City of the Dead

by Herbert Lieberman

  “So what? There’s no law against being a little ahead of the rest. Come on now—comprai, comprasti, compro...”

  ... continuous incision carried from chin to pubic symphysis. Sternum removed.

  Heart approximately the size of a man’s closed fist. Very rigid... “Lolly, your mother and I have decided....” About 40 cubic centimeters dark-red blood small buffy clot escaping from right auricle... “to separate. Just temporarily, mind you. Sort of a vacation from each other.”... Mitral ostium so narrowed as to admit only the tip of the ring finger...

  The fly buzzes through a shaft of sunlight, circles several times around Konig’s head and lights on his lapel, suddenly quiet there and rubbing its forelegs together. Konig is peering through a gray, shadowy hallway, the place reeks of wet plaster and urine; his eyes move beyond walls and beams to a squalid little cubicle...

  Large quantities of thick bloody froth escape from left bronchus.

  Tongue retracted behind jaws, covered with dirty brown coating... some bloody mucus in pharynx. Lolly on her knees, cowering in the clammy shadows, whimpers softly to herself. A large black figure, moving, sliding, insinuating itself toward the cringing figure...

  Glottis open. Larynx and air passages filled with thick frothy fluid containing yellowish-brown flakes. The shadow of a cleaver whooshes sick-eningly through a series of overhead circles above her.

  Spleen, 120 grams. Splenic pulp—brownish-red. Left kidney, 130 grams. Bladder normally distended. Urine clear, amounting to approximately 80 cubic centimeters.

  Lolly whimpers, a small bleating sound, like that of a trapped, wounded animal, knowing it’s to be devoured. Her hands rise above her head as if to protect herself.

  Liver, 1,500 grams. Gall bladder filled with somewhat ropy but otherwise clear dark-green bile.

  “Oh, Daddy. Daddy.”

  “Come on, honey, You can do it.”

  Stomach distended. Contains about 150 cubic centimeters of greenish thick fluid.

  Lolly on her knees praying before her executioner.

  Upper part of duodenum contains a whitish fluid. Greenish-yellow bile flows freely from orifice of common bile. Pancreas pale, normal.

  The cleaver reaches the apogee of its climb...

  Upper part of intestine contains grayish fluid resembling gruel, slightly colored with bile.

  ... and starts its swift, irreversible descent.

  Lowest part of ileum contains quantity of very fluid feces. Large intestine from ileocecal valve full of thick, pulpy feces.

  Lolly’s scream rips through the air like a switchblade. A vision of her head drifts before his eyes—disembodied—severed from the torso—eyes open, showing large areas of white, pupils rolled upward beneath the lids... one side of her face bloody and contused.

  Konig is on his feet, whirling through the room, caught and turning through the mote-filled shaft of sunlight, as if pursuing some fleeting image. He doesn’t realize he’s been on his feet for several moments, cold, clammy sweat soaking through the armpits of his shirt, and whirling... whirling.

  The door swings open. A myopic, dwarfish clerk pokes his head into the room, a little aghast at seeing Konig’s demented pirouetting. Konig halts abruptly and they stare at each other.

  “Well, what the hell do you want?”

  Still gaping at him through bottle-thick lenses, the clerk gulps. “They’re ready for you now, Chief.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And you are a duly licensed physician and surgeon?”

  “That is correct.”

  “In what state?”

  “State of New York.”

  The dull, mechanical litany of the voir dire drones on. “How long have you been licensed to practice medicine?”

  “Since 1935.”

  “And you are presently engaged in the practice of your profession?”

  “Yes. I am Chief Medical Examiner, City of New York.” Sun streaming through tall, soot-streaked windows into the drowsy, stuporous air of the courtroom. The judge, slouched over the bench, appears to be dozing behind his spectacles. The jurors, bored and distracted, suffocating in the dusty, airless space, dream of home and release. Their gazes seesaw slowly back and forth from witness to attorney, keeping precise time with the cadence of the ensuing dialogue.

  A tiny, wizened court reporter, his feet barely touching the floor, taps incessantly on the keys of a small recording machine. Traffic noises throb upward from the street below. From somewhere south and west of them, somewhere in the vicinity of the river, fire engines and police sirens wail out a message of disaster. But here, inside the courtroom, the relentless nasalities of the prosecuting attorney drone on through the waning afternoon.

  Q. “So that, in summary, Doctor, it is your carefully considered opinion that the bullets were fired from a hand gun—caliber thirty-eight—situated somewhere to Benjamin Wilton’s left side?”

  A. “That is correct.”

  Q. “And that there were two points of impact?”

  A. “Yes. One over the left breast, which was superficial, grazing. The other bullet struck over the median center of the left eyebrow and lodged below the right ear. That was not superficial.”

  Q. “And, Doctor, you have testified, have you not, that the murder weapon was fired at a distance of fifteen to eighteen inches from the victim’s head?”

