The Teratologist

by Ward Parker

  “Or perhaps the Devil had a hand in this.”

  “Mr. Stockhurst! That’s precisely what I don’t—”

  “Don’t be so quick to come to conclusions, Doctor. Wait until you’ve gotten to know my son.”

  * * *

  As Follett strolled back to the hotel along the Ocean Walk, he recalled the words of his wife, spoken through the mouth of a child: “The monster will turn on you. And try to kill you.”

  And here he was, the very next day, consulting with the closest approximation of an actual monster he had ever seen.

  He pushed the idea from his head. He was a man of science and it would be foolish to allow himself to fall into superstitious thinking. Besides, it was difficult to dwell on the macabre as he reached the six-story bulk of the hotel, with its cheerful yellow paint, white trim and black shutters, the afternoon sun shimmering on Lake Worth behind it. Young women in white linen played croquet on the lush lawn.

  Between the hotel and the lakeside was a grassy area shaded by coconut palms where tables were arranged. Called Coconut Grove, this was the site of a popular tea every afternoon. The tables were already filling and an orchestra tuned up on the hotel portico overlooking the grove. He leaned against a palm tree and watched the crowd assemble. The men in their blue blazers and white trousers, the women wearing long skirts and high-necked blouses in the latest fashion with wide-brimmed hats adorned with bird plumes. It all seemed so innocent—naïve, really—as the country was still bogged down in a foreign war and millions at home toiled in poverty. Here in Palm Beach, nothing was unsightly and everything was beautiful, because you’ve paid a pretty penny for that privilege.

  He walked around to the front of the hotel where the pedicab drivers were waiting. James spotted him instantly.

  “Can I take you somewhere, Doc Follett?”

  “Please. Anywhere but here. I need to clear my mind.”

  “How about the alligator farm?”

  “Sounds sufficiently mindless,” he said, climbing into the back seat. An athletic jersey showed beneath James’ uniform shirt, which was open at the top two buttons. “Are you an athlete?”

  “I’m an outfielder for the Cuban X-Giants, in the Negro league. A bunch of players come down here every tourist season to work at the hotel and put on exhibition games for the guests, but I grew up here.”

  “When is your next game?”

  “Saturday afternoon, two o’clock. Hope you can make it.”

  James mounted the bike, but before he made two revolutions of the pedals, the hotel detective, Dowling, appeared, blocking his path. He aimed his protruding stomach at them like a battering ram.

  He was accompanied by a tall, lean man wearing a cowboy-style hat. His suit was the brown homespun sort you’d see worn by the locals across the lake and his weathered face was tanned darkly. His eyes, gray and expressionless, locked on James.

  “This him?” he asked Dowling.

  “It is.”

  “James Hartwell? I need to ask you some questions. I’m W.G. DeBerry, the marshal in West Palm Beach.”

  “What brings you over here, Marshal, sir?” James said. “Palm Beach is the Dade County Sheriff’s jurisdiction.”

  “I’m here on West Palm Beach business. Are you a neighbor of the Bishops?”

  “Yes sir, I am. Nice family, they came here from the Bahamas two or three years ago.”

  “Do you know their oldest daughter, Emily?”

  James’ forehead became lined with concern. “Did something happen to her?”

  “Are you friends with her?”

  “No, sir. She’s older than me, and, you know, a little slow.” He tapped his head and nodded. “Did something happen to her?”

  “Where were you early this morning before dawn?”

  “Well, I got up around five, ate some breakfast, and then walked here across the railroad bridge.”

  “Did you notice anything going on at the Bishops’ house?”

  “No, sir. Lights were off, so I guess they were still asleep.”

  “Emily, too?”

  “Well, I suppose so.”

  “Did you see her this morning?”

  “No, sir.”

  Marshal DeBerry studied James for a moment, nodding.

  “What did you do on Tuesday?”

  “Tuesday? Why, I worked all day and a few of the boys and me had some batting practice.”

