A Case Of Need Part 3

"It's quite simple," he said. "I'm concerned about your motives. I can understand the ties of friendship, and I can even see how personal affection can be blinding. I admire your loyalty to Dr. Lee, though I would admire it more if you chose a less reprehensible subject. However, your actions seem to extend beyond loyalty. What are are your motives, Dr. Berry?" your motives, Dr. Berry?"

"Curiosity, Dr. Randall. Pure curiosity. I want to know why everybody's out to screw an innocent guy. I want to know why a profession dedicated to the objective examination of facts has chosen to be biased and uninterested."

He reached into his suit pocket and took out acigar case. He opened it and withdrew a single slim cigar, clipped off the end, and lit it.

"Let's be sure," he said, "that we know what we're talking about. Dr. Lee is an abortionist. Is that correct?"

"You're talking," I said. "I'm listening.""Abortion is illegal. Furthermore, like every surgical procedure, it carries with it a finite risk to the patient-even if practiced by a competent person, and not a drunken . . .""Foreigner?" I suggested.He smiled. "Dr. Lee," he said, "is an abortionist, operating illegally, and his personal habits are questionable. As a doctor, his ethics are questionable. As a citizen of the state, his actions are punishable in a court of law. That's what's on my mind, Dr. Berry. I want to know why you are snooping around, molesting members of my family-""I hardly think that's the word for it.""-and making a general nuisance of yourself in this matter when you have better things to do, things for which the Lincoln Hospital pays you a salary. Like every other doctor, you have duties and responsibilities. You are not fulfilling those duties. Instead you are interfering in a family matter, creating a disturbance, and attempting to throw a smoke screen around a reprehensible individual, a man who has violated all the codes of medicine, a man who has chosen to live beyond the limits of the law, to thumb his nose at the dictates of the framework of society-""Doctor," I said. "Looking at this as purely a family matter: What would you have done if your daughter had come to you with the news that she was pregnant? What if she had consulted you instead of going directly to an abortionist? What would you have done?""There is no point in mindless conjecture," he said."Surely you have an answer."He was turning a bright crimson. The veins in his neck stood out above his starched collar. He pursed his lips, then said, "Is this your intention? To slander my family in the wild hope of helping your so-called friend?"I shrugged. "It strikes me as a legitimate question," I said, "and there are several possibilities." I ticked them off on my fingers. "Tokyo, Switzerland, Los Angeles, San Juan. Or perhaps you have a good friend in New York or Washington. That would be much more convenient. And cheaper."He turned on his heel and unlocked the door to his car.

"Think about it," I said. "Think hard about what you would have done for that family name."

He started the engine and glared at me."While you're at it," I said, "think about why she didn't come to you for help.""My daughter," he said, his voice trembling with rage, "my daughter is a wonderful girl. She is sweet and beautiful. She doesn't have a malicious or dirtythought in her head. How dare you drag her down to your-""If she was so sweet and pure," I said, "how did she get pregnant?"He slammed the door shut, put the car in gear, and roared off in a cloud of angry blue exhaust.

THIRTEEN.

WHEN IRETURNED HOME, the house was dark and empty. A note in the kitchen told me that Judith was still over at the Lees with the kids. I walked around the kitchen and looked into the refrigerator; I was hungry but restless, unwilling to sit down and make a sandwich. Finally I settled for a gla.s.s of milk and some leftover cole slaw, but the silence of the house depressed me. I finished and went over to the Lees; they live just a block away.

From the outside, the Lee house is brick, ma.s.sive, New England, and old, like all the other houses on the street. It had absolutely no distinguishing characteristics. I had always wondered about the house; it didn't seem suited to Art.Inside, things were grim. In the kitchen, Betty sat with a rigid smile on her face as she fed the year-old baby; she looked tired and ragged; normally she was immaculately dressed with an unwilting,indefatigable manner. Judith was with her and Jane, our youngest, was holding on to Judith's skirt. She had begun that just a few weeks earlier.

From the living room, I heard the sound of the boys playing cops and robbers with cap pistols. With every bang, Betty shuddered. "I wish they'd stop," she said, "but I haven't the heart. . . ."