  A. “Ballistics tests and powder burns found at the point of entry suggest such a distance.”

  Q. “And that the bullet penetrated the skull at a downward angle of roughly fifty degrees?”

  A. “Ballistics tests and the track of the missile within the victim’s brain suggest such an angle.”

  Q. “And because of that angle of penetration, and given the victim’s known height of five feet five inches, it is then your carefully considered opinion that the victim’s assailant would have to be a man nearly a whole foot taller?”

  A. “That, of course, is somewhat more difficult to fix with any certainty. But if the victim wasn’t sitting at the time of the attack—and since no chair was found in the immediate vicinity of the body, I must conclude that he was standing, or at least on his feet—then the distance at which the gun was fired and the angle of penetration suggest to me the assailant’s height to be somewhere in the neighborhood of six feet three and six feet five inches.”

  Q. “A tall man you would say?”

  A. “Yes, sir.”

  Q. “Somewhere in the neighborhood of the young man seated beside—”

  Defense: “Objection, your Honor.”

  Judge: “Sustained. Will prosecution please refrain from such leading questions?”

  Q. “Your witness, Counsel.”

  Someone in the back of the court is snoring. The shaft of sunlight streaming through the window has slanted several points eastward. The drugged, somnolent air has grown thicker and closer; purple shadows have begun to gather in the far corners of the room.

  Konig’s head is pounding. It is this part of it that he hates—the part that makes him physically ill—when they try to twist his words, all of which he has chosen and measured so carefully, and then distort them to their own purposes.

  But although the process makes him physically sick, so that he lives in dread anticipation of courtroom appearances, he is, nevertheless, known in the trade as a formidable witness; in the parlance of lawyers, “a cool cookie.” He doesn’t stumble. No one has ever suspected or even had a hint of this vulnerability in the man. He has never shown it. The facade that he brings to court is supremely composed. Glacially aloof. The exterior is serene while the interior churns with rage.

  Q. “... so then, is it not noteworthy, Dr. Konig, that you’ve been scrupulously careful to give only rough approximations of such critical data as...”

  Konig knows what is coming next. The legal mind is quite predictable, incapable of any great surprises.

  Q. “... the assailant’s height? Aren’t your approximations only hypothetical? Wouldn’t you have to co
ncede—”

  A. “Yes. That is correct. I believe I stressed the point that estimation of the assailant’s height would be difficult to fix with any certainty. I offer only approximations. That’s all forensic science is capable of at this time. We’re not gods...”

  Q. “I would certainly agree with you there.”

  Mild laughter throughout the courtroom. At that moment Konig’s eyes happen to fall on the alleged assailant, a surly young thug with a previous arrest record and a known history of violence. Like the others in the court, he, too, appears to be enjoying counsel’s little joke on Konig by smirking widely. The judge stirs himself from private ruminations long enough to gavel the court to silence and call for order. Konig continues, seemingly unfazed.

  A. “... but I would also respectfully point out to the court that these approximations are presented within fairly narrow parameters, so that their value as information is not inconsiderable.”

  Q. “But still you would have to agree—”

  Judge: “The bench recognizes the intent of counsel’s line of questioning here and requests that he refrain from attempting to disparage what the bench deems pertinent and highly expert medical testimony.”

  Konig enjoys a small twinge of vindication. He has been up against this counsel before and they have old scores to settle. Now, without seeming pompous or immodest, Konig has scored a few points for the integrity and forthrightness of the Medical Examiner’s Office, while the counsel has come off seeming sly and somewhat captious at best.

  Q. “But it seems clear now from your testimony that cause of death cannot be attributed to damage inflicted by the single bullet wound.”

  A. “Yes, sir. That is correct. I’ve been very careful to specify that the victim lived for eighteen hours after he was hospitalized, and that the mechanism of death resulted not from damage incurred by the brain but from the lungs, and, strictly speaking, from suffocation.”

  Q. “Is that unusual?”

  A. “Not at all. Not with this kind of wound. In fact, fairly common. Often injuries to the head caused by contusions will bring on fatal edema of the lung.”

  Q. “And is that the case here?”

  A. “Yes, sir, it is.”

  Q. “So that the bullet wound to young Wilton’s brain was not in itself the cause of death?”

  A. “Not in itself, but it was certainly the contributive factor.”

  Q: “And if I may backtrack a moment, Doctor, you do not entirely eliminate the possibility of suicide?”

  A. “I don’t eliminate it. I only say that given the angle of the bullet’s penetration over the left brow, the fact that the gun was fired from the victim’s left side, where it was also subsequently found, given the distance at which the gun was held, the powder burns, and given the victim’s preference for right-handedness—”

  Q. “How do you know the victim was right-handed?”

  A. “Well, sir, for one thing, we did a series of microradiographs of Wilton’s dentition. The prevailing direction of toothbrush strokes in the enamel was that of a right-handed person. For another thing, it was documented in medical records sent us by the family physician.”

  A mild stir of approval through the courtroom, and the counsel momentarily flustered.

