Pearson moved toward the body, then stopped. He knew McNeil well enough to be aware that the resident would have made no mistake. He said, “Then they must have just stood there . . . and watched.”

Seddons put in, “Most likely nobody knew what was happening.”

Pearson nodded slowly. Seddons wondered what the old man was thinking. Then Pearson asked, “How old was the child?”

“Four,” McNeil answered. “Nice-looking kid too.”

All of them glanced at the autopsy table and the still, small figure. The eyes were closed, the fair, tousled hair pulled back in place now that the brain had been removed. Pearson shook his head, then turned toward the door. Over his shoulder he said, “All right; I’ll go up and tell them.”

The three occupants of the hospital anteroom looked up as Pearson entered. One was a uniformed patrolman of the city police, and near him was a tall man whose eyes were red-rimmed. The third occupant—dejected and sitting alone in the far corner—was a mousy little man with a straggling mustache.

Pearson introduced himself. The patrolman said, “I’m Stevens, sir. Fifth Precinct.” He produced a notebook and pencil.

Pearson asked him, “Were you at the scene of the accident?”

“I arrived just after it happened.” He indicated the tall man. “This is the father of the boy. The other gentleman was the driver of the car.”

The mousy man looked up. Appealing to Pearson, he said, “He ran straight out—straight out from the side of the house. I’m not a careless driver. I’ve got kids of my own. I wasn’t going fast. I was almost stopped when it happened.”

“And I say you’re a lousy liar.” It was the father, his voice choked with emotion and bitterness. “You killed him, and I hope you go to jail for it.”

Pearson said quietly, “Just a moment, please.” There was silence, the others watching him. He motioned to the policeman’s notebook. “There’ll be a full report for the coroner, but I can tell you the preliminary findings now.” He paused. “The autopsy has shown it was not the car that killed the boy.”

The patrolman looked puzzled. The father said, “But I was there! I tell you . . .”

“I wish there were some other way to tell you this,” Pearson said, “but I’m afraid there isn’t.” He addressed the father. “The blow your boy received knocked him to the road, and there was a mild concussion which rendered him unconscious. He also sustained a small fracture of the nose—quite minor, but unfortunately it caused his nose to bleed profusely.” Pearson turned to the patrolman. “The boy was left lying on his back, I believe—where he fell.”

The officer said, “Yes, sir, that’s right. We didn’t want to move him until the ambulance came.”

“And how long was that?”

“I’d say about ten minutes.”

Pearson nodded slowly. It was more than enough time; five minutes would have been sufficient. He said, “I’m afraid that that was the cause of death. The blood from the nosebleed ran back into the boy’s throat. He was unable to breathe and he aspirated blood into the lungs. He died of asphyxiation.”

The father’s face revealed horror, incredulity. He said, “You mean . . . if we’d only turned him over . . .”

Pearson raised his hands expressively. “I meant what I said—I wish there were some other way to tell you this. But I can only report the truth: the original injuries to your boy were minor.”

The patrolman said, “Then the blow from the car . . . ?”

“One can’t be sure, of course, but my own opinion is that it was glancing and comparatively light.” Pearson gestured to the mousy man, now standing close beside them. “I imagine this man is telling the truth when he says the car was moving slowly.”

“Mother of God!” It came from the father—a despairing, tortured wail. He was sobbing, his hands to his face. After a moment the mousy man led him to a settee, his arm around the other’s shoulders, his own eyes glistening.

The patrolman’s face was white. He said, “Doctor, I was there all the time. I could have moved the boy . . . but I didn’t know.”

“I don’t think you should blame yourself.”

The man appeared not to have heard. He went on as if in a daze. “I took a first-aid course. I got a badge for it. All the time they taught us—don’t move anybody; whatever you do, don’t move them!”

“I know.” Pearson touched the patrolman’s arm gently. He said slowly, “Unfortunately there are some exceptions to the rule—one of them is when someone is bleeding in the mouth.”

In the main-floor corridor on his way to lunch David Coleman saw Pearson emerge from the anteroom. At first Coleman wondered if the senior pathologist were ill. He seemed distracted, unaware of his surroundings. Then he caught sight of Coleman and moved toward him. The younger man halted.

“Oh yes . . . Dr. Coleman . . . There was something I had to tell you.” Coleman sensed that for some reason Pearson was having trouble marshaling his thoughts. Now he reached out absently and grasped the lapel of Coleman’s white lab coat. Coleman noticed that the old man’s hands were nervous and fumbling. He disengaged his coat.

“What was it, Dr. Pearson?”

“There was . . . something to do with the lab.” Pearson shook his head. “Well, it’s gone now . . . I’ll remember later.” He seemed about to turn away when another thought came to him. “I think you’d better take over the autopsy room. Starting tomorrow. Keep your eye on things. See they do a good job.”

“Very well. I’ll be glad to do that.” David Coleman had some clear-cut ideas about the performance of autopsies, and this would be an opportunity to put them into effect. It occurred to him that while they were talking he might as well bring up something else. He said, “I wonder if I could speak to you—about the laboratories.”

“The laboratories?” The old man’s mind still seemed to be elsewhere.

“You’ll remember in my letter I suggested you might consider giving me charge of some part of the laboratories.” It seemed a little odd to be discussing this here and now, but Coleman sensed the opportunity might not occur again.

“Yes . . . yes, I remember something being said.” Pearson appeared to be watching a group of three moving down the corridor away from them—a policeman and a little man, supporting a bigger man in the middle.

“I wonder if I might start in Serology,” Coleman said. “I’d like to do some checks on the procedures—standard lab checks, that is.”

“Um? What was that?”

It was annoying to have to keep repeating things. “I said I would like to make some lab checks in Serology.”

“Oh yes, yes . . . that’s all right.” Pearson said it absently. He was still looking away, down the corridor, when Coleman left.

Elizabeth Alexander was feeling good. About to begin lunch in Three Counties Hospital cafeteria, she realized she had been feeling that way for days, but especially so this morning. The child inside her was alive and stirring; even at this moment she could detect its movements faintly. She had just come from a department-store sale where, amid the melee of women, she had victoriously acquired some bright fabrics for the apartment, including one length for the tiny extra bedroom which was to be the baby’s. And now she had met John.

It was the first time they had had a meal together in the hospital. Use of the cafeteria by employees’ families was an unwritten privilege the hospital allowed, and John had learned about it a few days earlier. A few minutes ago they had lined up to select their food and Elizabeth had chosen a salad, soup, a roll, roast lamb with potatoes and cabbage, pie with cheese, and milk. John had asked good-humoredly, “Are you sure you have enough?”

Elizabeth selected a stick of celery. Biting into it, she said, “This is a hungry baby.”

John smiled. A few minutes earlier, on the way to lunch, he had felt defeated and depressed, this morning’s tongue-lashing by Dr. Pearson still fresh in mind. But Elizabeth’s infectious spirits had caused him to shrug it off, at least for the time being. After all, he reflected, there would be no more trouble in the lab because from now on he intended to watch his step carefully. In any case, Dr. Pearson had now done the sensitization tests himself—in saline and high protein—and had pronounced both test results negative. “So far as your wife’s blood is concerned,” he had said, “there is nothing for anyone to worry about.” In fact, he had been almost kindly about it—at least it seemed that way after the earlier outburst.