A Case Of Need Part 4

TWO.

THE X-RAY ROOM on the second floor of the Mem had a fancy name: Radiological Diagnosis. It didn't matter what they called it, it was the same inside as every other X-ray room anywhere. The walls were sheets of white frosted gla.s.s, and there were little jam-clips for the films. It was quite a large room, with sufficient s.p.a.ce for a half-dozen radiologists to work at once.

I came in with Hughes. He was a radiologist at the Mem that I'd known for a long time; he and his wife sometimes played bridge with Judith and me. They were good players, blood players, but I didn't mind. Sometimes I get that way myself.

I hadn't called Lewis Carr because I knew he wouldn't help me. Hughes was low on the General totem pole and didn't give a d.a.m.n whether I wanted to look at films from Karen Randall or the Aga Khan, who had come here for a kidney operation some years ago. He took me right up to the X-ray room.

On the way I said, "How's your s.e.x life?"That's a standard rib for a radiologist. It's well known that radiologists have the shortest lifespan of any medical specialist. The exact reasons are unknown, but the natural a.s.sumption is that the X rays get to them. In the old days, radiologists used to stand in the same room as the patient when the films 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 it took a whopping big dose to get a decent contrast exposure.But even now, with modern techniques and better knowledge, a ribald tradition remains, and radiologists are condemned to suffer through a lifetime of jokes about their lead-lined jockstraps and their shriveled gonads. The jokes, like the X rays, are an occupational hazard. Hughes took it well."My s.e.x life," he said, "is a d.a.m.n sight better than my bridge game."As we came into the room, three or four radiologists were at work. They were each seated in front of 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 film it was-AP or LAO, IVP, or thorax, and so forth- and then they slapped it up against the frosted gla.s.s and dictated their diagnosis.1One wall of the room was given over to the intensive care patients. These were seriously ill people, and their films were not stored in manila envelopes. Instead they were hung on revolving racks. You pressed a b.u.t.ton and waited until the rack came around to the films of the patient you wanted to see. It meant you could get to a critically ill patient's films rapidly.The film storeroom was adjacent to the X-ray room. Hughes went in and pulled Karen Randall's films, and brought them back. We sat down in front of a sheet of gla.s.s, and Hughes clipped up the first picture."Lateral skull film," he said, peering at it. "Know why it was ordered?""No," I said.I, too, looked at the plate, but I could make little of it. Skull films-X rays of the head-are difficult to interpret. The cranium is a complex piece of bone, producing a confusing interlocking pattern of light and dark. Hughes examined it for some time, occasionally tracing lines with the cap of his fountain pen.

1 AP is anteroposterior, indicating that the X rays penetrated from front to back, 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 hematoma. Of course, it'd be nice to have an arteriogram or a PEG."2 "Let's have a look at the other views," he said. He pulled down the lateral view and put up the face-on, AP film. "This looks normal, too," he said. "I wonder why they were taken-was she in an auto accident?"

"Not that I know of."

He rummaged in the file. "No," he said. "Obviously. They didn't do face films. Only skull films."

Face films were a separate series of angles, utilized 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.

"d.a.m.ned if I can figure it," he said, tapping the plate. "Nothing. Not a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing there, for my money.""All right," I said, standing up. 'Thanks for your help."As I left I wondered whether the X rays had helped clear things up or just made everything worse.

2 These are ways of making skull films easier to interpret. An arteriogram is an X ray taken after the cerebral arteries have been filled with radio opaque liquid. A PEG, or pneumoencephalogram, consists of draining all the cerebrospinal fluid and pumping in air to increase contrast in the ventricles. 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.

