Final Mercy

by Frank J Edwards

  Atwood groaned into his handkerchief.

  “As for me, Humphrey, who’s going to want me for the permanent dean after I trusted the likes of you? My only hope for survival lies in aggressively putting as much distance between us as possible. I have no choice but to join the incipient chorus of condemnation, and even that might not remove the stain.”

  Shoulders shuddering, Atwood mumbled something unintelligible.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right, it was incredibly stupid.”

  “You know, Humphrey, in the little scum pond of your mind, I believe you really thought you were doing some form of science.”

  “I was, Bryson. I even have a data log.”

  “Pointless.” Clearing his throat, Witner fished out a pocketknife and began cleaning his fingernails. “But, Humphrey, it occurs to me there may be a way to salvage the situation.”

  Atwood looked at him with swollen eyes.

  “What do you mean, Bryson?”

  “When faced with terrible odds, my friend, most people resign themselves to defeat too quickly. But, as the old Confucian proverb goes, every crisis contains the seeds of opportunity. All that’s required to sow and harvest them is clear, ruthless thinking, creativity, and courage.”

  Atwood blew his nose again.

  “What’s your idea, Bryson?”

  “It’s drastic. I don’t know if you’ll be up to the challenge.”

  “I’ll do anything to make this right. What is it?”

  “I mean very drastic, and painful—physically as well as psychologically.”

  “I don’t care about myself. It’s my family I don’t want to hurt. And you.” Though his mustache was still soggy, Atwood’s tears were starting to dry. He sniffed.

  Witner slid to the edge of his chair. He leaned over and put a hand on Atwood’s knee and spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. As the words sank in, Atwood’s eyes grew shocked, and he shook his head, pulling away.

  “Bryson—you can’t be serious.”

  “There’s nothing else that will divert attention from your indiscretion while generating sympathy for you. If you can think of an alternative, please let me know.”

  For several moments, Atwood stared out the window. Then, finally, he turned back to Witner.

  “But it will be like an admission of guilt.”

  “Not at all. Not at all. It will simply indicate genuine remorse, which is not the same thing. The key factor, Humphrey, is that I will be there to publicly moderate the response people will have, and to see that the proper interpretation is made by all parties concerned. If you haven’t noticed by now, I’ve a talent for shedding the right light on things. I will help people see you as a good person suffering severe remorse and trying to make amends.”

  “What if something goes wrong?”

  “How could it? I’ll be there to make sure it doesn’t, every step.”

  Atwood ran his hands through his hair and gazed down at the floor, blinking, as if trying to imagine the scenario Witner had just described.

  “Think of your family, Humphrey. They’ll be stunned, but they’ll still have you—and you’ll still have your license, if all goes well, and perhaps even your old job. The sympathy factor in your favor will be huge. And you’ll have my continued support. I’ll tell how you were victimized by Dr. Forester’s failure to install a paging system. Furthermore, I will explain I was aware of your study and had personally authorized it, believing the paging system I’d authorized was already in place.”

  “You mean you’d lie for me?”

  “It would go against my grain, but to save a loyal friend from destruction, of course, I would. Anyone would. In the overall scheme of things, it’s not a great untruth, and I will be helping myself as well. What’s good for me, I believe, is good for this institution.”

  And for the world.

  This was confirmed by a chorus of voices only he could hear.

  * * *

  For the next several minutes, they detailed their plan, and when Atwood left the office there was purpose in his stride. Witner had barely sat back down at his desk, however, when Atwood peered in the doorway again.

  Witner cocked his eyebrow.

  “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts already.”

  “No, sir, not at all. Ms. Andersen is here. She wants to know if you can talk to her.”

  Witner stiffened. He motioned Atwood to his side and spoke in a whisper.

  “Where did you find her?”

  “Out in the hallway.”

  “Are you sure she hadn’t been in the anteroom?”

  “No, she was just coming down the corridor.”

  Witner paused.

  “All right, tell her to come in, but do not speak with her. Mention you wish you could stay but are coming down with something.”

  * * *

  “No, I insist, Ms. Andersen. You couldn’t have come at a better moment. Please, have a seat.”

  Witner seemed tenser than yesterday. She watched him go to the fireplace, switch it on and adjust the flame.

  “I apologize for barging in, Dr. Witner, but you mentioned you’d be in this morning.”

  A wave of blue fire licked over the artificial logs.

  “No apology needed. I gave you an open invitation and am happy to see you.” He circled around behind her for some reason before taking a chair across the coffee table. “Excuse my curiosity, Ms. Andersen, but is that a hearing aid you’re wearing, or some kind of communication device?”

  He was frowning.

  “It’s a hearing aid.”

  The frown lightened.

  “Seriously, now, it’s not a Bluetooth?”

  “No, this little guy gives me about fifty percent hearing in my good ear. The other one’s too far gone.”

  “I see. I hadn’t noticed yesterday. Were you wearing it then?”

  “I always wear it, except when I’m sleeping.”

