Deadline

by Randy Alcorn

  This feeling was reinforced as he looked at the familiar black and yellow bumper sticker on the Hyundai Finney used to drive, parked right in front of him. “My Boss is a Jewish Carpenter.”

  “Hi dere, Unca Jake!” The unmistakable voice brought light music to air that was otherwise heavy and dark.

  “Hi dere, Little Finn!” Finn jumped up at Jake with the same abandon Champ showed when Jake returned from out-of-town trips. Unlike Champ, however, Little Finn was getting bigger. As Jake braced to catch Finn’s weight, he realized again his back and side were still sore from the accident.

  “I’m gettin’ ready for school. And I’m fixin’ my own breakfast ’cause Mom has her prayer meetin.”

  “Really? Whatcha fixin’ for breakfast, guy?”

  “Honey Nut Cheerios!” Little Finn said it almost reverently, with all the pride he’d have if he were fixing strawberry crepes and eggs Benedict for a champagne brunch.

  “Wow, sounds good!”

  “I’ll make a bowl for you too!”

  “Uh, no thanks, Finn. Already had breakfast.” That was a lie. For some reason Jake felt funny telling even a harmless lie to this child.

  “Bet you got room for dose donuts Mom got, dough. She says dey’re your favorites.” It tickled Jake the way Finn’s oval eyes grew when he shared inside information.

  “Well, there’s always room for a donut.”

  “Unca Jake, guess what?”

  “What?”

  “It’s about my sister, Angie.”

  “What about Angie?”

  “She’s gonna have a baby!” Finn jumped in the air to accentuate the point.

  “No kidding! Hey, congratulations. Now you’re going to be an unca!” Jake thought a moment. “Hey, Finn, how about I take you to a basketball game some time soon?”

  “No kiddin’! Hey, datted be great, Unca Jake! Wait till I tell Mom!”

  Little Finn started to run into the house, but turned around, ran back, and grabbed Jake’s hand, pulling him, yanking him on to the porch.

  “Mom’s goin’ to New York next Thursday to see Aunt Adele.”

  That was Little Finn—a bottomless pit of random information. Wait a minute. New York? Thursday?

  Sue met Jake at the door, giving him a hug. “Jake, good to have you. Come on in.” Sue held his hand, leading him into the familiar living room.

  “Jake, this is Betty Brenner, Suzanne Largo, and Tom and Zoe Sellars. This is Jake Woods, one of my best friends. He was like a brother to Finney.”

  The introduction touched Jake. Their differences were never enough to alienate Finney or Sue from him.

  “Hi, Jake. Read your column all the time. Glad to meet you.” Tom Sellars extended his hand.

  I notice you said you read my column, not that you like it, Jake thought, returning the firm grip.

  The ladies also said they were glad to meet him, and by that time Sue had him seated on the recliner with his favorite Seahawk Sunday afternoon coffee mug, filled with dark Colombian Supremo. Now she was back with a tray of donuts, with old-fashioned buttermilks stacked to the side she offered Jake.

  Right on target again. At least the morning won’t be a total loss.

  Several others marched in, warmly greeted by all, and within five minutes Jake was in a crowded living room with sixteen people. Among them was Alan Weber, Finney’s friend, the pastor who spoke at his funeral.

  Sue got things going. “I’ve told just a few of you the purpose of this meeting. I didn’t want to scare you off.”

  Not the most reassuring way to start, Sue.

  “I want you to know Jake and I don’t always agree, but I trust him, and what he’s going to tell you is the truth. You can be honest with him. He’s not here to get a story for the Trib. This relates to Finney and our friend Dr. Lowell. Jake, I guess the floor is yours.”

  “Well, first let me say thanks for coming. And let me ask you a favor. Please keep confidential what I’m about to tell you. That’s very important.”

  A few of them nodded, but Jake was skeptical. He remembered with embarrassment a few times he’d printed information intended to be confidential. He knew he couldn’t control these people. Trusting them made him nervous.

  “In fact, it’s so important that if any of you don’t feel comfortable agreeing to absolute confidentiality. I have to ask you to leave now before we go further.”

