Side Effects (1984)

by Palmer, Michael

  “He would be the last to admit that.”

  “I agree.” Redding opened a manila folder he had apparently placed on the coffee table prior to Paquette’s arrival. “Here are copies for you of all the information we have obtained thus far on the woman. I want you to go to Boston and keep tabs on things. Do not show yourself in any way without checking with me first. Meet with our Omnicenter people only if absolutely necessary.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There is a small item in that report which may be of some help to us. Bennett’s father-in-law heads the law firm that handles the Metropolitan Hospital account, as well as some of the Northeast business of the Tiny Tummies line of breakfast cereals. Although the connection is not generally known, Tiny Foods is a subsidiary of ours. The man’s name is Winfield Samuels. From all I can tell, he’s a businessman.”

  Paquette nodded. Coming from Cyrus Redding, the appellation “businessman” was the highest praise. It meant the man was, like Redding himself, a pragmatist who would not allow emotions to cloud his handling of an issue. “Do you have any idea of what Reese has in mind to deal with the doctor?”

  “No, except that Carl Horner says he seems quite sure of himself.”

  “If that’s the case,” Paquette said, “I should be back in just a few days.”

  Redding smiled benignly. “I told you how I perceive the Bennett-Reese matchup, Arlen,” he said. “I’ve had reservations made for you at the Ritz. Open-ended reservations.”

  METRO DOC LABELS BOBBY JUNKIE.

  The layout editor of the Herald had, it seemed, dusted off type that had not been used since D-Day. The paper lay on the living room floor, along with the Globe and Roscoe, who was keeping an equal distance between himself and both his masters. It was still afternoon, but the mood and the dense overcast outside made the hour feel much later.

  The calls had begun at two that morning and had continued until Jared unplugged their phones at four-thirty. Letters, typed on Kathryn Bennett’s stationery and signed by her, had been dropped off at both Boston dailies and all three major television stations sometime during the previous night. The gist of the letters was that, driven by conscience and a sense of duty to the people of Boston, Kate had decided to tell the truth about Bobby Geary. Stan Willoughby, who was mentioned in the letter, and Norton Reese, as Metro administrator, were called immediately by reporters. The pathology chief, not as sharp as he might have been had he not been woken from a sound sleep, confirmed the story, adding that Kate was an honest and highly competent pathologist whom, he was sure, had good reason for doing what she had done. It was not until an hour after speaking with the first newsman that he thought to call her. By then, Kate’s line was so busy that it took him almost another hour to get through. Meanwhile, Norton Reese, aided by Marco Sebastian and an emergency session with the hospital computers, had confirmed that there was, in fact, no patient named John Schultz ever treated or tested at Metropolitan Hospital. Reese was careful to add that he knew absolutely nothing of the allegations lodged by Dr. Bennett, whom he described as a brilliant woman with a tendency at times to rebel against traditional modes of conduct. Questioned for details, he refused further comment.

  The house was like a mausoleum. Both Kate and Jared had attempted to go to work for business as usual, but both had been forced by harassing reporters to return home. Over the hours that followed, they sat, drapes closed, ignoring the periodic ring of the front doorbell. The telephones remained disconnected. There was a silence between them chilly enough to offset even the warmth from the wood stove.

  “Jared, do you want a cup of coffee?”

  “Thanks, but no. Three in an hour and a half is a little over my limit.” He leaned forward from his easy chair and plucked the Herald from beside Roscoe’s nose. Beneath the headline were insert photos of Bobby Geary’s parents, along with a quotation from each about Kate, neither the least bit complimentary. “Goddamn tabloid really knows how to slobber it on,” he said, unable to mask the irritation in his voice.

  “Honey, you do believe what I said about not knowing anything about those letters, don’t you?”

  “Of course I believe you. Why would you think otherwise?”

