City of the Dead

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“Nice to see things going so well for you, Charley.”

“Can’t complain, Paul. Fate’s been kind.”

Paul Konig and Charles Carslin stand amid rows and aisles of headstones on a grassy knoll situated somewhere above the New York State Thruway. The sun hangs halfway up the eastern sky above the haze-covered hills of lower Westchester. The haze is a mephitic yellow-brown, as much the product of carbon monoxide from the Thruway as it is the earth warming up quickly after a chill night. Blackbirds chug back and forth at each other, foraging between the narrow lanes of stones. Here and there a dirty, scruffy pigeon wambles about, purring disconsolately between the headstones. From below on the Thruway comes the steady muted whoosh of traffic streaming north and south, like the sound of quickly running water. While here, up on the hill, Konig and the brisk, punctilious Carslin chat easily to tht thudding sound of dirt being vigorously spaded and the grunting of two Italian workmen laboring knee deep in an open grave.

“Can’t pick up a newspaper without reading something about you,” Konig goes on expansively. Even though he has not slept for thirty-six hours, the fresh morning air on the hill and the sweet, green smell of impending spring have revivified him. For a moment he is able to forget his exhaustion, the dull gnawing pain of his leg, and the awful load of wony he hauls about with him each day like heavy luggage that cannot be put down. He waxes enthusiastic now not because he feels that way, but rather because of some need, call it pride, to look good before a former student who has made his mark in the world.

“One minute you’re here testifying in Criminal Court,” Konig gushes on, “then I read about a paper you’ve presented at a symposium in Jakarta or someplace. And I’m delighted about the new professorship Charley. Much deserved and long overdue I’m proud of you.”

“I had the best teacher in the world, Paul,” Carslin remarks coolly. “I don’t deny that.”

Konig detects the wary, slightly begrudging edge in that response. Something like a smile crooked and a trifle mischievous, slides fleetingly across his lips, then once again he is all expansive good will. “And I think what you do is goddamned admirable.”

Carslin’s eyebrow cocks; his back stiffens perceptibly. “Someone has to.”

“Absolutely.” Konig nods enthusiastically. “Absolutely. Most of these other sons of bitches won’t cross the street for you if there isn’t a fee in it. But every time I see the DA trying to railroad some poor black or Puerto Rican into the Tombs, I know that Charley Carslin will be there on the side of the oppressed.”

Konig is all aglow with earnest admiration, which puzzles Carslin. He has known the Chief long enough and well enough to catch a hint of something slightly mocking in those spiteful, merry eyes.

“You’re not really still bitter about that DeGrasso business, are you, Charley?”

“Bitter? I was never bitter.” Carslin waves the suggestion aside. “You won that one fair and square, Paul. Made a jackass out of me in court I learned a very useful lesson from you that trial.”

“Oh?” Konig’s curiosity is pricked. “What was that?” Carslin laughs slyly. “If you don’t know I won’t tell you. Quite frankly, I’m surprised to see you here this morning.”

“If there’s been a slip-up at my office,” Konig flares suddenly, “I want to be the one who sets it right.”

“Naturally. I don’t doubt that for a minute. Ah—this will be Schroder now.”

A dusty Plymouth with a dented fender rattles up the narrow auto path and stops directly before them.

“Who’s he?” Konig snaps, instantly wary.

“The Westchester man. Fellow who examined young Robinson at the request of the family. Reported that the bruises around the head looked suspicious.”

“Ah.” Konig muses thoughtfully as he watches a tall, brisk, fortyish chap shamble up the aisle toward them. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Carslin’s and Konig’s voices collide in quiet response. Carslin, all solemn and professional, makes introductions.

“Dr. Schroder—Dr. Konig.”

“Hello.”

“How do you do.”

“Konig? Not Paul Konig of the New York ME?”

“Yes, sir.” Konig straightens. “That’s me.”

“Oh.” Schroder beams. “This is an honor. I cut my forensic teeth on your book. Something of a bible around our office.”

“Very kind of you.” Konig glows, obviously pleased. “Not at all. It’s simply a fact. It’s one of those seminal works. All of our professional lives have been touched by it. Wouldn’t you say so, Charles?”

“Absolutely,” Carslin replies so acidly that Schroder is momentarily shocked. It’s an awkward moment and for a while the three of them turn to the hole where the two Italian workmen, now hip-deep, continue to pitch spadefuls of thudding dirt upward onto a small slope of tumbling earth.

“Well—who are we waiting for now?” Konig inquires, trying to fill the void.”

“Deputy Mayor,” Carslin mumbles brusquely.

Just then a state troopers’ wagon turns into the auto path followed by a large black limousine.

“Ah,” Schroder sighs. “This should be him now.”

There’s a great deal of bustling and small chatter while introductions are made, greetings exchanged. Deputy Mayor Maurice Benjamin has a curt, hasty manner. A no-nonsense, take-charge sort of chap, intolerant of laxity, uneasy during a pause. But as he gets around to Konig, something almost shy and evasive comes over that superbly arrogant manner.

“Morning, Maury.”