  DeBerry pulled from his vest pocket a small photograph in a cardboard folder and showed it to James. It was a picture of an elderly black man lying on a table.

  “Recognize this man?”

  “Nope. Is that the one they found on the beach at The Breakers?”

  DeBerry eyed him with an inscrutable expression. “It is.”

  “Hold on there,” Dowling said. “That body was found here in Palm Beach. Not your juris—”

  “The corpse is at an undertaker’s in West Palm and a Negro church there is raising money to bury him. To the best of my knowledge, neither you nor Sheriff Frohock have made the slightest effort to investigate his death. Heck, the sheriff hasn’t even been up in this part of the county for weeks.” He turned his attention back to James. “Have you heard anything about this man—any gossip among your people?”

  “No one seems to know who he is. There’s been talk that he used to be a migrant farmworker.”

  “Do you own a boat?”

  “Me?” James chuckled. “No, sir.”

  “Know anything about boating?”

  “No, sir. Playing ball’s my pastime.”

  “Excuse me, Marshal,” Follett said. “Can I ask what happened to the Bishop woman?”

  DeBerry appeared annoyed by the interruption.

  “Sure you can ask, but I’m afraid I have to ask you about your whereabouts last night up until dawn.”

  “Well, actually, I was observing a patient. Then I returned to the hotel for a nightcap before retiring.”

  “You’re here on holiday and you already have a local patient in West Palm?” he asked, his skepticism barely concealed by his slow, casual drawl. “What time were you there exactly?”

  “I don’t remember. It was late. It wasn’t exactly a medical appointment. I just…well, it’s difficult to explain. Have you heard of the child they call the Angel Worm?”

  “I know about her reputation. How long were you there?” DeBerry said

  “Sorry?”

  “How long were you at the Norris house last night?”

  “An hour perhaps. Two at the most. Why do you ask? Did something happen to their daughters?”

  “No, but the house you visited is only a couple of blocks from Emily Bishop’s home. Did you see anyone nearby acting suspiciously?”

  He instantly thought of Connelly.

  “After I left, I did see a man who was following me, I think. His name’s Connelly and he works for William Stockhurst.”

  DeBerry and Dowling exchanged a glance.

  “To be clear, I’m not accusing him of anything. I just thought it odd that he was there. I assumed he was keeping track of my movements on the orders of his employer.”

  “Why would Stockhurst care about your movements?”

  “He wanted me to examine his son.”

  “His son is a freak, a monster,” Dowling explained. “Covered in hair and the lot.”

  “Exactly what kind of medicine do you practice?”

  “I’m a teratologist. I study birth defects and abnormalities. That’s why I had an interest in the Norris child.”

  “Would you have an interest in the Bishop’s daughter? She was born feeble-minded.”

  “I’d be curious about her condition.”

  “I see. How do you spell that ‘terra’ word?”

  Follett spelled it and DeBerry wrote it down in a small notebook.

  “I collect interesting words,” he explained. “Helps me enjoy literature. Now tell me, you’re traveling down here alone?”

  “Yes.”

  DeBerry wrote a
few words in his notebook. “Don’t you have a wife and children, Dr. Follett?”

  “My wife and son died in childbirth.”

  “I’m sorry,” DeBerry said, before glancing off toward the crowd assembled in the grove below. He made no indication the interview was over, but he remained silent as if he were ruminating deeply.

  The silence grew awkward, so Follett tried to relax by surveying the characters showing off in their warm-weather finery. He never understood this need to be seen and assessed by others. He had been told that women change clothes up to eight times a day at hotels like this and he didn’t doubt it, based on the size and number of trunks he’d seen unloaded from the baggage cars on the rail siding.

  “All right,” DeBerry finally said. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, Doctor. But I might be back with more questions. How long are you staying in Florida?”

