knew the answer. She said, "Three hun•dred dollars."

"So you did the abortion?"

"Yes . . . yes . . . yes. . . ."

"And who acted as anesthetist?"

"Roman. It was easy. Thiopental."

"And Karen died?"

"She was all right when she left. . . . We did it onmy bed . . . the whole thing....It was all right, ev•

erything...on my bed. . . ."

"But later she died."

"Yes . . . Oh God, give me some stuff. . . ."

"We will," I said.

I filled a syringe with more water, squeezedout the air until a fine stream shot into the air,and injected it intravenously. Immediately she calmed. Her breathing became slower, more re•laxed.

"Angela," I said, "did you perform the abortion?"

"Yes."

"And it resulted in Karen's death?"

A dull voice. "Yes."

"All right." I patted her arm. "Just relax now."

we walked down the corridor.Tom Harding waswaiting there with his wife, smoking a cigarette and pacing up and down.

"Is she all right, Doctor? Did the tests—"

"Fine," I said. "She'll recover beautifully."

"That's a relief," he said, his shoulders sagging.

"Yes," I said.

Norton Hammond gave me a quick glance, and I avoided his eyes. I felt like hell; my headache was much worse and I was beginning to have momentswhen my vision blurred. It seemed much worse inmy right eye than my left.

But someone had to tell them. I said, "Mr.Harding, I am afraid your daughter has been impli•cated in business that involves the police."

He looked at me, stunned, disbelieving. Then Isaw his face melt into a peculiar acceptance. Al•most as if he had known it all along. "Drugs," hesaid, in a low voice.

"Yes," I said and felt worse than ever.

"We didn't know," he said quickly. "I mean, if wehad . . ."

"But we suspected," Mrs. Harding said. "Wenever could control Angela. She was a headstronggirl, very independent. Very self-reliant and sure ofherself. Even as a child, she was sure of herself."

Hammondwiped the sweat from his face with hissleeve. "Well," he said, "that's that."

"Yes."

Even though he was close to me, he seemed faraway. His voice was suddenly faint and insignifi•cant. Everything around me was insignificant. The people seemed small and faded. My headache nowcame in bursts of severe pain. Once, I had to stopfor a moment and rest.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Just tired."

He nodded. "Well," he said, "it's all over. Youshould be pleased."

"Are you?"

We went into the doctors' conference room, asmall cubbyhole with two chairs and a table. Therewere charts on the walls, detailing procedure foracute emergencies: hemorrhagic shock, pulmonaryedema, MI, burns, crush injuries. We sat down andI lit a cigarette. My left hand felt weak as I flickedthe lighter.

Hammond stared at the charts for a while; nei•ther of us said anything. Finally, Hammond said,"Want a drink?"

'Yes," I said. I was feeling sick to my stomach, dis•gusted, and annoyed. A drink would do me good, snap me out of it. Or else it would make me sicker.

He opened a locker and reached into the back,producing a flask. "Vodka," he said. "No smell. Foracute medical emergencies." He opened it and tooka swallow, then passed it to me.

As I drank, he said, "Jesus. Tune in, turn on,drop dead. Jesus."

"Something like that."

I gave the flask back to him.

"She was a nice girl, too."

"Yes."

"And that placebo effect. You got her into with•drawal on water, and you snapped her out of it with water."

"You know why," I said.

"Yeah," he said, "she believed you."

"That's right," I said. "She believed me."

I looked up at a chart illustrating the pathologicallesion and emergency steps for diagnosis and treat•ment of ectopic pregnancy. I got down to the place where they talked about menstrual irregularity and cramping right-lower-quadrant pain when the wordsbegan to blur.

"John?"

It took me a long time to answer. It seemed as ifit took me a long time to hear the words. I wassleepy, slow-thinking, slow-acting.

"John?"

"Yes," I said. My voice was hollow, a voice in atomb. It echoed.

"You O.K.?"

"Yes, fine."

I kept hearing the words repeated in a kind ofdream: fine, fine, fine. . . .

"You look terrible."

"I'm fine. . . ." Fine, fine, fine . . .

"John, don't get mad—"

"I'm not mad," I said and shut my eyes. The lidswere hard to keep open. They stuck down, wereheavy, sticking to the lower lids. "I'm happy."

"Happy?"

"What?"

"Are you happy?"

"No," I said. He was talking nonsense. It meantnothing. His voice was squeaky and high like ababy, a chattering, childish voice. "No," I said, "I'mnot mad at all."

"John—"

"Stop calling me John."

"That's your name," Norton said. He stood up,slowly, moving in dreamy slowness, and I felt verytired as I watched him move. He reached into hispocket and produced his light and shined it into myface. I looked away; the light was bright and hurtmy eyes. Especially my right eye.

"Look at me."

The voice was loud and commanding. Drill ser•geant's voice. Snappish and irritable.

"Fuck off," I said.

Strong fingers on my head, holding me, and thelight shining into my eyes.

"Cut it out, Norton."

"John, hold still."

