Michael Crichton: A Case of Need

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

I remembered this as I faced the surly police sergeant 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 papers 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’t see him.”

“You are required by law to give your badge number upon request.”

“That’s nice.”

I looked at his shirt and pretended to write down the 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 sewing those stripes on your shoulder. It takes them ten seconds to get them off. They use a razor blade: doesn’t even damage the uniform.”

He stood up heavily behind the desk. “What’s your business here?”

“I’ve come to see Dr. Lee.”

He looked at me evenly. He didn’t know if I could have him busted, but he knew it could be done.

“You his lawyer?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, for Christ’s sake, you should have said so before.” He took a set of keys from his desk drawer. “Come on.” He smiled at me, but his eyes were still hostile.

I followed him back through the station. He said nothing, but grunted a couple of times. Finally he said over his shoulder, “You can’t blame me for being careful. Murder is murder, you know.”

“Yes,” I said.

ART WAS LOCKED IN A NICE CELL. It was tidy and didn’t smell much. Actually, Boston has some of the nicest cells in America. They have to: lots of famous people have spent time in those cells. Mayors, public officials, people like that. You can’t expect a man to run a decent campaign for reelection if he’s in a lousy cell, can you? It just wouldn’t look right.

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

“John!”

“You have him for ten minutes,” the sergeant said.

I entered the cell. The sergeant locked the door behind 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, rattling 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 large family of doctors and lawyers. Apparently his mother was American: he doesn’t look very Chinese. His skin is more olive than yellow, his eyes lack epicanthic folds, and his hair is light brown. He is very nervous, constantly moving his hands in fluttering movements, and the total effect is more Latin than anything else.

He was pale now and tense. When he got up to pace the cell, his movements were quick and abrupt.

“It was good of you to come.”

“In case there’s any question, I’m the representative of your lawyer. That’s how I got in here.” I took out my notebook. “Have you called your lawyer?”

“No, not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” He rubbed his forehead and massaged his eyes with his fingers. “I’m not thinking straight. Nothing seems to make sense….”

“Tell me your lawyer’s name.”

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

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

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

“So I gathered. Why did you call me?”

“Because you know about these things.”

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

“You went to law school.”

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

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

“You’d better start from the beginning.”

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

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

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

“How many were there?”

“Two. Sometimes three.”

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

“No, nothing like that.”

“Did they say you could call a lawyer?”

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

“What girl?”

“Karen Randall.”

“You don’t mean the Karen—”

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

“Jesus.”

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

“What duration?”

“Four months.”

“Did you tell them the duration?”

“No, they didn’t ask me.”

“Good,” I said.

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

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

“And what was the point?”

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

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

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

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