THREEI STEPPED INTO A PHONE BOOTH near the hospital lobby. I got out my notebook and found the pharmacy number and the prescription number. I also found the pill I had taken from Karen's room.I chipped off a flake with my thumbnail and ground it into the palm of my hand. It crushed easily into a soft powder. I was pretty sure what it was, but to be certain I touched the tip of my tongue to the powder.There was no mistaking the taste. Crushed aspirin on your tongue tastes terrible.I dialed the pharmacy."Beacon Pharmacy.""This is Dr. Berry at the Lincoln. I'd like to know a 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 and pages flipping, then: "Yes, here it is. Darvon, twenty capsules, 75 milligram. Orders-'Once every four hours as needed for pain.' It was refilled twice. Do you 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 getting more and more screwy. What kind of girl pretended to take birth-control pills but actually took aspirin, which she stored in an empty bottle that once contained pills for menstrual cramps?FOURDEATH FROM ABORTION is a relatively rare event. This basic fact tends to be obscured in all the fanfare and statistics. The statistics, like the fanfare, are emotional and imprecise. Estimates vary widely, but most people agree that about a million illegal abortions are performed each year, and about 5,000 women die as a result of them. This means that the operative mortality is about 500/100,000.This is a very high figure, especially in the light of mortality in hospital abortions. Death in hospital abortions ranges from 0-18/100,000, which makesit, at worst, about as dangerous as a tonsillectomy (17/100,000).All this means is that illegal abortions are about twenty-five times as deadly as they have to be. Most people are horrified by this. But Art, who thought clearly and carefully about such things, was impressed by the statistic. And he said something very interesting: that one reason abortion remained illegal was because it was so safe."You have to look at the volume of business," he once said. "A million women is a meaningless number. What it comes down to is one illegal abortion every thirty seconds, day in, day out, year after year. That makes it a very common operation, and for better or worse, it's safe."In his cynical way, he talked about the Death Threshold, as he called it. He defined the Death Threshold as the number of people who must die each year of needless, accidental causes before anyone 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 automobile accidents.

"There they are," Art said, "dying on the highways at the rate of about eighty a day. Everybody accepts it as a fact of life. So who's going to care about the fourteen women who die every day of abortions?"

He argued that in order to force doctors and lawyers into action, the abortion death figures would have to approach 50,000 a year, and perhaps more.

At the current mortality rates, that meant ten million abortions a year."In a way, you see," he said, "I'm doing a disservice to society. 1 haven't lost anybody in abortion, so I'm keeping those death figures down. That's good for 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 statistics don't impress us. Who'd give a d.a.m.n if Hitler had only killed ten thousand Jews?"He went on to argue that by doing safe abortions he was preserving the status quo, keeping the pressure off legislators to change the laws. And then he said something else."The trouble with this country," he said, "is that the women have no guts. They'd rather slink off and have a dangerous, illegal operation performed than change the laws. The legislators are all men, and men don't bear the babies; they can afford to be moralistic. So can the priests: if you had women priests, you'd see a h.e.l.l of a quick change in religion. But politics and religion are dominated by the men, and the women are reluctant to push too hard. Which is bad, because abortion is their business-their infants, their bodies, their risk. If a million women a year wrote letters to their congressmen, you might see a little action. Probably not, but you might. Only the women won't do it."I think that thought depressed him more than anything else. It came back to me as I drove tomeet a woman who, from all reports, had plenty of guts: Mrs. Randall.NORTH OF COHa.s.sET, about half an hour from downtown Boston, is an exclusive residential community built along a stretch of rocky coast. It is rather reminiscent of Newport-old frame houses with elegant lawns, looking out at the sea.The Randall house was enormous, a four-story Gothic white frame building with elaborate balconies and turrets. The lawn sloped down to the water; altogether there were probably five acres of land surrounding the house. I drove up the long gravel drive and parked in the turnabout next to two Porsches, one black, the other canary-yellow. Apparently the whole family drove Porsches. There was a garage tucked back to the left of the house with a gray Mercedes sedan. That was probably for the servants.I got out and was wondering how I would ever get past the butler when a woman came out of the front door and walked down the steps. She was pulling on her gloves as she went, and seemed in a great hurry. She stopped when she saw me."Mrs. Randall?""Yes," she said.

I don't know what I was expecting, but certainly nothing like her. She was tall, and dressed in a beige Chanel suit. Her hair was jet black and glossy, her legs long, her eyes very large and dark. She couldn't have been older than thirty. You could have cracked ice-cubes on her cheekbones, she was so hard. have cracked ice-cubes on her cheekbones, she was so hard.

I stared at her in dumb silence for several moments, feeling like a fool but unable to help myself. She frowned at me impatiently. "What do you want? I haven't got all day."

