By My Hands (8 page)

Rachel shuddered inside. As a rule she was
self-confident, but speaking to a large group of people terrified
her. Even her high school speech class had proved a living hell. As
a doctor she dealt only with a few people at a time—never a
gathering. Swallowing hard, she rose and stood on Morgan’s right.
With any luck the questions would be asked of Morgan.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen, who has the first
question?” Several hands went up at once. Morgan recognized a man
in a red vested sweater. “Dr. Morgan, Bill Challee from the
Daily Report.
To what or to whom do you attribute these
miraculous healings?”

Morgan stood silently for a moment sizing up the
reporter. “As individuals involved in scientific pursuits,” Rachel
noticed that Morgan was now using plural pronouns, “we are most
careful in the use of terms such as
miraculous
and
healings.
To answer your question, however, it is too early
for us to attribute the recent events to any single agent. That is
why we have asked Dr. Tremaine to pursue a detailed inquiry.”

“Dr. Morgan.” A woman whom Rachel judged to be in
her fifties had leaped to her feet and had begun speaking before he
could call on another. “Dr. Morgan, Judith Lew of KSST radio news.
Could you tell us if any other ‘anomalies,’ as you call them, have
occurred?”

“No, madam, there have been no other occurrences.
Also . . .”

“Do you expect any more occurrences?” she
interjected.

“That, madam,” Morgan said condescendingly, “would
depend on the still undetermined cause.”

The woman began to interject another question when
Morgan quickly turned and pointed at a dapper man with dark hair
and graying temples. “Mr. Lynol Jefferies of PBS news hour has a
question. We are honored, sir. Please ask your question.”

“Thank you, Dr. Morgan.” Jefferies was a celebrity
of sorts in San Diego. As anchor of the hour-long Public
Broadcasting News, he had elevated viewership by nearly 30 percent
in two years. Although highly intelligent with impressive degrees
from notable universities, he was received by television audiences
as the man next door. Doctors and dock workers turned to him daily
for the news. One television critic wrote, “Lynol Jefferies is to
broadcast news what Willie Nelson is to country music.”

“Dr. Morgan,” he began. “I think we can all
appreciate your delicate situation here, just as I’m sure you can
appreciate our desire to report this matter to our patrons who
depend on us for information. Sir, to pick up the previously
unanswered question; do you expect any further occurrences? Also,
it is known to all that the lobby of this hospital is rapidly
filling with the sick and dying. How do you plan to deal with those
increasing crowds?”

“Well, Mr. Jeffries, I am not a prognosticator by
any means; my expertise is in medicine and hospital administration.
But I can say that I would be very much surprised should another
event of this sort occur. As to the crowds attempting to check into
our hospital, they will be dealt with courteously. We are referring
them to their personal physicians. If their doctors wish to admit
them, then we will take as many as we can properly handle.”

Before Morgan had finished his sentence, Priscilla
Simms was on her feet calling his name. He stared at her for a
moment. Rachel didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what
thoughts percolated in Morgan’s brain: Why wasn’t she doing her
evening broadcast? She was the one who had caused all the trouble.
Because of her sensationalized broadcast, hundreds of the ill were
camping on the hospital’s doorstep. He couldn’t ignore her; all the
other reporters had relinquished this moment to her. Even though he
had not called on her, the rest of the press had ceased vying for
his attention. He had to call on her, but perhaps he could have a
little fun.

“Yes, Mrs. Primm, you have a question,” Morgan said
with an affable smile.

“Simms, Dr. Morgan, Priscilla Simms of KGOT-TV.”
Priscilla was unshaken.

“My apologies. I’m afraid I never catch your show.”
Snickers rippled through the room.

Priscilla ignored Morgan’s comments.

“Dr. Morgan, how do you account for a patient who is
terminally ill with cancer, and not expected to live through the
night, suddenly finding himself completely free of cancer? And how
do you account for a burn victim who awakens one morning without
scars and scorched flesh? Is your hospital doing some hidden
research of which the public should be aware?”