I went into the living room. All the furniture was overturned. From behind an easy chair Johnny, our four-year-old, saw me and waved, then fired his gun. Across the room the two Lee boys were huddled behind the couch. The air was acrid with smoke and the floor littered with rolls of paper caps.Johnny fired, then called, "I got you.""Did not," said Andy Lee, who was six."I did too. You're dead.""I'm not dead," Andy said and fanned his gun. He was out of caps, though, and made only a clicking noise. He ducked down and said to Henry Lee, "Cover me while I reload.""O.K., partner."Andy reloaded, but his fingers were slow, and he grew impatient. Halfway through he stopped, aimed his gun, and shouted "Bang! Bang!" Then he continued."No fair," Johnny called, from behind the chair. "You're dead.""So are you," Henry said. "I just got you.""Oh, yeah?" Johnny said and fired three more caps. "You only winged me.""Oh, yeah?" Henry said. "Take that."The shooting continued. I walked back to the kitchen, where Judith was standing with Betty. Betty said, "How is it?"I smiled. "They're arguing over who got whom.""What did you find out today?""Everything's going to be all right," I said. "Don't worry."She gave me a wry smile. Art's smile. "Yes, Doctor.""I'm serious.""I hope you're right," she said, putting a spoon of apple sauce into the baby's mouth. It dribbled out over her chin; Betty scooped it up and tried again."We just had some bad news," Judith said."Oh?""Bradford called. Art's lawyer. He won't take the case.""Bradford?""Yes," Betty said. "He called half an hour ago.""What did he say?""Nothing. Just that he couldn't take it at this time."I lit a cigarette and tried to be calm. "I'd better call him," I said.Judith looked at her watch. "It's five-thirty. He probably won't be-"

"I'll try anyway," I said. I went into Art's study. Judith came with me. I shut the door, closing off the sounds of gunfire.

Judith said, "What's really happening?"I shook my head."Bad?"

"It's too early to say," I said. I sat down behind Art's desk and started to call Bradford.

"Are you hungry? Did you get anything to eat?""I stopped for a bite," I said, "on my way over.""You look tired.""I'm O.K.," I said. She leaned over the desk and I kissed her cheek."By the way," she said, "Fritz Werner has been calling. He wants to talk to you."I might have expected that. Count on Fritz to know everything. Still, he might have something important; he might be very helpful. "I'll call him later.""And before I forget," she said, "there's that party tomorrow.""I don't want to go.""We have to," she said. "It's George Morris."I had forgotten. "All right," I said. "What time?""Six. We can leave early.""All right," I said.She went back to the kitchen as the secretary answered the phone and said, "Bradford, Wilson and Sturges.""Mr. Bradford, please.""I'm sorry," the secretary said. "Mr. Bradford has gone for the day.""How can I reach him?""Mr. Bradford will be in the office at nine tomorrow morning.""I can't wait that long.""I'm sorry, sir.""Don't be sorry," I said. "Just find him for me. This is Dr. Berry calling." I didn't know if the name would mean anything, but I suspected it might.Her tone changed immediately. "Hold the line please, Doctor."There was a pause of several seconds while I waited in the mechanical humming silence of the "Hold" b.u.t.ton. Being on the "Hold" b.u.t.ton is the technological equivalent of purgatory. That was what Art used to say. He hates telephones and never uses them unless he has to.

The secretary came back on. "Mr. Bradford is just leaving, but he will speak to you now."

"Thank you."A mechanical click."George Bradford speaking.""Mr. Bradford, this is John Berry.""Yes, Dr. Berry. What can I do for you?""I'd like to speak to you about Art Lee.""Dr. Berry, I'm just leaving-""Your secretary told me. Perhaps we could meet somewhere."He hesitated and sighed into the phone. It sounded like a hissing, impatient serpent. "That won't serve any purpose. I'm afraid my decision is quite firm. The matter is out of my hands.""Just a short meeting."He paused again. "All right. I'll meet you at myclub in twenty minutes. The Trafalgar. See you then."I hung up. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d: his club was downtown. I would have to run like h.e.l.l to make it in time. I straightened my tie and hurried off to my car.THE TRAFALGAR CLUB is located in a small, dilapidated house on Beacon Street, just down from the Hill. Unlike the professional clubs of larger cities, the Trafalgar is so quiet that few Bostonians even know of its existence.I had never been there before, but I could have predicted the decor. The rooms were paneled in mahogany; the ceilings were high and dusty; the chairs heavy, padded tan leather, comfortable and wrinkled; the carpets were worn Orientals. In atmosphere, it reflected its members-stiff, aging, and masculine. As 1 checked my coat, I saw a sign which stated crisply, FEMALE GUESTS MAY BE ENTERTAINED BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 AND 5:30 O'CLOCK ON THURSDAYS ONLY. Bradford met me in the lobby.