Her voice was husky and her lips were sensual. She had the proper accent, too: flattened inflection and the slightly British intonation."Come on, come on," she said. "Speak up.""I'd like to talk to you," I said, "about your daughter.""My stepdaughter," she said quickly. She was sweeping past me, moving toward the black Porsche."Yes, your stepdaughter.""I've told everything to the police," she said. "And I happen to be late for an appointment, so if you will excuse me . . ." She unlocked the door to her car and opened it.I said, "My name is-""I know who you are," she said. "Joshua was talking about you last night. He told me you might try to see me.""And?""And he told me, Dr. Berry, to suggest that you go to h.e.l.l."She was doing her best to be angry, but I could see she was not. There was something else showing in her face, something that might have been curiosity or might have been fear. It struck me as odd.She started the engine. "Good day, Doctor."I leaned over toward her. "Following your husband's orders?""I usually do.""But not always," I said.She was about to put the car in gear, but she stopped, her hand resting on the s.h.i.+ft. "I beg your pardon," she said."What I mean is that your husband doesn't quite understand everything," I said."I think he does.""You know he doesn't, Mrs. Randall."She turned off the engine and looked at me. "I'll give you thirty seconds to get off this property," she said, "before I call the police." But her voice was trembling, and her face was pale."Call the police? I don't think that's wise."She was faltering; her self-confidence draining away from her."Why did you come here?""I want you to tell me about the night you took Karen to the hospital. Sunday night.""If you want to know about that night," she said, "go look at the car." She pointed to the yellow Porsche.I went over and looked inside.It was like a bad dream.

The upholstery had once been tan, but now it was red. Everything was red. The driver's seat was red. The pa.s.senger seat was deep red. The dash- board k.n.o.bs were red. The steering wheel was red in places. The floor carpet was crusty and red.Quarts of blood had been lost in that car."Open the door," Mrs. Randall said. "Feel the seat."I did. The seat was damp."Three days later," she said. "It still hasn't dried out. That's how much blood Karen lost. That's what he did to her."I shut the door. "Is this her car?""No. Karen didn't have a car. Joshua wouldn't let her 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. "And this?""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 wecanI said, "What exactly happened Sunday night?""I don't have to tell you anything," she said, tightening her lips."Of course not." I smiled politely. I knew I had her; the fear was still in her eyes.She looked away from me, staring straight forward through the gla.s.s of the winds.h.i.+eld."I was alone in the house," she said. "Joshua wasat the hospital with an emergency. William was at medical school. It was about three-thirty at night and Karen was out on a date. I heard the horn blowing on the car. It kept blowing. I got out of bed and put on a bathrobe and went downstairs. My car was there, the motor running and the lights on. The horn was still blowing. I went outside . . . and saw her. She had fainted and fallen forward onto the horn b.u.t.ton. There was blood everywhere."She took a deep breath and fumbled in her purse for cigarettes. She brought out a pack of French ones. 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 smoked the cigarette with a swift, nervous movement. "On the way, I tried to find out what had happened. I knew where she was bleeding from, because her skirt was all wet but her other clothes weren't. And she said, 'Lee did it.' She said it three times. I'll never forget it. That pathetic, weak little voice . . .""She was awake? Able to talk to you?"

"Yes," Mrs. Randall said. "She pa.s.sed out again just 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.' And it was for three hundred dollars. Dated Sunday. That's That's how I know it was an abortion." how I know it was an abortion."

"Was the check ever cashed? Have you inquired?"

"Of course it wasn't cashed," she said. "The man who has that check is now in jail."

"I see," I said thoughtfully."That's good," she said. "And now you must excuse me."She got out of the car and hurried back up the steps to the house."I thought you were late for an appointment," I said.She paused and looked back at me. "Go to h.e.l.l," she said, and then slammed the door behind her.I walked back to my car, considering her performance. It was very convincing. There were only two flaws that I could spot. One was the amount of blood in the yellow car. I was bothered that there was more blood on the pa.s.senger seat.Then too, apparently Mrs. Randall didn't know that Art's fee for an abortion was $25-just enough to cover the lab costs. Art never charged more. It was a way, in his own mind, of keeping himself honest.

FIVE.

THE SIGN WAS BATTERED: CURZIN PHOTOS. Underneath, in small, yellowing print, "Photos for all Purposes. Pa.s.sports, Publicity, Friends. One-Hour Service."The shop stood on a corner at the north end of Was.h.i.+ngton Street, away from the lights of the movie houses and the big department stores. I went inside and found a little old man and a little old woman, standing side by side."Yes?" said the man. He had a gentle manner, almost timid."I have a peculiar problem," I said."Pa.s.sport? No problem at all. We can have the pictures 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, my daughter 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-sixteen party."

"We don't do them," the man said. "Out of the question."

