That sounded so silly John couldn’t help laughing. Mom was a good sport. She laughed along, but still gave her head that little tilt that meant she was serious and said, “You just wait, John. One of these days . . .”
“Okay, Mom, okay. Message received and filed. You too, Carl. Thanks for your input. And I’m sorry I climbed on you like I did.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry too.”
John rested his elbows on the table and relaxed a bit. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, that’s obvious.”
“Yeah,” Carl agreed. “We all have.”
They talked a while longer, not about anything vitally important; they just needed to depressurize. John got a little more into his sandwich and Mom made one for Carl.
Finally John returned to a pressing matter. “Carl . . . what do you think about the Brewer situation?”
Carl brightened a little. “You’ve been thinking about that?”
“Oh yeah.”
“What about the Brewers?” Mom asked.
Oh-oh. John had to be careful. Mom knew about Annie, of course, but what Max had said about Dad’s death . . . well, that was nothing more than a very thin lead, and nothing to concern her about. “Oh, it’s just Annie, and how she died. I’m bothered about it.”
“So am I,” said Carl.
Mom nodded. “And so was your father.”
“So let’s do something about it,” said Carl. “We’ve got to be able to find out something.”
John looked at Carl, that weird, young man who seemed so lost, so far away. And yet . . . their vastly different worlds seemed to have common ground in this one situation. “You . . . uh . . . you want to go after this?”
“You bet I do,” Carl answered.
“Well . . . so do I. I still don’t know if this is going to be a news story or not, but what the heck, so what if it is or isn’t? It was important to Dad, and if it was important to him, it’s important to me.”
“And me.”
“Well . . . okay. Let’s do it.”
Carl brightened. “All right! Where do we start?”
John had been thinking about it. He was ready even now with some first steps. “Mom, would you happen to know which doctor Dad and Max Brewer took that handwritten autopsy report to?”
Mom thought the answer was obvious enough. “Dr. Meredith.”
“Of course.” Dr. Meredith had been the Barrett family doctor for years.
“Max and Dad went to him, and he explained it. I wasn’t there, so you’ll have to go ask him about it and get it straight from him.”
“Okay, we’ll do that. Now, Carl, I thought of one other thing. I don’t know what good it will do, but since we’re scraping for anything and everything, we should get Annie’s attendance records from Jefferson High School and see if she was absent the Friday before she died. I think Deanne Brewer can go to the school and get those.”
“Okay. I’ll call her and get that started.”
“But listen now, this is important: Before Deanne goes to the school herself and asks for the attendance records, see if you can find out from her just which classes Annie was taking in the spring trimester of last year. Then have her contact those teachers and get their attendance records first. I’m just guessing and hoping that, even if the school office tries to cover up her absence, maybe some of her teachers won’t be in on the secret.”
“Okay.”
“So . . . you call Deanne Brewer and get started on that, and I’ll check with Dr. Meredith about that autopsy report. I want to hear what he has to say before I try to track down the pathologist . . . uh . . .”
“Denning, I think.”
“Yeah, Denning. Oh . . . one more thing. Rachel Franklin, the waitress. If she can find anyone who was riding on that van with Annie . . .”
“I’ll call her tomorrow, just say hello, kind of remind her.”
John took one last bite of his sandwich—it was a little dry by now. “Well . . . let’s do it.”
Carl was excited. He even gave his father’s shoulder a light punch, a rare show of enthusiasm. “Let’s do it.”
THE NEXT MORNING, John drove to the office of Dr. Irving Meredith, the senior Barretts’ general practitioner.
Dr. Meredith was a kindly sort, an older fellow who looked a bit like Mark Twain, though his smooth voice and mellow personality broke that image right away. He’d known John and Lillian Barrett for years and was glad enough to see John Barrett Jr. the next morning between appointments. They went into his office, and John showed him a photocopy of the handcopied report. Dr. Meredith pulled his glasses from his pocket.
“Ah yes!” he said with recollection. “You got this from the Brewers?”
“Right. I need to have you explain it to me.”
“Well . . . you understand, of course, this isn’t much of a document. It’s only some excerpts copied by hand from a document that should exist, certainly, but I understand can’t be found.”
“That’s right.”
“So, as I told your father—may he rest in peace—I’m only telling you my conclusions from what I read right here on this paper, and I can’t be held to them. The best thing, the only thing really, is for you to contact this Dr. Denning and get the actual information directly from him.”
“Understood. But what can you glean from what we do have?”
Dr. Meredith perused the pages in his hand. “Well, it appears they got some of this from the first page of the autopsy report, and maybe some of the last paragraphs. Most of it is summarizing without a lot of the detail you find in an autopsy report—gross examination of all the organs, then microscopic examination. It can go on for pages; they’re very thorough.”
“What does that term ‘gross examination’ mean?”
“Simple, visual examination, how the organs look upon examination by the prosecutor, the pathologist who does the examination. Weight, appearance, any signs of trauma, infection, whatever.”
“Okay.”
“But what’s clear to see here are the primary and secondary causes of death, probably a summary your father and Max Brewer found on the first page of the report.
