The First Immortal

by James L. Halperin

  “I s-saw Dr. Fiske slip a syringe into his pocket.”

  “And do you have any idea what could have been in that syringe?”

  “I object,” Webster said. “That calls for speculation.”

  “Does that mean I shouldn’t answer?” Bacon asked.

  “No.” Webster shook his head in resignation. The damage was done. Unless Noah Banks was an even bigger idiot than he gave the man credit for, Banks had it all figured out by now. “You may answer, Mr. Bacon. It just means I’ll try to get a judge to strike your testimony from the record later on.”

  “If I had to g-guess,” Bacon said, “I’d say morphine.”

  November 24, 1988

  “Do you really believe your father was murdered by his own doctor?”

  Such a businesslike question belied the personal concern evident on Assistant District Attorney Brandon Butters’s face. Noah attended the meeting, too, but all three lawyers present understood he was there only to observe and lend moral support to his wife. After all, it was her father who’d been killed. Besides, her relationship with this particular ADA was much closer than Noah’s; once they had been very close indeed.

  Brandon had always seemed friendly, never displaying even a trace of resentment toward Noah, yet Jan and her husband both wondered if there might linger some suppressed jealousy over her choice of husbands nine years ago.

  Having never visited ADA Butters’s place of business, Jan was amazed at how tiny his office was; perhaps a quarter the size of a junior partner’s at major law firms. His salary, too, was about a third as much as he’d have made in the private sector, even accounting for government benefits attendant to his position. The office reminded her of a principal reason why she’d opted to marry Noah: Brandon was smart, and such a great guy, but he still had no ambition.

  She gazed across the chaos of Brandon’s desk and stared directly into the dark brown eyes that had always drawn her to this earnest face. It was the face of a man who’d once loved her deeply, a friendly face, youthful for its thirty-five years; the seldom encountered, unstressed face of a lawyer who’d never compromised principle for unearned rewards.

  She answered without hesitation: “I’m sure of it, Brandon.”

  “Sorry I have to ask you this, Jan, but have you and Noah filed a civil lawsuit against Dr. Fiske?”

  Jan answered exactly as Noah had coached her: “No.”

  “Do you intend to?”

  “We haven’t decided. To tell the truth, I doubt he has much money. Which, I fear, is why he killed him.”

  Noah smiled.

  “How so?” Brandon asked.

  “Dad left him $200,000.”

  “I see. Were they close friends?”

  “Supposedly.”

  “Any other evidence that Dr. Fiske intended to kill your father; something less, er, speculative?”

  “An eyewitness saw him slip an empty syringe—had to be morphine—into his pocket immediately after Dad’s heart stopped beating.”

  “Oh? Have you asked Dr. Fiske about the syringe?”

  “His lawyer would never let him answer my questions.”

  “How soon would your father have died without the morphine?”

  “According to Fiske, he only had a few hours left. But I don’t accept that.”

  “Anybody else examine him?”

  “My sister Maxine was there. She’s a family doctor now. And the paramedics who drove him to the hospital. And those three so-called cryonic technicians, but that was after he was already dead.”

  “Cryonic?”

  “Yeah. They froze his body.” She shook her head. “Nutty, huh? Can’t imagine how they conned him into signing up for that.”

  Brandon ignored the comment. “And what do your sister and the paramedics say about your father’s condition?”

  “At the time, they took Fiske’s word for it. But Max only saw his charts—she never really examined Dad—and paramedics aren’t qualified to offer a prognosis. Fiske is the only one with enough medical background to understand what he saw, and who also observed Dad’s condition firsthand.” Jan’s tone was strident, as if reciting unarguable fact. Again Noah smiled.

  “I see,” Brandon said. “Is it possible Dr. Fiske was merely helping your father end his life? An assisted suicide? We see a lot of that.”

  “That’s probably what he’ll say it was, if he admits to anything at all. But there’s only one way we’ll ever know for sure.”

  “Which is?”

  Jan glanced at Noah, who nodded only once this time. “To perform an autopsy on my father.”

