“Is this true, Paul? Did your office omit doing these rather crucial tissue studies?”
“Yes,” Konig says, eyes lowered, shoulders slumped wearily. “It’s true. And the man responsible for the omission has been reprimanded.”
“And,” Benjamin interjects, “he refuses to identify the man on his staff who conducted the first autopsy.”
“Let’s not open that can of beans now,” says Binney, sitting back in his chair, the tips of his fingers folded across his vest. He is still looking toward Konig, studying him intently. “And now, Paul, now that you’ve had an opportunity to examine the tissue studies prepared by Dr. Carslin, what’s your opinion of his conclusions?”
“Very plausible,” Konig replies at once.
Benjamin’s head snaps around. Gaping at the Chief incredulously, he has the hurt, puzzled look of a man betrayed.
Carslin smiles quietly to himself.
Konig’s eyes slowly rise from the floor, and he stares around at them. “This sort of thing has certainly happened before in penal institutions. No one has ever suggested that the Tombs is a fresh-air fund for underprivileged boys.”
“Let me get this straight, Paul,” says Binney. “Are you now repudiating the conclusions of your own office?”
“Yes, sir, I am. But only those aspects of the report that pertain to time of death in relation to the time when the injuries in question were sustained. And I must also concede that Dr. Carslin’s excellent tissue studies demonstrate enough leukocytic infiltration at the site of the injuries to leave no doubt in my mind that the injuries were sustained while the deceased was still alive, and undoubtedly were inflicted by guards Or other prisoners.”
“More like guards, Paul.” Carslin’s manner, now that he’s had substantial concessions, is suddenly full of solicitude and warm regard for his old teacher. “Robinson had been isolated, put in solitary confinement, for at least two weeks before his death.”
“That’s because he was a goddamned troublemaker,” Benjamin snarls. “You know that as well as I do, Carslin. Daily fistfights and quarreling with other prisoners and guards.”
“So I’ve been told.” Carslin shrugs. “Be that as it may, however, he was in solitary confinement. Other prisoners simply could not have gotten at him.”
“Guards, prisoners, whatever,” says Konig with sudden irritability. “The fact remains he was beaten. I concede that. I concede that my office neglected to carry out the requisite tests to determine that he was beaten. I concede that the ME report stating that Robinson’s injuries were caused as a result of the body falling to the floor while it was being cut down from where it hung in the cell—that, too, was wrong. Wildly wrong. I concede that.” Konig gazes around at the three men gathered there, staring back at him raptly. “But I think also—” his gaze suddenly drops on Carslin like a trap—“that Dr. Carslin would have to concede to me that those same superb tissue preparations of his also reveal that the wounds shown there are at least forty-eight hours old.”
“The implication being that”—Binney leans quickly forward on his desk—“Robinson died at least two days after the beating was inflicted?”
“That’s right,” says Konig.
“And that the wounds, in and of themselves, were not the direct cause of death?”
“That’s right.” Konig smiles wearily at Carslin. “You neglected to mention that in your excellent report, Charley.”
Benjamin laughs out loud, but his hilarity is immediately quashed by a portentous arching of the District Attorney’s brow.
“How can you be sure of this, Paul?” Binney asks.
“Ask Dr. Carslin. He’d be glad to tell you.”
“Is this true, Dr. Carslin?” Binney turns to face the young pathologist. “Were these wounds shown here in your photographs and tissue slides really inflicted forty-eight hours before death?”
“Yes, sir,” Carslin murmurs a little grimly. He is no longer smiling. “What Dr. Konig so shrewdly points out is the simple, incontrovertible fact that a human body responds to injury by mobilizing thousands of white blood cells—we call them leukocytes—at the site of injury. This is a vital reaction. It can occur only in a living animal. There are several basic types of this white blood cell and they arrive at the wound in fairly regular sequence. It’s a process that takes from two to forty-eight hours. Repair cells become abundant about twenty-four hours after the injury has been sustained, and these scar-tissue cells, along with the leukocytes, are spotted quite easily through the microscope. In the tissue specimens we took from Robinson’s body, the number and types of cells present suggest not only that the wounds had been inflicted while he was still alive, but also about forty-eight hours before death.”