"We used to," explained the woman. "In the old days. 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. 1 want this to be a surprise, so I thought that I'd-"

"Your daughter is sixteen?" He seemed suspicious."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 finally."I know, but he's part of a group.""It's just one man.""You took the picture, so I thought that perhaps-"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 father had it before I did, G.o.d rest his soul.""Yes," said the woman."You say this is a group?" the man asked, waving the picture at me."One member of a group.""Possibly," he said. He handed the picture to the woman. "Did we do any groups like that?""Possibly," she said. "I can never keep them clear.""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 picture had your stamp-""I saw it, I'm not blind," the man snapped. He bent over and looked under the counter. "Have to check the files," he said. "We keep everything on file."He began producing sheafs of pictures. I was surprised; he really had photographed dozens of groups.He shuffled through them very fast. "My wife can never remember them, but I can. If I can see them all, I remember them. You know? That's Jimmy and the Do-Dahs." He flipped through rapidly. "The Warblers. The Coffins. The Cliques. The Skunks. The names stick with you. Funny thing. The Lice. The Switchblades. w.i.l.l.y and the w.i.l.l.i.e.s. The Jaguars."I tried to glance at the faces as he went, but he was going very fast."Wait a minute," I said, pointing to one picture. "I think that's it."

The man frowned. "The Zephyrs," he said, his tone disapproving. "That's what they are, the Zephyrs."

I looked at the five men, all Negro. They were dressed in the same s.h.i.+ny suits that I'd seen in the single photo. They were all smiling uneasily, as if they disliked having their picture taken.

"You know the names?" I said.He turned the picture over. The names were scrawled there. "Zeke, Zach, Roman, George, and Happy. That's them.""O.K.," I said. I took out my notebook and wrote the names down. "Do you know how I can reach them?""Listen, you sure you want them for your girl's party?""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 pretty tough.""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 n.i.g.g.e.rs 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. He wasn't as big as a Big Ten tackle, but he was plenty large. I guessed he was about six-one and two-twenty. wasn't as big as a Big Ten tackle, but he was plenty large. 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 Soldiers' Field stadium and the buildings nearby-the Field House, the Hockey Rink, the indoor tennis courts. On a side field, the freshman squad was still scrimmaging, raising a cloud of yellow-brown dust in the fading light.Zenner had just finished showering; his short black hair was still damp and he was rubbing it, as if remembering the coach's admonition not to go out with wet hair.He said he was in a hurry to eat dinner and start studying, so we talked as we crossed over the Lars Anderson bridge toward the Harvard houses. For a while I made small talk. He was a senior in Leverett House, the Towers, and he was majoring in history. He didn't like his thesis topic. He was worried about getting into law school; the law school didn't give athletes a break. All they cared about were grades. Maybe he would go to Yale law instead. That was supposed to be more fun.

We cut through Winthrop House and walked up toward the Varsity Club. Alan said he was eating two meals a day there, lunch and dinner, during the season. The food was O.K. Better than the regular c.r.a.p anyway.

Finally, I s.h.i.+fted the conversation to Karen."What, you, too?""I don't understand."

"You're the second one today. Foggy was here earlier."

"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 Ma.s.sachusetts Avenue. The traffic was heavy. "Because," he said, "I didn't want to get involved.""But you already are involved.""Like h.e.l.l 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 anybody. 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 me what 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 it was over. That's all. Now get off my back."I shrugged. "During the trial," I said, "the defensewill call you. They can make you testify under oath.""I'm not testifying in any trial.""You won't have a choice," I said. "Unless, perhaps, there never is a trial.""Meaning what?""Meaning we'd better have a talk."Two blocks down Ma.s.sachusetts Avenue toward Central 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 we waited. The forecaster was a cheerful little pudgy fellow 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 licked the foam off his lips.

"O.K.," he said, settling back in the booth. "I'll tell you how it was. I met her at a party last spring, around April. We got along well, right off. It seemed just great. I didn't know anything about her when I met her, she was just a good-looking girl. I knew she was young. I didn't know how young until the next morning when I practically flipped. I mean, Christ, sixteen. . . . But I liked her. She wasn't cheap."

He drank half the gla.s.s in a single gulp.

"So, we started seeing each other. And little by little, I found out about her. She had a way of ex- plaining things in bits and s.n.a.t.c.hes. It was very tantalizing, like the old movie serials. Come back next Sat.u.r.day for the next installment, that kind of thing. She was good at it.""When did you stop seeing her?"