  No takers. Everyone sat still. Jake drew a deep breath.

  “All right, the situation is this. We have reason to believe—no, I should say we know with absolute certainty that Finney and Doc, Dr. Lowell, were murdered.”

  Jake’s words stunned everyone in the room. A few of the women generated quick tears, and the two sitting on either side of Sue reached out and took her hands. There was a certain gratification here to a veteran reporter. He’d hooked his audience with his lead, and they were his.

  “Someone sabotaged Dr. Lowell’s car. I’m not a homicide detective, of course, but for years I was an investigative journalist. Because these men were my good friends, I’m doing what I can to assist one of the police detectives. And Sue’s right, this isn’t for a story or a column or anything. We just want to find out who did it.”

  Jake paused, trying to think of how to phrase what he had to say next. Sue bailed him out.

  “Jake has been asked by the homicide detective to come up with a list of names, no matter how unlikely, of anyone who had any reason to dislike Dr. Lowell or to act against him in any way. He’s got a long list of people, and they may all be innocent. But as we all know, some of the first people who might come to mind as enemies of Dr. Lowell would be, well, active prolifers.”

  “Are you saying we’re…suspects?” Betty Largo asked incredulously.

  “No, not at all,” Jake reassured her. “What I’m wondering is if you know of people that have been particularly upset with Dr. Lowell. Maybe someone who has threatened him or screamed at him, pushed him, written him a letter, stalked him, done anything violent or spoken of doing something violent.”

  There was a long pause, then Tom Sellars spoke. “Mr. Woods, I think you have the wrong impression about us. In fact, since I’ve read your column regularly for years I can say without a doubt you have the wrong impression. I know there have been some violent things happen around the country, but our group, like the vast majority of prolife groups, is committed to nonviolence. That’s why we oppose abortion in the first place, because it’s violent.”

  “I don’t believe there’s one of us who would even consider doing anything violent,” Betty added. “We’re just there to tell women the truth and offer them alternatives to abortion.”

  “Maybe it would help,” Suzanne’s voice had an edge of defensiveness, “if you understood what we’re doing at the clinics.” She opened a piece of literature with a picture of an unborn baby.

  Here comes the propaganda. Jake steeled himself, reluctantly looking at the soft rose-colored picture with the delicate eyes, ears, mouth, nose, fingers, and toes.

  “In the abortion clinics they say this isn’t a baby, it’s just a mass of tissue. Well, my husband’s a doctor, and I’m a nurse, like Sue. What they tell women isn’t true. We think they deserve to know the truth. So we educate and offer alternatives. That’s it. We’re not there to take revenge on anybody.”

  “Look, this is a tough issue for all of us.” Alan Weber spoke now, and it was obvious to Jake his voice was respected in this group. “And it must be really tough for Jake meeting here with us. Put yourself in his place. He’s lost his two closest friends. I golfed with the three of them once, and there was something special about their friendship. And now Jake’s just trying to find out the truth. There’s no hidden agenda here. I trust Sue and Jake on this. We don’t need to be defensive or apologetic about anything, and neither does Jake. He’s trying to find out the truth, and we’re committed to the truth in everything, aren’t we? So, Jake, don’t feel bad asking us for help. As for me, there’s only one guy I’ve ev
er met in prolife circles that I could even imagine doing something like this. He’s not part of any established group, but I met him at a rally last year. I think I’ve got his name at my office. Anyway, I know where I can get it. I doubt seriously he would even consider doing something like this, but I guess there’s no harm in checking him out.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate that.”

  A woman in her midforties spoke up now. “I met Dr. Lowell once, maybe a year and a half ago, over at the hospital, when we were protesting their experiments with RU-486. I remember at first he just had a smile on his face, seemed sort of smug, and he drove by us as if we weren’t there. But after a few weeks, when we didn’t go away, he got agitated. He shook his fist at us, and once he swerved as if to run us over. I don’t think he really meant to do it, but it was pretty scary. I admit I don’t understand how a doctor can know the medical facts and just go right ahead and kill babies anyway, but I can tell you this—I had no hatred for Dr. Lowell. None whatsoever. In fact, we used to pray for him, right there on the sidewalk. We prayed that God would open his eyes to the truth. It may sound funny to you, but I can honestly say we loved him.”