He was a short, compact man, impeccably dressed. His black chalk-stripe suit was unwrinkled after a day of work, his shoes gleamed, and his cuffs protruded the proper length beyond his jacket sleeves. He wore a pocket watch on a silver chain, and his Phi Beta Kappa key contrasted nicely with the dark material of his vest. I didn't have to look him up in Who's Who Who's Who to know that he lived someplace like Beverly Farms, that he had attended Harvard College and Harvard Law School, that his wife to know that he lived someplace like Beverly Farms, that he had attended Harvard College and Harvard Law School, that his wife had gone to Va.s.sar and still wore pleated skirts, cashmere sweaters, and pearls, or that his children attended Groton and Concord. Bradford wore it all, quietly and confidently."I'm ready for a drink," he said as we shook hands. "How about you?" "Fine."

The bar was on the second floor, a large room with high windows looking out on Beacon Street and the Commons. It was a subdued room, smelling faintly of cigar smoke. Men spoke in low voices and talked in small groups. The bartender knew what everyone drank without being told: everyone, that is, except me. We sat in two comfortable chairs by the window and I ordered a vodka Gibson. Bradford just nodded to the bartender. While we waited for the drinks, he said, "I am sure you must be disappointed in my decision, but frankly--"

"I'm not disappointed," I said, "because I'm not on trial."

Bradford reached into his pocket, looked at his watch, and put it back.

"No one," he said crisply, "is on trial at this moment.""I disagree. I think a great many people are on trial."He rapped the table irritably and frowned across the room at the bartender. The psychiatrists call that displacement."And what," he said, "is that supposed to mean?"

"Everybody in this town is dropping Art Lee as if he had bubonic plague."

"And you suspect a dark conspiracy?""No," I said. "I'm just surprised."

"I have a friend," Bradford said, "who claims that all doctors are essentially naive. You don't strike me as naive."

"Is that a compliment?""That's an observation.""I try," I said."Well, there's really no mystery and no conspiracy here. In my case, you must realize that I have many clients, of whom Mr. Lee is just one.""Dr. Lee.""Quite right. Dr. Lee. He is just one of my clients, and I have obligations to all of them which I discharge as I am best able. It happens that I spoke with the district attorney's office this afternoon, to determine when Dr. Lee's case would come up for hearing. It seems that Dr. Lee's case will conflict with another I have previously accepted. I cannot be in two courtrooms at once. I explained this to Dr. Lee."The drinks came. Bradford raised his gla.s.s. "Cheers.""Cheers."He sipped his drink and looked at the gla.s.s. "When I explained my position to him, Dr. Lee accepted it. I also told him that my firm would make every effort to see that he had excellent legal coun-sel. We have four senior partners, and it is quite likely that one of them will be able to--""But not certain?"He shrugged. "Nothing is certain in this world."I sipped the drink. It was lousy, mostly vermouth with a touch of vodka."Are you a good friend of the Randalls?" I asked."I know them, yes.""Does that have anything to do with your decision?""Certainly not." He sat up quite stiffly. "A lawyer learns very early to separate clients and friends. It's frequently necessary.""Especially in a small town."He smiled. "Objection, Your Honor."

He sipped his drink again. "Off the record, Dr. Berry, you should know that I am in complete sympathy with Lee. We both recognize that abortion is a fact of life. It happens all the time. The last figures I saw listed American abortions at a million yearly; it's very common. Speaking practically, it is necessary. Our laws relating to abortion are hazy, ill-defined, and absurdly strict. But I must remind you that the doctors are much more strict than the law itself. The abortion committees in hospitals are overcautious. They refuse to perform abortions under circ.u.mstances where the law would never intervene. In my opinion, before you can change the abortion laws, you must change the prevailing climate of medical opinion."

I said nothing. The Pa.s.sing of the Buck is a time-honored ceremony, to be observed in silence. Bradford looked at me and said, "You don't agree?""Of course," I said. "But it strikes me as an interesting defense for an accused man.""I wasn't proposing it as a defense.""Then perhaps I misunderstood you.""I wouldn't be surprised," he said dryly.

"Neither would I," I said, "because you haven't been making much sense. I always thought lawyers got right to the problem, instead of running circles around it."

