Part 4 (1/2)

TWO.

THE X-RAY ROOM on the second floor of the Mem had a fancy name: Radiological Diagnosis. It didn't matter what they called it, it was the same inside as every other X-ray room anywhere. The walls were sheets of white frosted gla.s.s, and there were little jam-clips for the films. It was quite a large room, with sufficient s.p.a.ce for a half-dozen radiologists to work at once.

I came in with Hughes. He was a radiologist at the Mem that I'd known for a long time; he and his wife sometimes played bridge with Judith and me. They were good players, blood players, but I didn't mind. Sometimes I get that way myself.

I hadn't called Lewis Carr because I knew he wouldn't help me. Hughes was low on the General totem pole and didn't give a d.a.m.n whether I wanted to look at films from Karen Randall or the Aga Khan, who had come here for a kidney operation some years ago. He took me right up to the X-ray room.

On the way I said, ”How's your s.e.x life?”That's a standard rib for a radiologist. It's well known that radiologists have the shortest lifespan of any medical specialist. The exact reasons are unknown, but the natural a.s.sumption is that the X rays get to them. In the old days, radiologists used to stand in the same room as the patient when the films were taken. A few years of that, and they'd soak up enough gamma to finish them. Then, too, in the old days the film was less sensitive, and it took a whopping big dose to get a decent contrast exposure.But even now, with modern techniques and better knowledge, a ribald tradition remains, and radiologists are condemned to suffer through a lifetime of jokes about their lead-lined jockstraps and their shriveled gonads. The jokes, like the X rays, are an occupational hazard. Hughes took it well.”My s.e.x life,” he said, ”is a d.a.m.n sight better than my bridge game.”As we came into the room, three or four radiologists were at work. They were each seated in front of an envelope full of films and a tape recorder; they took out films individually and read off the pa-tient's name and unit number, and the kind of film it was-AP or LAO, IVP, or thorax, and so forth- and then they slapped it up against the frosted gla.s.s and dictated their diagnosis.1One wall of the room was given over to the intensive care patients. These were seriously ill people, and their films were not stored in manila envelopes. Instead they were hung on revolving racks. You pressed a b.u.t.ton and waited until the rack came around to the films of the patient you wanted to see. It meant you could get to a critically ill patient's films rapidly.The film storeroom was adjacent to the X-ray room. Hughes went in and pulled Karen Randall's films, and brought them back. We sat down in front of a sheet of gla.s.s, and Hughes clipped up the first picture.”Lateral skull film,” he said, peering at it. ”Know why it was ordered?””No,” I said.I, too, looked at the plate, but I could make little of it. Skull films-X rays of the head-are difficult to interpret. The cranium is a complex piece of bone, producing a confusing interlocking pattern of light and dark. Hughes examined it for some time, occasionally tracing lines with the cap of his fountain pen.

1 AP is anteroposterior, indicating that the X rays penetrated from front to back, where they struck the plate. LAO is left anterior oblique and IVP is contrast media in the genitourinary tract, a film showing kidneys, ureters, and bladder.

”Seems normal,” he said at last. ”No fractures, no abnormal calcification, no evidence of air or hematoma. Of course, it'd be nice to have an arteriogram or a PEG.”2 ”Let's have a look at the other views,” he said. He pulled down the lateral view and put up the face-on, AP film. ”This looks normal, too,” he said. ”I wonder why they were taken-was she in an auto accident?”

”Not that I know of.”

He rummaged in the file. ”No,” he said. ”Obviously. They didn't do face films. Only skull films.”

Face films were a separate series of angles, utilized to check for fractures of the facial bones.

Hughes continued to examine the AP film, then put the lateral back up. He still could find nothing abnormal.

”d.a.m.ned if I can figure it,” he said, tapping the plate. ”Nothing. Not a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing there, for my money.””All right,” I said, standing up. 'Thanks for your help.”As I left I wondered whether the X rays had helped clear things up or just made everything worse.

2 These are ways of making skull films easier to interpret. An arteriogram is an X ray taken after the cerebral arteries have been filled with radio opaque liquid. A PEG, or pneumoencephalogram, consists of draining all the cerebrospinal fluid and pumping in air to increase contrast in the ventricles. It is a painful procedure which cannot be done under anesthesia. Both techniques are considered minor surgery, and are not done unless there is good evidence for their necessity.