"June, early June. She was graduating from Concord, and I said I'd come out to see the graduation. She didn't want that. I said why. And then the whole thing came out about her parents and how I wouldn't get along. You see," he said, "my name was Zemnick before, and I grew up in Brooklyn. It's that way. She made her point, and I kissed her off. I was really p.i.s.sed at the time. Now, I don't care anymore."

"You never saw her again?""Once. It must have been late July. I had a construction job on the Cape, a real soft one, and a lot of my friends were out there. I'd heard some things about her, things I hadn't heard when I was dating her. And how she collects jocks. About her problems with her parents and how she hated her old man. Things began to make sense when they hadn't made sense before. And I heard that she'd had an abortion and was telling people it was my kid."He finished his beer and motioned to the bartender. I had another with him."One day I run into her out by Scusset. She's in a gas station getting her car filled and I happen to pull in. So we have a little talk. I ask her if it was true about the abortion, and she says yes. I ask her if it was my kid, and she says in a real steady voicethat she doesn't know who the father is. So I tell her to go to h.e.l.l and walk off. Then she comes running up and says she's sorry, can't we be friends again and see each other. I say no we can't. So she starts to cry. Well, h.e.l.l, that's awful to have a girl crying in a gas station. So I said I'd take her out that night.""Did you?""Yeah. It was terrible. Alan, do this; Alan, do that; faster, Alan, now slower. Alan, you sweat so much. She never shut up.""Was she living on the Cape last summer?""She said she was. Working in an art gallery or something. But I heard she spent most of her time in 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 Angela who was supposed to be a friend of Karen's. Angela Harley or Hardy, something like that. d.a.m.ned good-looking girl, but strange."

"How do you mean?"

"Just strange. Far out. When I met her, she was high on something. She kept saying strange things like 'The nose of G.o.d has the power of sour.' You couldn't talk to her; she was out of it. Too bad, she was d.a.m.ned 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 parents. Hour after hour. She hated Foggy. She sometimes called him Good Old Dad, because of the initials. She had names for her stepmother, too, but you wouldn't believe them. The funny thing is, though, that she was very close to her mother. Her real mother. She died when Karen was about fourteen or fifteen. I think that was when it all started.""What started?"

"The wild stuff. All the drugs and the action. She wanted people to think she was wild. She wanted to be shocking. As if she had to prove it. She was very big on drugs and always took them in public. Some people said she was addicted to amphetamines, but I don't know if that was true. A lot of people on the Cape had been stung by her, and there were lots of nasty stories. They used to say that Karen Randall would go up on anything, and down on everything." He grimaced slightly as he said it.

"You liked her," I said."Yeah," he said, "as long as I could."

"That time on the Cape, was it the last time you saw her?""Yeah."The next beer came. He looked at his gla.s.s and twisted 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 was hung over from a party after the game. Really hung. Too hung. I was worried about looking good at practice Monday, because I had missed a few plays on Sat.u.r.day. The same play: an end sweep. I wasn't pulling fast enough, it kept happening. So I was a little worried.

"Anyway, I was in my room trying to get dressed for 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. I had finally gotten over her, you know, worked it all out of my system. Then she shows up again, looking better than ever. A little heavy, but still good. My roommates had all gone to lunch, so I was the only one there. She asked me if I would take her to lunch.""What did you say?""I said no.""Why?"

"Because I didn't want to see her. She was like the plague, she infected you. I didn't want her around. So I asked her to please leave, but she didn't. She sat down and lit a cigarette and said she knew it was all over with us, but she needed somebody to talk to. Well, I'd heard that one before, and I wasn't having any. But she wouldn't leave. She sat there on the couch and wouldn't leave. She said I was 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 a fool and that I'd regret it, just the way I regretted the last time. There are some people you just can't be 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. She talked about school for a while, and then about some mystical thing she was starting where you meditated twice a day for half an hour. It was supposed to be like was.h.i.+ng out your mind, or dippinga cloth in ink, or something. She had just started it but 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 d.a.m.ned time.""Did she say why she had come down from Smith 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 reaction?"He shook his head. "I didn't believe her." He glanced quickly at me, then sipped the beer. "I didn't believe anything about her anymore. That was the trouble. I was just turned off, I wasn't paying 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. "She didn't miss anything. She was like a cat; she worked by her instincts and they were always right. She could walk into a room and just look around, and she 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 it drop. 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't believe her." He finished his beer in a gulp and put the mug down. "But look," he said, "what the h.e.l.l was I supposed to do? She was nuts, that girl. Everybody knew it and it was true. She had this thing with her parents and with everybody else, and it pushed 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 to eat 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 said she never knew where she was going."SEVENIT WAS LATE IN THE DAY when I left Zenner, but I called Peter Randall's office anyway. He wasn't there. I said it was urgent so his nurse suggested I try his lab. He often worked late in his lab on Tuesday 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 impossible to miss him-first, because he was so physically outstanding, and second because he liked parties and attended every one he heard about.