  “No reason, I guess.” The anger she had felt earlier in the day had been greatly muted by frustration and the growing realization that beyond a simple denial and the call for a handwriting analysis of her signature, she had absolutely no cards to play. Even the signature was of doubtful assistance to her claims of innocence. No one had yet come forward with the original letter, and on the photostat she had seen, the signature appeared quite accurate.

  “Why would somebody do this? Why?” Jared seemed to be talking as much to himself as to her, but it was clear that in his mind, confusion and doubt remained. “You say that Yoda and this Detective Finn were the only two besides you who knew about the amphetamines?”

  “I said as far as I knew they were. Reese has it in for me, and he has his finger in just about every pie in Metro. He could have found out somehow, and.…” She shrugged and shook her head. “I don’t think much of the man, but I can’t imagine him doing a thing like this.”

  “You know, Kate, you could have told me you were going to fake Geary’s autopsy report. I mean, I am your husband.”

  Kate glared at him. “Jared, the three of us decided that nobody else should know. Call Mrs. Willoughby or Mrs. Finn and ask if their husbands told them. Do you share all the inner secrets of your work with me?”

  “You never ask.”

  “Give me a break, will you? Listen, I know you’re upset. You are a public figure, and directly or indirectly, you’re getting negative press. But don’t go blaming me, Jared. I didn’t do anything.”

  Jared rose, shuffled to the stove, and began stoking embers that were already burning quite nicely. “I spoke with my father this morning,” he said over his shoulder.

  “My God, Winfield must be absolutely fried over all this. Do you think it would help matters if I called him?”

  “He thinks you should call a press conference and admit that you sent the letters.”

  “What?”

  “It’s his feeling that as things stand, it looks like you performed an act of conscience, and then I talked you out of owning up to it.”

  “So my father-in-law wants me to lie in public to keep his protegé from losing any votes.”

  Jared slammed the poker against the stove door. “Dammit, you already did lie. That’s what caused all this trouble in the first place.”

  Kate felt herself about to cry. “I did what I thought was the kindest and fairest thing I could do for that boy and his family.”

  “Well, now you’re going to have to think about what’s kind and fair to this boy and his family.”

  “So you think that’s what I should do, too?”

  A loud pounding on the front door precluded Jared’s response.

  “Police. Open up.”

  Kate opened the door a slit and peered out, expecting to see another overly resourceful reporter. Instead, she saw Detective Lieutenant Martin Finn. Any lingering doubt they might have had about whether or not the policeman was responsible for the letters evaporated with the man’s first words.

  “You really fucked me, Dr. Bennett. Do you know that?”

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t send those letters,” she said with exaggerated calm. “Would you like to sit down? Can I get you some coffee?”

  Finn ignored her questions, and instead, remained in the center of the room, pacing out a miniature circle on the rug. “I went along with this because I’m Irish and a fan, and look what it gets me. I was up for a promotion. Maybe captain. Now, thanks to you and your fucking grandstand play, I’m going to be lucky I don’t get busted to dogcatcher.”

  “Went along with it?” Kate was incredulous. “Lieutenant Finn, it was your suggestion in the first place. For the kids of Boston. Don’t you remember saying all that?” Her voice cracked. The day had been punishing enough without th
is.

  Suddenly, Jared pushed past her and confronted the man. Though he was taller than Finn, the policeman was far stockier. “Finn, if you’ve said what you came to say, I want you and your foul mouth out of here. If not, say it. Then leave.”

  “I’ll leave when I’m fucking ready.”

  “Get out.”

  Jared stepped forward, his fists clenched in front of him. It was only then that Kate sensed how heavily Finn had been drinking. She moved toward them, but not quickly enough. With no warning or windup, Finn sank a vicious uppercut into Jared’s solar plexus. A guttural grunt accompanied the explosion of air from his lungs, as he doubled over and dropped to his knees.

  Kate knelt beside her husband. “You damn animal,” she screamed at Finn.

  “I wish it had been you, lady,” Finn said as he turned and walked clumsily from the house. The antique vase Kate threw shattered against the door as it closed behind him.

