James Halperin - The First Immortal

Noah pondered this conversation, and the wordless exchange following it, then smiled. “Thank you, Pat.” He turned to the court reporter. “Ms. Halloway, please read back my last two questions, and Mr. Bacon’s responses.”

The faces of Toby Fiske and Patrick Webster each grew whiter; the litigation roller coaster had just crested the hill.

She read:

“Mr. Banks: ‘And how did he react when you explained about cryonics?’

“Mr. Bacon: ‘He just listened, asked a few questions. Seemed a little distracted actually.’

“Mr. Banks: ‘What do you mean by distracted?’

“Mr. Bacon: ‘Well, he told me that the patient was his best friend. I guess he was kind of upset. Who wouldn’t be? Hmm. I suppose that might explain… well, never mind.’”

“Mr. Bacon,” Noah asked, his smile now a wide grin, “what exactly might that explain?”

“You’re not required to answer,” Webster cut in.

Noah scowled. “On what grounds can he refuse, counselor? Perhaps I should call the judge and ask him whether or not the witness has to answer?”

Webster quickly backed down. “No need for that. Sorry.”

Noah’s expression seemed to betray a burst of admiration for Webster, as if to say, Damn nice move; I bet you even get away with it once in a while. “Now, Mr. Bacon,” Noah said, “what did you mean when you said that the two facts—that Dr. Fiske was Dr. Smith’s best friend, and that he was upset—might possibly explain something?”

“It’s just that I thought, uh, maybe he had some important decisions to make, y’know, since they were such close friends and all.”

“What kind of decisions?”

“I don’t know. Medical decisions, I guess.”

“Like what?” Noah asked, his now-alert eyes bearing down like a falcon homing in on a field mouse.

“I’m not sure.”

“Mr. Bacon, did you see anything unusual that day in the hospital?”

“What do you m-mean by unusual?”

“Anything that Dr. Fiske may have done in the treatment of Dr. Smith that he might not have done for a patient who wasn’t his close friend! Mr. Bacon, I remind you that you are under oath. What the devil did you see?”

Bacon turned toward Webster, who closed his eyes and nodded.

“I s-saw Dr. Fiske slip a syringe into his pocket.”

“And do you have any idea what could have been in that syringe?”

“I object,” Webster said. “That calls for speculation.”

“Does that mean I shouldn’t answer?” Bacon asked.

“No.” Webster shook his head in resignation. The damage was done. Unless Noah Banks was an even bigger idiot than he gave the man credit for, Banks had it all figured out by now. “You may answer, Mr. Bacon. It just means I’ll try to get a judge to strike your testimony from the record later on.”

“If I had to g-guess,” Bacon said, “I’d say morphine.”

November 24, 1988

“Do you really believe your father was murdered by his own doctor?”

Such a businesslike question belied the personal concern evident on Assistant District Attorney Brandon Butters’s face. Noah attended the meeting, too, but all three lawyers present understood he was there only to observe and lend moral support to his wife. After all, it was her father who’d been killed. Besides, her relationship with this particular ADA was much closer than Noah’s; once they had been very close indeed.

Brandon had always seemed friendly, never displaying even a trace of resentment toward Noah, yet Jan and her husband both wondered if there might linger some suppressed jealousy over her choice of husbands nine years ago.

Having never visited ADA Butters’s place of business, Jan was amazed at how tiny his office was; perhaps a quarter the size of a junior partner’s at major law firms. His salary, too, was about a third as much as he’d have made in the private sector, even accounting for government benefits attendant to his position. The office reminded her of a principal reason why she’d opted to marry Noah: Brandon was smart, and such a great guy, but he still had no ambition.

She gazed across the chaos of Brandon’s desk and stared directly into the dark brown eyes that had always drawn her to this earnest face. It was the face of a man who’d once loved her deeply, a friendly face, youthful for its thirty-five years; the seldom encountered, unstressed face of a lawyer who’d never compromised principle for unearned rewards.

She answered without hesitation: “I’m sure of it, Brandon.”

“Sorry I have to ask you this, Jan, but have you and Noah filed a civil lawsuit against Dr. Fiske?”

Jan answered exactly as Noah had coached her: “No.”

“Do you intend to?”

“We haven’t decided. To tell the truth, I doubt he has much money. Which, I fear, is why he killed him.”

Noah smiled.

“How so?” Brandon asked.

“Dad left him $200,000.”

“I see. Were they close friends?”

“Supposedly.”

“Any other evidence that Dr. Fiske intended to kill your father; something less, er, speculative?”

“An eyewitness saw him slip an empty syringe—had to be morphine—into his pocket immediately after Dad’s heart stopped beating.”

“Oh? Have you asked Dr. Fiske about the syringe?”

“His lawyer would never let him answer my questions.”

“How soon would your father have died without the morphine?”

“According to Fiske, he only had a few hours left. But I don’t accept that.”

“Anybody else examine him?”

“My sister Maxine was there. She’s a family doctor now. And the paramedics who drove him to the hospital. And those three so-called cryonic technicians, but that was after he was already dead.”

“Cryonic?”

“Yeah. They froze his body.” She shook her head. “Nutty, huh? Can’t imagine how they conned him into signing up for that.”

Brandon ignored the comment. “And what do your sister and the paramedics say about your father’s condition?”

“At the time, they took Fiske’s word for it. But Max only saw his charts—she never really examined Dad—and paramedics aren’t qualified to offer a prognosis. Fiske is the only one with enough medical background to understand what he saw, and who also observed Dad’s condition firsthand.” Jan’s tone was strident, as if reciting unarguable fact. Again Noah smiled.

“I see,” Brandon said. “Is it possible Dr. Fiske was merely helping your father end his life? An assisted suicide? We see a lot of that.”

“That’s probably what he’ll say it was, if he admits to anything at all. But there’s only one way we’ll ever know for sure.”

“Which is?”

Jan glanced at Noah, who nodded only once this time. “To perform an autopsy on my father.”

“That would make sense,” Brandon said. “Does Dr. Fiske have an attorney?”

“I’d bet Pat Webster’s firm ends up handling his case,” Noah said.

“They’re representing the Trust my father set up to fund cryonic suspensions for everyone in our family.” Jan rolled her eyes. “Fiske is the trustee.”

“Besides,” Noah added, “I doubt he knows any other attorneys—except his divorce lawyer.”

“I see,” the ADA said. “Well, I’ll call Webster and let you know what happens.”

As soon as Jan and Noah left, Brandon placed a call to Patrick Webster’s office. Webster called back twenty minutes later.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Butters?”

“Mr. Webster, are you representing Tobias Fiske?”

“Not formally. Does he need representation?”

“I’d say so. A murder complaint has just been filed against him by Jan Smith.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Possibly, but you understand I can’t ignore such an allegation. I must also tell you that Ms. Smith is a personal friend, so if you’d prefer, I’ll reassign this case to another ADA.”