  “That would make sense,” Brandon said. “Does Dr. Fiske have an attorney?”

  “I’d bet Pat Webster’s firm ends up handling his case,” Noah said.

  “They’re representing the Trust my father set up to fund cryonic suspensions for everyone in our family.” Jan rolled her eyes. “Fiske is the trustee.”

  “Besides,” Noah added, “I doubt he knows any other attorneys—except his divorce lawyer.”

  “I see,” the ADA said. “Well, I’ll call Webster and let you know what happens.”

  As soon as Jan and Noah left, Brandon placed a call to Patrick Webster’s office. Webster called back twenty minutes later.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Butters?”

  “Mr. Webster, are you representing Tobias Fiske?”

  “Not formally. Does he need representation?”

  “I’d say so. A murder complaint has just been filed against him by Jan Smith.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Possibly, but you understand I can’t ignore such an allegation. I must also tell you that Ms. Smith is a personal friend, so if you’d prefer, I’ll reassign this case to another ADA.”

  “I doubt that’ll be necessary,” Webster said. There was no sense making the decision too early. He could always move to disqualify him later if he became too big a pain in the ass. “Let me call Dr. Fiske and get his side of the story. Can I drop by your office this afternoon? Say, half past three?”

  “Not a problem.”

  The two men had never met before, but Pat Webster had already grilled two of his partners. Brandon Butters, he’d learned, was fair, principled, smart, and too nice a guy for the job; a man whose objective was justice, not glory. Webster knew that to deal effectively with such a man, he would have to forget everything he’d ever learned about prosecutors. The thought both disturbed and inspired him.

  He’d carefully reread the terms of the Smith Family Cryonic Trust, drafted almost six years earlier, and had determined to his satisfaction, and delight, that the Trust would cover any of Tobias Fiske’s legal fees.

  At 3:45 P.M. he arrived fifteen minutes late, his tardiness intentional, a show of confidence. When he offered Brandon his hand, the man grasped it with a subtly exaggerated pressure and waited for Webster to meet his eyes.

  “That doesn’t work with me, Mr. Webster,” Brandon said evenly. “Whatever books you may have read on gaining power advantages, showing confidence, or asserting control… forget them in this office. Respect my time, and I’ll respect yours. We’ll both like it better that way.”

  Webster’s mouth flew open like a hand puppet’s, a pretense at surprise. He shook his head as he rethought the lie. Then he grinned. “Busted!”

  Brandon laughed, and the two pumped a genuine handshake.

  “I now officially represent Tobias Fiske,” Webster said. “How do I convince you my client’s innocent?”

  “That may be difficult. I have a sworn deposition that Dr. Fiske slipped a syringe, presumably empty, into his pocket immediately after declaring Benjamin Smith dead. Would you care to tell me what was in that syringe?”

  “Off the record?”

  “If you’d like.”

  “Okay. If you do prosecute, we reserve the right to make you prove this. But just between us, it was morphine.”

  “That’s what I assumed,” Brandon said. “Now the important question: Wa
s it administered at the patient’s request?”

  “Of course.”

  “Any witnesses to that effect?”

  “How often have you heard of one doctor asking another to break the law with witnesses attending the conversation? Look at it logically; Ben Smith was dying. The morphine might arguably have sped the process by an hour or two, but certainly no more.”

  “Unfortunately,” Brandon explained, “your client is the only person who knows if that’s actually true. No other physician possesses sufficient knowledge to judge, unless you know something I don’t…”

  Webster shook his head.

  “Then I have no choice. We both know there’s not enough evidence for a murder charge, but I still have to move on with this inquiry.”

  Butters was absolutely right, Webster decided. No capable prosecutor would have dropped the matter then. “What do you suggest?”

  “I’ve already received authorization from the D.A. to file manslaughter charges against Dr. Fiske for assisting a suicide. I intend to file tomorrow. I won’t object to his release without bail, and I’ll make sure he spends no time in jail before his arraignment. But the charges are technically necessary to initiate discovery.”

  “What kind of discovery?”

