Michael Crichton: A Case of Need

Art waved his hand irritably. “Maybe they’re just stupid.”

“Of course they’re stupid, but not that stupid.”

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know what they’ve got on me.”

“You must know.”

“I don’t,” he said, resuming his pacing. “I can’t even begin to guess.”

I watched him for a moment, wondering when to ask the question, knowing that I would have to, sooner or later. He noticed I was staring.

“No,” he said.

“No what?”

“No, I didn’t do it. And stop looking at me that way.” He sat down again and drummed his fingers on the bunk. “Christ, I wish I had a drink.”

“You’d better forget that,” I said.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake—”

“You only drink socially,” I said, “and in moderation.”

“Am I on trial for my character and personal habits, or for—”

“You’re not on trial at all,” I said, “and you don’t want to be.”

He snorted.

“Tell me about Karen’s visit,” I said.

“There’s nothing much to tell. She came asking for an abortion, but I wouldn’t do it because she was four months’ pregnant. I explained to her why I couldn’t do it, that she was too far along, and that an abortion would now require abdominal section.”

“And she accepted that?”

“She seemed to.”

“What did you put in your records?”

“Nothing. I didn’t open a file on her.”

I sighed. “That,” I said, “could be bad. Why didn’t you?”

“Because she wasn’t coming to me for treatment, she wasn’t becoming my patient. I knew I’d never see her again, so I didn’t open a file.”

“How are you going to explain that to the police?”

“Look,” he said, “if I’d known that she was going to get me arrested, I might have done lots of things differently.”

I lit a cigarette and leaned back, feeling the cold stone against my neck. I could already see that it was a messy situation. And the small details, innocent in another context, could now assume great weight and importance.

“Who referred her to you?”

“Karen? I assumed Peter.”

“Peter Randall?”

“Yes. He was her personal physician.”

“You didn’t ask her who referred her?” Art was usually careful about that.

“No. She arrived late in the day, and I was tired. Besides, she came right to the point; she was a very direct young lady, no foolishness about her. When I heard the story, I assumed Peter had sent her to me to explain the situation, since it was obviously too late to arrange an abortion.”

“Why did you assume that?”

He shrugged. “I just did.”

It wasn’t making sense. I was sure he wasn’t telling me everything. “Have other members of the Randall family been referred to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said.”

“I don’t think it’s relevant,” he said.

“It might be.”

“I assure you,” he said, “it’s not.”

I sighed and smoked the cigarette. I knew Art could be stubborn when he wanted to. “O.K.,” I said. “Then tell me more about the girl.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Had you ever seen her before?”

“No.”

“Ever met her socially?”

“No.”

“Ever helped any of her friends?”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Oh, hell,” he said, “I can’t be sure, but I doubt it very much. She was only eighteen.”

“O.K.,” I said. Art was probably right. I knew he usually aborted only married women, in their late twenties and thirties. He had often said he didn’t want to get involved with the younger ones, though he did on occasion. Older women and married women were much safer, more closemouthed and realistic. But I also knew that he had recently been doing more young girls, calling them “teeny-bopper scrapes,” because he said to do only married women was discrimination. He meant that partly as a joke, and partly not.

“How was she,” I said, “when she came to your office? How would you describe her?”

“She seemed like a nice girl,” Art said. “She’s pretty and intelligent and well poised. Very direct, as I said before. She came into my office, sat down, folded her hands in her lap, and reeled it all off. She used medical terms too, like amenorrhea. I suppose that comes from being in a family of doctors.”

“Was she nervous?”

“Yes,” he said, “but they all are. That’s why the differential is so hard.”

The differential diagnosis of amenorrhea, particularly in young girls, must consider nervousness as a strong etiologic possibility. Women often delay or miss their menstrual periods for psychological reasons.

“But four months?”

“Well, not likely. And she’d also had a weight gain.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen pounds.”

“Not diagnostic,” I said.

“No,” he said, “but suggestive.”

“Did you examine her?”

“No. I offered to, but she refused. She had come to me for an abortion, and when I said no, she left.”

“Did she say what her plans were?”

“Yes,” Art said. “She gave a little shrug and said, ‘Well, I guess I’ll just have to tell them and have the kid.’ ”

“So you thought she would not seek an abortion elsewhere?”

“Exactly. She seemed very intelligent and perceptive, and she seemed to follow my explanation of the situation. That’s what I try to do in these cases—explain to a woman why it is impossible for her to have a safe abortion, and why she must reconcile herself to having the child.”

“Obviously she changed her mind.”

“Obviously.”

“I wonder why.”

He laughed. “Ever meet her parents?”

“No,” I said, and then seeing my chance, “have you?”

But Art was quick. He gave me a slow, appreciative grin, a kind of subtle salute, and said, “No. Never. But I’ve heard about them.”

“What have you heard?”

At that moment, the sergeant came back and began clanking the key into the lock.

“Time’s up,” he said.

“Five more minutes,” I said.

“Times up.”

Art said, “Have you spoken to Betty?”

“Yes,” I said. “She’s fine. I’ll call her when I leave here and tell her you’re all right.”

“She’s going to be worried,” Art said.

“Judith will stay with her. It’ll be O.K.”

Art grinned ruefully. “Sorry to cause all this trouble.”

“No trouble.” I glanced at the sergeant, standing with the door open, waiting. “The police can’t hold you. You’ll be out by the afternoon.”

The sergeant spit on the floor.

I shook hands with Art. “By the way,” I said, “where’s the body now?”

“Perhaps at the Mem. But it’s probably gone to the City by now.”

“I’ll check,” I said. “Don’t worry about a thing.” I stepped out of the cell and the sergeant locked up behind me. He said nothing as he led me out, but when we reached the lobby, he said, “Captain wants to see you.”

“All right.”

“Captain’s very interested in having a little talk.”

“Just lead the way,” I said.

THE SIGN ON THE FLAKING GREEN DOOR SAID HOMICIDE, and underneath, on a hand-printed name card, “Captain Peterson.” He turned out to be a stiff, burly man with close-cropped gray hair and a terse manner. He came around the desk to shake hands with me, and I noticed he had a limp in his right leg. He made no effort to hide it; if anything, he exaggerated it, allowing his toe to scrape loudly over the floor. Cops, like soldiers, can be proud of their infirmities. You knew Peterson hadn’t received his in an auto accident.

I was trying to determine the cause of Peterson’s injury and had decided that it was probably a bullet wound—rarely does anyone get cut with a knife in the calf—when he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Captain Peterson.”