Robin Cook - Terminal

As they walked around to the hospital, Brian commented on how much media attention the affair was getting. “Let me warn you, this is hot. It’s just the kind of case that gets played out in the media as much as it gets played out in the courts. What’s more, it’s being played on the Forbes’s turf. Don’t be surprised if your reception is less than cool.”

A throng of people was milling about in front of the hospital. Many were reporters, and unfortunately several recognized Sean. They mobbed him, fighting with each other to thrust microphones into his face, everyone asking hostile questions at the same time. Flashbulbs flashed; TV camera lights flooded the scene. By the time Sean, Brian, and Janet reached the front door, Sean was angry. Brian had to restrain him from taking a swing at a few of the photographers.

Inside wasn’t much better. News of Sean’s arrival sent ripples through the surprisingly large crowd. As the three entered the auditorium, Sean heard a chorus of boos rise from the members of the Forbes medical staff who were attending.

“I see what you mean about chilly receptions,” Sean said as they found seats. “Hardly neutral territory.”

“It’s a lynch mob mentality,” Brian said. “But this gives you an idea of what you’re up against.”

The booing and hissing directed at Sean ceased abruptly and was replaced by respectful applause when Dr. Randolph Mason appeared from the wings of the small stage. He walked resolutely to the podium, placing a sizable manila envelope on it. Grasping either side of the podium, he looked out over the audience with his head slightly tilted back. His bearing and appearance were commendably professional, his classically graying hair perfectly coiffed. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and subdued tie. The only splash of color was a lavender silk foulard handkerchief in his breast pocket.

“He looks like everyone’s romantic image of a physician,” Janet whispered. “The kind you’d see on TV.”

Brian nodded. “He’s the kind of man juries tend to believe. This is going to be an uphill battle.”

Dr. Mason cleared his throat, then began speaking. His resonant voice easily filled the small auditorium. He thanked everyone for coming and for supporting the Forbes Cancer Center in the face of the recent accusations.

“Will you be suing Sean Murphy for slander?” one of the reporters yelled out from the second row. But Dr. Mason didn’t have to answer. The entire auditorium erupted in a sustained hiss in response to the reporter’s rudeness. The reporter got the message and meekly apologized.

Dr. Mason adjusted the position of the manila envelope as he collected his thoughts.

“These are difficult times for hospitals and research facilities, particularly specialty hospitals which have the dual objectives of patient care and research. Clinical reimbursement schemes based on diagnosis and standard therapy do not work in environments such as Forbes where treatment plans often follow experimental protocols. Treatment of this sort is intensive and therefore expensive.

“The question is, where is the money supposed to come from for this type of care? Some people suggest it should come from research grants since it is part of the research process. Yet our public funding for general research has gone down, forcing us to seek other sources for financial support, like industry, or even, in exceptional cases, foreign industry. But even this source has limits, especially when the global economy is floundering. Where else can we turn but to the oldest method: private philanthropy.”

“I can’t believe this guy,” Sean whispered. “This is like a fund-raiser pep talk.”

A few people turned to glare at Sean.

“I have devoted my life to the relief of suffering,” Dr. Mason continued. “Medicine and the fight against cancer have been my life since the day I entered medical school. I have always kept the good of mankind as my motivating force and goal.”

“Now he sounds like a politician,” Sean whispered. “When is he going to address the issue?”

“Quiet!” a person behind Sean snapped.

“When I took the position as director of the Forbes Center,” Dr. Mason continued, “I knew the institution was in financial difficulty. Restoring the institution to a solid financial basis was a goal consistent with my desire to work for the good of mankind. I’ve given this task my heart and my soul. If I’ve made some mistakes, it is not for lack of altruistic motives.”

There was spotty applause when Dr. Mason paused and fumbled with his manila envelope, undoing the string that held it closed.

“This is a waste of time,” Sean whispered.

“That was just his introduction,” Brian whispered in return. “Pipe down. I’m sure he’s about to get to the meat of the news conference now.”

“At this time I would like to take leave of you,” Dr. Mason said. “To those who have helped me in this difficult period, my heartfelt thanks.”

“Is this whole rigmarole so he can resign?” Sean asked out loud. He was disgusted.

But no one answered Sean’s question. Instead, gasps of horror rippled through the audience when Dr. Mason reached into the envelope and pulled out a nickel-plated .357 magnum revolver.

Murmurs crescendoed as a few people nearest the podium rose to their feet, unsure whether to flee or approach Dr. Mason.

“I don’t mean for people to become upset,” Dr. Mason said. “But I felt...”

It was clear Dr. Mason had more to say, but two reporters in the front row made a move for him. Dr. Mason motioned them to keep away, but the two men edged closer. Dr. Mason took a step back from the podium. He looked panicked, like a cornered deer. All the color had drained from his face.

Then, to everyone’s dismay, Dr. Mason put the barrel of the revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The bullet went through his hard palate, liquified part of his brain stem and cerebellum, and carried away a five-centimeter disk of skull before burying itself deeply into the wooden cornice molding. Dr. Mason fell backward while the gun was propelled forward. The revolver hit the floor and skidded beneath the first row of seats, sending the people still seated there scattering.

A few people screamed, a few cried, most felt momentarily ill. Sean, Janet, and Brian looked away at the moment the gun went off. When they looked again the room was in pandemonium. No one knew quite what to do. Even the doctors and nurses felt helpless; clearly Dr. Mason was beyond help.

All Sean, Janet, and Brian could see of Dr. Mason were his shoes pointing upward and a foreshortened body. The wall behind the podium was splattered as if someone had hurled a handful of ripe red berries against it.

Sean’s mouth had gone dry. He found it difficult to swallow.

A few tears welled in Janet’s eyes.

Brian murmured: “Holy Mary, mother of God!”

Everyone was stunned and emotionally drained. There was little conversation. A few hearty souls, including Sterling Rombauer, ventured up to view Dr. Mason’s corpse. For the moment most people remained where they were — all except for one woman, who got up from her seat and struggled toward an exit. Sean saw her pushing dumbfounded people aside in her haste. He recognized her immediately.

“That’s Dr. Levy,” Sean said, getting to his feet. “Somebody should stop her. I’ll bet she’s planning on fleeing the country.”

Brian grabbed Sean by the arm, preventing him from giving chase. “This is not the time or place for you to play a paladin. Let her go.”

Sean watched as Dr. Levy got to an exit and disappeared from view. He looked down at Brian. “The charade is beginning to unravel.”

“Perhaps,” Brian said evasively. His legal mind was concerned about the sympathy this shocking event was likely to evoke in the community.