  Jared remained doubled over, but his breathing was deepening. “You okay?” she said softly.

  “Never laid a glove on me,” he responded with no little effort. “Could you bring over the wastebasket, please? Just in case.”

  “You poor darling. Can I do anything else? Get you anything?”

  Slowly, Jared sat back and straightened up. His eyes were glazed. “Just remind me again what I told that minister.”

  “For better or for worse. That’s what you told him. Jared, I don’t want to sound corny, but that was a pretty wonderful thing you did standing up to that animal.”

  “For better or for worse? You sure that was it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Katey, I don’t know how to tell you this, but in some perverse way getting hit the way I just did felt good.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Right before Finn came in I was ready to tell you that I agreed with my father in thinking everything would be simpler and look better for all of us if you would just admit to writing the letter. Then that asshole started in. All of a sudden, I realized how wrong I was … and I’m sorry. I couldn’t stand hearing him talk to you that way. Katey, please just try to remember that there’s a lot going on that’s confusing to me. Sometimes I feel that living with you is like trying to ride a cyclone. Sometimes I feel like a slab of luncheon meat between one slice of Winfield and one slice of Kate. Sometimes I …” He whirled to the wastebasket and threw up.

  Sheila Pierce stared past Norton Reese’s sweat-dampened pate at the stucco ceiling of their room in the Mid City Motel and reminded herself to continue the groans that the man found so exciting.

  Careful not to disrupt his rhythm, she reached up and reassured herself that her new diamond studs hadn’t come dislodged.

  “Oh, baby,” she murmured. “Oh, baby, you’re so good. So good.”

  She wished she could have seen Kate Bennett’s face when the reporters started calling. Reese was hardly a Valentino for her, but she had to give credit where credit was due, and Reese deserved what she was giving him for what he had given Bennett.

  “Oh, baby, come to me. Come to me,” she moaned.

  It had been a thrill just to watch: Kathryn Bennett, MD, Miss Perfect, confused and irritable, suddenly not in control of every little thing. How good at last to be the one pulling the strings. Too bad there was no way for Bennett ever to know.

  “Don’t stop, Norty. Oh, yes, baby, yes. Don’t stop.”

  6

  Friday 14 December

  Compared with the conference rooms of other departments in Metropolitan Hospital of Boston, the one belonging to the pathology unit was spartan. French Impressionist prints mounted on poster board hung on stark, beige walls. Below them, metal, government-surplus bookcases were half filled with worn, dog-eared texts and journals. The meager decor, plus a large, gouged oak table and two dozen variegated folding chairs did little to obscure the fact that prior to a modest departmentwide renovation in 1965, the room had been the hospital morgue. Some among the twenty-nine assembled for the hastily called meeting still sensed the auras of the thousands of bodies that had temporarily rested there.

  Kate, Stan Willoughby seated to her right, stood at one end of the table and surveyed the room. There were six pathologists besides the two of them, some residents, and a number of lab technicians. It bothered her terribly to think that one—or more—of them might be capable of an act as malicious as the Bobby Geary letter. Those in the room were, in a sense, her family—people she spent as many waking hours with each week as she did with her husband. It had always been her way to deal with them in a straightforward manner, respectfully, and with no hidden agendas. There were only two characteristics that they knew she would not tolerate—laziness and dishonesty. However, to the best of her knowledge, none in the room could be accused of either.

  The closest had been the business of Sheila Pierce’s claiming she had misplaced the required vouchers and certification for her Miami trip, and even then, Kate had no proof of her suspicions. Besides, the matter had been settled between them with little disagreement.

  John Gilson, the unit’s electron microscopist; Liu Huang, a meticulous pathologist, whom Kate tutored in English; Marvin Grimes, the always pleasantly inebriated deiner; Sheila, herself, so very bright, so dedicated to the department; momentarily, Kate’s eyes met each of theirs.