"I am trying to clarify my position.""Your position is quite clear," I said. "I'm worried about Dr. Lee.""Very well. Let's talk about Dr. Lee. He has been indicted under a seventy-eight-year-old Ma.s.sachusetts law which makes any abortion a felony punishable by fines and imprisonment up to five years. If the abortion results in death, the sentence may be from seven to twenty years.""Is it second-degree murder or manslaughter?""Neither, technically. In terms of--""Then the charge is bailable?""Conceivably so. But in this case not, because the prosecution will attempt a murder charge under a common law act which says any death resulting from a felony is murder.""I see.""In terms of the progress of the case, the prosecution will bring forth evidence-good evidence, I'm sure-that Dr. Lee is an abortionist. They willshow that the girl, Karen Randall, previously visited Dr. Lee and that he inexplicably kept no records of her visit. They will show that he cannot account for several crucial hours during Sunday evening. And they will present Mrs. Randall's testimony that the girl told her Lee performed the abortion."In the end, it will come down to a conflict of testimony. Lee, a proven abortionist, will say he didn't do it; Mrs. Randall will say he did. If you were the jury, whom would you believe?"

"There is no proof that Dr. Lee aborted that girl. The evidence is wholly circ.u.mstantial."

"The trial will be held in Boston.""Then hold it elsewhere," I said."On what grounds? That the moral climate here is unfavorable?""You're talking technicalities. I'm talking about saving a man.""In the technicalities lies the strength of the law.""And the weaknesses."He gave me a thoughtful look. "The only way to 'save' Dr. Lee, as you say, is to demonstrate that he did not perform the operation. That means the real abortionist must be found. I think the chances of doing so are slim.""Why?""Because, when I talked to Lee today, I came away convinced he was lying through his teeth. I think he did it, Berry. I think he killed her."

FOURTEEN.

WHEN I RETURNED TO THE HOUSE, I found that Ju- dith and the kids were still at Betty's. I made myself another drink-a strong one, this time-and sat in the living room, dead tired but unable to relax.I have a bad temper. I know that, and I try to control it, but the truth is I am clumsy and abrupt with people. I guess I don't like people much; maybe that's why I became a pathologist in the first place. Looking back over the day, I realized I had lost my temper too often. That was stupid; there was no percentage in it; no gain, and potentially a great deal of loss.The telephone rang. It was Sanderson, head of the path labs at the Lincoln. The first thing he said was, "I'm calling from the hospital phone.""O.K.," I said.The hospital phone had at least six extensions. In the evening, anyone could listen in."How was your day?" Sanderson said."Interesting," I said. "How was yours?""It had its moments," Sanderson said.I could imagine. Anyone who wanted me out of his hair would put the squeeze on Sanderson. It was the most logical thing to do, and it could be managed quite subtly. A few jokes: "Say, I hear you're shorthanded these days." A few earnest inquiries: "What's this I hear about Berry being sick? Oh? I heard that he was. But he hasn't been in, has he?" Then a few choice words from the chiefs of service: "Sanderson, how the h.e.l.l do you expect me to keep my medical staff in line when you're letting your path people take off all the time?" And finally someone from the administration: "We run a shipshape hospital here, everybody has his job and everybody does it, no deadwood on board."

The net effect would be an intense pressure to get me back in the lab or find a new man.

"Tell them I've got tertiary syphilis," I said. "That should hold them."

Sanderson laughed. "There's no problem," he said. "Yet. I've got a pretty tough old neck. I can keep it stuck out a while longer."

Then he paused, and said, "How much longer do you think it will be?"

"I don't know," I said. "It's complicated."

"Come by and see me tomorrow," he said. "We can discuss it."

"Good," I said. "Maybe by then I'll know more. Right now, it's just as bad as the Peru case.""I see," Sanderson said. "Tomorrow, then.""Right."

I hung up, certain he knew what I was talking about. I had meant that there was something wrong with the Karen Randall business, something out of place. It was like a case we had three months ago, a rare thing called agranulocytosis, the complete absence of white cells in the blood. It's a serious condition because without white cells, you can't fight infection. Most people are carrying disease organisms around in their mouth or body normally- staph or strep, sometimes diphtheria and pneumo-coccus-and if your bodily defenses go down, you infect yourself.