“‘Primary causes of death: Generalized septicemia.’ That’s bacterial infection in the bloodstream. It was generalized; that means it had spread everywhere.
“‘Pneumonitis.’ That’s infection of the lungs. ‘Peritonitis.’ That’s infection of the lining of the abdomen.
“Then you have the secondary cause—the problem that caused the primary causes that killed her, and that’s ‘septic abortion.’ That means an infection introduced in the process of a termination of pregnancy. Of course, in medical language, ‘abortion’ could mean a natural termination of pregnancy such as by miscarriage as well as a termination induced from the outside. But be that as it may . . .” He scanned the pages, flipping through them. “And they say my handwriting’s bad . . .” He found what he was after. “Ah! Your father’s handwriting. He must have been looking for this; it’s the gross examination of the uterus. Look here:
“‘The uterus was examined . . . surface smooth and glistening, gravid, or appears to have been gravid’—that’s pregnant—‘ . . . on its posterior surface there is evidence of a recent perforation . . . ’ Mm . . . and look here: ‘ . . . these findings show there has been a recent pregnancy . . . products of conception still attached to the endometrial lining of the uterus . . . ’”
John asked, “You mean parts of the baby left inside?”
“Oh, maybe, maybe not. Could be some of the placenta. Even in a normal birth you have some product that may remain for a short time before being expelled naturally. But . . . yeah, could be baby parts too. You’d have to ask Denning. If it was baby parts, I’m sure he’d remember. Come to think of it, if it was baby parts, that might explain why no one can find the actual autopsy report. Don’t quote me on that.
“But this perforation . . . that would do it. That would be enough to kill her. Some of the contents of the uterus could have be
en introduced through that perforation into the peritonial cavity—the abdomen, okay?—and if those contents were not sterile, they would carry the infection in there. Or even if product were left inside the uterus, and the uterus couldn’t clamp down and expel it, the infection would fester in there, and because the uterus has such an abundant blood supply, the infection would be introduced into Annie’s bloodstream. It would be carried all over her body, into her vital organs, and the toxins would kill her. And yes, it would take as long as it took—what? from Friday to Sunday?”
“Aborted Friday, died Sunday.”
“Mm-hm. That makes perfect sense.” Dr. Meredith set the pages down on his desk. “So . . . any way you read the findings, the conclusion’s the same: Somebody did a lousy job of abortion. But listen, John, you’ve got to get the real documents, you’ve got to talk to the pathologist. For one thing, I’m not a pathologist, and obviously I can’t commit myself to anything scribbled on pieces of paper. I can share my knowledge with you, but this is strictly on an unprofessional basis, off the record, understand?”
“Certainly. Thanks.”
Dr. Meredith was showing some anger now. “But then again, if the autopsy report does indicate death from abortion, as these notes indicate . . . then the parents are legally barred from seeing it.” His face was grim as he said, “If you’re to go any further, I think you’ll need a lawyer.”
AS JOHN LEFT Dr. Meredith’s office, his eyes were drawn to the poster on the side of a passing bus. Marvelous graphics, wondrous image, eye-catching colors! A red sun rising over the capitol and the words emblazoned across the sky, “The New Dawn Lives On.” Governor Hiram Slater’s face, grim with determination, faced the capitol dome, and under his chin were the words, “Governor Hiram Slater—for Governor!”
Wow. His opponent Bob Wilson should look so good.
“YOU WANTED TO see me, Ben?” News Director Ben Oliver was rummaging through the papers on his desk and rapidly filling his wastebasket. “Yeah, John, come in and close the door.”
John closed the door and was about to take a seat, but the only other chair in the room was occupied by a stack of magazines. “Um . . . should I move these?”
Ben didn’t look up from his desk. “Put ’em on the floor. They’re going into the recycling bin, along with this other stuff.” He gathered a stack of letters, phone messages, notes, daily news outlooks, and junk mail and dumped them all in—or rather, on—the wastebasket. It was full by now, and half of the pile slid onto the floor. He didn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t like trouble, John. I’m trying to rid my life of trouble. I’m getting rid of the old trouble so I’ll have room for the new trouble, you follow me?”
John didn’t and felt apprehensive. “Uh . . . no, sir, I don’t.”
“You realize, of course, that we have the number one newscast in this market?”
“Yes, sir.” That fact was touted time after time on the air, around the newsroom, and in the station’s advertising. Of course John realized it.
“Do you realize that the other stations are currently working at a fever pitch trying to bump us out of that spot?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you realize what this station’s been able to charge for advertising because of where we are?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We are making money for the station, John, and when the station makes money, we make money. We’re not cleaning up, we won’t retire rich, but we are doing a good business. We are presenting the news to people in a way they seem to like, and they are tuning in. Now . . .” He threw one more pile of old files, papers, magazines, and mail on the floor.
“Two things, neither of which you are to discuss with anyone outside this room. Number One: I just got out of a meeting with the general manager and the Board of Directors, and they are bound and determined to stay on top. That’s why they’ve put together a new plan of attack and the budget to launch it. We’re expanding the Five Thirty to a full hour, starting at 5, which means more news coverage, which means more work for you, which means more exposure, and of course more money.”
John was impressed and pleased, of course. “Well, that’s very interesting . . .”
