A Case of Need: A Novel (28 page)

Then, too, as Wilson had said, everything made sense. Angela and Bubbles were right in claiming that they hadn’t seen Karen; she had gone to Peter that Sunday night. And Peter had made a mistake; Karen had gone home and begun to bleed. She had told Mrs. Randall, who had taken her to the hospital in her own car. At the hospital, she hadn’t known that the EW diagnosis would not call in the police; to avert a family scandal she had blamed the abortion on the only other abortionist she knew: Art Lee. She had jumped the gun, and all hell had broken loose.

Everything made sense.

Except, I thought, for the original premise. Peter Randall had been Karen’s physician for years. He knew she was a hysterical girl. Therefore he would have been certain to perform a rabbit test on her. Also, he knew that she had had a prior complaint of vision trouble, which suggested a pituitary tumor which could mimic pregnancy. So he would certainly have tested.

Then again, he had apparently sent her to Art Lee. Why? If he had been willing to see her aborted, he would have done it himself.

And still again, he had aborted her twice without complications. Why should he make a mistake—a major and serious mistake—the third time?

No, I thought, it didn’t make sense.

And then I remembered something Peterson had said: “You doctors certainly stick together.” I realized he, and Wilson, were right. I wanted to believe that Peter was innocent. Partly because he was a doctor, partly because I liked him. Even in the face of serious evidence, I wanted to believe he was innocent.

I sighed and sipped my drink. The fact was I had seen something very serious that night, something clandestine and incriminating. I could not overlook it. I could not pass it off as accident or coincidence. I had to explain it.

And the most logical explanation was that Peter Randall was the abortionist.

I
AWOKE FEELING MEAN
. Like a caged animal, trapped, enclosed. I didn’t like what was happening and didn’t see any way to stop it. Worst of all, I didn’t see any way to beat Wilson. It was hard enough to prove Art Lee was innocent; to prove Peter Randall was innocent as well was impossible.

Judith took one look at me and said, “Grumpy.”

I snorted and showered.

She said, “Find out anything?”

“Yeah. Wilson wants to pin it on Peter Randall.”

She laughed. “Jolly old Peter?”

“Jolly old Peter,” I said.

“Has he got a case?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good,” she said.

“No,” I said, “it’s not.”

I turned off the shower and stepped out, reaching for a towel. “I can’t believe Peter would do it,” I said.

“Charitable of you.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said, “it’s just that getting another innocent man for it solves nothing.”

“It serves them right,” Judith said.

“Who?”

“The Randalls.”

“It isn’t just,” I said.

“That’s fine for you to say. You can immerse yourself in the technicalities. I’ve been with Betty Lee for three days.”

“I know it’s been hard—”

“I’m not talking about me,” she said. “I’m talking about her. Or have you forgotten last night?”

“No,” I said, thinking to myself that last night had started it all, the whole mess. My decision to call in Wilson.

“Betty has been through hell,” Judith said. “There’s no excuse for it, and the Randalls are to blame. So let them boil in their own oil for a while. Let them see how it feels.”

“But Judith, if Peter is innocent—”

“Peter is very amusing,” she said. “That doesn’t make him innocent.”

“It doesn’t make him guilty.”

“I don’t care who’s guilty anymore. I just want it finished and Art set free.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know how you feel.”

While I shaved, I stared at my face. A rather ordinary face, too heavy in the jowls, eyes too small, hair thinning. But all in all, nothing unusual about me. It gave me a strange feeling to know that I had been at the center of things, at the center of a crisis affecting a half-dozen people, for three days. I wasn’t the sort of person for that.

As I dressed and wondered what I would do that morning, I also wondered if I had ever been at the center of things. It was an odd thought. Suppose I had been circling at the periphery, digging up unimportant facts? Suppose the real heart of the matter was still unexplored?

Trying to save Peter again.

Well, why not? He was as much worth saving as anyone else.

It occurred to me then that Peter Randall was as much worth saving as Art. They were both men, both doctors, both established, both interesting, both a little noncomformist. When you came down to it, there was nothing really to choose between them. Peter was humorous, Art was sarcastic. Peter was fat and Art was thin.