He was a t.i.tanic fat man, jowled and jovial, with a hearty laugh and a flushed face. He smoked continuously, drank exorbitantly, talked amusingly, and was 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 marvelous social 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 a remarkable kind of freedom.

For instance, Peter could successfully tell the most foul and revolting dirty joke, and you would laugh. Inside, you would be thinking, "That's a pretty 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 his drink, insult the hostess, complain, or do anything else. You never minded, never frowned.

I wondered what he would have to say about Karen.HIS LAB WAS ON THE FIFTH FLOOR of the biochem wing of the medical school. I walked down the corridor, smelling the smell of laboratories-a combi- wing of the medical school. I walked down the corridor, 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 attractive, 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 may not have gotten my message."She looked at me and sized me up for a clinician. There was that slightly supercilious look in her eyes that all researchers get when they are around clinicians. Clinicians don't use their minds, you see. They fool with dirty, unscientific things like patients. A researcher, on the other hand, inhabits a world of pure, satisfying intellectualism."Come with me," she said. She got up and walked down the hall. She wore wooden shoes without heels-that explained her accent. Following behind her, I watched her bottom and wished she was not wearing a lab coat."He's about to start a new incubation run," she said over her shoulder. "He'll be very busy.""I can wait."We entered the lab. It was bare, at a corner of the wing, looking down over the parking lot. So late in the day, most of the cars were gone.

Randall was bent over a white rat. As the girl came 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 several times." He picked up the rat again and chuckled. "In fact, my brother just called me about you. You've got him quite ruffled-a snot-nosed snoop, I believe his words were."

He seemed to find this very amusing. He laughed again and said, "It's what you get for pestering his dearly beloved. Apparently you upset her.""I'm sorry about that.""Don't be," Peter said cheerfully. He turned to Brigit and said, "Call the others, will you? We have to get this thing going."Brigit wrinkled her nose, and Peter winked at her. When she was gone, he said, "Adorable creature, Brigit. She keeps me in shape.""In shape?""Indeed," he said, patting his stomach. "One of the great pitfalls to modern, easy living is weak eye muscles. Television's to blame; we sit there and don't exercise our eyes. The result is flabby eyes, a terrible tragedy. But Brigit prevents all that. Preventive medicine of the finest sort." He sighed happily. "But what can I do for you? I can't imagine why you'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 another.

"Those d.a.m.ned girls. I keep telling them dye is cheap, but they never put enough on. There!" His hand darted in and brought out a second rat. "We're taking all the ones with dye on the tail," he explained. He held the rat so I could see the spot of purple color. "They were injected with parathyroid hormone yesterday morning. Now," he said, "I regret 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, including Brigit. They were all attractive, and whether by chance or design, one was blonde, one brunette, and one redhead. They stood in a line in front of him, and Peter smiled benignly at each of them, as if he were about to bestow presents."We have six tonight," he said, "and then we can all go home. Is the dissecting equipment set out?"'Yes," Brigit said. She pointed to a long table with three chairs. In front of each chair was a cork pad, some pins, a pair of forceps, a scalpel, and an ice bath."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. Randall looked at me and said, "I guess I'll have to go through with it. I really hate this. Someday I'll get so worried about the little beasts' last moments that I'll chop off my fingers as well as their heads.""What do you use?"

"Well, that's a long story." He grinned. "You see before you the squeamish connoisseur of rat-dispatching. I have tried everything-chloroform, neck breaking, squeezing. Even a little guillotine that the British are so fond of. I have a friend in London who sent me one-he swears by it-but it was always getting clogged with fur. So," he said, picking up one rat and examining it thoughtfully, "I went back to basics. I use a meat cleaver."

"You're kidding.""Oh, I know it sounds bad. It looks bad, too, but it's the best way. You see, we have to get the dissection done quickly. The experimental design demands that."