THREEI STEPPED INTO A PHONE BOOTH near the hospital lobby. I got out my notebook and found the pharmacy number and the prescription number. I also found the pill I had taken from Karen's room.I chipped off a flake with my thumbnail and ground it into the palm of my hand. It crushed easily into a soft powder. I was pretty sure what it was, but to be certain I touched the tip of my tongue to the powder.There was no mistaking the taste. Crushed aspirin on your tongue tastes terrible.I dialed the pharmacy.”Beacon Pharmacy.””This is Dr. Berry at the Lincoln. I'd like to know a drug as follows-””Just a minute while I get a pencil.”A short pause.”Go ahead, Doctor.””The name is Karen Randall. The number is one-four-seven-six-six-seven-three. Prescribing doctor Peter Randall.””I'll check that for you.”

The phone was put down. I heard whistling and pages flipping, then: ”Yes, here it is. Darvon, twenty capsules, 75 milligram. Orders-'Once every four hours as needed for pain.' It was refilled twice. Do you want the dates?”

”No,” I said. ”That's fine.””Is there anything else?””No, thanks. You've been very helpful.””Any time.”I replaced the receiver slowly. Things were getting more and more screwy. What kind of girl pretended to take birth-control pills but actually took aspirin, which she stored in an empty bottle that once contained pills for menstrual cramps?FOURDEATH FROM ABORTION is a relatively rare event. This basic fact tends to be obscured in all the fanfare and statistics. The statistics, like the fanfare, are emotional and imprecise. Estimates vary widely, but most people agree that about a million illegal abortions are performed each year, and about 5,000 women die as a result of them. This means that the operative mortality is about 500/100,000.This is a very high figure, especially in the light of mortality in hospital abortions. Death in hospital abortions ranges from 0-18/100,000, which makesit, at worst, about as dangerous as a tonsillectomy (17/100,000).All this means is that illegal abortions are about twenty-five times as deadly as they have to be. Most people are horrified by this. But Art, who thought clearly and carefully about such things, was impressed by the statistic. And he said something very interesting: that one reason abortion remained illegal was because it was so safe.”You have to look at the volume of business,” he once said. ”A million women is a meaningless number. What it comes down to is one illegal abortion every thirty seconds, day in, day out, year after year. That makes it a very common operation, and for better or worse, it's safe.”In his cynical way, he talked about the Death Threshold, as he called it. He defined the Death Threshold as the number of people who must die each year of needless, accidental causes before anyone gets excited about it. In numerical terms, the Death Threshold was set at about 30,000 a year- the number of Americans who died of automobile accidents.

”There they are,” Art said, ”dying on the highways at the rate of about eighty a day. Everybody accepts it as a fact of life. So who's going to care about the fourteen women who die every day of abortions?”

He argued that in order to force doctors and lawyers into action, the abortion death figures would have to approach 50,000 a year, and perhaps more.

At the current mortality rates, that meant ten million abortions a year.”In a way, you see,” he said, ”I'm doing a disservice to society. 1 haven't lost anybody in abortion, so I'm keeping those death figures down. That's good for my patients, of course, but bad for society as a whole. Society will only act out of fear and gross guilt. We are attuned to large figures; small statistics don't impress us. Who'd give a d.a.m.n if Hitler had only killed ten thousand Jews?”He went on to argue that by doing safe abortions he was preserving the status quo, keeping the pressure off legislators to change the laws. And then he said something else.”The trouble with this country,” he said, ”is that the women have no guts. They'd rather slink off and have a dangerous, illegal operation performed than change the laws. The legislators are all men, and men don't bear the babies; they can afford to be moralistic. So can the priests: if you had women priests, you'd see a h.e.l.l of a quick change in religion. But politics and religion are dominated by the men, and the women are reluctant to push too hard. Which is bad, because abortion is their business-their infants, their bodies, their risk. If a million women a year wrote letters to their congressmen, you might see a little action. Probably not, but you might. Only the women won't do it.”I think that thought depressed him more than anything else. It came back to me as I drove tomeet a woman who, from all reports, had plenty of guts: Mrs. Randall.NORTH OF COHa.s.sET, about half an hour from downtown Boston, is an exclusive residential community built along a stretch of rocky coast. It is rather reminiscent of Newport-old frame houses with elegant lawns, looking out at the sea.The Randall house was enormous, a four-story Gothic white frame building with elaborate balconies and turrets. The lawn sloped down to the water; altogether there were probably five acres of land surrounding the house. I drove up the long gravel drive and parked in the turnabout next to two Porsches, one black, the other canary-yellow. Apparently the whole family drove Porsches. There was a garage tucked back to the left of the house with a gray Mercedes sedan. That was probably for the servants.I got out and was wondering how I would ever get past the butler when a woman came out of the front door and walked down the steps. She was pulling on her gloves as she went, and seemed in a great hurry. She stopped when she saw me.”Mrs. Randall?””Yes,” she said.