  Follett realized he didn’t know anymore. Dr. Greer had recommended he stay for the rest of the Season in order to recuperate and dissipate the depression he had been suffering. He had expected he would cut his reservation short because he doubted he could be idle for so long. Now, however, he wanted to examine Stockhurst’s son thoroughly. And he wanted to speak to his wife again through Angelica.

  “Through the end of the Season at least,” he said. “Maybe longer. Now can you tell me what happened to the Bishop woman? Is she missing?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “That poor lady,” James said. “She wasn’t right in the head but she never hurt a fly. She’ll trust anyone. They never should have let her wander anywhere on her own. I have to go there and comfort the family. Are you done with me, Marshal?”

  “For the time being.”

  “Doc, do you mind?”

  “No,” he said. “Go ahead.”

  James pedaled away. He left the pedicab in a row of parked ones next to the hotel and hurried around the side of the building toward the bridge.

  “Keep an eye on that feller,” DeBerry said to Dowling.

  “I will.”

  Chapter Five

  SOCIAL LIFE IN PALM BEACH

  PALM BEACH, Fla., March 22. The social season continues to delight guests at the Royal Poinciana Hotel. I have been told the festivities planned over the following weeks promise to make this year’s gaiety more spectacular than ever. Prominent New Yorkers, such as Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt are expected soon in their private railcar, as are Mr. and Mrs. John J. Astor. Already in attendance is renowned orthopedic surgeon Dr. Harold S. Greer who has been mesmerizing us all with tales of his innovations in artificial limbs for war veterans. He was recently taken sport fishing as a guest of the former lion of the stage, Joseph Jefferson, who is becoming quite a figure in local real estate development. The biggest social event thus far was a most delightful luncheon hosted by Mrs. Kenneth T. Millworth of Philadelphia…

  —The New York Clarion, March 23, 1902

  * * *

  “You’re wondering if I’m responsible for the disappearance of the Negroes,” Darryl said with his lisp.

  Startled, Follett leaned back and put down the ophthalmoscope he had been using to examine Darryl’s eyes.

  “Yes, I can read minds,” Darryl said. “Truly.”

  “Whenever you wish?”

  “Oh, some people learn how to hide their thoughts from me. But you don’t seem like the type who could. Too analytical. No imagination.”

  “Is mind reading learnable, or do you have to be born with the ability?”

  “You wish to learn?”

  Before Follett could answer, Darryl said, “You’re right, it would be unethical to use it on patients. But to reach someone who is dead? Well, I don’t know. I’ve never tried that.”

  “But I…”

  “Didn’t believe in ghosts and officially still do not. But you believe you’ve heard the spirit of your wife speak to you.”

  “I wasn’t thinking those exact thoughts just now.”

  “I know. You were thinking them when you came to visit us the first time.”

  Follett was speechless. Thoughtless, even.

  “And no, I am not responsible for the disappearance of anyone. And yes, I could be lying, but I’m not. You just have to take my word.”

  “Let me ask you again, were you born with this ability to read minds?”

  “I think so. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember, but it took years of practice before I could control it. You’re thinking that my ability might be a congenital abnormality?”

  Follett smiled. “It crossed my mind. I can’t even begin to hypothesize what kind of physiological differences in your brain would enable this ability. But I’m certain there’s a natural explanation for what people call psychic powers—which heretofore I didn’t even believe existed.”

  Just then, Sven or Carl, one of the two bodyguards Follett couldn’t tell apart, entered the room. Fumes of liquor followed him.

  “Sorry to leave you alone with him,” he said in his heavy Nordic accent. “Will not happen again.”

  Darryl laughed. “I am not a caged lion or something. And I have not, despite what people may say, ever hurt a soul. Except myself.”

  Sven-or-Carl snickered and looked down, shaking his head. He stood, a little unsteadily, just behind Darryl, close enough to tackle him but with enough distance to not interfere with the examination.

  “You wish to add something?” Darryl asked.

  The man smiled sarcastically and shook his head.

  “You know I can read your thoughts, idiot.” Darryl’s dark brow was furled with anger.

