Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy (19 page)

"Yes."

"People like this Yary are very dangerous. They
can do anything, as history proves."

"Do you know Alec Bacall?"

"Quite well. If you are active in the area. you
come to know most of the others. Alec is a good man. and of all of
them — the advocates of euthanasia, I mean — he's the one I could
come closest to agreeing with. However, the development of AZT and
DDI and the drugs they might inspire merely make my point more
strongly."

"Which is?"

"That no patient should be taken from us because
medical technology may yet improve to the point that he or she could
be saved."

Eisenberg consulted his watch. "Look, Mr. Cuddy,
I really have to insist."

"I understand. I'd appreciate your keeping our
talk confidential."

"I will."

Eisenberg gathered the threat notes but paused before
handing them back to me. "One more thing, though."

"Yes?"

"I know you said you weren't looking for a
profile, but I can't help but notice something in these notes."

"Which is?"

"The use of words. I think only a male would use
. . . those words to describe a fema1e."

"That's how I see them too."

"Foul, but evasive as well. 'THEY DIE,' and so
on. As though it were a cause involving a lot of people."

"Why is that evasive?"

"It's hard to work up to violence for a cause,
Mr. Cuddy. I think it's more personal."

"Personal."

"Yes. Somebody who lost a loved one to something
he blames on Maisy Andrus."

"Like Louis Doleman."

"Like a Louis Doleman. Good luck."

"Thanks."
 

=16=

"AREA A, DETECTIVES, NEELY."

"Neely, this is John Cuddy."

"Cuddy, how ya doin'?"

"Doing fine. You have a chance to run those
names for me?"

"Names? Oh, yeah, just a second, got them here .
. . somewheres. . . . Hold on, okay?"

"Right." Through the phone I heard him tear
off part of a sandwich and chew.

"Cuddy?"

"Still here."

"Ga wha chu wan."

"Go ahead."

Neely swallowed. "Okay. We got Yary, Gunther W.
You want just his sheet or D.O.B. and that shit too?"

"Start with his sheet."

"Got a commitment to DYS — that's Division of
Youth Services?"

"I know."

"Commitment in seventy — eight on his first
juvie. Must have been a pisser, send him in as a first-timer. After
that we got A&B as an adult, then disorderly . . . disorderly . .
. another A&B. Obstructing a public way, probably some kind of
demonstration thing. That's it. Nothing heavy, no hard time, just
your run-of-the-mill asshole."

"Schooling?"

"Hyde Park High, no college here."

"Employment?"

"Delivery service over in Dorchester." He
gave me the name and address.

"A1l right. Who else do you have?"

"On Doleman, Louis R. Just a flag. Seems his
daughter was dying from something or other, and he made some phone
calls to the doctors, the hospital about it."

"What kind of calls?"

"Says here 'harassing'."

"You figure that means 'threatening'?"

"Don't know. Ask Mass General."

"Mass General?"

"Yeah. That's where she was at."

Odd that Eisenberg didn't recall the treating
hospital. "Anything else on Doleman?"

"Yeah. Gun permit."

"To carry?"

"Sporting. Just rifle and shotgun, not
concealed."

"How recent?"

"Last renewal two years three months ago.
Probably means the calls to the medics weren't too serious."

"Or he wouldn't have gotten his renewal."

"Right."

At least you'd like to think so. "How about
Strock?"

Neely chuckled. "You're gonna love this."

"What'?"

"I told you I thought I heard the name, right?"

"Right."

"Well, turns out I caught the call. Seems this
guy Strock's a professor. Of law, yet. Also seems he kinda had the
hots for one of his students coupla years back. You with me?"

"Go ahead."

"Well, this student has an apartment on the
Hill, backside down near Cambridge Street. Old Strock follows her
from some kind of student party over there at the school, and tries
to slap the make on her."

"Christ. Rape?"

"Uh-uh. But this was four, five years ago, when
the heat was on for those kinda things, so I get sent with the
uniforms. When she opens the door for us, here's this Strock guy,
half into his pants."

"He was in her apartment?"

"Yeah. Seems he gave her a song and dance about
feeling sick or something, and she bought it. Anyway, here's this
guy, and he's drunk, weaving and stumbling with the pants and the
belt coming through the loops and all, trying to make like everything
was okay. Kinda pathetic."

"What happened?"

"Oh, nothing. What do you think? Nobody decided
to press nothing. Wouldn't even have remembered the guy, but you
asked me and the sheet registered, that's all."

"Anything on O'Brien?"

"Not yet. Be a day or two. Call me."

"I will."

"For lunch."

My turn to swallow.
"Looking forward to it."

* * *

Providence lies about forty-five minutes south of
Boston. There's a point, a few miles north of the city, where I-95
hooks just right near the top of a hill, and you catch an imposing
view of the state house. Huge white dome like the Capitol in
Washington, a pillared mini-temple at each point of the compass.

Downtown Providence is stolid rather than showy but
has probably the best indoor athletic facility in New England. the
Providence Civic Center. I stopped to check in at police headquarters
across from the center. It was change of shifts. a lot of brown and
beige uniforms heading out, like United Parcel drivers wearing
sidearms. I'm not licensed in Rhode Island, but usually nobody would
question that. If they do, it's a good idea to have checked in first
with the local department. A real good idea.

The desk sergeant also
gave me impeccable directions to the address I wanted.

