But his senior year in nursing school—the week of his conversion—he had been thinking a lot about God’s reality and life and death. He remembered this now as he walked with Steve and Priscilla to the pediatric Waiting Room. He recalled it clearly: A woman had come in for surgery on a cancer of the colon, and she was absolutely at peace with herself and unafraid. She was like the devout people Jim had known in Ireland. She had what they had, and whatever it was, Jim knew it was missing in him. He wanted to be that unafraid of death. Then he had gone to Westminster Chapel to hear Dr. Martin Lloyd-Jones preach, and Dr. Lloyd-Jones, who had been a famous doctor and then became a well-known minister, preached as if directly to Jim when he talked about those in the congregation who had had questions about God for years. It seemed that in that moment God discovered Jim Hutchison, he often thought. Not in any earthshaking way—it was just that quietly he suddenly believed.
But his fear of death, that had not disappeared entirely until after his extracorporeal experience. He had been pastor at Aldersgate only six months when the doctors discovered the calcium deposit that was pushing on his brain. They had organized a surgical team and operated immediately.
The next thing he remembered was seeing himself on the table with a big gouge in his throat and all sorts of forceps hanging out and someone pushing on his chest and the anesthesiologist squeezing the bag. And he experienced a beautiful sense of well-being as he drifted away from the Operating Room and came to a place where some people were building a little wall. And as he watched them building it, a verse of Scripture came to him, the one where Jesus said, “In my Father’s house are many mansions.” He knew the true translation of mansions was
caravansaries—
places where caravans were hitched for the night. So he understood the symbolism; he understood that the other side of the grave was not a static thing at all. And as he realized that, it was as though powerful hands brought him back to the operating table. Then the sequence repeated itself twice more. The third time he almost reached the wall-builders and he realized that if they looked up and recognized him, he would never return to the world again, and he realized as well that he did not want to return. He could see the anesthesiologist working on him with the electric paddles, trying to restart his heart, and he felt sorry for the doctor who was trying to save him.
Then when he awoke, he found, as he expected, that they had not done the surgery at all. His heart had stopped three times upon the operating table.
Jim told this story often to his parishioners because he felt that people’s attitudes toward death were prehistoric. Even people who faced death every day found ways to avoid dealing with it. When he had started his training at Whipps Cross Hospital, he had once gone to the superintendent to report the death of a patient.
“We don’t say ‘die,’” he was told. So the next time Jim had to report a death, he called the superintendent and said, “Mr. Smith...” and paused.
“What’s the matter with him?” the superintendent asked.
“Well, he has no pulse and he isn’t breathing and he hasn’t moved for ten minutes,” Jim said, adding slyly, “I can’t think what’s the matter with him!”
Unamused, the superintendent had put Jim on report. “You are to say that his vital signs are imperceptible,” he told Jim sternly. It was ridiculous. Jim never hesitated to use the word
die.
There was nothing wrong with the word, just as there was nothing wrong with the fact.
When he turned now to Steve and Priscilla, he held this firmly in mind.
“What do you think we should do, Jim?” Steve asked. Jim looked around the little Waiting Room for a moment, then reached for and took Steve and Priscilla’s hands.
“Tia has a flat EEG. As far as I’m concerned she died yesterday,” he said. “There’s no doubt that she’s now being kept alive by machines. We’re just holding her here now, and I don’t think we should any longer. She’ll be far better off. Let her pass on. You both know the passage in the New Testament in which Jesus asked, ‘What is life? It is even as a vapor which appeareth for a little while and then vanisheth away.’ Death is part of life. In death we affirm the resurrection, don’t you see?” Steve nodded, the tears running unattended.
“She would want us to do it,” he said.
“No,” said Priscilla. “Not yet. Not until Dr. Leider sees her.” And Jim agreed.
“Let’s wait until then.”
18
Priscilla sat by Tia’s bed. It was late that afternoon; Sara and Dr. Leider were expected any minute. Tia lay gray and cold to the touch, like a crack-veined porcelain doll—her dark eyes flat and unwinking. There were tubes and machines everywhere. As Steve came in, Priscilla put her head to the little chest.
“Please, God. I’ll do anything. Just don’t take her,” she said.
Steve stood beside her.
“Jim Hutchison has gone down to the cafeteria to get something to eat, and Jim Doudiet wants me to go to McDonald’s with him to pick up some hamburgers,” he said. His voice wheezed in his throat.
