City of the Dead

»17«

“Read all about ya in the Daily News.”

“Swell.”

“Right up there. Page four. Picture. Headline. The works. How come they never take my picture?”

“You’re unsightly, that’s why. What can I do for you, Flynn?”

“‘Chief Medical Examiner scours murder site,’ it said,” Flynn runs on unfazed. “I was there too, scourin’, but not a mention of me. And I betcha don’t even know you were on TV last night. Eleven o’clock news, Channel Two. How does it feel to be famous? A celebrity?”

“Marvelous.” Konig lights his cigar and flicks through the morning mail on his desk. “What’s on your mind, Flynn? I’m very busy.”

“That Doblicki business.”

“What about it?”

“The Jersey authorities refuse to release the body for reautopsy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They’ve got to—Tell them—”

“Hold it. Hold it.” Flynn’s long, disconsolate sigh issues through the receiver. “Will you please lemme finish?”

“Well, then, get to the point, for Chrissake.”

“I am—I am—or at least I’m try in’ to. What I was gonna say before you jumped all over me was that while they refuse to release the body to us, they’re perfectly willin’ to do it themselves.”

“Fine. Beautiful. Why didn’t you say that in the first place? I don’t care if they do it. Just as long as someone does it.”

“All you have to do is tell them what the hell you’re lookin’ for.”

“My pleasure.” Konig’s eyes glance over the details of several of the morning’s autopsies. “Who’d you talk to over there? Weinstein?”

“That’s the man.”

“Fine. He’s very good. Studied under me.”

“I sort of got that feelin’—from the way he shouted at me all the time.”

“Tell him we found no soot or cinders in the trachea.”

“The trachy—what?”

“Never mind. Tell him in the lungs. That’ll do. And tell him—”

“Hold it. Hold it. You talk too fast.”

“You write too slow. Tell him we also found no appreciable CO levels in the blood. Very suspicious finding in a person who supposedly died in a fire. Tell Henry to—”

“Henry?”

“Weinstein. Dr. Weinstein. Tell him to look for a bullet wound around the back of the head or for traces of a slug in the brain. Reason we didn’t look for a slug is ’cause we’re slipshod around here. The troopers’ report described a fatal accident due to drunken driving, and like the goddamned fools we are, we just accepted that. The guy did have a lot of booze in him,, but he was dead before he ever set foot in the car. Most of the skull and brain was incinerated in the fire, and the slug itself probably embedded in the debris. But there’s a good chance if Weinstein sifts through what’s left he’ll find some residual lead or a bullet hole.”

“—or a bullet hole.” Flynn repeats the final words and Konig can hear the sound of his pencil scratching across a pad as he writes. “That all, Chief?”

“That’s it. Anything else?”

“Yeah. We gotcha a few more assorted parts from down on the river.”

“Heads?”

“Nope. Got a couple of feet though. A few toes. Upper half of a trunk, and some chunks of stuff I can’t begin to figure out.”

“Where’d you find it? Same place?”’

“No—about five hundred yards away. Tide washed it down. What’s it all look like so far?”

“A goddamned mess,” Konig goes on, his eyes continuing to scan autopsy reports. “Two, maybe three bodies. One definitely male. The others, I don’t know. Could be anything. Can’t say till I get the stuff assembled. You gotta get me some heads. I need heads.”

“And I need prints. Listen—we’re liftin’ a slew of prints out of that shack. If you could get me some corroborating prints—”

“With what? You’ve got to have fingertips to do that I’ve got no fingertips. All of them were hacked off—”

“You’ve got the set with the pretty nails though, don’tcha?”

“All the cuticle’s been torn off with a rasp,” Konig snorts. “The bastard who did this job must be some cool number.”

“A pussycat.”

“I’m going to try to lift a set off that hand this afternoon. It’s tricky stuff. Call me later on. After six. What about that shack?”

“What about it?”

“Said you were checking the Bureau of Records—”

“Oh, yeah—the deed of ownership. Just like we figured. The City owns it. Originally belonged to a widow lady name of Chatsworth. Died intestate about fifty years ago and the place reverted by escheat to the City—who naturally don’t do a goddamned thing for it. Past few years it’s become a haven for junkies and winos.”

“What about that Salvation Army lead?”

“I’m way ahead of you,” Flynn snaps. “Been on to the Army this mornin’. They got no record of any of their people assigned to that area.”

“Odd.”

“Yeah. Still a couple of storekeepers down there insist they seen some Salvation Army guy goin’ in and outta the place from time to time.”

“Oh, come on, Flynn. What the hell does that mean? Anyone can walk in off the street to any Army-Navy store and pick up a Salvation Army uniform—”

“That’s right, Chief,” Flynn smirks into the phone. “Now suppose you let me do my job and you do yours. See if you can’t get me some prints off that hand.”

“Fine,” Konig snorts. “You see if you can’t get me some heads.”

No sooner does Konig slam down the phone than it rings again. This time it is Carver speaking from just outside the door. “Deputy Mayor been tryin’ to reach you all morning.”

“Jesus Christ.” Konig rumples a wad of paper, crushes it in his fist. “Put him on.”

“You know anything about this other man—this Carslin?” snaps the Deputy Mayor.

“Yes. He’s very good. Trained under me.”

“Haven’t they all?” the Deputy Mayor snarls sarcastically. “Harris tells me he’s got something of a grudge against you.”

“Oh, that old business. Nothing. Just an ego thing.”