* * *

There was no answer when I pushed the button in the
vestibule of Steven O'Brien's apartment building. There were sixteen
mailboxes, a glimpse of at least one envelope through the slot with
his name on it. I went back out to the Prelude to wait.

For the second time that day, I was glad to have a
book with me. About an hour later a man came walking down the street,
taking out a snap-case and carefully shaking free a mailbox key.
Roly-poly, he wore a blue insulated Windbreaker, the bottom of a
light green tie trailing almost past the fly in his dark green pants.
I got out of my car as he turned and pulled open the glass entrance
door. He had just put his key into the right mailbox lock when I
slipped through the door behind him.

O'Brien looked up suspiciously. Doe eyes, thinning
black hair, the first person in years I'd seen with dandruff flakes
on his shoulders. When he was young, I bet the other kids called him
"Stevie," stretching the first syllable.

"Who are you?"

Paul Eisenberg was right about O'Brien's voice. Like
an altar boy on Palm Sunday. "John Cuddy."

I flashed my ID, but he never even glanced at it.

"What do you want this time?"

I ran with it. "Same as last time. Upstairs or a
ride?"

O'Brien sighed resignedly. "Upstairs, I guess."

Ascending two flights, I followed him partway down
one dim and scuffed corridor. Using three different keys on the locks
to his apartment door, O'Brien nearly put his shoulder through it to
overcome some warping.

We entered on the living room. There was an old cloth
couch outclassed by a leather chair that would have been a showpiece
in 1945. A twelve-inch black and white stood on a trestle table that
was too big for the television.

O'Brien took off his Windbreaker, having to shrug and
tug to clear his elbows. Underneath, he wore a V-neck sweater vest,
the shirt badly discolored under the arms. He walked toward the
chair, motioning me toward the couch.

I said, "I'll take the chair instead."

With a sour look, O'Brien moved to the couch.
Sitting, he said, "You know, I have a First Amendment right to
send those letters."

In an even voice I said, "Tell me about it."

"What do you care?"

"Try anyway."

"The bishop isn't doing a thing, not a solitary
thing, about the abortion issue. How can he expect me to sit still
while God's children are being murdered?"

O'Brien threw me. "Does that mean you had to
send the letters?"

"Of course it does. How can I get noticed
otherwise? I'm a book keeper, for heaven's sake. I don't have brazen
anchorwomen wanting to interview me. I don't have any access, even to
my own church's newspapers. They refuse to print my letters anymore,
and the bishop told them not to."

"How do you know that'?"

"How do I know? How do I know? You think you
people are a hierarchy, with chiefs and captains and sergeants, you
should deal with the Church for a while. I did. For thirteen years I
was in Fiscal, the assistant bookkeeper for the Diocese. Well, for a
lot of the diocesan activities, anyway. In all that time, do you
think the Church encouraged me? It did not. Instead of taking the
time, the effort to bring me into the fray, on the side of God and
Life, they pushed me out of a job. Pushed me to go outside the Church
to bring my message to the people."

"And just what's that?"

"What's that? I'l1 tell you what's that. They
want to kill us all."

"Who?"

"The atheists. Like the pagans of old, they
believe in human sacrifice. The sacrifice of the unborn and the
undead. That's where they start, that's where they always start, down
through history. They kill the babies and they kill the elderly, and
that's how they get everyone used to the idea."

Playing the card, I said, "I don't get you."

"The atheists have taken over our government.
They've maneuvered their people to the point of being in power
everywhere. The legislatures, the courts, even the Supreme Court of
the land, where they said it's acceptable, it's a woman's right, to
kill her own baby. Now they're trying it with the elderly too."

"Explain it to me."

"Look." O'Brien leaned forward, warming up.
"We're in a hospital, and someone's Aunt Emma is on the kidney
machine. She's basically just being maintained, with some pain,
because there is no cure right now for what's wrong with her. Well,
Aunt Emma has put aside some money by working hard over her long
life, and the only heirs are a couple of nephews. Do you follow me?"

"Yes."

"Now, Emma's doctor is getting a little tired of
seeing her on that machine. Oh, Emma can afford it, although she is
starting to eat into that money she's saved. But the doctor has in
mind this younger patient, who's not on a machine because the
hospital doesn't have enough machines to go around. The medical
insurance companies would pay for this younger patient to be on a
machine if one was available. The nephews see their money, their
inheritance, shrinking, so they decide to use her pain. One says,
'Aunt Em, it's so bad to see you hurting like this.' And the other
says, 'Aunt Em, I don't know why you've got to go through all this.'
And then the first one says, 'Aunt Em, let us talk to the doctor, see
if something can be done.' Et cetera, et cetera."

O'Brien's parable sounded like something he'd once
heard someone else present. "So?"

"So? So the atheist nephews and the atheist
doctors, with maybe some help from the atheist lawyers, get the
atheist judge to let them turn off the machine on Aunt Emma. Pull the
plug so the patient the doctor wants on the machine can have it."

"Pretty farfetched, isn't it?"

"Read the papers. They do it all the time in
Massachusetts and New York. All the time."

"Yeah, I was at a debate up in Boston last night
about it."

O'Brien withdrew a little. "Debate?"

"Yeah. That's what they were talking about. This
doctor, Eisenberg, I think it was, and — "

"Eisenberg! One of the worst."

"How do you mean?"

"Come on. He's supposed to be this big-time
defender of the right to life? Writes books and papers and gives
these courses in the med school and speeches all over. But he's in
with them."