"Cut it out." I closed my eyes. I was tired. Verytired. I wanted to sleep for a million years. Sleepwas beautiful, like the ocean washing the sand, lap•ping up with a slow, beautiful, hissing sound, clean•ing everything.

"I'm O.K., Norton. I'm just mad."

"John, hold still."

John, hold still.

John, holdstill.

John, hold still.

"Norton, for Christ's sake—"

"Shut up," he said.

Shut up, shut up.

He had his little rubber hammer out. He wastapping my legs. Making my legs bounce up and down. It tingled and irritated me. I wanted to sleep.I wanted to go fast, fast asleep.

"Norton, you son of a bitch."

"Shut up. You're as bad as any of them."

As any of them, as any of them. The wordsechoed in my head. As any of what? I wondered. Then the sleep, creeping up on me, fingers stretch•ing out, plastic, rubbery fingers, closing over myeyes, holding them shut. . . .

"I'm tired."

"I know you are. I can see."

"I can't. I can't see anything."

Anything.

Can't see.

I tried to open my eyes. "Coffee. Need coffee."

"No," he said.

"Give me a fetus," I said and wondered why 1said it. It made no sense. Did it? Didn't it? So con•fusing. Everything was confused. My right eye hurt.The headache was right behind my right eye. Likea little man with a hammer, pounding the back ofmy eyeball.

"A little man," I said.

"What?"

"A little man," I explained. It was obvious. Hewas stupid not to understand. It was perfectly obvi•ous, a reasonable statement from a reasonable man.Norton was just playing games, pretending hedidn't understand.

"John," he said, "I want you to count backwardfrom one hundred. Subtract seven from one hun•dred. Can you do that?"

I paused. It wasn't easy. In my mind, I saw apiece of paper, a shining white piece of paper, withpencil on it. One hundred minus seven. And a line,for the subtraction.

"Ninety-three."

"Good. Continue."

That was harder. It needed a new piece of paper.

I had to tear the old one off the pad before I could

begin with a new piece. And when I had torn the old one off, I had forgotten what was on it. Compli•cated. Confusing.

"Go on, John. Ninety-three."

"Ninety-three minus seven." I paused. "Eighty-five. No. Eighty-six."

"Go on."

"Seventy-nine."

"Yes."

"Seventy-three. No. Seventy-four. No, no. Wait aminute."

I was tearing off pieces of paper. So hard. And sovery confusing. It was so muchwork to concentrate.

"Eighty-seven."

"No."

"Eighty-five."

"John, what day is this?"Day?

What a silly question. Norton was full of sillyquestions today. What day is this?

"Today," I said.

"What is the date?"

"The date?"

"Yes, the date."

"May," I said. It was the date of May.

"John, where are you?"

"I am in the hospital," I said, looking down at mywhites. I opened my eyes a fraction, because theywere heavy and I was groggy and the light hurt myeyes. I wished he would keep quiet and let mesleep. I wanted to sleep. I needed the sleep. I wasvery, very tired.

"What hospital?"

"The hospital."

"What hospital?"

"The—" I started to say something, but couldn'tremember what I intended to say. My headachewas fierce now, pounding on the right eye, on thefront of my head on the right side, a terrible pound•ing headache.

"Raise your left hand, John."

"What?"

"Raise your left hand, John."

I heard him, heard the words, but they were fool•ish. No one would pay attention to those words. No one would bother.

"What?"

The next thing I felt was a vibration, on the rightside of my head. A funny rumbling vibration. Iopened my eyes and saw a girl. She was pretty, butshe was doing strange things to me. Brown fluffythings were falling off my head. Drifting down. Norton was watching and calling for something, but I did not understand the words. I was nearly asleep,it was all very strange. After the fluff came a lather.

And the razor. I looked at it, and the lather, and Iwas suddenly sick, no warning, no nothing, but vomitall over and Norton was saying, "Hurry it up, let's go."

And then they brought in the drill. I could barelysee it, my eyes kept closing, and I was sick again.

The last thing I said was "No holes in my head."

I said it very clearly and slowly and distinctly.

I think.

FRIDAY, SATURDAY& SUNDAY

OCTOBER 14, 15 & 16

ONE

ITfelt like somebody had tried to cut off my headand hadn't done a very good job. When I woke upI

buzzed for the nurse and demanded more mor•phine. She said I couldn't have it in a smiling,

difficult-patient way and I suggested she go to hell.She didn't much like that but I didn't much likeher. I reached up and felt the bandages on the sideof my skull and made a few comments. She didn'tlike those any better so she left. Pretty soon NortonHammond came in.

"You're a hell of a barber," I said, touching myhead.

"I thought we did pretty well."

"How many holes?"

"Three. Right parietal. We took out quite a bit ofblood. You remember any of that?"

"No," I said.

'You were sleepy, vomiting, and one pupil was di-388

lated. We didn't wait for the X rays; we put the bun-holes right in."

"Oh," I said. " When do I get out of here?"

"Three or four days, at most."

"Are you kidding? Three or four days?"

"An epidural," he said, "is a rugged thing. Wewant to be sure you rest."