I don't know what I was expecting, but certainly nothing like her. She was tall, and dressed in a beige Chanel suit. Her hair was jet black and glossy, her legs long, her eyes very large and dark. She couldn't have been older than thirty. You could have cracked ice-cubes on her cheekbones, she was so hard. have cracked ice-cubes on her cheekbones, she was so hard.

I stared at her in dumb silence for several moments, feeling like a fool but unable to help myself. She frowned at me impatiently. ”What do you want? I haven't got all day.”

Her voice was husky and her lips were sensual. She had the proper accent, too: flattened inflection and the slightly British intonation.”Come on, come on,” she said. ”Speak up.””I'd like to talk to you,” I said, ”about your daughter.””My stepdaughter,” she said quickly. She was sweeping past me, moving toward the black Porsche.”Yes, your stepdaughter.””I've told everything to the police,” she said. ”And I happen to be late for an appointment, so if you will excuse me . . .” She unlocked the door to her car and opened it.I said, ”My name is-””I know who you are,” she said. ”Joshua was talking about you last night. He told me you might try to see me.””And?””And he told me, Dr. Berry, to suggest that you go to h.e.l.l.”She was doing her best to be angry, but I could see she was not. There was something else showing in her face, something that might have been curiosity or might have been fear. It struck me as odd.She started the engine. ”Good day, Doctor.”I leaned over toward her. ”Following your husband's orders?””I usually do.””But not always,” I said.She was about to put the car in gear, but she stopped, her hand resting on the s.h.i.+ft. ”I beg your pardon,” she said.”What I mean is that your husband doesn't quite understand everything,” I said.”I think he does.””You know he doesn't, Mrs. Randall.”She turned off the engine and looked at me. ”I'll give you thirty seconds to get off this property,” she said, ”before I call the police.” But her voice was trembling, and her face was pale.”Call the police? I don't think that's wise.”She was faltering; her self-confidence draining away from her.”Why did you come here?””I want you to tell me about the night you took Karen to the hospital. Sunday night.””If you want to know about that night,” she said, ”go look at the car.” She pointed to the yellow Porsche.I went over and looked inside.It was like a bad dream.

The upholstery had once been tan, but now it was red. Everything was red. The driver's seat was red. The pa.s.senger seat was deep red. The dash- board k.n.o.bs were red. The steering wheel was red in places. The floor carpet was crusty and red.Quarts of blood had been lost in that car.”Open the door,” Mrs. Randall said. ”Feel the seat.”I did. The seat was damp.”Three days later,” she said. ”It still hasn't dried out. That's how much blood Karen lost. That's what he did to her.”I shut the door. ”Is this her car?””No. Karen didn't have a car. Joshua wouldn't let her have one until she was twenty-one.””Then whose car is it?””It's mine,” Mrs. Randall said.I nodded to the black car she was sitting in. ”And this?””It's new. We just bought it yesterday.””We?””I did. Joshua agreed.””And the yellow car?””We have been advised by the police to keep it, in case it is needed as evidence. But as soon as wecanI said, ”What exactly happened Sunday night?””I don't have to tell you anything,” she said, tightening her lips.”Of course not.” I smiled politely. I knew I had her; the fear was still in her eyes.She looked away from me, staring straight forward through the gla.s.s of the winds.h.i.+eld.”I was alone in the house,” she said. ”Joshua wasat the hospital with an emergency. William was at medical school. It was about three-thirty at night and Karen was out on a date. I heard the horn blowing on the car. It kept blowing. I got out of bed and put on a bathrobe and went downstairs. My car was there, the motor running and the lights on. The horn was still blowing. I went outside . . . and saw her. She had fainted and fallen forward onto the horn b.u.t.ton. There was blood everywhere.”She took a deep breath and fumbled in her purse for cigarettes. She brought out a pack of French ones. I lit one for her.on.”There isn't any more to tell. I got her into the other seat and drove to the hospital.” She smoked the cigarette with a swift, nervous movement. ”On the way, I tried to find out what had happened. I knew where she was bleeding from, because her skirt was all wet but her other clothes weren't. And she said, 'Lee did it.' She said it three times. I'll never forget it. That pathetic, weak little voice . . .””She was awake? Able to talk to you?”