  Q. “Let me understand this. Are you saying the victim could not have fired with his right hand?”

  A. “I don’t say he couldn’t have. I say it’s extremely unlikely. It’s easier to understand if you turn your right index finger into an imaginary gun and bring your right hand over to your left eye at such an angle that the bullet would come out below your right ear.” With his own finger, Konig demonstrates his point. “It’s an extremely awkward angle, as you can see. Then, if you keep that same position and pull your hand fifteen to eighteen inches away, pointing it downward at the rather steep angle of fifty degrees, as this weapon had been pointed, I think you’ll find it almost impossible.”

  Konig, attempting to further demonstrate the improbability of the position, elicits another stir of delight from the court. Obviously, he has impressed the spectators. Not, however, the counsel, who is smiling wickedly.

  Q. “But surely, you don’t eliminate, do you, Doctor, the possibility that the victim could have shot himself with his left hand?”

  A. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  Q. “I ask the questions here, Doctor, and I most certainly am serious.”

  A. “You mean that after a lifetime of being right-handed, the victim suddenly for this special occasion decided to become left-handed?”

  Q. “Why not? You yourself stated that the gun was found at Wilton’s left side. Wouldn’t that suggest that he’d used his left hand?”

  A. “I have never, in forty years’ experience, heard of a right-handed person suddenly becoming left-handed in order to commit suicide.”

  Q. “But you haven’t answered my question, Doctor. I have asked you if it is possible for a right-handed person to shoot himself with his left hand—”

  A. “I cannot recall in all my—”

  Q. “Doctor, just answer the question. Is it possible? Yes or no?”

  There’s a palpable suspension of movement while the court, eyes fixed on Konig, waits. Even the incessant coughing, clearing of throats, snuffling of noses, are all held in merciful abeyance while the man on the witness stand weighs the question.

  Even as he ponders, Konig’s eyes fall once more on the alleged assailant—the young thug—his attitude now a mixture of swagger and bravado at finding himself the object of so much fuss. Suddenly their eyes meet and for a fraction of a second Konig sees that nasty little smirk flicker there once again—something both defiant and mocking. A jeering taunt born of a child’s sense of indestructibility. A fatal error, that smirk, for in that moment, Konig feels a rush of hate for the boy and a furious need to get him.

  A. “Yes, sir, it is possible. But not in this Case. Because in this case, the victim’s left hand was found clutching the first wound over his left breast. Since Wilton lost consciousness immediately after being shot in the head, it is certain that at the precise moment of his losing consciousness, his left hand was very busily occupied trying to staunch the flow of blood from his breast. If I follow your line of reasoning, Mr. Counsel, and assume that Wilton did in fact commit suicide, the only possibility is that he shot himself over the left eyebrow with his left hand, then dropped the gun and grabbed his bleeding breast with the same hand. That would be impossible since we all know that he lost consciousness directly after incurring the head wound and, as a result of massive brain injury to the motor centers, was instantly paralyzed, and undoubtedly never moved a muscle again thereafter. So if he couldn’t have used his right hand, as I have demonstrated, because of the angle of the shot, or his left hand because it was found clutching his left breast, then it follows that someone else must have fired the shot.”

  Konig smiles graciously in the direction of the young assailant. The boy blanches and at the same moment the smirk begins to quickly fade. The Chief rises and steps down from the stand, nodding cordially, first to the judge and then to counsel, whose mouth has fallen open and is working uselessly. Striding out of the court, he has a sense of enormous satisfaction.

  Once again the Chief has won. His reputation as a formidable witness remains intact. The media will report the incident glowingly. Congratulations and kudos will redound to the Medical Examiner’s Office. What does it matter that Konig deliberately misled the court. Fudged a bit. That business of the left hand, coming out of left field the way it did, leaving the defense in total disarray. That, he knows, was not exactly so. Assuming Wilton had shot himself with the left hand, a simple involuntary spasm might have brought that same left hand back over the left breast after Wilton had dropped the gun and lapsed into total unconsciousness, despite the motor paralysis he’d suffered subsequent to the second shot.

  But that was not the way it happened, and Konig knew it. The sly, unctuous, pettifogging attorney with the fancy b
ut preposterous left-hand theory knew it too. So did the judge and the whole court know it. But the system being what it is, all are powerless to do anything. All except Konig, who was not powerless.

  With his deepest instincts, the Chief knows the smiling young jackal in the court to be guilty of heinous murder. From his years of pounding about police courts and morgues, he knows everything there is to know about this boy. Past and future. He might even hazard a guess as to when that same dangerously childish fantasy life will no doubt earn the boy a place in one of the morgue’s large refrigerated lockers—but not before many other innocent people die. And this, Konig cannot—will not—permit. So what does it matter that he fudged a bit? He’d done it before and he would do it again. Unhesitatingly, if he thought he was right. And this wasn’t actually an outright lie. It could very well have been exactly the way Konig said it had been. It very probably was. Of that Konig is convinced. His sense of justice tells him so, and that, after all, is enough for him. He’d gotten the bastard.

  »7«

  “She did or she didn’t?”

  “I said she did.”

  “I know, but a minute ago you said she didn’t.”

  “I said she hung up a minute after she heard the clicking.”

  “No, you didn’t, Paul. You said she hung up right after the clicking. Right after is not a minute after. A minute after right after is fifty-nine seconds.”