Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

"Claudia, connect me, please, with the general switchboard of the Kindle Municipal Police." As soon as Stern said it, he knew it was probably an error. ThroUghout his professional career, he had been alert for any opportunity to avoid the police. They always made trouble in the end.

He gave the operator who answered the name and precinct he wanted and comforted himself with the thought that the old policeman was probably not there. As the saying went, they never were.

"Ray Radczyk."

"Alejandro Stern, Lieutenant."

"I'll be damned. How are you, Sandy?"

"Continuing." He heard the beep on the line then, over the usual. tumbling of the police station in the background. The old cop sounded positively alight to have heard from him. For the life of him, Stern could still not recall the connection.

He had puzzled on it once or twice, a vagrant thought that came along with many others when he remembered that late afternoon. "Do you still have that file with my name on it, Lieutenant?"

"Hey, come on," said Radczyk, and laughed. "I got a job, just like you.

Never was a file. You know that."

"Of course," said Stern. This Radczyk, he recalled, was not really a bad fellow. Minding his profession, naturally.

"Say, where you at? Sounds like we're talkin over two tin cans. ' '

Stern explained: O'Hare. Stuck.

"Oh, sure," said Radczyk.

"Lieutenant, there is a question with which I would probably never bother you were I not waylaid with a moment on my hands."

"No bother," said the cop. "Shoot."

Stern paused.

"I was wondering if of mind, or the cunning, to manipulate his father about the autopsy. But Peter, to Stern's memory, had been so insistent-he could still recall his voice resounding down the corridors at its wailing pitch as he upbraided that poor bewildered cop, the frantic glint in Peter's eyes. Questions lingered. With Peter, Stern supposed, questions always would."

"Claudia, connect me, please, with the general switchboard of the Kindle Municipal Police." As soon as Stern said it, he knew it was probably an error. ThroUghout his professional career, he had been alert for any opportunity to avoid the police. They always made trouble in the end.

He gave the operator who answered the name and precinct he wanted and comforted himself with the thought that the old policeman was probably not there. As the saying went, they never were.

"Ray Radczyk."

"Alejandro Stern, Lieutenant."

"I'll be damned. How are you, Sandy?"

"Continuing." He heard the beep on the line then, over the usual. tumbling of the police station in the background. The old cop sounded positively alight to have heard from him. For the life of him, Stern could still not recall the connection.

He had puzzled on it once or twice, a vagrant thought that came along with many others when he remembered that late afternoon. "Do you still have that file with my name on it, Lieutenant?"

"Hey, come on," said Radczyk, and laughed. "I got a job, just like you.

Never was a file. You know that."

"Of course," said Stern. This Radczyk, he recalled, was not really a bad fellow. Minding his profession, naturally.

"Say, where you at? Sounds like we're talkin over two tin cans. ' '

Stern explained: O'Hare. Stuck.

"Oh, sure," said Radczyk.

"Lieutenant, there is a question with which I would probably never bother you were I not waylaid with a moment on my hands."

"No bother," said the cop. "Shoot."

Stern paused.

"I was wondering if the coroner reported anything unusual in connection with his examination of my wife?"

"Huh," said Radczyk. Listening to himself, Stern realized how extraordinary this question would sound, arriving out of the blue.

Radczyk took his time. "I know he ruled it suicide, a' course. I was gonna give you a call, then I thought, hellw"

"Certainly," said Stern. Neither of them, for an instant, spoke. Stern waved off a waiter in white coat who approached to offer him a drink. "I realize this is a peculiar inquiry-"

"No problem. Lemme dig up the case report. Just come back from dictation a week or two ago. Gimme a number.

I'll be back to you in two shakes." Stern read the number from the console. What would Radczyk do? Perhaps he would motion for someone else to pick up the other extension; or check to be sure the call-taping system was functioning.

A woman passed by, tall, near fifty, dressed entirely in red-she wore a silk suit with a tight straight skirt and a black-welted bolero hat which matched her outfit; her hosiery was black; a handsome figure. She looked vaguely in Stern's direction, then turned away, but even the instant of contact with her dark eyes somehow reminded him of Margy, and he fell back fully into her grasp, as if he suddenly had passed through the doors of a movie and was flooded over by the light and images of the screen: Margy, as she stood by the light switch, bare-legged and heavybottomed, her blouse undone, the black triangle visible below; her bright fingernails roaming to certain of his parts; the way her mouth lolled open, and her hue, in the profuse light of the morning, increased even across the frail skin of her closed eyes as she traveled along the channels of sensation.

A peculiar sound arose, a beeping: the telephone, he realized.

"Here we are," said Radczyk. "Let's see. Now wha'dya need?"

"It is merely curiosity, Lieutenant. I thought there may have been something unusual the coroner remarked on."

"Not much here. No autopsy. That's what you wanted. I told him there was religious objections. Couldn't figure out anything else."

Stern realized then that Radczyk had called back on a private line. No beeping signal; no tape. Supposedly, at any gate. Stern made no response.

"It's short and sweet, Sandy. Blood test with a C.O. level.

And a copy of the note. And the coroner's ruling. Nothin' in the police reports. I looked at them when they come through."

"I see."

Radczyk took a breath. "Mind if I ask what's up?"

"A minor matter, Lieutenant. It's unimportant."

"Sure," said Radczyk. "What kinda matter?" With tbes questions, he assumed a certain authority. He was, after all, a policeman, and this was, after all, his case. Stern cursed himself and then launched into a concertedly tidy explanation: a medical-laboratory bill had arrived and could not be accounted for. It was, Stern said again, no doubt unimportant.

"I could go over there and check for ya," Radczyk said.

Stern found the idea startling-particularly its appeal In theory, medical records were not to be disclosed without a subpoena. But most hearts knocked at the sight of a policeman's star. Records clerks would tell a cop most anything, if not surrender the paper. Radczyk could learn as much as Nate, perhaps more. But Stern was too much on edge with the policeman, especially his peculiar would-be intimacy. "I could not trouble you, Lieutenant."

"No trouble," said Radczyk, then lowered his voice somewhat. "I still owe ya, you know."

Stern hung on the line.

"Westlab, right?" asked Radczyk. "I'll go over there myself, Sandy.

Keep it between you and me that way. I'll find out what's doin. Gotta get all the loose ends tied up for the case report, right?"

Stern waited. "Certainly," he said.

"Sure," said Radczyk. "Should have something Friday, Monday latest.

I'll call. Good trip back."

Stern cradled the phone gently. There was a sharpness to the objects-ashtrays, lamps-he saw about the lounge. He had the congested feeling he had known all the way back to childhood.

He was certain he had just done something wrong.

The reception area of the U.S. Attorney's Office was shabby. From the looks, one would have thought he was visiting a solo practitioner down on his luck. The shag carpet was reminiscent of an animal afflicted with the mange; the wooden arms of the rectilinear furniture had begun to splinter; and the inhabitants were the usual townsquare gathering. A nut or two sat huddled in the corners, glancing about furtively and writing out lengthy, incomprehensible complaints about various politicians or the FCC's plot to lobotomize them through the airwaves.