"Do I have any choice?"

"They always say," he said, "that doctors makethe worst patients."

"More morphine," I said.

"No," he said.

"Darvon."

"No."

"Aspirin?"

"All right," he said. "You can have some aspirin."

"Real aspirin? Not sugar pills?"

"Watch it," he said, "or we'll call a psychiatricconsult."

"You wouldn't dare."

He just laughed and left the room.

I slept for a while, and then Judith came in tosee me. She acted annoyed with me for a while, but not too long. I explained to her that it wasn't my fault and she said I was a damned fool andkissed me.

Then the police came, and I pretended to beasleep until they left.

In the evening, the nurse got me some newspa•pers and I searched for news about Art. Therewasn't any. Some lurid stories about Angela Hard-

ing and Roman Jones, but nothing else. Judithcame again during evening visiting hours and told me that

Betty and the kids were fine and that Artwould be released the next day.

I said that was great news and she just smiled.

THERE IS NO SENSE OF TIME IN A HOSPITAL. One dayblends into the next; the routine—temperatures,meals, doctors' rounds, more temperatures, moremeals—was everything. Sanderson came to see me,and Fritz, and some other people. And the police,only this time I couldn't fake sleep. I told them ev•erything I knew and they listened and made notes.Toward the end of the second day I felt better. Iwas stronger, my head was clearer, and I was sleep•ing less.

I told Hammond and he just grunted and said towait another day.

Art Lee came to see me in the afternoon. He hadthe old, wry grin on his face but he looked tired.And older.

"Hi," I said. "How's it feel to be out?"

"Good," he said.

He looked at me from the foot of the bed andshook his head. "Hurt much?"

"Not anymore."

"Sorry it happened," he said.

"It's all right. It was interesting, in a way. My firstepidural hematoma."

I paused. There was a question I wanted to askhim. I had been thinking about a lot of things and

kicking myself for my foolish mistakes. The worsthad been calling that reporter into the Lees' housethat night. That had been very bad. But there wereother bad things. So I wanted to ask him.

Instead, I said, "The police have things wrappedup now, I imagine."

He nodded. "Roman Jones was supplying Angela.He made her do the abortion. When it failed—andyou got curious—he went over to Angela's house,probably to kill her. He decided he was being fol•lowed and caught you. Then he went to her placeand went after her with a razor. That was what hap•pened to your forehead."

"Nice."

"Angela fought him with a kitchen knife. Slashedhim up a little. It must have been a pleasant scene,him with the razor and her with the knife. Finallyshe managed to hit him with a chair and knock him out the window."

"She said that?"

"Yes, apparently."

I nodded.

We looked at each other for a while.

"I appreciate your help," he said, "in all this."

"Any time. You sure it was help?"

He smiled. "I'm a free man."

"That's not what I mean," I said.

He shrugged and sat down on the edge of thebed.

"The publicity wasn't your fault," he said. "Be-

sides, I was getting tired of this town. Ready for a change."

"Where will you go?"

"Back to California, I guess. I'd like to live in LosAngeles. Maybe I'll deliver babies for movie stars."

"Movie stars don't have babies. They have agents."

He laughed. For a moment, it was the old laugh,the rnomentary self-pleasure that came when he had just heard something that amused him and hadhit upon an amusing response. He was about tospeak, then closed his mouth and stared at thefloor. He stopped laughing.

I said, "Have you been back to the office?"

"Just to close it up. I'm making arrangements forthe movers."

"When will you go?"

"Next week."

"So soon?"

He shrugged. "I'm not eager to stay."

"No," I said, "I imagine you're not."

I SUPPOSE EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED  afterwardwas the result of my anger. It was already a rottenbusiness, stinking rotten, and I should have left italone. There was no need to continue anything. I could let it go and forget about it. Judith wanted tohave a farewell party for Art; I told her no, that he wouldn't like it, not really.

That made me angry, too.

On the third hospital day I bitched to Hammonduntil he finally agreed to discharge me. I guess the

nurses had been complaining to him as well. Sothey let me go at 3:10 in the afternoon, and Judithbrought me clothes and drove me home. On theway, I said, "Turn right at the next corner."

"Why?"

"I have to make a stop."

"John—"

"Come on, Judith. A quick stop."

She frowned, but turned right at the corner. Idirected her across Beacon Hill, to AngelaHarding's street. A police car was parked in front ofher apartment. I got out and went up to the secondfloor. A cop stood outside the door.

"Dr. Berry, Mallory Lab," I said in an official tone. "Have the blood samples been taken yet?"

The cop looked confused. "Blood samples?"

"Yes. The scrapings from the room. Dried sam•ples. For twenty-six factor determinations. Youknow."

He shook his head. He didn't know.

"Dr. Lazare is worried about them," I said. "Wantedme to check."

"I don't know anything about it," the cop said."There were some medical guys here yesterday.Those the ones?"

"No," I said, "they were the dermatology people."

"Uh. Oh. Well, you better check for yourself." Heopened the door for me. "Just don't touch anything. They're dusting."

