There was a murmur of laughter at the understatement. "Well, I'm here to tell you that compared to what you all have been through, my life has been absolutely nuked. At three o'clock this morning, my husband and I caught a reporter trying to sneak out of our bedroom in time to make the morning edition. He had disguised himself as our antique brass coatrack."
Laughter this time was more spontaneous and animated. Kate smiled thinly. "Norton Reese has set up a news conference for me in about an hour. He wants me to state my position on the Bobby Geary business once and for all. Well, before I tell those vultures, I wanted to tell you.
"What the press has been saying about Bobby Geary is true. From all we were able to tell at post, he had been a longtime user of intravenous amphetamines. How he could do what he did to his body and still play ball the way he did is a mystery to me, but the chronic scarring we found along certain veins makes the truth clear. Sad for Bobby's family, sad for the baseball fans and the kids, and, I'm sure, a nightmare for Bobby. The decision to withhold our findings from the press was as much mine as Dr. Willoughby's or Detective Finn's." A jet of acid singed her throat at the mention of the man. "I have trouble with deceit in any form, but every sense I have of what is decent says that our decision was the right one. Now someone is doing his best to make me pay for that decision. I did not write the letter, and I have no idea who did, why they did it, how they got the information on Bobby Geary's post, or how they obtained my stationery. The possibility exists that it was someone from this department. I very much hope not-all of you are very important to me. I feel like we're a team, and that helps me show up every day ready to try and practice decent pathology in this dinosaur of a hospital. "But what's done is done. I've agonized as much as I'm going to, and after the little Q-and-A session in Reese's office, I intend to begin stuffing this whole business into the barrel I use to dispose of the garbage in my life. If any of you have any questions, I'll be happy to answer them as best I can."
Stan Willoughby rose and put his arm around her shoulders. "No questions from me, Kate. Just a statement for everybody. I have submitted this woman's name to the search committee as my personal recommendation to succeed me as department chief. It's possible this whole business is someone's way of trying to sabotage that appointment. I want you all to know that I am more committed than ever to seeing that she gets it."
For a moment there was silence. Then diminutive Liu Huang stood and began applauding. Another joined in and then another. Soon all but one were demonstrating their support. "We're behind you, Doc, " a technician called out. The reaction was as enthusiastic and sustained as it was spontaneous. In the back of the room, the lone holdout smiled around clenched teeth and then stiffly joined in the applause. "That was pretty special, wasn't it, " Willoughby said to Kate as the room emptied out.
"Little Looie Huang standing there in his formal, inscrutable way, leading the cheers. I just love im. Are you all right?"
"If you mean am I about to come apart and start bawling like a baby, the answer is yes."
"So bawl, " Willoughby said, taking her by the arm as they followed the last of the meeting-goers from the room. "You know, Stan, I don't understand it. I don't think I ever will."
"What's that? " Willoughby bent over the bubbler he had tried for years to get replaced, and sucked vigorously for a sip of tepid water.
"People, I guess." She shrugged. "You know, you wake up in the morning, you get dressed, you march off for another encounter in the battle of life-all you want to do is grow a little, try your best, and grab some little morsel of peace and contentment along the way. No big deal. Every day you do that, and every day you think that everyone else is doing the same thing, trying for that same smidgen of happiness. It makes so much sense that way."
"Ah, yes, my child, but therein lies the rub. You see, what makes sense and what is are seldom the same thing. The stew you propose cooking up would taste just fine, but it's a bit short on the condiments of reality-greed, envy, bigotry, insecurity, to say nothing of that ol' standby, just plain craziness. No matter who you are, no matter how hard you try to tend your own little garden, no matter how kind you try to be to your fellow man, there's always gonna be someone, somewhere tryin' to stick it to you. You can count on it."
"Terrific."
"It all boils down to priorities."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I know I have the reputation around here for being too passive.
My door is always open. Bring in your troubles and problems whenever you want… as long as you bring in the solutions to them at the same time.
I wasn't always like that, Kate. There was a time when I would have gone to the mat with the toughest of them. And I did.
Many times in the early days before you came on board. Then I started getting the pains beneath the ol' sternum, and started visiting all those eager young cardiologists. Gradually, my priorities began to shift away from playing with the stick-it-to-you fanatics. I went back to basics. My wife, my children, my grandchildren, my health-physical and mental. I couldn't see how a new microscope or an extra technician or a refurnished room could measure up against any of them."
"But Stan, your work is important. It's your job to fight for the department. Don't you agree?"
"Yes."
"Well then, how do you resolve that fact with what you just said?
" Stanley Willoughby leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead.
"I can't, Kate. Don't you see? That's why I'm stepping down. See you at the conference." With a smile that held more wistfulness and sadness than mirth, he turned and entered the office that, if he had his way, Kate would occupy within a few months. Kate's office, half the size of her chief's, was on a side corridor next to the autopsy suite. There was room only for a desk and chair, a file cabinet, a small microscope bench, and two high stools. On one of the stools sat Jared. "Well, hi," she said, crossing to kiss him. "Hi, yourself."
His response was chilly, perfunctory. "How's your belly?"
"As long as I don't try to sit down, get up, or walk, it's only painful as hell, " he said. "But not nearly as painful as this." He slid a handbill across to her. "Copies of this have been circulating all over South Boston and are beginning to work their way up into the city."
"Damn, " she whispered, staring at the paper in disbelief. "Jared, I'm sorry. I really am." The flyer, printed on an orange stock bright enough to offend even the least political Irish Catholic, was headlined PARTNERS IN COMPASSION. Beneath the words were Kate and Jared arm in arm in a photograph she could not remember ever having posed for. It was labeled "Atty. J. Samuels and Dr. K. Bennett." At the bottom of the page was a photograph of Bobby Geary in the midst of his picture-perfect swing. It was captioned simply "Bobby, R. I. P."