  “Your hair conceals it well. How can you converse so well with only fifty percent hearing in one ear?”

  “I’ve become a good lip reader.”

  “Yes, of course. That explains something I’d noticed about you yesterday.”

  “What’s that?”

  He smiled disarmingly.

  “The way you stared at me. I thought it was because you thought I was handsome.”

  Zellie felt herself blushing. She returned a noncommittal smile.

  Witner continued.

  “I’m a reader of people’s faces, too, Ms. Andersen, so we have something in common. How can I help you today? Wait, I believe I can guess. It’s about what happened last night.”

  “Yes.”

  “There, you see. I’m reading your face.”

  Something intense and excessively personal in his gaze increased her discomfort. Like yesterday, it was as if someone else peered out of his eyes, observing her as if she were some kind of lab specimen.

  “Ms. Andersen, I hope last night’s tragedy won’t cast a negative light on the article you’re preparing for Coast-to-Coast.”

  “Actually, I finished that article already and emailed it out. It was done before I saw the news last night.”

  “I know Dr. Gavin would not want his personal tragedy to cast a shadow over the good things happening here.”

  “As I said, the Coast-to-Coast article is already with the editor in New York. But I spoke with my agent this morning, and she’s arranged for me to write a piece about Dr. Gavin for U.S. and World Current Affairs.”

  A change inched over Witner’s face, as if he first had to look for and select a suitable expression. It happened to be a smile tinged with sadness.

  “Congratulations, Ms. Andersen. We stand ready to help you in any way possible, despite the grief we all feel. But I’ve forgotten my manners. Would you like some tea or coffee, or maybe a glass of sherry?”

  “That’s kind of you, but no thanks. I’d just like a few minutes, if this is a good time for you.
”

  “Dr. Gavin was such a beloved figure at New Canterbury, I can’t tell you. I’m sure you noticed a change in Dr. Atwood when you met him outside the office.”

  “He said something about his diverticulitis.”

  “Always the one to put on a brave face. You see, Dr. Atwood was working in the ER when Dr. Gavin arrived, so you can imagine the burden he feels.”

  “Do you mind if I take notes?”

  “Please do.”

  “Why do you think Dr. Gavin had become suicidal, Dr. Witner? Did he have a history of depression?”

  She noticed the slightest wrinkling of his brow and tightening of his jaw muscles. Here was a man who never uttered a word without weighing it first.

  “A good question. Why would a man like James Gavin try to end his own life? First, let us hope against hope that he may recover and be able to tell us himself.”

  “What are his chances, sir?”

  “Not good, I’m afraid. As to your question about why, it’s clear he was suffering from the acute onset of a clinical depression. Nelson Debussy and I—you met Nelson the other day, our president—he and I had both noticed signs of it. Neither of us realized how serious the situation was. Even seasoned psychiatrists have difficulty predicting when people will try to end their lives.

  “His condition was no doubt exacerbated by the losses he’s suffered recently, including the death of a good friend and the fact his career was coming to a close. His career became his entire life after the death of his wife and only son.”

  “I see.”

  “Stepping down from the deanship after twenty-five years was difficult. We believe it all caught up with him.”

  “What is your specialty, Dr. Witner?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just out of curiosity.”

  “Geriatric endocrinology.”

  “Do you still see patients?”

  “Of course. In a supervisory capacity.”

  She looked up from her notepad and noticed the residue of a frown on his face.

  “Dr. Witner, I heard that the intern taking care of Dr. Gavin made a serious mistake. What can you tell me about that?”

  “That we’re still investigating the situation.”

  “I understand.”

  “But…”

  “Yes?”

  “But that’s not true. I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t know exactly what happened in the emergency room last night. You’re not the sort of person I’d want to lie to. I sense that empathy is one of your talents, along with your obvious literary skills. I researched your name on the Internet, by the way, and read about your book. It was very well reviewed.”

  The look on his face seemed sincere. She felt herself blushing again.

  “I don’t mean to flatter you,” he continued. “I’m just saying that I’m tempted to give you the real story here and now. The details won’t be officially released for at least another day. This would give you a leg up.”

  “Listen, Dr. Witner, I don’t want you to say anything you aren’t comfortable with.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, of course. But it would actually feel good to unburden myself.”

  “I can say it came from a highly placed administrator, if you’d like.”

  “That would be best. Okay, given that cloak of anonymity, I will tell you what occurred.

  “A simple collapsed lung, caused by a broken rib, was overlooked by an intern in our emergency room, which led to Dr. Gavin’s going into cardiac arrest. It was overlooked because the intern’s supervisor, who was none other than Dr. Atwood, had briefly left the ER for administrative work. He was not called back in time because a communication system that was supposed to have been implemented had not yet been placed in operation.”

  Zellie wrote furiously.

  “Do you need a moment to catch up?” he asked.

  “No, go ahead, please.”

  “Very well. As I said, a communication system for Dr. Atwood had not been installed as it should have been.”