I entered the apartment. It was a shambles, fur•niture overturned, blood spattered on couches and

tables. Three men were working on a glass, dustingpowder onto it and blowing it off, then photo•

graphing the fingerprints. One looked up, "Help

you?"

"Yes," I said. "The chair—"

"Over there," he said, jerking his thumb towardthe chair in the corner. "But don't touch it."

I went over and stared at the chair. It was notvery heavy, a cheap wood kitchen chair, rather non•

descript. But it was sturdily made. There was someblood on one leg.

I looked back at the three men. "You dusted thisone yet?"

"Yeah. Funny thing. There's hundreds of prints inthis room. Dozens of people. It's going to take usyears to unravel it all. But there were two things wecouldn't get prints from. That chair and the door•knob to the outside door."

"How's that?"

The man shrugged. "Been wiped."

"Wiped?"

"Yeah. Somebody cleaned up the chair and thedoorknob. Anyhow, that's the way it looks. Damned funny. Nothing else was wiped, not even the knifeshe used on her wrists."

I nodded. "The blood boys been here yet?"

"Yeah. Came and went."

"O.K.," I said. "Can I make a call? I want tocheck back with the lab."

He shrugged. "Sure."

I went to the phone, picked it up, and dialed the

weather bureau. When the voice came on, I said,"Give me Dr. Lazare."

"—sunny and cool, with a high in the mid-fifties.Partly cloudly in late afternoon—"

"Fred? John Berry. I'm over at the room now."

"—with fifty-percent chance of showers—"

"Yeah, they say the samples were taken. You sureyou haven't gotten them yet?"

"—tomorrow, fair and colder with a high in theforties—"

"Oh. I see. O.K. Good. Right. See you."

—"wind from the east at fifteen miles perhour—"

I hung up and turned to the three men."Thanks," I said.

"Sure."

Nobody paid any attention to me as I left. No-body really cared. The men who were there were doing routine duty. They'd done things like this be-fore, dozens of times. It was just routine.

POSTSCRIPT:MONDAY

OCTOBER 17

Iwas in a bad mood Monday. I sat around for most of the morning drinking coffee and smoking cigarettesand tasting a lousy sour taste in my mouth. I kepttelling myself that I could drop it and nobody wouldcare. It was over. I couldn't help Art and I couldn't undo anything. I could only make things worse.

Besides, none of this was Weston's fault, not re•ally. Even though I wanted to blame somebody, I

couldn't blame him. And he was an old man.

It as a waste of time. I drank coffee and told my•self that, over and over. A waste of time.

I did it anyway.

Shortly before noon I drove over to the Malloryand walked into Weston's office. He was going over some microscopic slides and dictating his findingsinto a small desk recorder. He stopped when Icame in.

"Hello, John. What brings you over here?"

I said, "How do you feel?"396

"Me?" He laughed. "I feel fine. How do youfeel?" He nodded to the bandages on my head. "Iheard what happened."

"I'm okay," I said.

I looked at his hands. They were under the table,in his lap. He had dropped them down as soon asI had come into the room.

I said, "Hurt much?"

"What?"

"Your hands."

He gave me a puzzled look or tried to. It didn'twork. I nodded to his hands and he brought themout. Two fingers of his left hand were bandaged.

"Accident?"

"Yes. Clumsy of me. I was chopping an onion athome—helping out in the kitchen—and I cut my•self. Just a superficial wound, but embarrassing.You'd think after all these years I'd know how to handle a knife."

"You bandaged it yourself?"

'Yes. It was just a small cut."

I sat down in the chair opposite his desk and lita cigarette, aware that he was watching me care•fully. I blew a stream of smoke out, toward the ceil•ing. He kept his face calm and blank; he wasmaking it hard for me. But that was his right, Iguess. I'd probably do the same.

"Was there something you wanted to see meabout?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

We stared at each other for a moment, and then

Weston pushed his microscope to one side andturned off the recorder.

"Was it about the path diagnosis on Karen Ran•dall? I'd heard you were concerned."

"I was," I said.

"Would you feel better if someone else lookedthem over? Sanderson?"

"Not now," I said. "It doesn't really matter now.Not legally, anyway."

"I suppose you're right," he said.

We stared at each other again, a long silence fall•ing. I didn't know how to bring it up, but the si•lence was killing me.

"The chair," I said, "was wiped. Did you knowthat?"

For a moment, he frowned, and I thought he was going to play dumb. But he didn't; instead, he nod•

ded.

"Yes," he said. "She told me she'd wipe it."

"And the doorknob."

"Yes. And the doorknob."

"When did you show up?"

He sighed. "It was late," he said. "I had workedlate at the labs and was on my way home. I stoppedby

Angela's apartment to see how she was. I oftendid. Just stopped in. Looked in on her."

"Were you treating her addiction?"

"You mean, was I supplying her?"

"I mean, were you treating her?"

"No," he said. "I knew it was beyond me. I con•sidered it, of course, but I knew that I couldn't

handle it, and I might make things worse. I urgedher to go for treatment, but . . ."