Anyhow, the patient was American, a doctor working for the Public Health Service in Peru. He was taking a Peruvian drug for asthma, and one day he began to get sick. He had sores in his mouth and a temperature, and he felt lousy. He went to a doctor in Lima and had a blood test. His white count was 600.1 The next day it was down to 100, and the next day it was zero. He got a plane to Boston and checked into our hospital. The next day it was down to 100, and the next day it was zero. He got a plane to Boston and checked into our hospital.They did a bone-marrow biopsy, sticking a hollow needle into his sternum2 and drawing out some marrow. I looked at it microscopically and was puzzled. He had lots of immature cells of the granulocyte series in his marrow, and while it was abnormal, it was not terribly bad. I thought, "h.e.l.l, something is wrong here," so I went to see his doctor. and drawing out some marrow. I looked at it microscopically and was puzzled. He had lots of immature cells of the granulocyte series in his marrow, and while it was abnormal, it was not terribly bad. I thought, "h.e.l.l, something is wrong here," so I went to see his doctor.His doctor had been tracing the Peruvian drug the patient was taking. It turned out to contain a substance removed from the American market in 1942 because it suppressed white-cell formation.The doctor figured this was what was wrong with his patient-he had suppressed his own white cells, and now he was infecting himself. The treatment was simple: take him off the drug, do nothing, and wait for his marrow to recover.I told the doctor that the marrow didn't look so bad on the slide. We went to see the patient and found he was still sick. He had ulcers in his mouth, and staph infections on his legs and back. He had a high fever, was lethargic, and answered questions slowly.We couldn't understand why his marrow should seem so basically normal when he was so d.a.m.ned sick; we puzzled over this for most of the afternoon. Finally, about four, I asked the doctor if there had been any infection at the site of biopsy, where they had made the puncture to draw marrow. The doctor said he hadn't checked. We went to the patient and examined his chest.

Surprise: unpunctured. The marrow biopsy hadn't been taken from this patient. One of the nurses or residents had screwed up the tags, mislabeling a marrow sample from a man with suspected leukemia. We immediately drew a sample from our patient and found a very suppressed marrow indeed.

The patient later recovered, but I would never forget our puzzling over the lab results.

1 Normal white count is 4-9,000 cells/cubic centimeter. With infection, this may double or triple.

2 Breastbone.

I HAD THE SAME FEELING NOW-something was wrong, something was out of place. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I had the suspicion that people were working at cross-purposes, almost as if we were talking about different things. My own position was clear: Art was innocent until proven guilty, and that wasn't proven yet.

n.o.body else seemed to care whether Art was guilty or not. The issue that was crucial to me was irrelevant to them.Now why was that?

TUESDAY OCTOBER 11.

ONE.

WHEN I AWOKE IT FELT LIKE A NORMAL DAY. I was exhausted and it was drizzling outside, cold, gray, and uninviting. I pulled off my pajamas and took a hot shower. While I was shaving, Judith came in and kissed me, then went to the kitchen to make breakfast. I smiled into the mirror and caught myself wondering what the surgical schedule would be like.

Then I remembered: I wasn't going to the hospital today. The whole business came back to me.

It was not a normal day.

I went to the window and stared at the drizzle on the gla.s.s. I wondered then for the first time whether I ought to drop everything and go back to work. The prospect of driving to the lab, parking in the lot, hanging up my coat, and putting on my ap.r.o.n and gloves-all the familiar details of routine-seemed suddenly very appealing, almost enticing. It was my job; I was comfortable at it; there were no stresses or strains; it was what I was trained to do. I had no business playing amateur detective. In the cold morning light, the idea seemed ludicrous.

Then I began to remember the faces I had seen. Art's face, and the face of J. D. Randall, and Bradford's smug confidence. And I knew that if I didn't help Art, n.o.body would.

In one sense, it was a frightening, almost terrifying thought.JUDITH SAT WITH ME AT BREAKFAST. The kids were still asleep; we were alone."What are you planning today?" she said."I'm not sure."I had been asking myself that very question. I had to find out more, lots more. About Karen, and Mrs. Randall particularly. I still didn't know very much about either of them."I'll start with the girl," I said."Why?""From what I've been told, she was all sweetness and light. Everybody loved her; she was a wonderful girl.""Maybe she was."

"Yes," I said, "but it might be good to get the opinion of someone besides her brother and her father."