  “Got it.”

  “The reason it had not yet been installed is that the ER director had neglected his duties. He did not set the ball in motion, as he was supposed to have done. That, Ms. Andersen, is the story in a nutshell, and you’re one of the few people in the world to know about it at this point.”

  “So, what happened in the emergency department was completely preventable?”

  “Correct.”

  Zellie felt stunned.

  “That’s awful.”

  Witner lowered his head, shook it and sighed deeply.

  “Dr. Gavin is dying, and Dr. Atwood is in a state of emotional turmoil, and all due to a matter of administrative negligence.”

  “Can you tell me the name of the ER director?”

  “I assure you, he’s no longer the ER director. That was Dr. Jack Forester. “

  Zellie felt as if she had just been body-slammed. She looked up at Witner, who was gazing to one side, a misty, sad look on his face.

  She clipped her pen to the cover of her notebook. Witner appeared to collect himself and turned to lock his gaze with hers. She felt another chill.

  “What’s wrong, Ms. Andersen?”

  “It’s just that the whole thing is so unfortunate.”

  “Even in an institution like ours, unstable people are sometimes placed in positions of responsibility, and that was the case with Dr. Forester. He was apparently unhappy with his job and was thinking of leaving. Unfortunately, he didn’t leave soon enough. I have to tell you, I’m worried about what this is going to do to Dr. Atwood.” Witner looked at his watch. “I wish I could give you more time today, but allow me to do this. I can arrange for you to spend some time tomorrow with Dr. Randy Delancy. He can affirm the details I’ve just given you.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday. I wouldn’t want to disturb him on a Sunday.”

  “Not a problem. I will speak with him, and I know he’ll be happy to help you. After all, you need to hear this from different angles to maintain your objectivity.”

  XX

  On The Table

  Faint sounds of jazz filtered through the brick wall separating a nightclub from the restaurant where Jack and Zellie sat at a small table. They had been there ten or fifteen minutes, and during that time they had not spoken more than twenty words.

  Ever since he’d picked her up at the Seneca Hotel, Jack’s best efforts to start a conversation had gone nowhere. Not only was she subdued, she avoided eye contact—was sitting now staring at something on the other side of the room, rotating her wine glass in her fingers and blinking occasionally, as if lost in thought.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Well,” he said, “I have a confession to make.”

  She glanced at him with no great show of interest.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “I said, I’ve got a confession to make.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve never been to dinner with a writer before.”

  He’d meant it to be whimsical, but the comment dropped like a bird that had just slammed into a window. He cleared his throat again and took a long sip of wine.

  “We’re even, then,” she said, not sounding the least bit interested. “I’ve never had dinner with a doctor before.”

  Jack forced a laugh.

  “So, did you get some good research done today?”

  She appeared to consider the question a moment.

  “A fair amount.”

  “That’s good. How much longer will you be in town?”

  “It’s hard to say at this point.”

  “I wanted to tell you they make an excellent grilled salmon here.”

  “I’m not that hungry.”

  “You like seafood?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “So, you’re originally from North Carolina?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I like your accent.”

  “I’ve lost most of it.”

 
; “Whereabouts in North Carolina are you from?”

  “Several places. We moved around.”

  Jack waited a moment for something to follow. When it didn’t, he sighed and raised his hands.

  “Listen, have I said something wrong?”

  “No.” She glanced at her watch.

  “Okay, then. You know, if you’re not hungry and not interested in talking and not enjoying yourself, I can take you back to the hotel, if you’d like.”

  “That might be a good idea.”

  He felt like he’d been slapped.

  “Fine,” he replied, trying not to let his feelings show. “But I have to say, we seemed to be almost friends this morning. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to spending a little time with you tonight.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, finally looking into his eyes, if only briefly. “I’d been looking forward to it, too. Things changed.”

  “What things?”

  “I almost wish I hadn’t stayed here to do this new story.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’m going to have to write about you,” she said, now glaring at him. “Haven’t you figured that out? Don’t you think I’m disappointed, too? I shouldn’t have come out with you tonight. It isn’t fair to you.”

  Jack felt his face flush. It was the most she’d spoken to him all evening, but he was now only more confused.

  “Why isn’t it fair to me?”

  “Do I really have to spell it out? I’m talking about what happened in the emergency department. The medical error. The reason it happened. Dr. Witner gave me an exclusive interview this morning. I know all the details.”

  Jack drew in a breath, and understanding crystallized in his mind. He leaned back in his chair and nodded.

  “So, you talked to Dr. Witner after I saw you this morning?”

  “Right. Not long after.”

  “And in Dr. Witner’s version, I’m responsible for everything that went wrong.”

  “He described things quite clearly. I’m sorry.”

  “He told you about the paging system?”

  “Yes.”

  “That I didn’t install it?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “You’ve been Witnerized.”

  “Excuse me?” Her voice rose in anger as she stiffened. “I make my own, objective decisions.”