He shrugged.

"So instead, you visited her frequently."

"Just to try and help her over the rough time. Itwas the least I could do."

"And Thursday night?"

"He was already there when I arrived. I heard scuf•fling and shouts, so I opened the door, and found him chasing her with a razor. She had a kitchen knife—a long one, the kind you use for bread—and she wasfighting back. He was trying to kill her because shewas a witness. He said that, over and over. You're awitness, baby,' in a low voice. I don't remember ex•actly what happened next. I had always been fond ofAngela. He said something to me, some words, andstarted at me with the razor. He looked terrible;Angela had already cut him with the knife, or at least,his clothes . . ."

"So you picked up the chair."

"No. I backed off. He went after Angela. He wasfacing her, away from me. That was when...I picked up the chair."

I pointed to his fingers. "And your cuts?"

"I don't remember. I guess he did it. There wasa little slash on the sleeve of my coat, too, when Igot home. But I don't remember."

"After the chair—"

"He fell down. Unconscious. Just fell."

"What did you do then?"

"Angela was afraid for me. She told me to leave

immediately, that she could take care of everything.She was terrified that I would be involved. And I..."

'You left," I said.

He looked at his hands. "Yes."

"Was Roman dead when you left?"

"I don't really know. He had fallen near the win•dow. I guess she just pushed him out and then wipedup. But I don't know for sure. I don't know for sure."

I looked at his face, at the lines in the skin and thewhite of the hair, and remembered how he had been as a teacher, how he had prodded and pushed andcajoled, how I had respected him, how he had taken the residents every Thursday afternoon to a nearbybar for drinks and talk, how he used to bring a big birthday cake in every year on his birthday and shareit with everyone on the floor. It all came back, the jokes, the good times, the bad times, the questions and explanations, the long hours in the dissecting room, the points of fact and the matters of uncer•tainty.

"Well," he said with a sad smile, "there it is."

I lit another cigarette, cupping my hands around it and ducking my head, though there was no breeze in the room. It was stifling and hot and airless, like agreenhouse for delicate plants.

Weston didn't ask the question. He didn't have to.

"You might get off," I said, "with self-defense."

"Yes," he said, very slowly. "I might."

outside,cold autumnal sun splashed over the barebranches of the skeletal trees along Massachusetts

Avenue. As I came down the steps of Mallory, an am•bulance drove past me toward the Boston City EW.As it passed I glimpsed a face propped up on a bedin the back, with an oxygen mask being held in placeby an attendant. I could see no features to the face;I could not even tell if it was a man or a woman.

Several other people on the street had paused towatch the ambulance go by. Their expressions were fixed into attitudes of concern, or curiosity, or pity. But they all stopped for a moment, to look, and to think their private thoughts.

You could tell they were wondering who the per•son was, and what the disease was, and whetherthe person would ever leave the hospital again.They had no way of knowing the answers to thosequestions, but I did.

This particular ambulance had its light flashing,but the siren was off, and it moved with almost ca•sual slowness. That meant the passenger was notvery sick.

Or else he was already dead. It was impossible to tell which.

For a moment, I felt a strange, compelling curiosity,almost an obligation to go to the EW and find out who the patient was and what the prognosis was.

But I didn't. Instead I walked down the street, gotinto my car, and drove home. I tried to forget about the ambulance, because there were millions of ambu•lances, and millions of people, every day, at every hos•pital. Eventually, 1 did forget. Then I was all right.

As unpleasant as cancer may be described as food,as in the case of oat-cell carcinoma of the lung.

APPENDIX I:Delicatessen Pathologists

Part of any pathologist's jobis to describe whathe sees quickly and precisely; a good path reportwill allow the reader to see in his mind exactly whatthe pathologist saw. In order to do this, many pa• thologists have taken to describing diseased organsas if they were food, earning themselves the name, delicatessen pathologists.

Other pathologists are revolted by the practice;they deplore path reports that read like restaurantmenus. But the device is so convenient and usefulthat nearly all pathologists use it, at one time or an•other.

Thus there are currant jelly clots and postmor•tem chicken-fat clots. There is ripe raspberrymucosa or strawberry gallbladder mucosa, whichindicates the presence of cholesterol. There arenutmeg livers of congestive heart failure and Swiss-cheese endometria of hyperplasia. Even something

APPENDIX II:Cops and Doctors

DOCTORS ARE GENERALLY MISTRUSTFUL of the police

and try to avoid police business. One reason:

A brilliant resident at the General was called out of bed one night to examine a drunk brought in by the police. The police may know that certain med•ical disorders—such as diabetic coma—may closely imitate inebriation, even including an "alcoholic"breath. So this was routine. The man was exam•ined, pronounced medically sound, and carted offto jail.

He died during the night. At autopsy, he wasfound to have a ruptured spleen. The family suedthe resident for negligence, and the police were ex•traordinarily helpful to the family in attempting toput the blame on the doctor. At the trial, it was de•cided that the doctor had indeed been negligent,but no damages were awarded.

