Bradley answered quickly-too quickly. “Dr. Green’s physician has testified to that!”
“Is Dr. Green’s physician here?” the reporter asked. “Is he on the dais?”
Bradley had inadvertently given the reporters, by reference, just what they wanted.
Bradley turned almost helplessly to those on the dais. This was not what had been planned. Bradley was to host the entire briefing. Would the doctor be willing to subject himself to questions?
Not to worry; the doctor flashed a smile of confidence at Bradley, rose, and strode toward the microphone. Bradley shrugged and stepped aside.
“My name is Garnet Fox. I am Dr. Green’s physician. How may I help you?”
Again, many voices asked many questions.
Bradley stepped forward and pointed at one reporter. Because he wasn’t standing in the glare, Koesler could make him out. It was WWJ radio personality Ed Breslin.
“How ’bout it, Doc: Is Green alive?”
“Very much so. Yes.”
“How about the chronic back problem? Has he still got it?”
“It’s a little early to say. At this time, he’s just lucky he’s even breathing. We are moving very slowly. Eventually, of course, we’ll know the answer to your question. And all the other questions.” Fox exuded confidence, self-confidence.
“You said ‘He’s just lucky he’s even breathing.’ What does that mean? Did he stop breathing at any time? Was he dead?”
The room was suddenly, startlingly quiet. Fox’s smile faded. “I … I didn’t mean it that way,” he fumbled. “Not literally. We … we don’t know exactly what happened. We need time to examine, to evaluate. But, in a little while-”
“If he never stopped breathing-and I guess that’s what you meant when you just told us not to take you literally when you say he’s grateful to be breathing again-if he didn’t stop breathing at any time, then you signed a death certificate for a living man. Would you care to comment on that?”
Fox was as sorry as he had ever been about anything that he had let himself in for this. “It … it was a … mistake,” he mumbled. But then, more forcefully, “But very understandable.” He recovered his brio. “Listen, this sort of thing goes on all the time. Do you realize the pressure physicians face nowadays? How many doctors do you know that make house calls? We used to. Today, too much pressure, too much paperwork. And, as medical technology expands, too many decisions on extremely pressing matters. Matters of life and death!”
“Exactly.” Another reporter had taken the floor. “That’s what we’re talking about: matters of life and death. Has medical technology progressed so little that you can’t tell the difference between a dead man and a live man?”
“You’re taking this completely out of context. It wasn’t as if I was actually present-”
“You weren’t there!”
The rustle as notepad pages were flipped. This was turning into a reporter’s dream come true.
As for Dr. Fox, all he could see as he stood blinded by the powerful lights, was LAW SUIT-MALPRACTICE. The imaginary sign was in flashing neon.
“You were saying,” the reporter probed, “that you were not present at the bedside of Dr. Green when you pronounced him dead.”
“I didn’t pronounce him dead.”
“Does the death certificate bear your signature?”
“Yes.” Dejectedly.
“Then we’re dealing with the same thing, aren’t we?”
“No, we’re not.” Fox was no longer focusing on the questions. He was searching for a way to get out from under the cemetery marker that identified his career as a physician.
Bradley could stand it no longer. He stepped to the microphone, politely replacing the flustered doctor. “I think, ladies and gentlemen, that the things that happened a couple of days ago concerning Dr. Green are not that rare. And I think we ought to get past some of the more bizarre circumstances and concentrate on the heart of the matter.
“What we have here is a man in almost constant excruciating pain, who expresses no joy in his life, rather a wish to die. His doctor does not expect him to survive much longer. Aware of that, the man’s wife comes home to find her husband apparently dead. She calls the physician and describes what she sees. The doctor, having anticipated this turn of events, accepts this description and, with considerable experience in this sort of thing, offers to help with a necessarily hasty burial. He will sign the death certificate and contact the medical examiner to get a release of the body.
“The police are called in. They are informed of the pending death certificate. They observe the same condition the wife did. The police notify the Homicide Division. To Homicide-as to everyone involved in this from the beginning-it is a run-of-the-mill death from natural causes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it happens quite often.
“Since we have not completely ruled out a miraculous event-that is, after all, what the Church panel is supposed to investigate-we do not know that any of the principals in this event were negligent. It is possible-possible, I emphasize-that Dr. Green was … dead.”
Bradley almost choked on the last word. Soft-pedaling the notion of some sort of resurrection was the prime desired goal of this news conference. Now he was forced to introduce the notion in order to escape the conference in one piece.
Immediately, voices were raised. Just about every reporter was shouting the single question on everyone’s mind. “Ned, do you mean to tell us that Green came back from the dead?”
Koesler turned impatiently as someone touched his shoulder. The young man was probably a seminarian. “You are Father Koesler, aren’t you?”
Koesler nodded and the young man handed him a phone message.
It read: Father Koesler, would you please see me at my apartment? It was signed, Margie Green.
This news conference was heating up. Koesler would have preferred to take it in right to the end. But, not knowing why Mrs. Green wanted to see him, he decided to go immediately. With everything around Margie Green in disarray, this well could be an emergency of great importance.
Chapter Eighteen
She seemed surprised to see him. But she graciously invited him into the apartment.
Margie Green took Father Koesler’s hat and coat. “I didn’t know whether you did this sort of thing. And I certainly didn’t expect you so soon.”
Koesler tipped his head slightly, “Didn’t do what sort of thing?”
Now she seemed embarrassed. “This is silly. Of course you would. Come to an apartment at the invitation of a woman, I mean. I don’t know what I’m thinking half the time.”
Koesler smiled. “At this stage in my life, I can’t think too many women would be concerned about that.”
She put his hat and coat in the closet and turned to him. “May I get you something to drink? A little wine, maybe?”
“Don’t go to any trouble. But maybe some coffee or tea?”
“I just brewed some coffee.” She disappeared into what he assumed was the kitchen.
Left alone, Koesler walked through the open areas, which turned out to be the living room and the dining room. Both had swinging doors to the kitchen; but in both cases the doors were closed.
Running from the dining room was a corridor. Koesler assumed that led to bedrooms, bathrooms, perhaps dens. He pictured them in plurals since the areas he could see were so spacious. And very bright.
Huge windows covered an immense amount of wall space encompassing an arresting vista. Particularly dramatic was the view of what had given Detroit its name: the river. That this eighteenth-floor apartment was lavishly furnished and clearly expensive did not surprise him. From all the hearsay shared with him at the wake, Koesler would have been surprised only if this setting were not opulent.
Margie reentered the room, bearing a silver tray holding two filled cups, cream and sugar, and a small plate with cookies. She placed the tray on a low table between two couches. She sat at one couch while he took the other facing her.