Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  “What’s ‘cyanotic’?”

  “Uh . . . turning blue. Her lips and her fingernails were turning a bluish purple, from loss of blood and oxygen.”

  “Mm.”

  “So we got an oxygen mask right on her and worked on her vital signs. Her pulse was weak and rapid, and the blood pressure . . . Well, we couldn’t hear well enough to get a reading with a stethoscope, Mrs. Slater was hollering so much and the governor was hollering trying to keep her from hollering and . . .” Al had to pause for a moment. The memory was obviously still disturbing to him. “Well, it was just a real mess, I want to tell you. We finally got a blood pressure reading by palpating . . .”

  “Mm, you mean, by touch?”

  “Right—holding her wrist and feeling for a pulse. And we counted respiration, which was rapid. She was in trouble all around, to put it simply. She was bleeding to death, just bleeding out. The EMTs were there then, and they shared the load. We gave her an IV, got a tube into her airway, got the bag valve hooked up to the tube to assist her breathing—you know, pump air into her lungs because she wasn’t getting enough. Then we radioed the police to do a blood run for us.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, we draw blood samples from the patient, fill three vials, and then send the cop after blood. He meets us at the hospital and then we’re ready to transfuse.”

  “Got it.”

  “So . . . we got the stretcher in, got her on it, and got ready to transport her to the hospital. Oh . . . while we were doing that, I asked the parents some real quick questions. I asked them if Hillary was pregnant or if she’d ever given birth before or if she was under a doctor’s care for any special medical problems or if she was taking any medication. It didn’t really matter what I asked—they didn’t know anything.”

  “So they had no idea she was pregnant?”

  “They weren’t aware of it.”

  “And so I imagine they knew nothing about any abortion?”

  “They . . . well, all of this was new to them. They had no idea what was going on. I had my suspicions, but it wasn’t my place to tell them that. Once we got her to the hospital and the doctor had a look at her, then he could determine what the cause was and handle the parents. So anyway we transported her to the hospital.”

  “Bayview Memorial?”

  “Right. We got her into the Emergency Room, and that was when the governor’s family physician, Leland Gray, got into the loop. He was waiting there at the hospital, and he basically took over, calling the shots. We told him everything we knew, including our suspicions that it might be an abortion, and he took it from there. But obviously it was too late. She died on the table. Dr. Gray called it at 7:14 P.M. The governor and his wife were both there at the hospital, along with their other two kids, and I remember Dr. Gray going out to the waiting area to tell them, and I remember Mrs. Slater really going hysterical. She had to be sedated and admitted to the hospital for the night.”

  John wanted to double-check. “You did tell Dr. Gray about the abortion factor?”

  Al nodded with a resigned look on his face. “Yeah, we did, and it surprised us a little when we checked back and heard it was an overdose of warfarin. But what the doctor says, that’s what it is. You just don’t know everything when you’re on the scene, and you don’t have the whole picture ’til you bring the patient in. So when the whole picture finally comes out, well, that’s that. You had your own theories, but the doc says what it really is.”

  John asked, “Dr. Gray in this case?”

  “Well, him and the pathologist who did the autopsy. We didn’t find out the true cause of death until a few days later. I think they did the autopsy the next day, Saturday, and we found out on Monday.”

  “We saw it was Dr. Gray who filled out the death certificate.”

  “Yeah. He certified the cause of death.”

  “And after all this, what do you think of Dad’s idea?”

  “That it was a botched abortion? Well . . . I’m still wondering how he knew about it. But the big problem with that whole theory is that you’d have to have Dr. Gray and then the hospital pathologist both be liars or in cahoots or something. When the governor’s physician and the pathologist agree it was an accidental overdose of warfarin, and the doctor signs the death certificate to that effect, what else are you supposed to think?”

  “I might take into consideration the influence the governor and his personal physician might have.”

  Al smiled. “Yeah, you might.”

  John’s brow wrinkled a little. “And . . . how do you know the pathologist even agreed with Dr. Gray’s finding?”

  Al’s face went a little blank. “Well . . . the pathologist did the autopsy . . .”

  “But how do you know the autopsy found the same cause of death that Dr. Gray states on the death certificate?”

  “Well, it’s a pretty safe assumption to make, isn’t it?”

  John said, mostly to himself, “It would be nice to see the autopsy report.”

  Al shook his head. “Not without a court order, you won’t. It’s confidential. But you know the official version.”

  “Tell us again so we can compare notes.”

  Al drew a deep breath, gathered an outline in his mind, and laid it out succinctly. “The way I understand it, the governor was taking warfarin for a blood clot in his leg. Dr. Gray prescribed it. It was no secret or anything. When Hillary took those pills by mistake, well, Dr. Gray said it was just one of those freak accidents—bad timing and bad labeling at the same time. Hillary Slater was having her period and probably thought she was taking pills for menstrual cramps when she took her father’s pills by mistake, which makes sense, I suppose. The doc said the dosage of pain medication she would have taken would have been about right, but the same dosage of her father’s medication would have been enough to bring on a hemorrhage from her uterus and . . . well, that’s what we found—an obvious hemorrhage from the uterus—and that’s the explanation we got.”