This doctor later tried to obtain certification fromthe Virginia State Board to practice in that state,and succeeded only with the greatest difficulty.This incident will follow him for the rest of hislife.

While it is possible that he missed the enlargedor ruptured spleen in his examination, it is highly unlikely considering the nature of the injury and ex•tremely high caliber of doctor. The conclusion ofthe hospital staff was that probably the man had re•ceived a good kick in the stomach by the police, af•ter he had been examined.

There is, of course, no proof either way. Butenough incidents such as this have occurred thatdoctors mistrust police almost as a matter of gen•eral policy.

APPENDIX III:Battlefields and Barberpoles

Throughout history,surgery and war have beenintimately related. Even today, of all doctors, young surgeons are the ones who least object to beingsent to the battlefield. For it is there that surgeonsand surgery have traditionally developed, innovated,and matured.

The earliest surgeons were not doctors at all;they were barbers. Their surgery was primitive, con•sisting largely of amputations, blood-letting, andwound-dressing. Barbers accompanied the troopsduring major campaigns and gradually came tolearn more of their restorative art. They were ham•pered, however, by a lack of anesthesia; until

1890, the only anesthetics available were a bullet clenched between the victim's teeth and a shot of whiskey in his stomach. The surgeons were alwayslooked down on by the medical doctors, men who did not deign to treat patients with their hands, but took a more lofty and intellectual approach. The at•titude, to some extent, persists to the present day.

Now, of course, surgeons are not barbers, or vice versa. But the barbers retain the symbol of their old trade—the red-and-white-striped pole which repre•sents the bloody white dressings of the battlefield.

But if surgeons no longer give haircuts, they stillaccompany armies. Wars gives them vast experi•ence in treating trauma, wounds, crush injuries,and burns. War also allows innovation; most of thetechniques now common to plastic or reconstruc•tive surgery were developed during World War II.

All this does not necessarily make surgeons ei•ther prowar or antipeace. But the historical back•ground of their craft does give them a somewhatdifferent outlook from other doctors.

APPENDIX IV:Abbreviations

Doctors love abbreviations,and probably noother major profession has so many. Abbreviationsserve an important time-saving function, but there

seems to be an additional purpose. Abbreviationsare a code, a secret and impenetrable language, the cabalistic symbols of medical society.

For instance: "The PMI, corresponding to theLBCD, was located in the 5th ICS two centimeterslateral to the MCL." Nothing could be more myste•rious to an outsider than that sentence.

X is the most important letter of the alphabet in medicine, because of its common use in abbrevia•tions. Use ranges from the straightforward "Poliox3" for three polio vaccinations, to "Discharged toWard X," a common euphemism for the morgue.But there are many others: dx is diagnosis; px, prog•nosis; Rx, therapy; sx, symptoms; hx, history; mx,metastases; fx, fractures.

Letter abbreviations are particularly favored incardiology, with its endless usage of LVH, RVF, AS,MR

to describe heart conditions, but other special•ties have their own.

On occasion, abbreviations are used to makecomments which one would not want to write outin full. This is because any patient's hospital recordis a legal document which may be called into court;doctors must therefore be careful what they say,and a whole vocabulary and series of abbreviationshave sprung up. For instance, a patient is not de•mented, but "disoriented" or "severely confused"; a patient does not lie, but "confabulates"; a patient is not stupid, but "obtunded." Among surgeons, a fa•vorite expression to discharge a patient who is ma•lingering is SHA, meaning "Ship his ass out of

here." And in pediatrics is perhaps the mostunusual abbreviation of all, FLK, which means

"Funny-looking kid."

APPENDIX V:Whites

EVERYBODY KNOWS DOCTORS WEAR WHITE UNIFORMS,and nobody, not even the doctors, knows why. Cer•tainly the "whites," as they are called, are distinc•tive, but they serve no real purpose. They are noteven traditional.

In the court of Louis XIV, for example, all physi•cians wore black: long, black, imposing robes which were as striking and awe-inspiring in their day asshining whites are now.

Modern arguments for whites usually invoke ste•rility and cleanliness. Doctors wear white becauseit is a

"clean" color. Hospitals are painted white forthe same reason. This sounds quite reasonable un•til one sees a grubby intern who has been on dutyfor thirty-six consecutive hours, has slept twice inhis clothes, and has ministered to dozens of pa•tients. His whites are creased, wrinkled, dirty, andno doubt covered with bacteria.

Surgeons give it all away. The epitome of aseptic conditions, of germ-free living, is found in the oper•

ating room. Yet few OR's are white, and the sur-

geons themselves do not wear white clothing. Theywear green, or blue, or sometimes gray.

So one must consider the medical "whites" as auniform, with no more logic to the color than the designation of blue for a navy uniform or green foran army uniform. The analogy is closer than the ca•sual observer might expect, for the medical uniformdesignates rank as well as service. A doctor canwalk into a ward and can tell you the rank of every•one on the ward team. He can tell you who is theresident, who the intern, who the medical student,who the male orderly. He does this by reading smallcues, just as a military man reads stripes and shoul•der insignias. It comes down to questions like: Isthe man carrying a stethoscope? Does he have onenotebook in his pocket or two? File cards held by ametal clip? Is he carrying a black bag?