But essentially the same.

I pulled on my jacket and tried to forget the whole thing. I wasn’t the judge; thank God for that. It wouldn’t be my job to unsnarl things at the trial.

The telephone rang. I didn’t answer it. A moment later, Judith called, “It’s for you.”

I picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

A familiar, booming voice said, “John, this is Peter. I’d like you to come by for lunch.”

“Why?” I said.

“I want you to meet the alibi I haven’t got,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“Twelve-thirty?” he asked.

“See you then,” I said.

P
ETER RANDALL LIVED WEST OF NEWTON
, in a modern house. It was small but beautifully furnished: Breuer chairs, a Jacobsen couch, a Rachmann coffee table. The style was sleekly modern. He met me at the door with a drink in his hand.

“John. Come in.” He led the way into the living room. “What will you drink?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“I think you’d better,” he said. “Scotch?”

“On the rocks.”

“Have a seat,” he said. He went into the kitchen; I heard ice cubes in a glass. “What did you do this morning?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I sat around and thought.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to,” he said, coming back with a glass of Scotch.

“Did you know Wilson took pictures?”

“I had a suspicion. That boy is ambitious.”

“Yes,” I said.

“And I’m in hot water?”

“It looks that way,” I said.

He stared at me for a moment, then said, “What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Do you know, for example, that I do abortions?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And Karen?”

“Twice,” I said.

He sat back in a Breuer chair, his rounded bulk contrasting with the sharp, linear angles of the chair. “Three times,” he said, “to be precise.”

“Then you—”

“No, no,” he said. “The last was in June.”

“And the first?”

“When she was fifteen.” He sighed. “You see, I’ve made some mistakes. One of them was trying to look after Karen. Her father was ignoring her, and I was … fond of her. She was a sweet girl. Lost and confused, but sweet. So I did her first abortion, as I have done abortions for other patients from time to time. Does that shock you?”

“No.”

“Good. But the trouble was that Karen kept getting pregnant. Three times in three years; for a girl of that age, it wasn’t wise. It was pathological. So I finally decided that she ought to bear the fourth child.”

“Why?”

“Because she obviously wanted to be pregnant. She kept doing it. She obviously needed the shame and trouble of an illegitimate child. So I refused the fourth time.”

“Are you sure she was pregnant?”

“No,” he said. “And you know why I had my doubts. That vision business. One wonders about primary pituitary dysfunction. I wanted to do tests, but Karen refused. She was only interested in an abortion, and when I wouldn’t give it to her, she became angry.”

“So you sent her to Dr. Lee.”

“Yes,” he said.

“And he did it?”

Peter shook his head. “Art is far too clever for that. He would have insisted on tests. Besides, she was four months’ pregnant, or so she claimed. So he wouldn’t have done it.”

“And you didn’t, either,” I said.

“No. Do you believe that?”

“I’d like to.”

“But you aren’t fully convinced?”

I shrugged. “You burned your car. It had blood in it.”

“Yes,” he said. “Karen’s blood.”

“How did it happen?”

“I lent Karen my car for the weekend. I did not know at the time that she planned an abortion.”

“You mean she drove your car to the abortion, had it, and drove it back to her home, bleeding? Then she switched to the yellow Porsche?”

“Not exactly,” Peter said. “But you can get a better explanation from someone else.” He called, “Darling. Come on out.”

He smiled at me. “Meet my alibi.”

Mrs. Randall came into the room, looking taut and hard and sexy. She sat in a chair next to Peter.

“You see,” Peter said, “what a bind I am in.”

I said, “Sunday night?”

“I am afraid so.”

“That’s embarrassing,” I said, “but also convenient.”

“In a sense,” Randall said. He patted her hand and lifted himself heavily out of the chair. “I don’t call it either embarrassing or convenient.”

“You were with her all night Sunday?”

He poured himself another Scotch. “Yes.”

“Doing what?”

“Doing,” Peter said, “what I would rather not explain under oath.”