  “Let’s go back to the governor’s house for a minute. Now you say you found the governor there and his wife.”

  “Right.”

  “Did you see anyone else in the house?”

  “Well, the other two kids.”

  “Hayley, the daughter, about fifteen?”

  “Right. And the boy. They were pretty shook, of course.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Well, besides our crew, the aid crew, and then the police who came for the blood run, no.”

  “No other friends or relatives?”

  “I didn’t see anyone else.”

  “Uhh . . . I’m curious. Any idea who called 911?”

  Al thought about that a moment. “Mm, well . . . I always thought it was the governor. Nobody said who made the call.”

  “What about the dispatcher? Would he know more about that?”

  Al shook his head. “That’s out of bounds; 911 calls are confidential, and the dispatcher sure isn’t going to give you any details if he values his job.”

  “What about the recording of the call itself? How would someone get a copy of that?”

  “I don’t think you could, to be honest. First you’d have to be a family member or a close relative, and even then you’d have to file a Request for Information form and have the station captain okay it, and then you could get a copy taken from the master tape, but . . . there’s no way some reporter with no connections at all is going to get a copy of that conversation. It just isn’t done, not without a court order, which you won’t get without a really good reason.”

  John and Carl exchanged a glance.

  Now Al spoke more out of fantasy than hard possibility. “It would be great if you could get the hospital pathologist, the guy who did the autopsy, to tell you what really happened. That would settle everything, wouldn’t it?”

  “DR. MATTHEWS? Harlan Matthews?”

  Dr. Harlan Matthews, pathologist at Bayview Hospital, looked up from his desk to see an attractive blo
nde woman poking her head through the open door.

  “Yes?”

  Leslie stepped in and came up to his desk, offering her hand. “I’m Leslie Albright. May we talk for just a minute?”

  Dr. Matthews was young-looking, although his tired expression was giving his age away, which was forty-five. “We’ll have to make it quick. I have an autopsy coming up in just a few minutes.”

  “Oh, I’ll be brief. This is regarding an autopsy you performed on Hillary Slater, the governor’s daughter, back in April.”

  He smiled courteously. “I’m not going to be able to say much about it. The information is confidential.”

  “Oh, I’ll be careful. I was just wondering—”

  “Now wait a minute . . . What business brings you here anyway? Just who am I talking to?”

  She smiled, feeling awkward. “Well . . . this is going to sound funny, but . . . I’m Leslie Albright, and though I work for Channel 6, I’m not here as a reporter for them. I’m here on my own.”

  The light dawned. “Oh, yes! I’ve seen you on NewsSix. I thought you looked familiar.” He chuckled. “Now I know I’m not going to have anything to say.”

  Leslie chuckled only to keep things loose and friendly, if that was at all possible. “Doctor, I assure you there are no cameras . . .” She opened her suit jacket. “No hidden microphones either. I’m not after a scoop.”

  Dr. Matthews looked at his watch, making sure she saw that he was looking at his watch. “You have one minute to clearly state your business.”

  Leslie spotted a chair near the door. “Um . . . may I sit down?”

  He extended his hand toward the chair, offering it to her. She sat.

  “Of course,” she began, “everyone has been told that Hillary Slater died from an overdose of warfarin, resulting in a hemorrhage from her uterus.” She could see the immediate tension in the doctor’s face. Her time with this man was going to be quite limited, she could feel it. “Um . . . that’s what the death certificate indicates.”

  “That’s correct,” he replied, and his tone indicated he hoped that would be the last word on the subject.

  “Well . . . I did a little checking with the Records Department—I was trying to find out who did the autopsy, and that’s how I found you—and I happened to find the transcriptionist who transcribed your remarks. She remembered it right away. It was a big deal, you know, the governor’s daughter and all. It was easy to remember.”

  He looked at his watch again and began to clear his desk. “I have to be going.”

  Leslie started talking faster. “Well, before you go, sir, could you help me out with one thing?”

  “I doubt it,” he quipped, his eyes on his papers and paper clips, not on her.

  “The transcriptionist thought the autopsy report was quite remarkable, especially since it contradicted the death certificate. According to her, your finding was that Hillary Slater died from . . . uh . . . ‘exsanguination’ . . .”

  “That’s correct,” he said crisply, rising from his desk and stashing some reports in a file drawer.

  “Uh . . . due to hemorrhaging from the uterus . . .”

  He kept filing as if not hearing her.

  “Due to . . . incomplete removal of the placenta and the products of conception. An incomplete abortion, in other words.”

  Suddenly he turned and just locked eyes with her. She couldn’t tell if he was going to admit it or throw her out or both.

  “I’m sorry,” he said firmly, deliberately. “The autopsy report and everything connected with it is confidential, and I cannot discuss it.”

  “Well, without discussing the report itself . . .” Leslie stood up, planning to block the doorway if necessary, for as long as she could get away with it. “. . . I noticed that the governor’s doctor, Dr. Leland Gray, signed the death certificate as the certifying physician. Apparently he was content with the warfarin story, but . . . could you explain the discrepancy between the autopsy findings—which we won’t discuss—and the cause of death indicated on the death certificate?”