”Yes,” Mrs. Randall said. ”She pa.s.sed out again just as we got to the hospital.”

”How do you know it was an abortion?” I said. ”How do you know it wasn't a miscarriage?”

”I'll tell you,” Mrs. Randall said. ”Because when I looked at Karen's purse, I found her checkbook. The last check she had made out was to 'cash.' And it was for three hundred dollars. Dated Sunday. That's That's how I know it was an abortion.” how I know it was an abortion.”

”Was the check ever cashed? Have you inquired?”

”Of course it wasn't cashed,” she said. ”The man who has that check is now in jail.”

”I see,” I said thoughtfully.”That's good,” she said. ”And now you must excuse me.”She got out of the car and hurried back up the steps to the house.”I thought you were late for an appointment,” I said.She paused and looked back at me. ”Go to h.e.l.l,” she said, and then slammed the door behind her.I walked back to my car, considering her performance. It was very convincing. There were only two flaws that I could spot. One was the amount of blood in the yellow car. I was bothered that there was more blood on the pa.s.senger seat.Then too, apparently Mrs. Randall didn't know that Art's fee for an abortion was $25-just enough to cover the lab costs. Art never charged more. It was a way, in his own mind, of keeping himself honest.

FIVE.

THE SIGN WAS BATTERED: CURZIN PHOTOS. Underneath, in small, yellowing print, ”Photos for all Purposes. Pa.s.sports, Publicity, Friends. One-Hour Service.”The shop stood on a corner at the north end of Was.h.i.+ngton Street, away from the lights of the movie houses and the big department stores. I went inside and found a little old man and a little old woman, standing side by side.”Yes?” said the man. He had a gentle manner, almost timid.”I have a peculiar problem,” I said.”Pa.s.sport? No problem at all. We can have the pictures for you in an hour. Less, if you're in a rush. We've done it thousands of times.””That's right,” said the woman, nodding primly. ”More than thousands.””My problem is different,” I said. ”You see, my daughter is having her sweet-sixteen party, and-””We don't do engagements,” said the man. ”Sorry.””No indeed,” the woman said.

”It's not an engagement, it's a sweet-sixteen party.”

”We don't do them,” the man said. ”Out of the question.”

”We used to,” explained the woman. ”In the old days. But they were such a fright.”

I took a deep breath. ”What I need,” I said, ”is some information. My daughter is mad about a rock-'n-'roll group, and you took their picture. 1 want this to be a surprise, so I thought that I'd-”

”Your daughter is sixteen?” He seemed suspicious.”That's right. Next week.””And we took a picture of a group?””Yes,” I said. I handed him the photograph.He looked at it for a long time.”This isn't a group, this is one man,” he said finally.”I know, but he's part of a group.””It's just one man.””You took the picture, so I thought that perhaps-”By now the man had turned the picture over in his hand.”We took this picture,” he announced to me. ”Here, you can see our stamp on the back. Curzin Photos, that's us. Been here since 1931. My father had it before I did, G.o.d rest his soul.””Yes,” said the woman.”You say this is a group?” the man asked, waving the picture at me.”One member of a group.””Possibly,” he said. He handed the picture to the woman. ”Did we do any groups like that?””Possibly,” she said. ”I can never keep them clear.””I think it was a publicity picture,” I offered.”What's the name of this group?””I don't know. That's why I came to you. The picture had your stamp-””I saw it, I'm not blind,” the man snapped. He bent over and looked under the counter. ”Have to check the files,” he said. ”We keep everything on file.”He began producing sheafs of pictures. I was surprised; he really had photographed dozens of groups.He shuffled through them very fast. ”My wife can never remember them, but I can. If I can see them all, I remember them. You know? That's Jimmy and the Do-Dahs.” He flipped through rapidly. ”The Warblers. The Coffins. The Cliques. The Skunks. The names stick with you. Funny thing. The Lice. The Switchblades. w.i.l.l.y and the w.i.l.l.i.e.s. The Jaguars.”I tried to glance at the faces as he went, but he was going very fast.”Wait a minute,” I said, pointing to one picture. ”I think that's it.”

The man frowned. ”The Zephyrs,” he said, his tone disapproving. ”That's what they are, the Zephyrs.”