Priscilla didn’t answer. He touched her shoulder and departed. Jan Doudiet came in and stood with her. Jan had been at the hospital for two days now. Suddenly Priscilla wanted to call Debby and Maria. It seemed very important that they know because they had so often cared for Tia.
“We’re going to turn off the respirator,” she told them. “I wanted to call you because you loved Tia and I thought you ought to know.” And they all cried over the phone.
Finally Sara and Dr. Leider arrived. Steve and Jim were still at McDonald’s and Jim Hutchison at the cafeteria. Priscilla stood by the bed while Dr. Leider tested Tia. He poured water in her ear, looked into her eyes. She never moved. He checked her chart. Steve came back then, clutching the McDonald’s bag like some pale, pathetic life buoy, and stood next to Priscilla as Leider leafed through the final pages of Tia’s thick chart. Finally Dr. Leider turned to them.
“I’m sorry, but Tia’s brain is dead. Her EEG is flat. Her pupils have been fixed for over eighteen hours. There are no spontaneous respirations, no spontaneous movements. The only thing keeping her alive is the respirator,” he said.
“Is there a chance she will come out of it? Any chance?” Steve asked.
“No. None.”
“I want Jim here. We can’t go ahead till he gets here. Please, someone get Jim,” Priscilla said. She felt her eyes would explode—her whole head pop open and expose to the world what lay within. Steve reached for her and his arm sank like a great weight on her shoulder, pressing her into the floor.
“I’ll have him paged,” somebody said.
19
Steve watched anxiously for Jim as they all stood around in a little knot, sobbing. No one said anything. Then Jim hurried around the corner and came up to where they waited.
“Dr. Leider says her brain is dead. They are waiting for us to decide about the respirator but we didn’t want to decide without you here,” Steve said. He could barely get the words out, and he wiped at the tears with both hands. Beside him Jan Doudiet clung tighter.
“I have absolutely no qualms about it. Why hold her here? She has suffered so much. I think we should end it now,” Jim said.
“Pris?” Steve wondered for a moment if she could even answer she was crying so hard. But she did, finally, not looking up.
“Yes. Oh, God. All right. Yes,” she said.
“Come with me,” Jim said quietly. “We’ll wait in the Waiting Room.” And they all pressed into the room, Priscilla and Jim, Marilyn Hansen, the Doudiets and Steve—all holding onto each other and crying. Sara and Dr. Leider went into Tia’s room, and Steve turned his eyes away from there. Maybe when they reached her room, Tia would smile, suddenly look up, and say hi, he thought.
But in just a few moments, Dr. Leider was back. It was 6:45 P.M., February 3, 1977. He nodded slowly.
“She’s gone,” he said.
Steve felt the ball in his throat swell until he panted for breath. He was squeezed in terrible darkness. He thought he heard someone groan. Somebody tightened an arm around him and they all moved even closer together.
“God has her now,” Jan said. “She’s totally happy and at peace.”
Jim said something. A prayer maybe. Steve couldn’t hear or understand it.
“I want to hold her,” Priscilla said clearly. “Will they let me hold her?”
“Of course,” Jim said. “Come.”
Priscilla and Jim and Steve went back in to Tia. The Doudiets stopped at the door but the rest of them entered the room. Sara stood there by Tia’s bed, her face a mask. She moved away as they came in. They had removed all the tubes. The three of them stood around the bed. Jim said a prayer. Then he lifted Tia and gave her to Priscilla who sat on the edge of the bed and held her, sobbing. After a while she gave Tia to Steve.
She was so light and so terribly cold, he thought. It wasn’t Tia, and he found he couldn’t hold her long. They went back into the hall. Doctors and nurses surrounded them.
“We all loved her so much.”
“She was such a special child.”
“We’re so sorry. If there’s any way we can help—”
Rich Coolman came up. The tears were streaming down his bearded face. “We’ll always stay in touch,” he said. “I owe so much to you three. You’ve made a better doctor out of me. I never want to lose touch.” He put his arms around Steve and Priscilla and they stood there for a long time.
Dr. Leider found them. “There have been other children with similar problems,” he said. “If we could do an autopsy, it might help one of them.”
Steve looked at Priscilla and they nodded at each other. “Of course,” Priscilla said.