He took the rat over to the sink. A heavy butcher'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 solid wooden handle."They sell these things," he said, "in the chemical supply houses. But they're too delicate and they never stay sharp. I bought this one secondhand from a butcher. It's superb."He sharpened the edge on a stone briefly, then tested 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, obviously glad for a delay. Peter also seemed relieved.

Brigit spoke for a moment, then said, "It's the rental agency. They are going to deliver the car.""Good," Peter said. "Tell them to leave it in the parking lot and leave the keys over the sun visor."While Brigit was relaying the instructions, Peter said to me, "d.a.m.ned nuisance. My car's been stolen.""Stolen?""Yes. Quite annoying. It happened yesterday.""What kind of a car was it?""A little Mercedes sedan. Battered, but I was fond of it. If I had my way," he said with a grin, "I'd see the thieves arrested for kidnapping, not car theft. 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. Peter sighed, picked up the cleaver, and said, "Well, better get on with it."He held the rat by the tail. The rat tried to pullaway, spread-eagling its body on the block. In a swift motion, Peter lifted the cleaver over his head and brought it down. There was a loud thump! thump! as the blade struck the block. The girls stared away. I looked back and saw Peter holding the wriggling decapitated body over the sink. The blood drained out for a few moments. Then he carried it over to Brigit and placed it on the cork pad. as the blade struck the block. The girls stared away. I looked back and saw Peter holding the wriggling decapitated body over the sink. The blood drained out for a few moments. Then he carried it over to Brigit and placed it on the cork pad."Number one," he said briskly. He returned to the block, pushed the head into the paper bag, and selected a second rat.

I watched Brigit work. With swift, practiced moves she pinned the body on its back to the cork. Then she cut into the legs, clearing away the flesh and muscle around the bones. Next she clipped the bones free of the body and dropped them into the ice bath.

"A minor triumph," Peter said, preparing the next rat on the block. "In this lab, we perfected the first in vitro in vitro bone 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 and into the bath before the cells die. We've got it down to a fine art now." bone 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 and into the bath before the cells die. We've got it down to a fine art now."

"What exactly is your field?"

"Calcium metabolism, particularly as it relates to parathyroid hormone and thyrocalcitonin. I want to know how those hormones work to release calcium from bone."

Parathyroid hormone was a little-understood substance secreted by four small glands attached to the thyroid. n.o.body knew much about it, except that the parathyroids seemed to control calcium levels in the blood, and that these levels were strictly regulated-much more so than, say, blood sugar or free fatty acid. Blood calcium was necessary for normal nerve transmission and normal muscle contraction, and it was theorized that calcium was shunted to and from the bone, as occasion demanded. If you had too much calcium in your blood, you deposited it in bone. If you had too little, you drew it out of bone. But n.o.body knew quite how this was accomplished.

"The time course is crucial," Peter continued. "I once performed an interesting experiment. I took a dog and put in an arterial bypa.s.s. I was able to take his blood, treat it with chemicals to remove all calcium, and put it back again. I ran this thing for hours, taking out literally pounds of calcium. Yet the blood levels remained normal, readjusting instantly. That dog was draining large quant.i.ties of calcium out of his bone and into his blood at a very rapid rate."

The cleaver swung down again with a heavy sound. The rat wriggled and was still. It was given to the second girl."I got interested in all this," Peter said. "The whole problem of calcium storage and release. It's fine to say you can put your calcium into bone, or take it out; but bone is a crystal, it's hard and rigidly structured. We can apparently build it up or tear itdown in fractions of a second. I wanted to know how."He reached into a cage and produced another rat with a purple tail.

"So I decided to set up an in vitro in vitro system to study bone. n.o.body thought I could do it. Bone metabolism was too slow, they said. Impossible to measure. But I succeeded, several hundred rats later." He sighed. "If the rats ever take over the world, I'll be tried for my war crimes." system to study bone. n.o.body thought I could do it. Bone metabolism was too slow, they said. Impossible to measure. But I succeeded, several hundred rats later." He sighed. "If the rats ever take over the world, 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 s.a.d.i.s.t of some sort. Never found one. All of those"-he nodded to the three at the table-"came to work only after I agreed that they would 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 soon it was Tuesdays and Thursdays. Then it was all weekend as well. I've cut down my practice as much as I can. This work is really addicting.""You like it?"

"I adore it. It's a game, a big wonderful game. A puzzle where n.o.body knows the answer. If you're not careful, though, you can become obsessed with the answer. Some people in the biochem department work longer hours than any practicing doctor. They drive themselves. But I won't let that happen to me."