Michael Crichton - A Case of Need

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 had snatched the picture from my hand and torn it up.

“What picture?” he said evenly. “I don’t know no picture. I never even seen the girl.”

I sat back.

He regarded me with angry eyes. “Beat it,” he said.

“I came here to buy something,” I said. “I’ll leave when I have it.”

“You’ll leave now, if you know what’s good for you.”

He was scratching his arms again. I looked at him and realized that I would learn nothing more. He wasn’t going to talk, and I had no way to make him.

“All right,” I said. I got up, leaving my glasses on the 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 with you and beats your head in.”

I walked out. It was cold; a light rain had started again. I looked toward Washington Street and the bright lights of the other rock-’n’-roll joints, strip joints, clip joints: I waited thirty seconds, then went back.

My glasses were still on the table. I picked them up and turned to leave, my eyes sweeping the room.

Roman was in the corner, talking on a pay phone.

That was all I wanted to know.

AROUND THE CORNER at the end of the block was a stand-up, self-service greasy spoon. Hamburgers twenty cents. It had a large glass window in front. Inside I saw a few teenage girls giggling as they ate, 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 planning 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 record room.”

“You’re lucky,” he said. “It seems to be a slow night 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 whether he’s ever been admitted to the hospital and whether he’s been followed in any of the clinics. And I want the dates.”

“Right,” Hammond said. “Roman Jones. Admissions 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 of the year.

WHEN I FINISHED THE CALL I was feeling hungry, so I got a hot dog and coffee. Never a hamburger in a place 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 pathogens to infect an army. Take trichinosis—Boston has six times the national rate of infection from that. You can’t be too careful.

I have a friend who’s a bacteriologist. He spends his whole time running a hospital lab where they culture out organisms that have infected the patients. By now this guy is so worked up that he practically never goes out to dinner, even to Joseph’s or Locke-Ober. Never eats a steak unless it’s well done. He really worries. I’ve been to dinner with him, and it’s terrible—he sweats all through the main course. You can see him imagining a blood agar petri dish, with those little colonies streaked out. Every bite he takes, he sees those colonies. 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 window at the crowd passing by.

Roman came to mind. I didn’t like what he’d told me. Clearly, he was selling stuff, probably strong stuff. Marijuana was too easy to get. LSD was no longer 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 DMT are even easier to make.

Probably Roman was dealing in opiates, morphine or heroin. That complicated matters a great deal—particularly in view of his reaction to mention of Angela Harding and Karen Randall. I wasn’t sure 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 I looked out the window, I saw Roman hurry by. He did not see me. He was looking forward, his face intent 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 this manuscript.]

I LET HIM GET HALF A BLOCK AHEAD OF ME. He was hurrying through the crowds, pushing and shoving. I kept him in sight as he walked toward Stuart Street. There he turned left and headed for the expressway. I followed him. This end of Stuart was deserted; I dropped back and lit a cigarette. I pulled my raincoat tighter and wished I had a hat. If he looked back over his shoulder, he would certainly recognize me.

Roman walked one block, then turned left again. He was doubling back. I didn’t understand, but I played 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 a couple of Chinese restaurants here. I paused to look at the menu in one window. Roman was not looking back. He went another block, then turned right.

I followed.

South of the Boston Commons, the character of the 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, things get even tougher. Then there’s a block of Chinese restaurants, and that’s it. From then on, you’re in the 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. Several little dry-goods stores. A theatrical supply shop, with costumes in the window—chorus girl stockings, an old military uniform, several wigs. A basement pool hall, from which came the soft clicking of balls.

The streets were wet and dark. We were quite alone. 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 after him.

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 pavement. Roman jumped into a shadow, then stepped out 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 look at something he held in his hand—perhaps a watch, perhaps something else. I couldn’t be sure.

Eventually he headed north, skirting along side streets, working his way around the Commons and the State House. It took me awhile to realize that he was heading for Beacon Hill.

Another ten minutes passed, and I must have gotten careless, because I lost him. He darted around a corner, and when I turned it moments later, he was gone: the street was deserted. I stopped to listen for footsteps, but heard nothing. I began to worry and hurried forward.