  “An autopsy. If the coroner agrees that Dr. Smith only had a few hours to live, I’ll drop all charges against your client. But if the coroner decides that Dr. Smith was not dying, I think most juries would be suspicious, especially considering the deceased’s sizable bequest to Dr. Fiske. Two hundred thousand dollars is a credible motive. We’d have to refile, seeking a voluntary manslaughter conviction at the very least, possibly second degree murder.”

  “You realize that Dr. Smith was frozen at his own request, hoping that medical science might someday have the means to restore his life.”

  Brandon looked thoughtfully at Webster, as if gauging his adversary with a standard blend of suspicion and compassion. Finally he spoke in measured words: “In the eyes of the law, and frankly in my opinion as well, Benjamin Smith is dead. Tobias Fiske, however, is not. If you believe in your client’s innocence, I’d strongly suggest that you advise him not to object to this autopsy.”

  The telephone rang at Banks & Smith, and it was Brandon Butters on the line. Jan put him on the speaker so Noah could hear. “I’ve just informed Pat Webster we’re filing second degree manslaughter charges against Tobias Fiske tomorrow morning.”

  “Man-two?” she asked. “That’s it?”

  “Look, I’m sorry, Jan, but this might be just a simple assisted suicide. We’ll seek a court order to autopsy the body, and if it turns out your father wasn’t terminal, we’ll add a murder charge. But if he was dying anyway, I doubt this will ever go to trial.”

  Noah nodded, signaling Jan to save any arguments for later.

  “I understand, Brandon.”

  “Jan, you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Really,” she said, unconsciously intensifying the misery in her voice. “And thanks for everything.”

  “You bet. Now don’t worry; it’ll all work out.” He hung up.

  Jan turned toward her husband. “Guess he didn’t believe me.”

  “He’s doing it by the book is all. There’s no evidence without an autopsy. Besides, it’s pretty obvious, you know? Your dad was about to die.”

  Jan felt her body stiffen. “You mean you don’t think it was murder? But you seemed so sure before.”

  He walked to her chair and began to massage her shoulders. Then he reached down and cupped her left breast with his right hand, squeezing the nipple hard, arousing her so easily, as always.

  “I’m your husband,” he said, the words reassuring, Svengali reborn. “But I’m also your lawyer. I had to prepare you to make the best possible presentation to the ADA. I imagine, though, that Brandon’s right; it was just another mercy killing.”

  “If you believe that, why are we pushing so hard for this autopsy? Dad wanted to be frozen. What if he was right and they really can revive people someday?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, honey. We both know the whole thing’s a crock. Besides, once Ben’s autopsied and buried, it’ll be a lot easier to challenge his bequest to the Trust. That should be our—your family’s—money.”

  He lowered his hand to work between her legs. Jan stared at her husband: the gaze of someone glimpsing a truth she’s always known but could not acknowledge, especially now. She had already committed herself, and the momentum of her choice would scarcely permit such drastic reevaluation.

  She grabbed Noah and moaned. Massaging her belly, she told herself that they were pursuing Noah’s plan for the sake of Sarah and Michael, and their third child kicking inside of her. Noah was right; cryonics was a crock. It had to be. But even as she felt him entering her, some part of Jan’s brain began to imagine the life she could have had with Brandon Butters, a man whose motives she’d always known would need no daily safety inspection.

  December 25, 1988

  —While Jewish settlers continue to move into the West Bank, Palestinians harass them with stones and firebombs. Meanwhile in Bethlehem, the mostly Christian Arab residents mourn their 300 countrymen killed in the past year’s uprising against Israeli rule.—Securities firm Drexel Burnham Lambert pleads guilty to securities related fraud, leaving its star employee, Michael Milken, isolated in the face of criminal charges.—The remains of 235 victims of last week’s Pan Am plane crash over Lockerbie, Scotland, have thus far been found. The search continues for more bodies and for the cause of the crash.