“With your brother’s wife?” I said.

He winked at Mrs. Randall. “Are you my brother’s wife?”

“I’ve heard a rumor,” she said, “but I don’t believe it.”

“You see, I’m letting you into some quite private family affairs,” Peter said.

“They are family affairs, if nothing else.”

“You’re indignant?”

“No,” I said. “Fascinated.”

“Joshua,” Peter said, “is a fool. You know that, of course. So does Wilson. That is why he could be so confident. But unfortunately, Joshua married Evelyn.”

“Unfortunately,” Evelyn said.

“Now we are in a bind,” Peter said. “She cannot divorce my brother to marry me. That would be impossible. So we are resigned to our life as it is.”

“Difficult, I imagine.”

“Not really,” Peter said, sitting down again with a fresh drink. “Joshua is very dedicated. He often works long into the night. And Evelyn has many clubs and civic functions to attend.”

“He’ll find out sooner or later.”

“He already knows,” Peter said.

I must have reacted, because he said quickly, “Not consciously, of course. J. D. knows nothing consciously. But in the back of his mind, he realizes that he has a young wife whom he neglects and who is finding … satisfaction elsewhere.”

I turned to Mrs. Randall, “Would you swear Peter was with you Sunday night?”

“If I had to,” she said.

“Wilson will make you. He wants a trial.”

“I know,” she said.

“Why did you accuse Art Lee?”

She turned away from me and glanced at Peter.

Peter said, “She was trying to protect me.”

“Art was the only other abortionist she knew?”

“Yes,” Evelyn said.

“He aborted you?”

“Yes. Last December.”

“Was it a good abortion?”

She shifted in the chair. “It worked, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean,” I said. “Do you know Art wouldn’t implicate you?”

She hesitated, then said, “I was confused. I was frightened. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You were screwing Art.”

“Yes,” she said, “that was how it turned out.”

“Well,” I said, “you can clear him now.”

“How?”

“Drop the charges.”

Peter said, “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

“You saw for yourself last night. J. D. is fixed on the battle, once the lines are drawn. He has a surgeon’s view of right and wrong. He sees only black and white, day and night. No gray. No twilight.”

“No cuckolds.”

Peter laughed. “He may be a lot like you.”

Evelyn got up and said, “Lunch will be ready in five minutes. Will you have another drink?”

“Yes,” I said, looking at Peter, “I’d better.”

When Evelyn had gone, Peter said, “You see me as a cruel and heartless beast. Actually I’m not. There has been a long chain of errors here, a long list of mistakes. I would like to see it cleaned up—”

“With no harm done.”

“More or less. Unfortunately my brother is no help. Once his wife accused Dr. Lee, he took it as gospel truth. He pounced upon it as truth the way a man grasps a life preserver. He will never relent.”

“Go on,” I said.

“But the central fact remains. I insist—and you can believe it or not—that I did not do the abortion. You are equally certain that Dr. Lee did not do it. Who is left?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Can you find out?”

“You’re asking me to help you?”

“Yes,” he said.

OVER LUNCH
, I said to Evelyn, “What did Karen really say to you in the car?”

“She said, ‘That bastard.’ Over and over again. Nothing else.”

“She never explained?”

“No.”

“Did you have any idea who she meant?”

“No,” Evelyn said, “I didn’t.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“Yes,” she said. “She talked about the needle. Something about how she didn’t want the needle, didn’t want it in her, didn’t want it around her. The needle.”

“Was it a drug?”

“I couldn’t tell,” Evelyn said.

“What did you think at the time?”

“I didn’t think anything,” Evelyn said. “I was driving her to the hospital and she was dying right before my eyes. I was worried that Peter might have done it, even though I didn’t think he had. I was worried that Joshua would find out. I was worried about a lot of things.”

“But not her?”

“Yes,” she said, “her, too.”

T
HE MEAL WAS GOOD
. Toward the end, staring at the two of them, I found myself wishing I had not come and did not know about them. I didn’t want to know, didn’t want to think about it.