Carslin’s voice drops an octave or so in tone as he concedes this last point. Some of the starch has definitely gone out of him.
“Very interesting.” The Deputy Mayor beams happily for the first time that morning.
Carslin’s face has gone a deep red. “What the hell does that mean? Only that he didn’t die directly after the beating. It doesn’t say that he didn’t die as a result of the beating. I defy Dr. Konig to examine the fracture line in this X ray of Robinson’s skull and assert that a skull injury of that magnitude could not cause death—even forty-eight hours after having been inflicted.”
All eyes now shift back to Konig, who appears to be very carefully weighing his reply. “I’ve already conceded a number of things here this morning,” he sighs wearily in his chair. “That Robinson’s injuries were sustained while he was still alive; that they were undoubtedly inflicted during the course of a beating; that the Medical Examiner did not carry out the requisite tests to determine that such a beating took place. I have conceded all that. I have even repudiated the Medical Examiner’s conclusions as to the actual cause of death. Now, yes—I will also concede Dr. Carslin’s last point. Such injuries as the one shown here in this X ray can, in certain instances, be judged the direct cause of death even forty-eight hours after they’re inflicted. I concede that to you, Charley, but, unfortunately, that is not the case here.”
There’s a moment of total silence which the three men struggle to digest the significance of Konig’s final point. Then suddenly Carslin is on his feet shouting. “Not the case here?” he bawls across the room. “Not the case here?”
“That’s what I said.” Konig lifts an X ray from the desk. It shows a skull in profile with a long, dark, clearly verifiable fracture line running along the side of it. “As a matter of fact,” he continues, “while this fracture is long, it’s trivial.”
“Trivial? Trivial?” Carslin splutters, unable to find another word. “You have the colossal gall to sit there and describe that fracture as trivial? I dare say, it might seem trivial to you. I bet it didn’t seem very trivial to poor Robinson at the time they bashed his head.”
“I object to your use of the word ‘bashed,’” snaps Benjamin.
“Well, I assure you it was no love tap that produced that fracture.” Carslin flings another X ray down hard on the desktop beneath the Deputy Mayor’s nose.
“Who’re you kidding, Carslin?” Benjamin sneers. “You’re not interested in this Robinson boy. You’re just out to make a big name for yourself by portraying the prison system of this city as inhuman, barbaric. Something out of the Dark Ages.”
“Well, isn’t it?” Carslin is on his feet again, shouting. “Don’t these X rays and tissue studies prove just that? And I object to your suggesting—this is the second time now—that I’m trying to make a name for myself just because I’m looking for the truth. Would any of this have come out if I hadn’t been looking for the truth? Not if it was up to you. Not if it was up to Paul Konig. This is all too embarrassing, isn’t it? Could cause a scandal. So let’s keep it quiet. Right? All I can say is, thank heavens for the vigilance of a mortician in Yonkers who had the perspicacity to see great disparities between the Medical Examiner’s report and what he could see directly before his eyes.”
/>
“You have just suggested,” Benjamin says between clenched teeth, “that the Department of Corrections, the Medical Examiner’s Office, and the Mayor’s Office are in a conspiracy to suppress—”
“By God, yes,” Carslin shouts. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen”—Binney pounds the desk with an open palm—“we’re straying from the point. We’re not here this morning to judge the merits of the City penal system. What we want to determine is the cause of Robinson’s death, and whether or not there is sufficient evidence here surrounding the circumstances of the boy’s death to convene a grand jury. Paul”—Binney turns back to Konig—“a moment ago you described these skull injuries as ‘trivial.’”
“Trivial!” Carslin laughs bitterly.
The District Attorney scowls at Carslin above his glasses, then continues. “What exactly did you mean by ‘trivial’?”
Konig pauses, his manner suddenly guarded and uneasy. “I meant,” he says at last, “that in all these X rays of the deceased’s skull, and in our own examination of the brain at the time of the first autopsy, we found no visible sign of gross injury or hemorrhage to the brain. I don’t think Dr. Carslin can refute that.”