  “Well, then,” Follett said. “Let’s continue. This contraption on the table is called an ergograph. It’s fairly new technology that measures muscle strength and fatigue by isolating a muscle. I’ll compare your results with those of others your age.”

  On a wooden platform he had clamped to the tabletop sat, essentially, an armrest with a series of braces and clamps that held the arm immobile. Attached to one end was a pulley, from which hung a cable supporting a brass weight on one end and connected on the other to a device called the registering runner that moved a pencil across paper to graph how far the subject’s middle finger could lift the weight.

  “No offense, Doctor, but who cares how strong I am?”

  “I’m merely gathering data, Darryl. Modern medicine is all about precise data. And the more I have, the more conclusions I can draw from them. I’m assessing your health and vitality to determine how they may be affected by these unique conditions you were born with. And collecting your data will help me in assessing other cases.”

  Darryl yawned as Follett placed his right arm and hand, palm up, on the ergograph, slipping his index and ring fingers into tubes and strapping his palm, wrist and forearm to the machine. Then he attached the cable from the pulley to Darryl’s middle finger with a leather strap. He put a fresh piece of graph paper below the registering runner and lowered the pencil to touch the paper.

  “Now Darryl, on my command you will raise your middle finger and curl it toward your palm. You will continue to do this with identical, steady repetitions until I tell you to stop. Now begin: one, two, three, four…”

  Darryl performed the exercise with ease, remarkable ease. Follett knew the lad was strong, but after more than 100 repetitions, the finger showed no signs of tiring. Most subjects can do but a fraction of that number without resting. The chart recorded by the ergograph remained constant throughout, indicating not the slightest reduction of muscle capacity. He had never seen results like this before.

  “Impressive,” Follett said.

  “A strong finger,” Sven-or-Carl said, snickering. “Women, they love the strong finger.”

  Darryl turned as much as the arm restraints allowed and stared at him. His eyes narrowed and the enormous black pupils expanded. Sven-or-Carl’s face drained of color.

  “I make joke,” he said.

  Darryl continued to gaze at him with the impassive, predatory regard of a sn
ake. His finger never paused in its motions.

  “Are you getting tired?” Follett asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Any pain or stiffness?”

  Again, a no.

  Follett was scribbling some observations in his notebook when a motion caught his eye and he looked up just in time to see Darryl’s finger contract with incredible force. The cable shot toward him, whipping the weight up and over the machine in a great arc. With a loud snap the cable broke and the weight flew past Darryl’s head to strike Sven-or-Carl right in the mouth. The giant toppled to the floor like a felled redwood.

  “Oops,” Darryl said.

  Then a horrible wheezing, gurgling sound arose from the downed man and Darryl’s expression changed to concern.

  Follett knelt beside Sven-or-Carl and examined his mouth. The brass weight had gone right into it, breaking all the front teeth, and was lodged in the very rear of the mouth behind the tongue. It was blocking the airway and the patient’s face grew bluer with each aborted breath. He was unconscious, so he didn’t struggle as Follett pushed his jaw down with his left hand and reached into the mouth with his right. Probing as deeply into the mouth as he could, he was able to touch the brass weight with the tips of his fingers but couldn’t grasp it. He turned the head to the side to allow the blood to drain, and, since he was getting desperate, he raised the patient’s back and thumped it at the base of his neck hoping to dislodge the weight. It didn’t work.

  “Darryl,” he said. “Over by the door, my black bag—”

  The bag landed on the floor next to him. That was strange: he hadn’t seen Darryl move at all.

  Follett had never been a general practitioner like his father, God rest his soul, so he carried only a minimal amount of medical instruments with him. Inside the bag was a leather case that his father left to him, the same one he had used for house calls. Back in those days, his father often performed minor surgery on kitchen tables, an option preferable to going to a surgeon who, back then, was considered barely more respectable than a dentist or barber. The leather case held four scalpels of various sizes, which Follett occasionally used for acquiring tissue samples.