“We are conducting no special research,” Morgan said
with a disarming smile. “We are not a research hospital; we are a
privately owned health maintenance organization. We hire our own
physicians to maintain the highest quality of health care. Our
reputation is spotless and national in scope. We do not conduct
experiments on the patients who have placed their unwavering trust
in us.

“As to how I account for these recent events, I can
only refer you to the previous answers. I do not account for them.
That is why Dr. Tremaine is investigating. Unlike many professions,
we in the medical field prefer facts, not sensational
speculation.”

There wasn’t a person in the meeting who missed the
verbal jab.

“You acknowledge then, Doctor, that you have events
happening in your hospital over which you lack both knowledge and
control?”

“Your phrasing of the question is obviously meant to
cast aspersions on—”

“A simple yes or no answer would be most helpful,
Doctor.”

She was trying to manipulate him. Morgan’s voice
barely concealed his wrath. “May I remind you, Ms. Simms, that this
is a news conference and not a court of law; that you are a
reporter and not a trial lawyer; and further, that I am not on
trial.” Morgan’s voice elevated in volume. “I will answer as
briefly or copiously as I choose. If that is not agreeable with
you, you are perfectly free to leave.”

Silence covered the room. Priscilla sat grinning.
She had accomplished what she wanted. She had made Dr. Morgan pay
for attempting to shut her out of the news conference.

Morgan looked embarrassed. Rachel saw him deftly
slip his hand to his side and flick the test button on his pager. A
shrill beep echoed through the room. Morgan feigned surprise and
frustration.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Morgan continued, his voice
returning to its previous pleasant tone, “I must excuse myself to
attend to some other important matters, but Dr. Tremaine will be
glad to answer any further questions.” Morgan turned and quickly
exited the room.

Rachel’s stomach tighten as she watched, what seemed
to her, a hundred pairs of eyes staring, prying and piercing her
soul. Why do I have to be so insecure before crowds? I can cut open
a human body without a second thought; why do I feel like running
from the room? Rachel took her place behind the lectern.

“Who will be next?” she said softly. Her throat was
dry. She had a classic case of stage fright. Morgan had abandoned
her without proper preparation. She had nothing to offer these
people. She had received the assignment only a few hours before.
All she had time to do was read the medical charts of the two
patients involved, and she had been warned by Morgan not to
disclose any details contained in them. “It might cause certain
legal complications,” he had said.

The next thirty minutes were filled with a repeat of
the questions asked of Morgan and inquiries about her task. “Why
were you selected? What do you think happened? How long before any
information will be released? Do you believe in miracles?” Rachel
fielded the questions as best she could, telling the reporters that
they would have to be patient, that it was too early to make
definitive statements. She then thanked them for their
attentiveness and dismissed herself.

Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 7:45
P.M.

PRISCILLA DID NOT RETURN DIRECTLY to the station.
Before attending the news conference, Irwin had handed her the
addresses of Bill and Lois Langford and Lisa Hailey. The Haileys
lived on Charger Boulevard in the community of East Clairemont. The
Langfords lived in Linda Vista. Since the East Clairemont address
was closer, Priscilla decided to make that her first stop.

It took less than ten minutes for Priscilla to
navigate her red BMW through traffic on Interstate 805 to
Clairemont Mesa Boulevard and over the surface streets to the
Haileys’ home. The house was a relatively new two-story home with a
wood and stucco exterior. With the increasing cost of housing in
San Diego, this house could easily sell for over a quarter million
dollars.

Priscilla parked her car curbside and walked up to
the front door. She listened carefully for a moment for any
indication that the occupants were at home. Hearing nothing, she
rang the bell. No one answered. Turning to what she assumed was the
window to the front room, Priscilla looked in. It seemed to be a
formal living room; perhaps the house had a family room in the
back. If so, it was possible that the Haileys had not heard the
bell. Stepping back to the front door she again rang the bell and
waited. Again nothing. She was glad that she hadn’t brought the
camera crew.

