A Case of Need: A Novel by Michael Crichton, Jeffery Hudson Page B

and she’d said the girl was O.K., that Whiting would have been free and clear. The girl would still have died, of course, but Whiting would be clear. His mistake was not killing Karen Randall; it was not asking permission first.
    I thought about saying this, but I didn’t.
    “Any indication in the chart of psychiatric problems?” I asked.
    “No.”
    “Nothing unusual at all?”
    “No.” Then he frowned. “Wait a minute. There was one strange thing. A complete set of skull films were ordered about six months ago.”
    “Did you see the films?”
    “No. I just read the radiologist’s dx.”
    “And what was that?”
    “Normal. No pathology.”
    “Why were the films taken?”
    “It didn’t say.”
    “Was she in an accident of some kind? A fall, or an auto accident?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    “Who ordered the films?”
    “Probably Dr. Randall. Peter Randall, that is. He was her doctor.”
    “And you don’t know why the X rays were taken?”
    “No.”
    “But there must be a reason,” I said.
    “Yes,” he said, but he didn’t seem very interested. He stared moodily at his coffee, then sipped it. Finally he said, “I hope they take that abortionist and screw him to the wall. Whatever he gets, he deserves worse.”
    I stood. The boy was under stress and almost on the verge of tears. All he could see was a promising medical career jeopardized because he had made a mistake with the daughter of a prominent physician. In his anger and frustration and self-pity, he, too, was looking for a goat. And he needed one worse than most.
    “Are you planning to settle in Boston?” I asked.
    “I was,” he said with a wry look.
    W HEN I LEFT THE INTERN I called Lewis Carr. I wanted to see Karen Randall’s chart more than ever. I had to find out about those X rays.
    “Lew,” I said, “I’m going to need your help again.”
    “Oh?” He sounded thrilled by the prospect.
    “Yes. I’ve got to get her chart. It’s imperative.”
    “I thought we went over that.”
    “Yes, but something new has come up. This thing is getting crazier by the minute. Why were X rays ordered—”
    “I’m sorry,” Carr said. “I can’t help you.”
    “Lew, even if Randall does have the chart, he can’t keep—”
    “I’m sorry, John. I’m going to be tied up here for the rest of the day and most of tomorrow. I’m just not going to have time.”
    He was speaking formally, a man counting his words, repeating the sentences over to himself before speaking them aloud.
    “What happened? Randall get to you and button your mouth?”
    “I feel,” Carr said, “that the case should be left in the hands of those best equipped to deal with it. I’m not, and I don’t think other doctors are, either.”
    I knew what he was saying and what he meant. Art Lee used to laugh about the elaborate way doctors back out of things, leaving behind a spoor of double-talk. Art called it The Pilate Maneuver.
    “O.K.,” I said, “if that’s the way you feel.”
    I hung up.
    In a way, I should have expected it. Lewis Carr always played the game, following all the rules just like a good boy. That was the way he always had been, and the way he always would be.
    1 Shock blocks are simply wooden blocks used to elevate the legs in cases of shock, helping to get blood to the head.

TEN
    M Y ROUTE FROM WHITING to the medical school took me past the Lincoln Hospital. Standing out in front near the taxi stand was Frank Conway, hunched over, his hands in his pockets, looking down at the pavement. Something about his stance conveyed sadness and a deep, dulling fatigue. I pulled over to the curb.
    “Need a ride?”
    “I’m going to Children’s,” he said. He seemed surprised that I had stopped. Conway and I aren’t close friends. He is a fine doctor but not pleasant as a man. His first two wives had divorced him, the second after only six months.
    “Children’s is on the way,” I said.
    It wasn’t, but I’d take him anyway. I wanted to talk to