  “You asked if we knew of anyone who might have written him a letter,” Betty said. “I know I did, but it wasn’t a threatening letter. It was a letter reminding him of his oaths to protect life and not to take it. I know a lot of us are labeled as being emotional about this issue. But then, we’re convinced that unborn babies are no less precious than born ones. They’re just a little smaller, weaker, more vulnerable. They’re in need of protection. And for some of us, at least three of us I know of in this room, it’s closer to home than that.” Her eyes watered.

  “I suppose everyone here but you,” Betty was looking right at Jake now, “knows I had two abortions, one early, one late. I didn’t know, Mr. Woods, or maybe I just deceived myself. I went to Planned Parenthood, and they assured me abortion was a simple procedure, the solution to all my problems. So I did it. Two years later I did it again. I went through the anxiety attacks, the suicidal thoughts, the dreams of my babies asking me why, the whole nine yards. After years of suffering and depression, I discovered from reading a women’s magazine that it was Post-Abortion Stress Syndrome.”

  Her lip was trembling now. “So if it seems like some of us can get a little emotional now and then, I guess it’s because the deaths of little children is a pretty emotional thing. And I thought about Dr. Lowell a lot, because…he was the one who did my second abortion.”

  The woman next to her reached over to comfort Betty, and Jake caught the look of surprise in Sue’s eyes.

  One of the three men in the room, middle-aged, dressed in a business suit, said, “To be honest, there was one guy who used to come down to the hospital and sort of cause trouble. Several times he raised his voice at Dr. Lowell. One day he rolled down his window and they started yelling at each other. Frankly, I was embarrassed, and I took the man aside. I told him if he couldn’t hold his temper to please stay home and do something else. He stopped coming. I don’t want to say his name here, and I have a feeling it’s the same guy Alan’s thinking of. But anyway I’ll write it down for you, as long as you understand I don’t think he would have done it.”

  “Yeah, I appreciate it. That would help.”

  “You know,” Tom Sellars said, “there’s another angle I think you should consider. I never approach the women, my wife does that, but if men come to the clinics—boyfriends or husbands—I talk to them. I’ve seen a couple of guys I didn’t talk to come back, and I’ve heard them say they’re going to make the clinic pay for what they did to their wife or their baby. It’s been pretty scary. I don’t have any names for you. All I can tell you is, I have a firm commitment to nonviolence, but some of these guys who’ve had violence done to their wives or babies don’t share that same commitment.”

  “A question, Mr. Woods.” This was from a young woman, maybe twenty-five, who looked about six months pregnant.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you asked yourself if someone involved with Dr. Lowell in abortions or RU-486 was responsible for this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, to be blunt, these are people who make their living killing innocent children. Isn’t it possible that they might be capable of killing adults also?”

  Jake raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think that’s very likely.”

  “None of this seems very likely, does it? But I have another question. Is it possible someone knew Finney was going to be in that car?”

  Jake hesitated. “The police have considered that possibility, but its very unlikely.” No reaction from Sue.

  “Well, I’ve heard some terrible things said about Finney by some very hostile abortion advocates. People I’ve seen scream and push, bite and pull hair at peaceful prolife protests. And I certainly wouldn’t eliminate anyone who works in the abortion business. They’re callused to the value of life. And even if Doctor Lowell was the target, maybe he knew somebody botched an abortion and they wanted to cover it up. Or maybe there was a fight over profits. Maybe one of his own coworkers turned against him. Are you checking on the doctors he worked with?”

  “Well, yes we are, but I don’t really think physicians are the kind of people who would do something like this.”