Struggling between rage and disbelief, Carslin sits down again, struck dumb, shaking his head incredulously. The blood has drained from his face. His lips, clamped tight against each other, have the appearance of rubber bands stretched to the point of breaking. “Would you say that again, please?” His voice as he speaks is barely above a whisper.
“Very well,” Konig sighs. “Neither your X rays nor our autopsy reveals any sign whatsoever of either gross injury or hemorrhage in the brain as a result of that fracture. As evidence, those X rays could only be described as circumstantial. So I most definitely do not concede that the fracture shown there is the cause of death.”
“You’re saying to me then”—Carslin struggles to control the tremor in his voice—“that all blows to the head causing death can be shown to produce either gross injury or hemorrhage to the brain?”
“Now what’s all this about?” Benjamin whimpers feebly.
“It’s a very significant medical point,” Carslin snaps, his eyes still fixed on Konig. “Answer the question, Paul. Yes or no?”
“Yes,” Konig replies in a very quiet voice.
“All blows to the head, Paul?”
“Yes,” Konig whispers. “All.”
“And what exactly does this mean?” Binney asks, sensing he has come now to the crux of things.
“Ask Dr. Konig.” Carslin seethes with scorn. “Let him tell you what it means.”
“What’s he suggesting, Paul?” the Deputy Mayor asks, sensing, too, that something is going wrong. Slipping away from them. “What the hell is he trying to pull?”
“I’ve said all I can say,” Konig addresses the floor.
“Well, if he won’t tell you,” Carslin says, “then I will. There’s not a neuropathologist today who has not described well-documented cases of blows to the head resulting in instantaneous death where the most meticulous examination of the brain at autopsy fails to produce a single visible sign of brain damage. Gross, micro, or whatever. I have seen cases like this and so has Dr. Konig.”
For a long moment only a large clock ticking on Binney’s desk can be heard. When at last he speaks, the District Attorney’s voice is very soft. “Paul?”
Another pause, then, “That may be Dr. Carslin’s experience,” Konig says, his manner grown even more furtive and guarded. “It is not mine.”
There is a moment when no one seems able to speak. There is the sense of a point having been passed, a bridge crossed; a sense of irretrievable loss.
Finally Carslin breaks the silence He seems no longer angry. His expression is full of quiet wonder and amazement. “If I had not been a witness to this, I’d refuse to believe it had ever happened. To see Paul Konig, one of the world’s leading forensic authorities, possibly the outstanding authority, a great scholar, a great teacher, a scientist, reduced to this contemptible face-saving performance.” Carslin stands and starts to gather his papers. All the while Carslin has been speaking, Konig’s eyes have been glued fixedly to the floor, as if he were seeking a sort of sanctuary there. Slumped in his chair, hands folded in his lap, staring resolutely downward, like a child chastised, he has the look of defeat about him More than that, shame. A defeat born of the loss of self-respect.
“Amen.” The Deputy Mayor rises with a sigh of relief. “The skull fracture then was not the direct cause of death.”
“That’s your version,” Carslin snaps, stuffing X rays and papers into a briefcase, “not mine. And I don’t intend to sit around here and permit the Mayor’s Office, the District Attorney, the Correction, Department, the Medical Examiner, the whole goddamned kit and caboodle of you to bury the truth of what I—”
Even as Carslin rants on, stuffing papers into the case and glowering, Konig rises slowly to his feet. Looking neither right nor left, eyes hollow, vacant, like a man in a trance, he stoops and lifts from the floor the battered Gladstone bag. Dumbfounded, the others watch him as he turns his back and, without a word, starts walking slowly out of the room.
“You’re a liar, Paul,” Carslin shouts at the retreating figure. “You know you’re a liar.”
Konig neither pauses nor turns. No sign whatever to signify that he has heard. Sagging a bit beneath the weight of the bag, he just keeps moving straight ahead, out the door, leaving it open as he goes.
»52«
“Yeah, that’s ours. We did that job.”
“You did?”
“Sure—come right outta this shop. What about it?”
“Can you tell me somethin’ about it?”
