The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [61]
“I am sorry, Reverend,” I said, embarrassed. “I have been interminable.”
“Not at all,” he said with an easy and genuine smile. “As you were flattered by Dr. Osler’s faith in you, I’m flattered by yours in me. In addition, it is an intriguing tale and does not strain concentration in the least.”
I thanked him for his understanding and asked what course of action he would advise.
“I cannot advise a course of action, Dr. Carroll,” he replied. “Every man’s actions must come from his own Christian sense of what is right. Perhaps, however, I can help you plumb your conscience.”
“I would be grateful.”
“You are, I take it, aware of no specific behavior by anyone involved that would require you at this point to notify the authorities?”
“That is true,” I replied. “The great dilemma in all of this is a lack of certainty on any front. The Professor may have known of Rebecca Lachtmann, or he may not have. He may have had some awareness of Turk’s activities—whatever they were—or he may have been as surprised as I. Rebecca Lachtmann may have been the cadaver in the Dead House, or she may be alive and safely secreted somewhere in the city. Miss Benedict may have feelings for me, or she may be pretending simply to secure my assistance. There has been sufficient peculiarity of behavior to create irrepressible doubt on nearly every count, but not enough to suggest resolution. I can be sure of nothing. I am a man of science, Reverend. I am used to the unknown, but not to ambivalence. I feel an increasing desperation for answers.”
“And you do not think Dr. Osler was the man to whom Dr. Turk referred in his comments to his landlady?”
“No.”
“Well, then, why not inform the authorities of your suspicions and let them try to make sense of things? They are certainly more capable of settling these issues than you.”
“I cannot, Reverend Powers. Sergeant Borst made little secret of his dislike of doctors and the man would certainly, at the very least, cause a scandal. One does not have to be guilty to be judged guilty. Even if he was completely without culpability, if Dr. Osler was seen by Johns Hopkins to have been involved in disreputable activities, even peripherally or simply by his association with Turk, the hospital might withdraw its offer. His career might be ruined.”
“Your future would also be in doubt, would it not?” asked the Reverend.
“There is no denying it,” I said. “But I ask you to believe that while I have no desire to risk all that I have worked for, in this I am guided by a different motivation.”
“Loyalty to your superior?”
“He is not simply my superior. He is more like … There are two types of parenthood, Reverend Powers, one an accident of birth and the other an adoption by choice.”
“And you feel toward Dr. Osler as you would feel toward a father?”
“Yes.”
“But what of your own father?”
My own father? My mouth opened to once more begin the well-practiced legend, but I did not. “My own father was a drunk and a wife-beater. He was shot for desertion during the war.”
Reverend Powers nodded without evidencing surprise. I might have just told him that the sun would rise the next morning.
I realized in that moment how desperately I wanted to tell him, to lance the abscess of my memory, and the entire squalid tale came flooding out. “My father enlisted soon after Fort Sumter. The farm was doing poorly … mostly because of his own laziness and penchant for drink … and he thought, as did most people in Marietta, that the war would be short, and