  “Look, Mr. Woods,” this was a man, sixtyish, dressed in classy casuals, a man with an air of dignity and professionalism Jake had immediately noticed. “The name’s Jim Barnes. Dr. Barnes, OB-GYN. I used to perform abortions. Don’t kid yourself. Doctors are like everybody else, we just went to school longer and wear white coats. You tell yourself you’re doing this for the women, but the truth is you’d get out of it in a second if it wasn’t for the money. I mean, I used to pocket a thousand dollars for half a day’s work, then spend the afternoon on the golf course. In this state a full-time abortionist makes three times the salary of a typical OB-GYN. To put it bluntly, there’s a lot more money in taking babies out of the world than bringing them into it. You’re never on call because abortion is an elective surgery, not an emergency. And once you start making the big bucks you get addicted. I did. You keep raising your lifestyle, and now you’ve got payments on a summer home, a golf club membership, a boat. You can’t afford to go back to a normal salary.

  “What I’m saying is, it’s easy to get in and stay in, and the next thing you know you’re rationalizing and justifying and cutting corners in the rest of your practice. Abortion isn’t good for doctors. It brings out the worst in them. Are doctors capable of murder? Of course they are. No, it isn’t likely, but don’t rule it out because you think doctors are morally superior to everyone else. They’re not. We’re not.”

  After another thirty minutes of discussion, Jake wasn’t getting exactly what he came for, but he was getting insight into this group of people. He’d always thought of Finney and Sue as exceptions to the rule of the self-righteous, ignorant religious bigots. But once they got over their initial defensiveness, he began to wonder if he may have misjudged some of these people. They seemed intelligent, thoughtful, and caring. Funny, he thought, that in all his years of meeting with all kinds of groups and constituencies, he had never once spent even an hour just talking with and listening to people of this persuasion.

  Everyone but Dr. Barnes left promptly at 8:00 A.M. While Sue was saying good-bye to the last people at the door, Barnes looked at Jake.

  “I had something I didn’t want to ask in front of the group. Did your friend ever talk with you about doing abortions?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  “Well, there’s no way I can really describe what it means to be an abortionist. It’s the opposite of being a doctor.”

  Jake shot a questioning look.

  “I’m very serious, and I speak from experience. The Hippocratic oath was to forever separate killing and healing in the medical profession. I brought you a copy of the oath, and at the bottom is the Declaration of Geneva, after World War II, when the Nazi doct
ors brought shame to the medical profession.”

  Jake looked at the neatly printed page, Times Roman, large print, maybe 15 point. At the bottom he read, “Declaration of Geneva, 1948: ‘I will maintain the utmost respect for human life, from the time of conception; even under threat, I will not use my medical knowledge contrary to the laws of humanity.’”

  “Okay, Dr. Barnes. Thank you. I need to get to the paper to work on a column and—”

  “Hang on just a second. This is an article from an American Medical Association journal. It’s on abortionists and what goes on inside abortion clinics. You can read it later. And this is the AMA’s official position on abortionists, issued back in 1871. It’s fascinating. You really need to read it.”

  Why do these people always have to peddle their little propaganda pieces, as though I don’t have enough to read already?

  “The bottom line, Jake, is that abortionists are the bottom feeders of medicine. Other doctors joke about them. They make big money, but they get marginalized, and it grates on them. Some of them get real angry. Most are hurting bad inside. Remember, I know. I used to be one. I understand what your friend was living under. It affects your attitude, your character, your values. I know what it did to me, to my marriage, my family, everything. I’m just now finally getting healed up.”

  “Well, doctor, I’m happy for you. But I do need to get going here. Thanks for the stuff.”

  “One last thing, Jake, and I’m out of your hair. There’s a psychiatrist friend of mine who’s been a big help to me. Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome is his specialty. He works with a lot of Vietnam vets, and he’s spent tons of time with men and women traumatized by abortion. He’s a friend now, but I got to know him as his patient. Anyway, Dr. Scanlon could be an important resource for you. He’s worked with potentially violent people on both sides of the abortion issue, right here in this city. If you want to pursue whether your friend was murdered because of the abortion connection, he’s the man you need to see.”

  With no intention to follow up, Jake said, “Okay. Scanlon. Maybe I’ll look him up some time.”