Michael Crichton - A Case of Need

Then, too, as Wilson had said, everything made sense. Angela and Bubbles were right in claiming that they hadn’t seen Karen; she had gone to Peter that Sunday night. And Peter had made a mistake; Karen had gone home and begun to bleed. She had told Mrs. Randall, who had taken her to the hospital in her own car. At the hospital, she hadn’t known 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 broken loose.

Everything made sense.

Except, I thought, for the original premise. Peter Randall had been Karen’s physician for years. He knew 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 tumor which could mimic pregnancy. So he would certainly have tested.

Then again, he had apparently sent her to Art Lee. Why? If he had been willing to see her aborted, 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 had said: “You doctors certainly stick together.” I realized he, and Wilson, were right. I wanted to believe that Peter was innocent. Partly because he was a doctor, partly because I liked him. Even in the face of serious evidence, I wanted to believe he was innocent.

I sighed and sipped my drink. The fact was I had seen something very serious that night, something clandestine and incriminating. I could not overlook it. I could not pass it off as accident or coincidence. I had to explain it.

And the most logical explanation was that Peter Randall was the abortionist.

I AWOKE FEELING MEAN. Like a caged animal, trapped, enclosed. I didn’t like what was happening and didn’t see any way to stop it. Worst of all, I didn’t see any way to beat Wilson. It was hard enough to prove Art Lee was innocent; to prove Peter 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, reaching for a towel. “I can’t believe Peter would do it,” I said.

“Charitable of you.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said, “it’s just that getting 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 yourself in the technicalities. I’ve been with Betty Lee for three days.”

“I know it’s been hard—”

“I’m not talking about me,” she said. “I’m talking about her. Or have you forgotten last night?”

“No,” I said, thinking to myself that last night had started it all, the whole mess. My decision to call in Wilson.

“Betty has been through hell,” Judith said. “There’s no excuse for it, and the Randalls are to blame. 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’t make him innocent.”

“It doesn’t make him guilty.”

“I don’t care who’s guilty anymore. I just want it finished and Art set free.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know how you feel.”

While I shaved, I stared at my face. A rather ordinary 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 crisis affecting 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 unimportant facts? Suppose the real heart of the matter was still unexplored?

Trying to save Peter again.

Well, why not? He was as much worth saving as anyone else.

It occurred to me then that Peter Randall was as much worth saving as Art. They were both men, both doctors, both established, both interesting, both a little noncomformist. When you came down to it, there was nothing really to choose between them. Peter was humorous, Art was sarcastic. Peter was fat and Art was thin.

But essentially the same.

I pulled on my jacket and tried to forget the whole 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 moment later, Judith called, “It’s for you.”

I picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

A familiar, booming voice said, “John, this is Peter. I’d like you to come by for lunch.”

“Why?” I said.

“I want you to meet the alibi I haven’t got,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“Twelve-thirty?” he asked.

“See you then,” I said.

PETER RANDALL LIVED WEST OF NEWTON, in a modern house. It was small but beautifully furnished: Breuer chairs, a Jacobsen couch, a Rachmann coffee table. The style was sleekly modern. He met me at the door with a drink in his hand.

“John. Come in.” He led the way into the living room. “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, “What do 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 bulk contrasting with the sharp, linear angles of the chair. “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’ve made some mistakes. One of them was trying to look after Karen. Her father was ignoring her, and I was…fond of her. She was a sweet girl. Lost and confused, but sweet. So I did her first abortion, as I have done abortions for other patients from time to time. Does that shock you?”

“No.”

“Good. But the trouble was that Karen kept getting pregnant. Three times in three years; for a girl of that age, it wasn’t wise. It was pathological. So I finally decided that she ought to bear the fourth child.”

“Why?”

“Because she obviously wanted to be pregnant. She kept doing it. She obviously needed the shame and trouble of an illegitimate child. So I refused the fourth time.”