  He stopped on his way to the door. He was apparently a gentleman—he didn’t trample her. He seemed to be thinking about what she’d said, reviewing his options. “I really can’t explain that.”

  “Well . . . without discussing the report itself . . . were you aware, sir, that Hillary Slater had received an abortion the day she died?”

  He shook his head and took one step toward the door. “I can’t discuss that.”

  She held her hand up in one last hope of detaining him. “Off the record, sir, off the record . . . if . . . if I were to believe that Hillary Slater had an abortion the day she died . . . would you have trouble with that?”

  “I can’t discuss it! Now if you’ll please step aside—”

  “Don’t tell me she did or didn’t! Just . . . just for my own peace of mind in this, okay? If I . . . okay, if I thought Hillary had an abortion that day, would you have trouble with that? Would I be all wet?”

  He smiled at her tenacity. She was thankful he was smiling at all.

  “Ms. Albright, you can think whatever you want. It’s a free country. Now . . .” He motioned with his hand for her to step aside.

  She held both hands out pleadingly. “Just one more question . . . Just one more . . . Please.”

  “It doesn’t mean you’ll get an answer.”

  “Off the record . . .”

  “Off the record.”

  “If . . . if I were to say to you that Hillary Slater didn’t die from a warfarin overdose but from a botched abortion, would you . . . and you don’t have to say if she did or didn’t . . . would you have any trouble with that?”

  He pointed his finger right at her nose, so close she almost crossed her eyes to see it. “Ms. Albright, you learned nothing new from me today, isn’t that correct?”

  She took a quick inventory and then replied, “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “I’ve told you nothing you didn’t already know?”

  “Correct.”

  He looked directly into her eyes with a gaze that seemed it would push her backward. “The answer to your question is no. I wouldn’t have any trouble with that. All right?”

  She maintained a meek and courteous stance, and she truly was grateful. “Thank you, sir. Thank you for your time.”

  He stepped past her, took just a few steps down the hall, and then turned and pointed at her with that same forceful gaze. “Now don’t bring this matter into my presence again, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned his back on her and hurried down the hall.

  She turned away, used the doorpost to keep her balance, and mimed a wide-eyed, silent whistle.

  THE NURSE/RECEPTIONIST sitting in the little glass window at Dr. Leland Gray’s private practice took the call, made a note of it, and then informed Dr. Gray the moment he’d finished with a patient. “Dr. Gray, you received a call from Dr. Matthews at Bayview. He’d like you to return his call ASAP.”

  Dr. Gray was an older man with thinning gray hair combed straight back, a firmly set jaw, and cold blue eyes that could stare down an army. Upon hearing this message, he maintained an even, general-like demeanor, but did take a peek through the window to see who was out in the waiting room. Mm. Nothing urgent.

  “Mrs. Demetri is next?” he asked.

  The nurse consulted her chart. “Yes. She’s complaining of a sore throat.”

  “Mm . . . okay . . . I’ll be just a few minutes.”

  “All right.”

  He walked, almost marched, into his office and closed the door behind him. He quickly banged out a staccato tune on his touch-tone phone and waited while the other end whirred a few times.

  “Dr. Matthews,” a voice answered.

  “Harlan, this is Lee.”

  “Lee . . .” There was an uncomfortable pause.

  “Well, come on, man, I have patients waiting.”

  “Bad news, Lee. I had a reporter from Channel 6 drop by
my office. She’s been sniffing around and knows about the Hillary Slater thing.”

  Dr. Gray’s eyes narrowed, but his spine stayed straight.

  “What reporter?”

  “Leslie Albright.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “She’s no big name or anything, but she does news reporting for Channel 6.”

  “So what does she know, what did she ask, and what did you tell her?”

  Matthews fumbled a bit at the rapid-fire questions.

  “Well . . . first of all . . .”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her nothing, Lee. I told her I could not discuss the case.”

  “So what does she know?”

  “She knows . . . or at least she’s in the process of finding out . . . the cause of Hillary’s death.”

  Gray was getting angry. “Well, can’t she read? The death certificate is quite clear!”

  “She knows it doesn’t line up with the autopsy report.”

  “How does she know that?”

  “Well, I didn’t tell her—I want to make that clear.”

  “Then who did?”

  Matthews was getting flustered. “Lee . . .”

  “Who did?” Then Gray spiced his question with some cursing, which underlined his impatience.

  “I’ve got an autopsy to do, so I haven’t had time to ask around. Albright said it was the transcriptionist who typed up the autopsy report.”

  Now Gray just cursed without saying anything else.

  Matthews kept going while he had the chance. “I do not know what got this Albright woman started on this, especially after all this time, but . . . obviously, there’s been a leak somewhere, and I’ll be direct about this—it didn’t start with me. She already had her information before she came in here.”

  “Well, who’s the transcriptionist?”

  “I’m going to find that out.”

  “When you find out, tell me.”