The process may even be extended to indicatethe specialty of a doctor. Neurologists, for example,are readily identified by the three or four straightpins stuck through their left jacket lapels.

APPENDIX VI:Arguments on Abortion

THERE ARE GENERALLY CONSIDERED to be six argu•ments for abortion, and six counterarguments.The first argument considers the law and anthro-

pology. It can be shown that many societies rou•tinely practice abortion and infanticide without pa•rental guilt or destruction of the moral fiber of thesociety. Usually examples are drawn from marginalsocieties, living in a harsh environment, such as theAfrican Pygmies or Bushmen of the Kalahari. Orfrom societies which place a great premium on sonsand kill off excess female infants. But the same ar•gument has used the example of Japan, now thesixth-largest nation in the world and one of themost highly industrialized.

The reverse argument states that Western society has little in common with either Pygmies or the

Japanese, and that what is right and acceptable forthem is not necessarily so for us.

Legal arguments are related to this. It can beshown that modern abortion laws did not always ex•ist; they evolved over many centuries, in responseto a variety of factors. Proponents of abortion claimthat modern laws are arbitrary, foolish, and irrele•vant. They argue for a legal system which accu•rately reflects the mores and the technology of thepresent, not of the past.

The reverse argument points out that old lawsare not necessarily bad laws and that to changethem thoughtlessly invites uncertainty and flux inan already uncertain world. A less sophisticatedform of the argument opposes abortion simply be•cause it is illegal. Until recently, many otherwisethoughtful doctors felt comfortable taking this posi•tion. Now, however, abortion is being debated inmany circles, and such a simplistic view is unten•able.

The second argument concerns abortion as a formof birth control. Proponents regard abortion on de• mand as a highly effective form of birth control andpoint to its success in Japan, Hungary, Czechoslo•vakia, and elsewhere. Proponents see no essentialdifference between preventing a conception andhalting a process which has not yet resulted in afully viable infant. (These same people see no dif• ference between the rhythm method and the pill,since the intention of both practices is identical.)In essence, the argument claims that "it's thethought that counts."

Those who disagree draw a line between preven•tion and correction. They believe that once concep• tion has occurred, the fetus has rights and cannotbe killed. This viewpoint is held by many who favor conventional birth-control measures, and for thesepeople, the problem of what to do if birth control fails—as it does in a certain percentage of cases— is troublesome.

The third argument considers social and psychiatricfactors. It has variants.

The first states that the physical and mentalhealth of the mother always takes precedence overthat of the unborn child. The mother, and her al•ready existing family, may suffer emotionally and fi•nancially by the birth  of another infant, and

therefore, in such cases the birth should be pre•vented.

The second states that it is immoral and criminalto bring into the world an unwanted child. It statesthat, in our increasingly complex society, the properrearing of a child is a time-consuming and expen•sive

process demanding maternal attention and pa•ternal financial support for education. If a familycannot provide this, they do a grave disservice to the child. The obvious extreme case is that of theunwed mother, who is frequently unprepared torear an infant, either emotionally or financially.

The counterargument is vague here. There is talkof mothers who unconsciously wish to conceive; talkof the maternal urge to procreate; flat statements that "there never was a child born who wasn't wanted." Or an ex-post-facto approach: once the child is born, thefamily will adjust and love him.

The fourth argument states that a woman shouldnever, under any circumstances, be required to bear a child if she does not wish to do so. Abortion on de•mand should be a right of every woman, like the right to vote. This is an interesting argument, but its use•fulness has been diluted by many of its proponents, who often express a rather paranoid feeling that theworld is dominated by men who cannot be expected to show any sympathy for the opposite sex.

Those who disagree with this argument usually point out that a modern, emancipated woman neednot become pregnant if she does not wish it. A wide

variety of birth-control methods and devices is availa•ble to her, and they believe that abortion is not a substitute for birth control. The case of birth-controlfailure and inadvertent pregnancy—such as rape—aredifficult to handle within this framework, however.

The fifth argument states that abortion is safe, easy,simple, and cheap; thus there can be no practical objection to legalizing termination of pregnancy.

The counterargument states that abortion carriesa finite risk of mortality, which, though small, none• theless exists. Unfortunately for this viewpoint, it isnow perfectly clear that a hospital abortion is one-sixth to one-tenth as dangerous as a hospital deliv•ery. This means it is safer to abort a child than tocarry it to term.

The sixth argument is the newest and the most in•genious. It was first proposed by Garrett Hardin, andit attacks the problem at a crucial question: Is abor•tion murder? Hardin says no. He argues that the em• bryo does not become human until after birth and along period of training. He states that the embryo is nothing but a template, ultimately derived fromDNA, the information-carrying genetic substance. In• formation in itself, he says, is of no value. It is like ablueprint. The blueprint of a building, he says, is worthless; only the building has value and signifi•cance. The blueprint may be destroyed with impunity,for another can easily be made, but a building cannotbe destroyed without careful deliberation.