"How?""I'll begin," I said, "with Smith College."SMITH COLLEGE, Northampton, Ma.s.sachusetts, 2,200 girls getting an exclusive education in the middle of nowhere. It was two hours on the turnpike to the Holyoke exit; another half-hour on small roads until I pa.s.sed under the train tracks and came into the town. I've never liked Northampton. It has a peculiarly repressed atmosphere for a college town; you can almost smell irritation and frustration in the air, the heavy combined frustration of 2,200 pretty girls consigned to the wilderness for four years, and the combined irritation of the natives who are forced to put up with them for that time.

The campus is beautiful, particularly in autumn, when the leaves are turning. Even in the rain, it's beautiful. I went directly to the college information office and looked up Karen Randall in the paperback directory of students and faculty. I was given a map of the campus and set out for her dorm, Henley Hall.

It turned out to be a white frame house on Wilbur Street. There were forty girls living inside. On the ground floor was a living room done in bright, small-print fabric, rather foolishly feminine. Girls wandered around in dungarees and long, ironed hair. There was a bell desk by the door.

"I'd like to see Karen Randall," I said to the girl.She gave me a startled look, as if she thought I might be a middle-aged rapist."I'm her uncle," I said. "Dr. Berry.""I've been away all weekend," the girl said. "Ihaven't seen Karen since I got back. She went to Boston this weekend."

I was in luck: this girl apparently didn't know. I wondered whether the other girls did; it was impossible to tell. It seemed likely that her housemother would know, or would find out soon. I wanted to avoid the housemother.

"Oh," said the girl behind the desk. "There's Ginnie. Ginnie's her roommate."A dark-haired girl was walking out the door. She wore tight dungarees and a tight poor-boy sweater, but the overall effect remained oddly prim. Something about her face disowned the rest of her body.The desk girl waved Ginnie over and said, "This is Dr. Berry. He's looking for Karen."Ginnie gave me a shocked look. She knew. I quickly took her and steered her to the living room, and sat her down."But Karen's-""I know," I said. "But I want to talk to you.""I think I'd better check with Miss Peters," Ginnie said. She started to get up. I pushed her gently back down."Before you do," I said, "I'd better tell you that I attended Karen's autopsy yesterday."Her hand went to her mouth."I'm sorry to be so blunt, but there are serious questions that only you can answer. We both know what Miss Peters would say.""She'd say I can't talk to you," Ginnie said. Shewas looking at me suspiciously, but I could see I had caught her curiosity."Let's go someplace private," I said."I don't know . . .""I'll only keep you a few minutes."She got up and nodded toward the hall. "Men aren't normally allowed in our rooms," she said, "but you're a relative, aren't you?""Yes," I said.Ginnie and Karen shared a room on the ground floor, at the back of the building. It was small and cramped, cluttered with feminine mementos- pictures of boys, letters, joke birthday cards, programs from Ivy football games, bits of ribbon, schedules of cla.s.ses, bottles of perfume, stuffed toy animals. Ginnie sat on one bed and waved me to a desk chair.

"Miss Peters told me last night," Ginnie said, "that Karen had . . . died in an accident. She asked me not to mention it to anyone for a while. It's funny. I never knew anybody who died-I mean, my age, that kind of thing-and it's funny. I mean peculiar, I didn't feel anything, I couldn't get very worked up. I guess I don't really believe it yet."

"Did you know Karen before you were roommates?""No. The college a.s.signed us.""Did you get along?"

She shrugged. Somehow, she had learned to make every bodily gesture a wiggle. But it was un- real, like a practiced gesture perfected before the mirror."I guess we got along. Karen wasn't your typical freshman. She wasn't scared of the place, and she was always going away for a day or the weekend. She practically never went to cla.s.s, and she always talked about how she hated it here. That's the thing to say, you know, but she meant it, she really did. I think she really did did hate it." hate it.""Why do you think so?""Because of the way she acted. Not going to cla.s.s, always leaving campus. She'd sign out for weekends, saying she was going to visit her parents. But she never did, she told me. She hated her parents."Ginnie got up and opened a closet door. Inside, tacked to the door, was a large glossy photograph of J. D. Randall. The picture was covered with minute punctures."You know what she used to do? She used to throw darts at this picture. That's her father, he's a surgeon or something; she threw darts at him every night, before going to sleep."Ginnie closed the door."What about her mother?""Oh, she liked her mother. Her real mother; she died. There's a stepmother now. Karen never liked her very much.""What else did Karen talk about?""Boys," Ginnie said, sitting on the bed again. "That's all any of us talk about. Boys. Karen went toprivate school around here someplace, and she knew a lot of boys. Yalies were always coming to see her.""Did she date anyone in particular?""I don't think so. She had lots of guys. They were all chasing her.""Popular?""Or something," Ginnie said, wrinkling her nose. "Listen, it isn't nice to say things about her now, you know? And I have no reason to think it's true. Maybe it's all a big story.""What's that?""Well, you get here as a freshman and n.o.body knows you, n.o.body's ever heard heard of you before, and you can tell people anything you like and get away with it. I used to tell people I was a high-school cheerleader, just for the fun of it. Actually I went to private school, but I always wanted to be a high-school cheerleader." of you before, and you can tell people anything you like and get away with it. I used to tell people I was a high-school cheerleader, just for the fun of it. Actually I went to private school, but I always wanted to be a high-school cheerleader.""I see.""They're so wholesome, you know?""What kind of stories did Karen tell you?"