NOON. TRIANGLE PRINTING AND LINOTYPE CORP.,
22ND STREET AND EIGHTH AVENUE.
Mr. Murray Bloom bites deeply into a corned beef on rye. Chewing energetically, he waves with almost pontific grandeur at the piece of torn and crumpled newsprint held by Flynn. “Sure. What can I tell you?”
Flynn reaches across the desk and lays the page before him. “Says there you printed this paper on March thirty-first.”
“Wrong. It was distributed on March thirty-first.” Mr. Bloom bites deeply into a sour pickle, then sucks Coke noisily up through a straw. “Ran it off about a week and a half before.” He dabs hectically with a napkin at the pickle juice that has squirted onto his tie.
The phone rings on Mr. Bloom’s desk. He snatches it up, listens a moment, making a series of long-suffering, explanatory faces at Flynn. “Listen—can’t talk now. I got someone here. Call me back in half an hour.” He hangs up, reaches once more for his corned beef on rye, and nods at Flynn to resume.
“Says here,” Flynn goes on, “in the upper right-hand corner, number 3118. What’s that?”
“Serial number.”
“That mean that this here is the three thousand one hundred and eighteenth copy of the paper you printed?”
“Right.” Mr Bloom’s jaws clamp neatly over a full quarter of his sandwich. ‘That’s what that means.”
“Every paper you print have a serial number?”
“That’s right.’ Mr. Bloom nods and chews.
“Can you tell me how many you printed?”
“Oh, Jesus—how the hell would I know? You gotta know that?”
Flynn smiles. “It’d help.”
Bloom presses a buzzer on his desk and stares impatiently out of the glass wall partition of his office. Beyond the glass can be seen rows of Linotype and huge offset machines making monstrous clanking sounds Men wearing sun visors and elbow garters are seated at each. Proofreaders and messengers, galley runners and secretaries, swarm back and forth outside the glass like innumerable small fish in an aquarium.
Shortly an enormous woman of Buddha-like proportions waddles toward the glass door of the office She has a Kewpie-doll face, heavily made up, and she is sweating profusely.
“Come on in, Tessie.�
�� Bloom, sucking his Coke, waves her in. “Tessie, this is Sergeant Flynn of the police. Tessie Balbato.”
They mumble hellos, and for a moment the heavy girl is flustered, overwhelmed with shyness.
“Tessie”—Bloom holds up the sheet of newsprint—“offhand, can you give us the print run on this Clintonian job?”
“We pulled seven thousand five hundred copies,” the girl replies instantly.
“So that this one was pretty near the middle of the run?” Flynn asks.
“If it says 3118”—Bloom ingests the second half of his pickle—“you know then we pulled some four thousand more—right?”
“Four thousand three hundred and eighty-two more,” says the fat girl, instantly supplying the exact number.
Mr. Bloom glances sharply at her. “Right—four thousand three hundred and eighty-two more.”
Momentarily baffled, Flynn glances back and forth at both of them.
Mr Bloom bites hard into his corned beef on rye. “So what’s next?”
“So,” says Flynn, “where do these papers go after they leave here?”
“Jobbers, wholesalers. They then distribute it to the newsstands and cigar stores in the area. That particular paper’s only distributed in the Clinton district. Comes out four times a year. Is that through the News or the Post, Tessie?”
“The News,” says the big girl. “They slip it right in at the stand.”
Flynn nods and makes a note on his pad. “These jobbers—how many of them take care of the Clinton district?”
Bloom’s chewing comes to an abrupt halt, a bit of corned beef still sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He glances toward the girl. “Tessie?”
“We deal with four in that area,” she replies instantly. “Spiegel Kristofos Wagoner Brothers, and Charles.”
“Charles pay that bill yet Tessie?” Bloom snaps.
“No.” The girl looks uneasily at him. “Marty went over to see him today They promise for next Friday.”
“I’m not holding my breath Bloom inserts the final quarter of the sandwich into his mouth, continuing to speak all the while. “Go right ahead, Sergeant. Sorry to interrupt.”
City of the Dead Page 32
