Monday, July 24, 12:15 p.m.
Dying babies, grieving parents, and hostile cops? I’d walked headlong into a hornet’s nest.
After I convinced a nurse to escort Tina and Miguel into the pediatric intensive care unit to be with their child, I needed some time alone to decompress. The inside of my head sounded like a bass drum. I downed three aspirin, called the rectory to say I’d be home by dinnertime, grabbed a quick lunch in the cafeteria, and then walked to the small hospital chapel.
Sunlight draped a rainbow of colors across the altar, yet there was no one else in the room to appreciate it. Crossing myself with holy water from a marble font near the door, I genuflected and pulled down a padded kneeler. Ever since the chaos and brutality of the battlefield, time alone with the Lord had become my refuge and source of comfort, and after my morning encounter with grief-stricken parents, I was in need of both.
I prayed the Liturgy of the Hours, a collection of psalms, hymns, and prayers required daily of all priests to maintain our spiritual focus. I finished with prayers for my sister and for baby Pablo’s recovery. After a few moments of quiet meditation, I rose and wandered into the sacristy.
I slumped onto the desk chair and swiveled back and forth, trying to make sense of what I had witnessed. The serenity I’d regained in the chapel quickly evaporated and I became angrier with every swing of the chair. Finally, I dialed the Chief of Police, Tree Macon, at the station house. He and I had remained close friends since high school.
“So, Tremont, I have a question.” The only people who called him Tremont were his wife, complete strangers, and me when I was pissed off. “Tell me all-powerful, Grand Imperial Poobah of Justice, why are your boys harassing Miguel and Tina Hernandez? My God, the poor couple’s suffering as it is! Sudden Infant Death Syndrome is the most horrendous thing that can happen to parents. It’s a miracle their child’s still alive. Can’t they be allowed to grieve in peace?”
“You done ranting, Saint Jacob?”
“Not even close. What happened here was damn near police brutality. What the hell was that, Tree?”
“My job. And unfortunately, they’re about to be more upset. I just dispatched a detective and two CSI guys to their apartment.”
“What? Why would you do that?”
“Because it’s a possible crime scene.”
“You’re joking!”
“Do I sound as though I’m kidding? And we are not harassing, Jake. We’re investigating. It’s what we’re supposed to do. Look, I don’t like making life harder on them, but things aren’t always what they seem. They live here in town and their child was initially taken to Oberlin Hospital before being transferred to St. Joe’s pediatric ICU, so this case is in my jurisdiction. I can’t talk specifics.”
I heard a ruckus in the background and someone yelled, “Chief, I need you.”
“Give me a minute, Jake.” When he returned to the phone, Tree said, “Okay, Doctor, you tell me. How do you make the diagnosis of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome?”
“It’s the unexpected death of a baby with no apparent cause. It’s completely unpredictable and a diagnosis of exclusion. There are no x-ray findings, abnormal lab values, or medical tests to prove it. We have to rule out other possibilities, like asthma, viral infection, or botulism.”
“My point exactly. That’s why the government requires a thorough crime scene investigation—to also rule out child abuse, neglect, or infanticide. Listen Jake, in my line of work, SIDS is considered the perfect crime. No evidence, no proof, no witnesses. About ten percent of crib deaths are actually homicides.”
“What?”
“That’s right. Either this is a case where the parents were lucky enough to realize their child had stopped breathing before he died, or it’s a failed attempt at murder.”
“Dear Lord!”
“I wouldn’t mind some help from the Almighty, because most of you doctors don’t even consider foul play when an ambulance brings in an infant who is DOA. The ugly flip-side of the coin is that the parents are sometimes falsely accused of murder. That’s a mistake I sure as hell don’t want to make, and the reason I’m going to their apartment tomorrow, after my lab rats finish CSIng. Problem is, I’ve dealt with only one crib death before, and I’m in over my head with this case.”
He paused so long that I thought Tree had hung up until he said, “Glad you called, Jake. When I told them I needed to stop by their place in the morning, Miguel asked that you be present.” Another silence. “They want you there as a priest; I want you ’cause you’re a doctor. Got any experience with SIDS?”
“Zero.”
“Well then, read up on it. Put your medical training to good use. If the good Lord doesn’t assist me on this, I was hoping maybe you would.”
“What do I have to offer?”
“Your eyes and your brain. We’re a small department and inexperienced with this kind of thing. See if my guys missed anything. Check for signs of neglect, abuse, or living conditions that might cause SIDS. Heck, I don’t know. I’m wandering in the wilderness here, buddy, and could use your help.”
My day was rapidly going downhill. “Let me get this straight, Tree. You want me to go into their home as a priest and confidant, and spy on these poor folks?”
“I only want the truth. Nothing more.”
It’s always hard to say no to your best friend—and mine had saved my life a few weeks earlier.
“Okay, Tree, I’ll come because Miguel and Tina asked for me, but I’m Switzerland—completely neutral.”
“Switzerland, huh?” He uncorked a cavernous, James-Earl-Jones laugh. “When your hair was a lot longer back in school, you did kinda remind me of the little blond girl from that movie—what was her name? Heidi?”
“Very funny. I have to make some phone calls tomorrow morning after Mass to arrange for my sister’s hospitalization, then I’m free.”
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at the rectory around eleven. Wear your priest duds, and bring your eagle eye. Thanks, Jake. Mañana.”
A click, and Tree was gone.
I had never been involved in a case of SIDS and didn’t know much about the syndrome, so I walked to the hospital’s medical library and researched the literature for two hours, feeling like a lowly medical student again—and a bit like a police informant.
Soldier, Doctor, Cleric, Snitch. My résumé had become a damn novel title.