I looked at the five men, all Negro. They were dressed in the same s.h.i.+ny suits that I'd seen in the single photo. They were all smiling uneasily, as if they disliked having their picture taken.

”You know the names?” I said.He turned the picture over. The names were scrawled there. ”Zeke, Zach, Roman, George, and Happy. That's them.””O.K.,” I said. I took out my notebook and wrote the names down. ”Do you know how I can reach them?””Listen, you sure you want them for your girl's party?””Why not?”The man shrugged. ”They're a little tough.””Well, I think they'll be O.K. for one night.””I don't know,” he said doubtfully. ”They're pretty tough.””Know where I can find them?””Sure,” the man said. He jerked his thumb down the street. ”They work nights at the Electric Grape. All the n.i.g.g.e.rs hang out there.””O.K.,” I said. I went to the door.”You be careful,” the woman advised me.”I will.””Have a nice party,” the man said.I nodded and shut the door.ALAN ZENNER WAS A HUGE MOUNTAIN OF A KID. He wasn't as big as a Big Ten tackle, but he was plenty large. I guessed he was about six-one and two-twenty. wasn't as big as a Big Ten tackle, but he was plenty large. I guessed he was about six-one and two-twenty.Give or take.I found him as he was leaving the Dillon Field House at the end of practice. It was late afternoon; the sun was low, casting a golden glow over Soldiers' Field stadium and the buildings nearby-the Field House, the Hockey Rink, the indoor tennis courts. On a side field, the freshman squad was still scrimmaging, raising a cloud of yellow-brown dust in the fading light.Zenner had just finished showering; his short black hair was still damp and he was rubbing it, as if remembering the coach's admonition not to go out with wet hair.He said he was in a hurry to eat dinner and start studying, so we talked as we crossed over the Lars Anderson bridge toward the Harvard houses. For a while I made small talk. He was a senior in Leverett House, the Towers, and he was majoring in history. He didn't like his thesis topic. He was worried about getting into law school; the law school didn't give athletes a break. All they cared about were grades. Maybe he would go to Yale law instead. That was supposed to be more fun.

We cut through Winthrop House and walked up toward the Varsity Club. Alan said he was eating two meals a day there, lunch and dinner, during the season. The food was O.K. Better than the regular c.r.a.p anyway.

Finally, I s.h.i.+fted the conversation to Karen.”What, you, too?””I don't understand.”

”You're the second one today. Foggy was here earlier.”

”Foggy?””The old man. That's what she used to call him.””Why?””I don't know. It was her name for him, that's all. She had lots of names for him.””You talked with him?”Zenner said carefully, ”He came to see me.””And?”Zenner shrugged. ”I told him to go away.””Why is that?”We came to Ma.s.sachusetts Avenue. The traffic was heavy. ”Because,” he said, ”I didn't want to get involved.””But you already are involved.””Like h.e.l.l I am.” He started across the street, deftly maneuvering among the cars.I said, ”Do you know what happened to her?””Listen,” he said, ”I know more about it than anybody. Even her parents. Anybody.””But you don't want to get involved.””That's the picture.”I said, ”This is very serious. A man has been charged with murdering her. You have to tell me what you know.””Look,” he said. ”She was a nice girl, but she had problems. We had problems together. For a while it was O.K., and then the problems got too big, and it was over. That's all. Now get off my back.”I shrugged. ”During the trial,” I said, ”the defensewill call you. They can make you testify under oath.””I'm not testifying in any trial.””You won't have a choice,” I said. ”Unless, perhaps, there never is a trial.””Meaning what?””Meaning we'd better have a talk.”Two blocks down Ma.s.sachusetts Avenue toward Central Square was a dirty little tavern with an out-of-focus color TV over the bar. We ordered two beers and watched the weather report while we waited. The forecaster was a cheerful little pudgy fellow who smiled as he predicted rain tomorrow, and the next day.Zenner said, ”What's your interest in all this?””I think Lee is innocent.”He laughed. ”You're the only one who does.”The beers came. I paid. He sipped his and licked the foam off his lips.

”O.K.,” he said, settling back in the booth. ”I'll tell you how it was. I met her at a party last spring, around April. We got along well, right off. It seemed just great. I didn't know anything about her when I met her, she was just a good-looking girl. I knew she was young. I didn't know how young until the next morning when I practically flipped. I mean, Christ, sixteen. . . . But I liked her. She wasn't cheap.”

He drank half the gla.s.s in a single gulp.