Prophet (29 page)

“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 been 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 those 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.”