"I don't know. They weren't exactly stories. Just sort of implications. She liked people to believe that she was wild, and all her friends were wild. Actually, that was her favorite word: wild. wild. And she knew how to make something sound real. She never just told you straight out, in a whole long thing. It was little comments here and there. About her abortions and all." And she knew how to make something sound real. She never just told you straight out, in a whole long thing. It was little comments here and there. About her abortions and all."

"Her abortions?"

"She said she had had two before she ever got to college. Now that's pretty incredible, don't you think? Two abortions? She was only seventeen, after all. I told her I didn't believe it, so she went into this explanation of how it was done, the complete explanation. Then I wasn't so sure."

A girl from a medical family could easily acquire a knowledge of the mechanics of a D & C. That didn't prove she'd had an abortion herself.

"Did she tell you anything specific about them? Where they were done?"

"No. She just said she'd had them. And she kept saying things like that. She wanted to shock me, I know that, but she could be pretty crude when she wanted. I remember the first-no, the second weekend we were here, she went out Sat.u.r.day night, and she got back late. I went to a mixer. Karen came in all a mess, crawled into bed with the lights out, and said, 'Jesus, I love black meat.' Just like that. I didn't know what to say, I mean, I didn't know her well then, so 1 didn't say anything. I just thought she was trying to shock me.""What else did she say to you?"Ginnie shrugged. "I can't remember. It was always little things. One night, as she's getting ready to go out for the weekend, and she's whistling in front of the mirror, she says to me, 'I'm really going to get it this weekend.' Or something like that, I don't remember the exact words.""And what did you say?""I said, 'Enjoy yourself.' What can can you say when you say whenyou get out of the shower and somebody says that to you? So she said, 'I will, I will.' She was always coming up with shocking little comments.""Did you ever believe her?""After a couple of months, I was beginning to.""Did you ever have reason to think she was pregnant?""While she was here? At school? No.""You're sure?""She never said anything. Besides, she was on the pill.""Are you certain of that?""Yeah, I think so. At least, she made this big ceremony of it every morning. The pills are right there.""Where?"Ginnie pointed. "Right there on her desk. In that little bottle."I got up and went to the desk, and picked up the plastic bottle. The label was from Beacon Pharmacy; there were no typed directions. I took out my notebook and wrote down the prescription number and the name of the doctor. Then I opened the bottle and shook out a pill. There were four left."She took these every day?""Every single day," Ginnie said.

I was no gynecologist and no pharmacologist, but I knew several things. First, that most birth-control pills were now sold in a dispenser to help a woman keep track of the days. Second, that the initial hormone dosage had been cut from ten milligrams a day to two milligrams. That meant the pills were small.

These pills were huge in comparison. There were no surface markings of any kind; they were chalky white and rather crumbly to the touch. I slipped one into my pocket and replaced the others in the bottle. Even without checking, I had a pretty good idea what the pills were.