“When will the service be? We want to come to the service,” someone said. “Will you let us know? Where is Dr. Applebaum? He will want to know.”
“He left when they were going to turn off the respirator.”
“He said he couldn’t take it anymore,” Priscilla said. She hesitated and then looked around. “I suppose we might as well decide on the service right now, so you’ll all know.”
They went back into the Waiting Room. Steve and Priscilla sat on the love seat, Jim on the chair facing them. Once again, Steve felt shut in. He hunched forward, closing the room off with his hands.
“I think the best thing would be to have a memorial service for Tia rather than a funeral. Then we can have a private committal service later for just the family. We want to emphasize Tia’s life, and if the body is there as in a funeral, the emphasis tends to be on the death,” Jim said.
“Yes,” Priscilla said. “I want to remember the good things. Everyone loved her so much....”
“How soon before they’ll be finished with her—with the autopsy? Oh, God!” Steve found himself crying again. He got up and paced the small room. What could God want with Tia? he thought. How could He hurt them so much? But He must—yes, of course, God knew, Steve was suddenly sure.
“I think God understands what’s going on here because He too lost someone he loved like this,” he said to Jim.
“Of course He does, Steve. And just try to remember that little Tia’s suffering is ended now. And even if by some miracle they could have saved her, she would have had extensive brain damage—maybe been in a coma all her life. This is the way she would have wanted it. Now I’ll go try to find out about the autopsy.”
Jim returned and told them that the autopsy would be tomorrow. Together the three of them decided to set the memorial service for Monday night, February seventh, at seven-thirty at Aldersgate. The committal would be on Tuesday.
“Will you make the arrangements, Jim?” Priscilla asked. “I can’t—I just can’t face that.”
“Yes, certainly. Will you be all right getting home now?”
“Yes. We’ll go to the Doudiets.”
“Don’t forget about the autopsy form before you leave.” They went to sign it. Finally the three of them made their way out into the dark San Francisco street. It seemed strange to Steve that no one gave them a second glance, that no one knew what had just happened. It seemed as though what they had lost should be written all over them.
Steve led Priscilla to the car. On the way across the bridge, Steve said suddenly, “I want to adopt another little girl.” And although they had fought about so many issues in their marriage, they didn’t argue about this. It was right, Steve knew. It was what they needed to do.
THE INVESTIGATION
1
Detective Ted Lindquist pulled his brown VW beetle into the parking lot at the side of the San Rafael Police Department. He levered his six-foot frame out of the car and stood up beside its aging body. He lingered for a moment by the car.
Just thirty, he looked ten years older. A fan of wrinkles at the corner of each eye added the extra years to his age. He had a tight, guarded face that reflected the suspicion with which he regarded the world. He had been a cop for six years and he wasn’t trusting anymore. Still, he was a popular butt of departmental jokes because he would blush if his guard was down, and there was a soft side to Lindquist, an ability to relax, which was as valuable in investigative work as his toughness.
The San Rafael PD was not very large—consisting of perhaps 90 employees including the dispatchers, the meter officers, the secretaries, and the cadets as well as the regular officers. Considering that San Rafael’s population of 45,000 swelled to nearly 90,000 during the workday, the police department’s staff was but marginally adequate.
Ted stopped at the Investigations Room and poked his head in. The detectives’ desks were about half occupied. Rock music blared from a stereo system some of the men had recently installed—an excellent system from the Stolen Property Room. Maybe they’d get lucky and nobody would claim it for a while, Ted thought. He glanced at the bulletin boards for recent announcements. One of the blackboards featured a contest one of the guys was running—something about whether you preferred mayo or mustard with your corned beef. Mustard seemed to be pulling ahead. Walt Kosta looked up from his desk at the end of the room and waved, his big basset hound face wreathed in a broad smile. Ted considered Kosta for a moment. In some ways Walt set the atmosphere in the department. He had a gold box he had made from a Shell No-Pest strip, and he had suspended it by a string so that it dangled directly over the chair by his desk where he talked to suspects. He had rigged it so that if he let the string go, the box descended right to a spot in front of the suspect’s eyes, whereupon out of it would pop a little toy Pinocchio hanging from a hangman’s noose. Walt jerked that string whenever he thought someone was lying to him. Once some lawyer had tried to prove harassment because Walt had pulled the string on his client, Ted remembered. They all had a laugh over that, even the chief.