This is a swift and oversimplified summary of hisargument. Hardin was trained both as an anthropolo•gist and as a biologist, and his viewpoint is unique. Itis interesting because it considers the question ofwhenis a person human in terms ofwhat is a humanbeing? Returning to the analogy of blueprint andbuilding, the blueprint specifies size, shape, and gen•eral structure, but it does not state whether the build•ing will be erected in New York or Tokyo, whether ina slum or an affluent area, whether it will be used ef•fectively or fall into disrepair. By implication, Hardinis defining a human being not only as an animal that walks on its hind legs, has a large brain, and an op•posable thumb; he includes in the definition enough maternal care and education to make a person a well-adjusted and functioning unit of a social grouping.

The counterargument says that Hardin assumes DNA is a "non-unique" copy of information, whenin fact it is quite unique. All children of a given mother and father are not identical; therefore theDNA cannot be

"non-unique."

To this Hardin replies that we already, quite bychance, select only some of the potential DNA

combinations of sperm and egg and allow these toreach maturation. He notes that an average womanhas

30,000 eggs in her ovaries, yet will bring only afew to term. The others are destroyed just as surelyas if they had been aborted. And, as he says, one ofthem might have been "a super Beethoven."

Hardin's argument is still new and strikes many asabstruse. But undoubtedly his is just the first of many

new arguments, for and against abortion, which willbe proposed on an increasingly subtle scientific basis. It is a commentary on modern man that he mustjustify his morality on the basis of the molecular mechanisms at work within a single cell of his body.

There are other arguments, but they are mostly eva•sive and petty. There are economic arguments con• cerning the cost of turning hospitals into abortionmills; there are vague and wild-eyed arguments of un• leashed libertinism, similar to the arguments heardbefore the introduction of birth-control pills. Thereare also reflex liberal arguments that anything freer is by definition good and meritocratic arguments that the outpouring of children from the lower classesshould be stemmed. There is no point in considering these viewpoints. They are advanced, for the mostpart, by thoughtless and irritable little men.

APPENDIX VII:Medical Morals

In medicine today,there are four great moral ques•tions involving the conduct of medical practice.One is abortion. Another is euthanasia, the killingof a patient with a terminal and incurable illness. Athird concerns the social responsibility of the doc-

tors to administer care to as many people as possi•ble. A fourth concerns the definition of death.

The interesting thing is that all these problemsare new. They are products of our technology, moraland legal problems which have sprung up withinthe last decade or so.

Hospital abortion, for example, must now be re•garded as a relatively inexpensive and safe proce•dure,

carrying a mortality rate roughly similar to atooth extraction. This was not always true, but inthe modern context it is, and we must thereforedeal with it.

Euthanasia was once much less serious a prob•lem. When doctors had fewer "supportive" aids, ar•tificial respirators, and knowledge of electrolyte balances, patients with terminal illnesses tended todie quickly. Now, medicine faces the fact that aperson can be kept technically alive for an indefi•nite period, though he can never be cured. Thusthe doctor must decide whether supportive therapyshould be instituted and for how long. This is aproblem because doctors have traditionally felt that they should keep their patients alive as long as pos•sible, using every available technique. Now, themorality—and even the humanity—of such an ap•proach must be questioned.

There is a corollary: whether the patient facingan incurable disease has the right to refuse support•ive therapy; whether a patient facing weeks ormonths of terminal pain has a right to demand aneasy and painless death; whether a patient who has

put himself in a doctor's hands still retains ultimatelife-and-death control over his own existence.

Social responsibility in its modern terms—responsibility to a community, not an individual—is something rather new to medicine. Formerly patientswho were indigent were treated by kind doctors, ornot at all; now, there is a growing feeling that medicalcare is a right, not a privilege. There is also a growingnumber of patients who were once charity cases butare now covered by health insurance or Medicare.The physician is today being forced to reconsider hisrole, not in terms of those patients who can afford to seek his help, but in terms of all the people in thecommunity. Related to this is the increased medical emphasis on preventive care.

The definition of death is a problem with a single cause: organ transplants. As surgeons become more skilled in transplanting parts from the dead to theliving, the question of when a man is dead becomes crucial, because transplantable organs should be re•moved as rapidly as possible from a dead man. The old, crude indicators—no pulse, no breathing—have been replaced by no EKG activity, or a flatEEG, but the question is still unresolved, and maynot be for many years to come.

There is another problem involving medical eth•ics, and that concerns the doctor and the drug companies. This is currently being fought over in afour-way tug-of-war involving patient, doctor, gov• ernment, and drug manufacturer. The issues, and the eventual outcome, are still unclear.

MICHAEL CRICHTON graduated from

Harvard Medical School and served his internship

before deciding to devote himself full-time to writing.

A CASE OF NEED was first published when he was

twenty-six years old. His more recent novels include

DISCLOSURE and JURASSIC PARK