"Did you ever meet any of Karen's boyfriends?" 1 asked.Ginnie shook her head."Did Karen ever talk about them? Talk about her dates?""Not really. Not personally, if you know what I mean. She'd talk about how they'd been in bed, but it was usually just gross stuff. She was always trying to gross you out. You know, the earthy bit. Wait a minute."She got up and went to Karen's dresser. There was a mirror over the dresser; stuck into the frame were several pictures of boys. She plucked out two and handed them to me."This guy was one she talked about, but I don't think she was seeing him anymore. She used to date him over the summer or something. He goes to Harvard."The picture was a standard publicity pose of a boy in a football uniform. He had the number 71, and was crouched down in a three-point stance, snarling into the camera."What's his name?""I don't know."I picked up a Harvard-Columbia football program and looked up the roster. Number 71 was a right guard, Alan Zenner. I wrote the name in my notebook and gave the picture back to Ginnie."This other one," she said, handing me the second picture, "is a newer guy. I think she was seeing him. Some nights, she'd come back and kiss the picture before she went to bed. His name was Ralph, I think. Ralph or Roger."The picture showed a young Negro standing in a tight, shiny suit with an electric guitar in one hand. He was smiling rather stiffly."You think she was seeing him?""Yes, I think so. He's part of a group that plays in Boston.""And you think his name is Ralph?""Something like that.""You know the name of the group?"Ginnie frowned. "She told me once. Probably more than once, but I don't remember. Karen sort of liked to keep her boys a mystery. It wasn't like some girl sitting down and telling you every little thing about her boyfriend. Karen never did that, it was always bits and s.n.a.t.c.hes."

"You think she was meeting this fellow when she went away for weekends?"

Ginnie nodded."Where did she go on weekends? Boston?""I imagine. Boston or New Haven."

I turned the picture over in my hands. On the back it said, "Photo by Curzin, Washington Street."

"Can I take this picture with me?""Sure," she said. "I don't care."I slipped it into my pocket, then sat down again."Did you ever meet any of these people? Any of the boys?""No. I never met any of her friends. Oh-wait a minute. I did, once. A girl.""A girl?""Yes. Karen told me one day that this good friend of hers was coming up for a day. She told me all about how cool this girl was, how wild. This big build-up. I was really waiting for something spectacular. Then when she showed up . . .""Yes?"

"Really strange," Ginnie said. "Very tall, with real long legs, and all the time Karen kept saying how she wished she had long legs like that, and the girl just sort of sat there and didn't say anything. She was pretty, I guess. But really strange. She acted like she was asleep. Maybe she was up on something; I don't know. Finally she began to talk, after about an hour of just sitting there, and she said these weird things."

"Like what?""I don't know. Weird things. 'The rain in Spain is mainly down the drain.' And she made up poetry about people running in spaghetti fields. It was pretty dull, I mean, not what you'd call good.""What was this girl's name?""I don't remember. Angie, I think.""Was she in college?""No. She was young, but she wasn't in college. She worked. I think Karen said she was a nurse.""Try to remember her name," I said.Ginnie frowned and stared at the floor, then shook her head. "I can't," she said. "I didn't pay that much attention."I didn't want to let it go, but it was getting late. I said, "What else can you tell me about Karen? Was she nervous? Jittery?""No. She was always very calm. Everybody else in the house was nervous, especially around hourly time, when we have our exams, but she didn't seem to care,""Did she have a lot of energy? Was she bouncy and talkative?""Karen? Are you kidding? Listen, she was always half dead, except for her dates, when she'd perk up, but otherwise she was always tired and always complaining about how tired she was.""She slept a lot?""Yes. She slept through most of her cla.s.ses.""Did she eat a lot?"

"Not particularly. She slept through most of her meals, too."

"She must have lost weight, then."

"Actually, it went up," Ginnie said. "Not too much, but enough. She couldn't get into most of her dresses, after six weeks. She had to buy some more."

"Did you notice any other changes?"

"Well, only one, but I'm not sure it really matters. I mean, it mattered to Karen, but n.o.body else cared."

"What was that?""Well, she had the idea that she was getting hairy. You know, arms and legs and on her lip. She complained that she was shaving her legs all the time."I looked at my watch and saw that it was nearly noon. "Well, I don't want to keep you from your cla.s.ses.""Doesn't matter," Ginnie said. 'This is interesting.""How do you mean?""Watching you work, and all.""You must have talked with a doctor before."She sighed. "You must think I'm stupid," she said, in a petulant voice "I wasn't born yesterday.""I think you're very intelligent," I said."Will you want me to testify?""Testify? Why?""In court, at the trial."Looking at her, I had the feeling she was practicing before the mirror once again. Her face had a secretly wise expression, like a movie heroine."I'm not sure I follow you.""You can admit it to me," she said. "I know you're a lawyer.""Oh.""I figured it out ten minutes after you arrived. You want to know how?""How?""When you picked up those pills and looked at them. You did it very carefully, not like a doctor at all. Frankly, I think you'd make a terrible doctor.""You're probably right," I said."Good luck with your case," she said as I was leaving."Thanks."Then she winked at me.