Molly stood at the window and watched Fran as she drove away. Thanks for the cheery words, but it’s too late, Fran, she thought. There’s nothing left about me that’s classy.
84
The doctor had been anxiously waiting for Fran Simmons to appear for a full half hour before the headlights of her car signaled her arrival. It was virtually on the stroke of seven when she rang his bell, an attention to promptness that he found gratifying. He-a scientist-was punctual himself and expected it in others.
He opened the door, and with a courtly greeting expressed his delight at meeting her. “For nearly twenty years I have been known in this area as a retired ophthalmologist,” he said. “Dr. Adrian Logue. In fact, my real name, and the one which I now happily resume, is Adrian Lowe. As you already know.”
The pictures she had seen of Adrian Lowe in the magazines were almost twenty years old, and they depicted a decidedly more robust man than the one who was standing before her.
He was just under six feet tall, lean, a little stooped. His thinning hair was more white than gray. The expression in his pale blue eyes could only be described as kindly. His overall manner was deferential-even a little shy, as he invited her into the small living room.
Overall, Fran thought, he’s not at all the kind of person I’d expected him to be. But then, what did I expect? she asked herself as she chose a straight-backed chair rather than the rocker he offered. After reading all that stuff he wrote, and knowing what I do about him, I guess I thought he’d look like some kind of zealot, with wild eyes and flailing arms, or like some goose-stepping Nazi doctor.
She had been about to ask him if he would permit her to record him, when he said, “I do hope you brought a recorder with you, Miss Simmons. I do not want to be misquoted.”
“Indeed I did, Doctor.” Fran opened her shoulder bag, slipped out the recorder, and turned it on. Don’t let him guess how much you know already about what he’s been up to, she warned herself. Ask all the important questions. This tape should make valuable evidence later on.
“I will be taking you upstairs to my laboratory directly, and we’ll do most of our talking there. But first let me explain why you are here. No, in point of fact, let me explain why I am here.”
Dr. Lowe rested his head against the back of his chair with a sigh. “Ms. Simmons, you must have heard the old cliché, ‘For every positive there is a negative.’ That premise is especially true in the practice of medicine. Therefore choices-sometimes difficult choices-must be made.”
Fran listened without comment as Adrian Lowe, his voice sometimes soft, sometimes animated, explained his views about the advances in medical care and the need to redefine the concept of “managed care.”
“There should be a cutoff of treatment, but I’m not talking merely about life-support systems,” he began. “Let us say a person has had a third heart attack, or is past seventy and has been on dialysis for five years, or has been granted the enormous financial outlay needed to cover a heart or liver transplant that has failed.
“Isn’t it about time to let that person cash in his or her chips, Miss Simmons? Clearly it’s God’s will, so why should we keep fighting the inevitable? The patient might not agree, of course, and no doubt the family might sue for continuing coverage. Therefore, there should be another authority enabled to hasten this inevitable outcome without discussion with either the family or the patient, and without the incurring of further expense on the hospital’s part. An authority capable of a clinical, objective, scientific decision.”
Fran listened in astonishment at the almost unimaginable philosophy he was articulating. “Do I understand, Dr. Lowe, that you are actually saying that neither the patient nor the family should have anything to say or even know about the decision that is being made to terminate the patient’s life?”
“Exactly.”
“Are you also saying that the handicapped should be unknowing and unwilling guinea pigs for any experiments you and your colleagues might wish to conduct?”
“My dear,” he said condescendingly, “I have a videotape I want you to see. It may help you understand why my research is so important. You may have heard recently of Natasha Colbert, a young lady from a very prominent family.”
My God, he’s going to admit what he did to her, Fran thought.
“Due to a most unfortunate accident, the terminal treatment that was about to be given to a chronically ill elderly woman was administered to Ms. Colbert instead of the routine saline solution that she required.
“This resulted in an irreversible coma, in which state she had existed for over six years. I have been experimenting to find a drug that would reverse that deep coma and last night, for the first time, enjoyed success, if only for a few moments. But that success is the beginning of something magnificent in science. Allow me to show you the proof.”
Fran watched as Dr. Lowe placed a cassette into the VCR attached to a wide-screen television.
“I never watch television,” he explained, “but for research purposes, I have this unit. I will show you only the final five minutes of the last day of Natasha Colbert’s life. That is all you will need to understand what I have accomplished in the years that I have spent here.”
In disbelief, Fran watched the tape and saw Barbara Colbert murmuring her dying daughter’s name.
She knew her audible gasp when Natasha stirred, opened her eyes, and began to speak delighted Dr. Lowe.
“You see, you see,” he exclaimed.
Shocked, Fran watched as Tasha recognized her mother, then closed her eyes, opened them again, and pleaded with her mother to help her.
She felt tears well in her own eyes at the agonizing sight of Barbara Colbert pleading with her daughter to live. With something approaching hatred, she witnessed Dr. Black denying to Barbara Colbert that Natasha had regained consciousness.
“She could only last a minute. The drug is that powerful,” Dr. Lowe explained as he stopped and rewound the tape. “Someday it will be routine to reverse comas.” He slipped the tape into his pocket. “What are you thinking, my dear?”
“I am thinking, Dr. Lowe, that with your obvious genius, it is incredible that all your efforts are not devoted to the preservation of life and to improving the quality of life, not to the destruction of lives whose quality you deem to be less than acceptable.”
He smiled and stood up. “My dear, the number of thinking people who agree with me are legion. Now let me show you my laboratory.”
Feeling a mixture of horror and growing uneasiness that she was alone with this man, Fran followed Lowe up the narrow staircase. Natasha Colbert, she thought angrily. She was put in that condition by one of his “highly effective drugs.” Also Tim’s grandmother, who had hoped to celebrate her eightieth birthday. And Barbara Colbert, who was too intelligent to be told she was hallucinating by Lowe’s murderous disciple, Peter Black. He may even be talking about Billy Gallo’s mother. How many others? she asked herself.
The upstairs hall was gloomy and dimly lit, but when Adrian Lowe opened the door to his laboratory, it was like stepping into another world. Knowing little about research laboratories, Fran could still see that this one appeared to be the epitome of technical perfection.
The room was not large, but the limited space was more than made up for by the careful arrangement of equipment so that every inch was put to practical use. In addition to the latest in computer technology, Fran recognized some of the equipment she had seen in her own, very high-priced doctor’s office. There was also a rather substantial oxygen tank, with valves and tubes attached. Many of the machines appeared to be geared to testing chemicals, with others more suited to testing live subjects. Rats, I hope, Fran said to herself with a sinking feeling. Most of the lab equipment meant nothing to her, but what she did find impressive was the extreme cleanliness and orderliness of the place. It is both impressive and absolutely terrifying, she thought as she advanced into the room.