“Just an ego thing?” A scornful laugh rings through the receiver. “That’s precisely why these Robinson people have retained him. Their lawyer is sure this Dr. Carslin will come in with a verdict that will show the boy did not—repeat, did not—commit suicide—”

“But was beaten to death by six sadistic prison guards—right?”

“Not so improbable, my friend. It wouldn’t be the first time—given all the glories of the City penal system. Goddamn it, it does look ninny As a matter of fact, it stinks out loud. The City Medical Examiner’s Office finding no evidence of a beating. Then a hick funeral director up in the boondocks receives the body and finds all kinds of evidence of injuries not mentioned in the Medical Examiner’s report.”

The Chief Deputy Mayor’s voice drones on while Konig’s eyes linger on the cartoon grizzly bear of Lolly’s birthday card.

“Paul—are you there?”

“Of course I’m here.”

“Well, answer the goddamned question.”

“What’s the question?”

“What sort of injuries would this funeral director be talking about?”

“Maury, we’ve been through this a dozen times.”

“Fine. Let’s do it another dozen times. What sort of injuries?”

Konig’s eyes roll heavenward, as if seeking mercy. A long, weary sigh expires from somewhere deep within him. “Inverted V-shaped abrasions about the neck—”

“In English, Paul. Plain, simple English for the stupid, unlettered layman.”

“Bruises caused by a noose of mattress ticking.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“Crusted lacerations on the front of the left wrist. Half-inch-long abrasion over the left eyebrow. Fracture of skull. Ecchymosis—”

“Ecce what?”

“Hemorrhage—over the left scalp, overlying the fracture.”

“Is that it?”

“That’s it.”

There’s a pause while both men gain time listening to each other’s breathing.

“Now tell me this, Paul,” the Deputy Mayor continues cagily. “Why isn’t any of that down in the Medical Examiner’s report?”

“It is down in the medical report. You’d know that if only you’d read it through. But of course you didn’t. You had some lackey read it for you and then give you a summary. Am I right?” The silence at the other end provides him his answer. “I didn’t expect that you would read it. That isn’t the question these people want answered, however.”

“Well, what the hell is the question?” the Deputy Mayor asks, a little cowed by Konig’s sudden onslaught.

“They want to know if Robinson’s death is attributable to any of those injuries.”

“Rather than the hanging?”

“Right. What Carslin will try to show is that Robinson died as a result of head injuries inflicted during a beating. That he was then strung up by the panicky guards to make it look like suicide.”

“Well, in that case,” says the Deputy Mayor, the cagey note coming back into his voice, “what determination did this mystery examiner of yours make with regard to the time the head injuries were inflicted?”

Konig senses the Deputy Mayor inching closer to target “The determination was that the head injuries occurred after the victim’s death. When the body hit the floor of the cell subsequent to being cut down.”

“How is that determined?”

“By simply doing a tissue study of the area around the head wounds. If the injuries are inflicted before death, a tissue study will show leukocytic infiltration—thousands of white blood cells flowing to the injured area. That’s a vital reaction. It can occur only in a living creature. If Robinson sustained those injuries before he died, Carslin will see those leukocytes under the microscope. On the other hand, if Robinson was dead, as we claim he was, when the injuries were sustained, there’ll be no leukocytes. Get it?”

“Perfectly.” There is a pause and Konig can hear the Deputy Mayor beginning to zero in now for the kill. “Now tell me this, Paul. Did your mystery man do such a tissue study before submitting his report?”

Konig has been expecting that question. Still, now that it’s come, it takes his breath away. He knows he will have to make a plausible response. Any fancy, technical sophistries would be immediately detected and scorned. “No tissue study was done because the pathologist in charge was completely satisfied that the head injuries were superficial and sustained after death.” Even as he’s saying it, he can hear it falling flat, his own voice sounding hollow with pathetic lack of conviction.

“And you buy that?”

“Yes, I do. I have complete faith in the men of this department. I’ve trained them all. I’ll stand behind their determinations.”

“Well—good for you. That’s admirable, but I don’t buy it.” The Deputy Mayor’s voice sounds suddenly sympathetic. “And I don’t believe you do either. To me the whole thing stinks. It stinks to high heaven. And I tell you something else, my friend, the stink I detect is a very particular stink. It’s the stink of Emil Blaylock. I smell Warden Blaylock all over the lot. I feel the oily grip of that fine Byzantine hand behind all this. Covering up the dirty stuff. Sweeping it all under the rug. Prestidigitation—now you see it, now you don’t. By the time Blaylock gets finished doing his PR job on the Tombs, the place’ll sound like a milk farm in the Catskills. And I’ll tell you something else, my esteemed friend, dig a little deeper into that sacrosanct department of yours and you’ll find a fink. Blaylock got to your fink, Paul.”

“He did not.” Konig’s voice rises ominously. It is enough to stop the Deputy Mayor dead in his tracks. There is a long pause on the other side, and then, at last, a sigh.

“Suit yourself, Paul. But a word to the wise. If I were sixty-three, with a distinguished record, two years to retirement, and a freightload of enemies, I’d keep a low profile. If the Medical Examiner’s report is proved wrong, someone’s head down there is going to roll. That’s straight from the horse’s mouth—repeat, the horse’s mouth. And when The New York Times man shows up here and the Savage Skulls start to build a fire around Grade Mansion, I’ll refer them all to you. See you at the autopsy—Wednesday morning—ten o’clock sharp.”