  Today’s meal would no doubt be the clan’s last in the Chestnut Street brownstone before it was sold. Thus their Christmas dinner took on the added aura of ceremony, not only commemorating the life of Benjamin Smith, but also marking the passage of an era in Smith family history.

  The dining room table was a Queen Anne antique that Alice had given Ben in 1960, just a few months after Sam’s death. It normally seated eight, but the ends pulled out and two center extenders could be added, allowing cramped accommodations for twelve. The three daughters of Ben and Marge Smith, along with their husbands, five children, Alice, and Gary, packed themselves around it on six dining room chairs, two stools, three armchairs borrowed from the den, Alice’s wheelchair, and two-year-old Michael Banks’s high chair.

  Rebecca recited a short prayer before dinner, then Maxine offered a toast composed for the occasion:

  “To our mother and father, who raised and protected, nurtured and loved us in this house of warm memories. And now, may Benjamin and Margaret Smith together find their eternal peace.”

  Nearly all the adults raised their wineglasses, and most intoned a heartfelt “Amen.”

  But eighty-four-year-old Alice Franklin Smith bit her tongue. Eternal peace together? What rubbish!

  Alice had known of her son’s decision to have himself frozen; she was the only family member to learn of it before the day of his death; long before. In fact he’d told her prior to mailing the papers, and she’d encouraged him. She did not pretend to understand the science, but to Alice a tomb or a funeral pyre was a manifestation of cold surrender, while the freezer offered the warmth of hope.

  She also knew of her granddaughters’ opinions on the subject; all three had shared their feelings with her, and she’d listened sympathetically, never betraying prior knowledge of—or her true conviction about—her son’s decision. While Alice would resist ever lying to her progeny, her love for them certainly did not preclude withholding information. Long a student of human nature, she perceived no advantage in tipping her hand prematurely.

  While Alice’s mind had remained inequitably shrewd and acute, her body had decayed with more than enough enthusiasm to atone for the injustice. Arthritis throbbed through every joint, and osteoporosis had hobbled her frame into a painful, almost paralyzed twist of loose, wrinkled flesh on brittle bone. Worse yet, her eyes were failing. She could no longer read newspapers or her beloved books, and could barely decipher the extra-large-print
magazines to which she subscribed.

  Recently she’d learned that an inoperable malignancy, which had begun in her lower intestine three years earlier, had metastasized to her liver. At her age, the cancer would spread slowly, affording perhaps another year or two of life. Many in Alice’s condition would have considered the remaining time a curse, but she deemed every day a bonus.

  As Alice sat in the wheelchair, her body adopted a near-fetal contour, forcing her to stare at the floor. To see above the table’s edge, she was forced to wrench back her head, curving her spine into a recumbent S. Doing just that to watch Katie haul the twenty-one-pound Christmas turkey to the table on a tray, Alice exclaimed with a genuine childlike grin, “That is simply the most beautiful bird I’ve seen in years.”

  Everyone applauded, and Katie’s ten-year-old face lit up. Soft brown hair outlined her lively eyes—blue-green, like Ben’s—and radiant smile. Katie placed the tray carefully at the center of the table. Today’s gobbler was almost entirely her handiwork.

  The early conversation centered around the meal and, naturally, basketball; the four men and George—my sixteen-year-old future-father—had carefully selected their dining-table seats on the basis of line-of-vision to the television screen in the adjoining den.

  But the mood unmistakably changed during the break before dessert. The game now over, all five children had assembled in the den to watch the end of It’s a Wonderful Life. Rebecca knew no sound could penetrate their concentration on the tube; especially George, who practically became the television set whenever he watched it.

  A few weeks before his death, Ben had told her, “George is so damn bright; we just can’t let him waste his mind like that.” Rebecca had agreed and was still waiting for the right moment to have a chat with her son about it; maybe even limit his viewing hours. But today she was actually thankful for this preoccupation with the narcotic medium. With the youngsters safely distracted, she could finally ask Noah Banks for the latest news on the lawsuit he had persuaded her to join against the Smith Family Cryonic Trust.

  “It took long enough, but Brandon Butters finally obtained our court order,” Noah answered.