“Don’t get too happy yet. They’re planning on doing some big image campaigns with you and Ali Downs. Billboards, bus posters, TV promos. They were talking about building a new set for the show too, a new look.”
“Wow.”
“So just hang on now and listen to what I’m about to say.” He looked at the shelves behind his desk, considered an old calendar from a videotape company, and chucked it on the floor. “John, we do a good job around here, and I think we have one of the best news teams in the business. But you and Ali, you’re the ones who are right up front. You’re the ones the people associate with the station. You’re the ones the people tune in to see.” Ben rested his elbows on his desk—he’d found enough bare area to do that now—and looked at John probingly. “So, John, I need to know something. Are you losing your marbles?”
“What?”
Ben waved his own question aside. “No, no, strike that—I withdraw the question. Let me tell you this and we’ll let it go: we’re betting a lot of money on you, a lot of reputation and viewership and revenue, and that’s because you’re good. Now I have no doubts whatsoever that you’ll carry the ball for us—all the way into the end zone, and we’ll all come out winners. When people see you out in public, they’ll see a sharp, in-control kind of guy, the same guy they see every evening on the tube, the same guy they’ve trusted, a guy who’s going to make Channel 6 look good.”
“That’s who they see now, Ben.” John was quite firm on that.
“Well, sure they do. Sure. But just tell me, John . . . Tell me I can be sure that’s how it’s going to be in the future.”
“Of course! I’m troubled that you would even ask the question.”
Ben leaned forward and eyed John carefully, one eyebrow strangely cocked. “So people . . . those people out there, those viewers, are going to see a man they can trust to bring them the news with sobriety, integrity, and grit, right?”
“Of course!”
“And they’re not going to see a man who reads things in the script that aren’t there . . . or hears voices calling to him in the night . . . or goes running to rescue people who don’t need rescuing?”
Tina Lewis, John thought. Rush Torrance. Maybe even Benny the cameraman who came to John’s apartment that one night. They’d been talking about him. “So you’ve been talking to Tina. Ben, that was nothing. And that mistake with the scripted question, it was just a mix-up.”
“And the voices calling in the night?”
John was thinking fast. He shrugged it off. “Kids, I suppose, pulling a prank. I guess I was wired that night, just too anxious for a breaking story. Hey, you win some, you lose some, but you keep trying. You stay as far ahead as you can.”
Ben nodded approvingly. “Yeah, yeah, that’s right.” He leaned back in his chair and picked up a pen to put in the corner of his mouth. “I guess I just want you to be . . . predictable, know what I mean? I’d like to be able to tell myself, Yeah, I know what John’s going to do now. I know how he’s going to handle this. I don’t have to worry about it.”
John had trouble keeping his voice down. “Listen, Ben, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I’m not too happy that someone would try to upset you or try to smear me.”
Ben held his hand up. “John, John . . . the real problem, as I see it, is that you and Tina need to cease-fire. Listen, I don’t find snitches all that impressive either, and I don’t need to hear this kind of crap; but when I do, I have to look into it.” Ben tried to look like he was relaxed, but his face was still tense. “Power goes down the ladder, but responsibility for screw-ups goes back up, so we in management are always looking out below. It’s the nature of the beast, you know that.”
Ben got up and crammed some more paper into the wastebasket. “And now, thanks to th
ose guys upstairs and their big ideas, I’ve got a whole new batch of trouble coming and I don’t need any of the old stuff still hanging around, you know what I mean? So okay . . . we’ve talked about it, the matter’s settled, it’s finished. Just do a good job. Make me glad for every decision we made today, all right? That’s all I’m saying.”
BACK AT HIS DESK, John hammered away at his computer, whacking out excess words, tightening the rhetoric, rephrasing, clarifying, editing with a vengeance. And it was vengeance. He was angry. He was a pro. He was going to write like a pro and report like a pro, and Tina and whoever else had it in for him was going to like it, and that was all there was to it.
And if any more of this hallucination stuff tried to force itself on him, he would ignore it, overcome it, do whatever he had to do to stay in control of his life. His life! He banged his desk in anger and even mouthed the words, “It’s my life!”
The phone rang. “Hello!” Oops. He really sounded angry.
“Dad, this is Carl. I’ve got something.”
John held the receiver against his ear with his shoulder so he could keep working. “Yeah?”
“Deanne Brewer got the names of Annie’s teachers from last year. She’ll call them tonight at their homes to ask for those attendance records, and then I suppose they’ll have to check and get back to her.”
“Okay. Good.”
“And I think Rachel Franklin found somebody.”
John forgot about working. He held the receiver with his hand. “She found somebody?”
“Yeah. It’s real touchy. The girl won’t give her name or anything, and she won’t talk to us. She says she might talk to Deanne.”
John had to be sure. “Now . . . this is a girl who rode on the van with Annie Brewer?”
“That’s what Rachel says.”
“Who is she?”
“Rachel doesn’t know anything about her.”
“Well . . . she must know something. Did they go to school together or what? How did Rachel find her?”
“Hey, like I said, it’s touchy. Remember Rachel telling us how she went to that other place to have another pregnancy test?”
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