  “I want to thank you all for taking the time out of your schedules to hear me out,” she began. “I know the last day and a half have been … how should I say, a bit disrupted around here.” There was a murmur of laughter at the understatement. “Well, I’m here to tell you that compared to what you all have been through, my life has been absolutely nuked. At three o’clock this morning, my husband and I caught a reporter trying to sneak out of our bedroom in time to make the morning edition. He had disguised himself as our antique brass coatrack.” Laughter this time was more spontaneous and animated. Kate smiled thinly. “Norton Reese has set up a news conference for me in about an hour. He wants me to state my position on the Bobby Geary business once and for all. Well, before I tell those vultures, I wanted to tell you.

  “What the press has been saying about Bobby Geary is true. From all we were able to tell at post, he had been a longtime user of intravenous amphetamines. How he could do what he did to his body and still play ball the way he did is a mystery to me, but the chronic scarring we found along certain veins makes the truth clear. Sad for Bobby’s family, sad for the baseball fans and the kids, and, I’m sure, a nightmare for Bobby. The decision to withhold our findings from the press was as much mine as Dr. Willoughby’s or Detective Finn’s.” A jet of acid singed her throat at the mention of the man. “I have trouble with deceit in any form, but every sense I have of what is decent says that our decision was the right one. Now someone is doing his best to make me pay for that decision. I did not write the letter, and I have no idea who did, why they did it, how they got the information on Bobby Geary’s post, or how they obtained my stationery. The possibility exists that it was someone from this department. I very much hope not—all of you are very important to me. I feel like we’re a team, and that helps me show up every day ready to try and practice decent pathology in this dinosaur of a hospital.

  “But what’s done is done. I’ve agonized as much as I’m going to, and after the little Q-and-A session in Reese’s office, I intend to begin stuffing this whole business into the barrel I use to dispose of the garbage in my life. If any of you have any questions, I’ll be happy to answer them as best I can.”

  Stan Willoughby rose and put his arm around her shoulders. “No questions from me, Kate. Just a statement for everybody. I have submitted this woman’s name to the search committee as my personal recommendation to succeed me as department chief. It’s possible this whole business is someone’s way of trying to sabotage that appointment. I want you all to know that I am more committed than ever to seeing that she gets it.”

  For a moment there was silence. Then diminutive Liu Huang stood and began applauding. A
nother joined in and then another. Soon all but one were demonstrating their support.

  “We’re behind you, Doc,” a technician called out.

  The reaction was as enthusiastic and sustained as it was spontaneous. In the back of the room, the lone holdout smiled around clenched teeth and then stiffly joined in the applause.

  “That was pretty special, wasn’t it,” Willoughby said to Kate as the room emptied out. “Little Looie Huang standing there in his formal, inscrutable way, leading the cheers. I just love ’im. Are you all right?”

  “If you mean am I about to come apart and start bawling like a baby, the answer is yes.”

  “So bawl,” Willoughby said, taking her by the arm as they followed the last of the meeting-goers from the room.

  “You know, Stan. I don’t understand it. I don’t think I ever will.”

  “What’s that?” Willoughby bent over the bubbler he had tried for years to get replaced, and sucked vigorously for a sip of tepid water.

  “People, I guess.” She shrugged. “You know, you wake up in the morning, you get dressed, you march off for another encounter in the battle of life—all you want to do is grow a little, try your best, and grab some little morsel of peace and contentment along the way. No big deal. Every day you do that, and every day you think that everyone else is doing the same thing, trying for that same smidgen of happiness. It makes so much sense that way.”

  “Ah, yes, my child, but therein lies the rub. You see, what makes sense and what is are seldom the same thing. The stew you propose cooking up would taste just fine, but it’s a bit short on the condiments of reality—greed, envy, bigotry, insecurity, to say nothing of that ol’ standby, just plain craziness. No matter who you are, no matter how hard you try to tend your own little garden, no matter how kind you try to be to your fellow man, there’s always gonna be someone, somewhere tryin’ to stick it to you. You can count on it.”