Prophet (60 page)

“Did you see it?” asked Deanne.

“Barbara told me about it.”

Leslie said, “It was a terrible setback. It almost came between us.”

“Max is still upset. He doesn’t want to trust anybody,” said Deanne.

Denning leaned forward, concern filling his eyes. “Then . . . if I may ask, what’s to keep the information I have from being misused as well?”

They were all looking at Leslie, even Deanne, needing an answer to a valid question. Leslie had determined she would be forthright. “Um . . . to be perfectly honest . . . present circumstances in the newsroom being what they are, I don’t think this information has much chance of a fair treatment or of even being noticed at all.” She quickly added, “And Deanne and I have talked about the newsworthiness of this and whether or not that mattered, and we’ve agreed that it really doesn’t. I mean . . . at one time I thought it would be a news story. Then after it became one, I was sorry it did. Maybe if the picture becomes clear enough and the climate in the media is right, we could do something on it, but we’re not concerned with that right now. My real concern is with Deanne and Max. We started something with them, and I want to finish it.” She looked at Deanne, yielding the floor.

Deanne spoke her part. “Dr. Denning, my husband and I have our own life to live and our own children to raise and our own affairs to manage, and that’s always going to be the same whether it’s ever seen on television or not. We’ve lost our daughter, and we want to know why. Even if nobody else ever hears what happened to her, at least we’ll know. That’s what we want, at the very least.”

Dr. Denning seemed pleased with that, though still troubled. “It’s hard to get people to view things through clear, untainted glasses, don’t you agree?”

Leslie nodded. “Certainly. We’re all up against that. Even an unbiased news story won’t please a biased viewer, and sometimes you can’t win no matter what you do.”

Denning laughed. “Well, the medical profession is no exception, let me tell you. We’re supposed to be the empirical, objective professionals, but we have our biases too. There are some things we want to know and some we don’t. There are findings our peers will accept and findings our peers will not find acceptable. Part of surviving in the medical profession is to learn how to handle certain information. There
are rules.”

Leslie ventured, “Such as . . . ?”

“Botched abortions, you don’t talk about. Your peers moonlighting at abortion clinics, you don’t talk about. Nonphysicians performing abortions in place of the physician who’s late, you don’t talk about. Prescriptions being written by nonphysicians on forms signed in advance by the physician who isn’t even there, you don’t talk about. Unsanitary conditions, rushed procedures, little fudges here and there for the sake of saving time and making money, you don’t talk about.” Denning was showing some frustration now. “Because if you do talk about it, that makes you anti-abortion. You’re branded. You’re not politically correct. You’re not one of the recognized professionals anymore.” He looked at Leslie with a glint in his eye. “And you know, even as I sit here, talking to a news reporter—a news reporter!—I feel perfectly safe. I know I can tell you all kinds of hair raisers, story after story, but you won’t talk about it either, and even if you tried to . . . well, we’ve already seen what happens.”

Leslie said nothing for a moment, having no reply. Finally she offered, very quietly, “At the present time I can’t disagree.”

“So,” Denning said with a sigh, “we all climb aboard and let the profession carry us where it will, and we obey the rules, don’t we, because we don’t want to be kicked off.”

“As you were?”

Denning nodded. “Mm-hm. Do you know how many abortion-related cases come through Westland Memorial Hospital each month?”

“How many?”

Denning shrugged. “I don’t know. No one does. Ask the Records Department and you get a blank stare. Dig through the files and you get vague entries on the charts. There’s an entrenched mentality in that place, and you fall in line or you don’t last long.” He paused for an emotional breather and then told Deanne, “As far as my personal knowledge is concerned, as far as what I saw in pathology, your daughter Annie was only one among many over the last few years.”

Deanne nodded grimly. She was not surprised.

“But who ever hears about it?” Denning reiterated.

“We did,” Deanne said gratefully, “and we owe you a debt of thanks.”

Denning smiled resignedly. “Well, I think your husband and his
friend, that older fellow . . .”

“John Barrett Sr.,” said Leslie. “He was the father of John Barrett, the news anchor at Channel 6.”

Denning found that strangely amusing. “I wonder how that old man and his son get along?”

“They . . . didn’t . . . get along too well, obviously.”

Denning caught Leslie’s emphasized past tense. “Oh? Is the elder Barrett deceased?”

Leslie nodded. “Killed a few weeks ago in a warehouse accident.”

Denning slowed his pace a little to show respect. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He reflected on his experience with John Barrett Sr. and smiled. “That man didn’t blend in much, not around that hospital. It was startling—well, refreshing, really—to encounter someone so opposite in his thinking from the people I worked with day in and day out. I think that might be why I took the risk I did. As I was going to say, Mr. Brewer and Mr. Barrett caught me at a good time. I was just frustrated enough with being pulled around by the prevailing winds at that hospital that I was glad for the opportunity to do something, just one thing, for conscience’s sake. I never lied on an autopsy report; what I found, I recorded. But I knew the rules—plus the written policy about anything abortion-related being inaccessible to parents—so I went along with that. And if someone chanced to pirate some information from a patient chart while my back was turned, well . . .”

“I understand it still got you fired,” said Leslie.

“I believe so. There’s no record of that, and no one will admit it, but . . .” He looked at Deanne. “Please don’t blame your husband. I think he was right to cause the fuss he did and make the demands he did, but . . .”

“He got you in trouble,” said Deanne.