Looking at her watch, Priscilla saw that it was
almost 7:45. Maybe the neighbors would know where the Haileys were.
She walked across the lawn to the next house. When she rang the
doorbell, she was greeted with noise. A small girl answered the
door accompanied by two Pomeranians that yapped constantly. The
girl was no more than three years old, with tangled blond hair and
two dirty fingers placed firmly in her mouth.

“Is your mother home,” Priscilla asked, raising her
voice over the barking of the dogs.

“Yes,” the child responded, but remained stationed
by the door.

“May I speak with her, please?”

“I don’t care.” The little girl was now hanging from
the doorknob with one hand like a tiny chimpanzee.

“Would you go and tell her I’m here, please?”

“Okay.” With that the toddler ran to the back of the
house screaming loudly, “Mommy, mommy, some lady wants to talk to
you.” The dogs remained behind, barking incessantly. Priscilla
wished she had gone to another house.

A few moments later a perspiration-soaked woman
appeared dressed in a bright red jogging suit. “I’m sorry,” she
said, “I was doing aerobics in the den.” She turned quickly and
addressed the child who was now in front of the television set.
“Ashley, turn that down. Mommy can’t hear herself think.” Ashley
ignored her. The mother repeated the command with the same effect.
Excusing herself she walked over and turned the volume down. This
brought tears to the eyes of the child and then a wailing cry. The
little girl jumped up and disappeared into the back of the house.
Priscilla heard a door slam.

“Kids!” The woman returned to the door. “This
maternal instinct isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Now, what can I
do for—” The woman paused mid-sentence. “Wait. Aren’t you that
newswoman on television?”

“Yes.” Priscilla still enjoyed the notoriety that
went with her job. At times it was a nuisance, but for the most
part she reveled in it.

“I wonder if you could answer a few questions.”

“Wait, let me get a pen and paper. I must have your
autograph.” The woman disappeared and returned in a moment. “You
don’t mind, do you? If I don’t have your autograph, my husband
won’t believe that I’ve met you. He’s in sales, travels a lot.”

She opened the screen door and handed the paper and
ballpoint pen to Priscilla. Then suddenly realizing her faux pas
she said, “Oh, where are my manners? Won’t you come in please?”

Priscilla stepped into the house.

“Just have a seat anywhere.”

“I wonder if I might ask you some questions.”
Priscilla signing her autograph.

“I guess so.”

“Well, Mrs. . . .”

“Mifflin.” The woman interjected. “Judith Mifflin.
Everyone calls me Judy.”

“All right, Judy it is then. And please, call me
Priscilla.” The woman smiled, feeling special about being on a
first-name basis with a television personality. “I’m trying to get
in touch with your neighbors, the Haileys. Do you know when they
might be home?”

Judy paused and eyed Priscilla suspiciously. “Are
they in some kind of trouble?”

“No, nothing like that.” Priscilla had to phrase
this so as not to appear to be prying. “As you may know, something
special has happened in their lives, and I wanted to talk with them
about it.”

“Special?”

“Yes. I tried to get hold of them yesterday but
never made contact. I really would like to speak to them.” Judy
looked puzzled. “Did you see my evening broadcast last night?”

Judy’s puzzled expression was replaced with an
embarrassed one. “Well, actually no,” she said softly. “I don’t
watch much news on television. I find it depressing. I recognized
you because my husband watches your show when he’s home.”

“So you are unaware of what happened to them
yesterday?”

“Yesterday?” The puzzled look returned.

“Yes. At the hospital.”

“I know their daughter is in the hospital. Is that
what you mean?” Judy’s eyes widened as a thought occurred to her.
“She didn’t . . . I mean, she’s not . . .

“Dead? No. On the contrary, she’s very much alive.
That’s why I must speak to them.” Priscilla spent the next ten
minutes explaining the events in the burn ward. Judy sat
speechless, spellbound by Priscilla’s rehearsal of the unexplained
events.

“I find this all so hard to believe.” Judy paused,
reflecting on what she had just been told. “I’m afraid I can’t help
you. I haven’t seen them for at least two days.”

“Have you seen their car, or maybe lights on at
night?”

“No, I don’t think they’ve been home since yesterday
morning.”