A Case of Need: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

amenorrhea. I suppose that comes from being in a family of doctors.”
    “Was she nervous?”
    “Yes,” he said, “but they all are. That’s why the differential is so hard.”
    The differential diagnosis of amenorrhea, particularly in young girls, must consider nervousness as a strong etiologic possibility. Women often delay or miss their menstrual periods for psychological reasons.
    “But four months?”
    “Well, not likely. And she’d also had a weight gain.”
    “How much?”
    “Fifteen pounds.”
    “Not diagnostic,” I said.
    “No,” he said, “but suggestive.”
    “Did you examine her?”
    “No. I offered to, but she refused. She had come to me for an abortion, and when I said no, she left.”
    “Did she say what her plans were?”
    “Yes,” Art said. “She gave a little shrug and said, ‘Well, I guess I’ll just have to tell them and have the kid.’”
    “So you thought she would not seek an abortion elsewhere?”
    “Exactly. She seemed very intelligent and perceptive, and she seemed to follow my explanation of the situation. That’s what I try to do in these cases—explain to a woman why it is impossible for her to have a safe abortion, and why she must reconcile herself to having the child.”
    “Obviously she changed her mind.”
    “Obviously.”
    “I wonder why.”
    He laughed. “Ever meet her parents?”
    “No,” I said, and then seeing my chance, “have you?”
    But Art was quick. He gave me a slow, appreciative grin, a kind of subtle salute, and said, “No. Never. But I’ve heard about them.”
    “What have you heard?”
    At that moment, the sergeant came back and began clanking the key into the lock.
    “Time’s up,” he said.
    “Five more minutes,” I said.
    “Time’s up.”
    Art said, “Have you spoken to Betty?”
    “Yes,” I said. “She’s fine. I’ll call her when I leave here and tell her you’re all right.”
    “She’s going to be worried,” Art said.
    “Judith will stay with her. It’ll be O.K.”
    Art grinned ruefully. “Sorry to cause all this trouble.”
    “No trouble.” I glanced at the sergeant, standing with the door open, waiting. “The police can’t hold you. You’ll be out by the afternoon.”
    The sergeant spit on the floor.
    I shook hands with Art. “By the way,” I said, “where’s the body now?”
    “Perhaps at the Mem. But it’s probably gone to the City by now.”
    “I’ll check,” I said. “Don’t worry about a thing.” I stepped out of the cell and the sergeant locked up behind me. He said nothing as he led me out, but when we reached the lobby, he said, “Captain wants to see you.”
    “All right.”
    “Captain’s very interested in having a little talk.”
    “Just lead the way,” I said.

THREE
    T HE SIGN ON THE FLAKING GREEN DOOR SAID HOMICIDE , and underneath, on a hand-printed name card, “Captain Peterson.” He turned out to be a stiff, burly man with close-cropped gray hair and a terse manner. He came around the desk to shake hands with me, and I noticed he had a limp in his right leg. He made no effort to hide it; if anything, he exaggerated it, allowing his toe to scrape loudly over the floor. Cops, like soldiers, can be proud of their infirmities. You knew Peterson hadn’t received his in an auto accident.
    I was trying to determine the cause of Peterson’s injury and had decided that it was probably a bullet wound—rarely does anyone get cut with a knife in the calf—when he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Captain Peterson.”
    “John Berry.”
    His handshake was hearty, but his eyes were cold and inquiring. He waved me to a chair.
    “The sergeant said he hadn’t seen you around before and I thought I ought to meet you. We know most of the criminal lawyers in Boston.”
    “Don’t you mean trial lawyers?”
    “Of course,” he said easily. “Trial lawyers.” He looked at me expectantly.
    I said nothing at all. A short silence passed, then Peterson said, “Which firm do you