Denning nodded. “It all got traced back to me in short order, and that was that. I didn’t think I was snitching on my peers, but they saw it differently.”

“And what about Dr. Lawrence, the ob-gyn on Annie’s case?” asked Leslie. “I suppose he had a voice in your demise.”

“He did. And you’ll be interested to know that Dr. Lawrence and Dr. Huronac are good friends.”

Deanne asked, “Who’s Dr. Huronac?”

Denning chuckled at himself. “Well, see how little anyone knows? Dr. Michael Huronac does most of the abortions at the Women’s Medical Center. It’s basically all he does, six days a week. You see the connections here? Birds of a feather look out for each other, and the odd birds have to watch out.”

“So . . . you did get another job okay?” Leslie asked.

“At a Catholic hospital. I won’t say it’s heaven on earth, but at least abortion isn’t an issue we have to grapple with.”

Leslie had a thought and muttered to herself, “Catholic. A Catholic school . . .”

“Hm?”

Deanne took a notepad from her handbag. “Could I have that doctor’s name again?”

Denning spelled it out for her. “H-u-r-o-n-a-c. Michael. It’s none of my business, but might you be considering some litigation?”

“We really don’t know yet.”

“Well . . . I might be able to help you out if it ever comes to that.”

That really got Deanne’s attention, and Leslie’s.

“Really?”

“Did you happen to bring a legal request of some kind?”

Deanne hurriedly dug through her handbag and produced an envelope from Hart, McLoughlin, Peters, and Sanborn. “Here . . . I’m the personal representative of my daughter’s estate, and as such I have legal power to request her medical records . . .”

Denning rose from the couch and took it from her. He opened the envelope, scanned the letter inside, and said, “Great. This protects my rear. I didn’t leak it to you, you asked for it legally. I’ll be right back.”

He left the room for a short moment while Barbara, Leslie, and Deanne refilled their coffee cups. When he returned, he held out a thick, white envelope.

Deanne stood and reached out to receive it. Leslie stood too. Such a moment you could not take casually. This was a treasure, the end of a quest.

As Deanne opened the envelope to look at the contents, Denning briefly explained, “It’s all there—all the findings. I can explain any of it that you don’t understand, but the bottom line you already know. The abortion was hurried and sloppy, there were parts of the fetus and
placenta still left inside and festering, the uterus was perforated, and the infection had spread generally throughout Annie’s system. So the primary cause of death was generalized septicemia, which is bacterial infection of the bloodstream, and the secondary cause was septic abortion, something for which the abortionist is responsible, in my opinion.”

Deanne asked, “And . . . are you saying you’d be willing to testify to this in court?”

Denning did not answer lightly. “Yes, I would. My employment situation is not quite as shaky now, but even if it was . . . it felt so good to be honest that one time that I’m ready to try it again.”

Deanne wanted to hug him, but restrained herself. “That . . . that would just be so wonderful!”

“But do you have any way to prove which clinic is responsible? I’m willing to bet it was the Women’s Medical Center and Dr. Huronac, but I have no way of knowing that for sure.”

“We’ll work on it,” said Leslie.

“And . . . I suppose you’d like something on-camera?”

Leslie was surprised, not really expecting the offer. “Well, like I said, that’s secondary to just getting the truth for the Brewers.”

Denning just gave a what-the-heck shrug. “If you can use it . . . sometime, who knows when, fine. But we’ll have to do it soon. Barbara and I will be moving.”

“Well, let’s set a time then.”

“Good enough.”

Deanne just kept gazing at that autopsy report, in their hands at long last, the first solid evidence to prove what happened to Annie Delores Brewer.

MAX BREWER,
a scowl on his face, his wife, Deanne, by his side, received the thick white envelope from John Barrett, his son Carl, and Leslie Albright as they all stood in the Brewers’ living room. It was like a little ceremony, the presentation of a peace offering. Hopefully it would result in John and Leslie being able to stick around for a while instead of being thrown out.

Max opened the envelope, pulled out the autopsy report, and took the time to flip through every page, the scowl never leaving his face
until . . . as he looked upon the last two pages, realizing it was all there, and reading once again what it contained, the scowl melted into tears and he started sniffing, holding Deanne close.

John had said it before, but now, seeing Max soften so, he tried saying it again. “Max, we never intended for the story to get twisted around like it did. We’re on your side, and we sincerely apologize for the grief we may have caused you.” Max said nothing, but their eyes were on each other, and Max was listening. “This whole thing has been a moral struggle for me, and I know I’m still not finished, but for whatever it’s worth, it was no fun having to anchor that story the way it came out. I hope I never find myself in that kind of predicament again. I’m sorry, Max.”

Max looked at Deanne and then at the autopsy report and then muttered, “Aw, I guess there ain’t that much harm been done.” Then he glared at John with that look John had come to recognize—eyes of fire, heart of gold. “We’ll see. You mess with me again, I might get mad. But we’ll see.”

John smiled and offered his hand. Max took it, and they were friends again.

“There’s more,” said John as Carl set up a cassette player on the dining room table.

MIDWESTERN UNIVERSITY.
Ted Canan stood on the steps overlooking the Quad Plaza at the center of the campus and took it all in. Yeah, Willy said it would be a big place, and he was right. Lots of fancy redbrick buildings, close-mowed lawns, brick sidewalks, ivy, shade trees, noontime carillon bells, sweet-looking chicks swivel-hipping their way across campus. Mmmmmm-hm!