“Morning, Paul. How are you?” Konig’s glance is so piercing that even the Deputy Mayor cannot confront him squarely. Instead, he veers sharply, moves on to shake other hands.

It’s a curious sight, this highest emissary of the Mayor’s office, glittering in an expensive hand-tailored suit, all puffing and swelling with self-importance having just alighted from a shiny black limousine bearing the large, imposing shield of the City of New York on its bumper, having to give quarter to a shabby, rumpled figure with tousled hair and the look of a demented Old Testament prophet.

“Well,” the Deputy Mayor blusters, “let’s get on with it.”

Carslin nods’ at the mound of fresh earth and the narrow trench with the two men, chest-high, grunting in it. At a loss for further conversation, the four men saunter back to the grave while the two state troopers lounge against the limousine.

“Ashes to ashes,” a voice chants softly inside Konig’s head as he peers downward into the freshly dug grave. “Ida Bayles Konig. Beloved wife of Paul. Endeared mother of—”

The sharp chinking sound of metal impacting on metal. Then suddenly brass and wood coming into view.

“Ah—there we are,” says Schroder.

Ropes are quickly produced, and shortly, with more grunting, the coffin, rising, teetering slightly, is hoisted out of the damp rectangle of earth and edged to one side of the grave.

Carslin and Schroder move quickly to the box. Kneeling, Carslin dusts a few crumbs of still-clinging earth from the brass plate and reads:

Benjamin moves up quickly beside Dr. Schroder. “You officially acknowledge this to be—”

“I do,” Schroder murmurs, peering over Carslin’s shoulder.

“We’ve set up a small lab and a microscope over in the rectory,” says Carslin.

“Where’s that?” Benjamin asks.

“Just a couple of hundred yards back down the road,” one of the troopers calls from the limousine.

“Okay,” says the Deputy Mayor with the finality of a judge gaveling a portentous decision. “Let’s get on with it.”

Konig shuffles forward. “Before you do, I suggest you open the lid slightly.”

Benjamin glances queasily at Carslin.

“To release the gases,” Konig goes on.

“By all means,” Carslin replies, not to Konig but to the Deputy Mayor.

In the next moment the two Italian diggers have released thumbscrews and prized the lid slightly. There is a long, high hiss like the sound of a hermetically sealed jar of coffee being suddenly opened.

Moments later the box is hoisted onto the shoulders of the diggers and the two troopers. Carslin, Schroder, and the Deputy Mayor move out quickly behind the coffin.

“Aren’t you coming?” Benjamin turns and calls back to Konig.

“No,” says Konig, still hovering above the freshly dug grave. “I think I’ll wait here.”

Then, in a moment or so, watching the swaying procession wind its way down the auto path, he is alone there amid the chugging blackbirds, the chirruping of spring crickets, the long, neat aisles of placid stones.

“When did you ever—” the fierce, condemnatory voice cries again. “When have we ever been able to—”

The figure of a small girl, bangs, laughing eyes, dressed in kilt and knee socks, wheels toward him on a tricycle through the cluttered labyrinth of headstones.

“Lolly.”

“You killed her.”

“Lolly.”

“You killed her.”

“I—”

“Yes, you did. You killed her—with that stupid, unfeeling arrogance of yours.”

It is to the figure of the child he talks, but the fierce, strident voice that answers him is that of a young woman. “Lolly—Mother was very sick.”

“Never mind. You—”

“Incurably sick.”

“—rode all over her. You killed her just as surely as if—”

He has no words for her grief. He can barely shoulder his own. “Lolly—/—” His voice trails off even as the tiny kilted figure on the tricycle dematerializes. “Lolly—” he murmurs again but he is staring down into the hollow, gaping fissure of newly opened earth.

A short time later he sees the two troopers moving back up toward the limousine. They’re followed by Carslin and the Deputy Mayor, chatting solemnly. Schroder trails a few paces behind.

Something in the picture, something in the slope of their shoulders and the way they walk and chat quietly now beside the limousine, the Deputy Mayor’s head lowered, Carslin’s head tilted slightly toward him, lips moving as if they whispered words, tells Konig all he needs to know. Besides which, Maury Benjamin’s characteristically restive, ever-seeking eyes now appear to be assiduously shunning him.

Schroder, hands thrust deep in pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, comes shambling toward him. Their eyes meet. Konig feels a sickness in the pit of his stomach, but he is smiling broadly. “Well?”

“Leukocytic infiltration.”

“Ah?” Konig says, feigning surprise, but he’d known it all along.

“Quite pronounced,” Schroder offers sympathetically. “Want to see the slides?”

“No.” Konig shrugs wearily. “No need.”

The doors of the limousine and the troopers’ wagon swing open, bang shut, and without so much as a goodbye nod, the Deputy Mayor, preceded by the trooper escort, rolls imperiously past the place where Konig stands and down the auto path toward the exits.

Shortly after, Schroder too drives off, and Konig is left alone with Carslin, while about the open grave the two workmen, laughing and chattering in Italian, gather up their tools.

“Well, Charley,” says Konig with a burst of feeble cheer.

“Well?”

“What next?”

“Well,” Carslin sighs, somewhat ruffled, his eyes evading those of his old teacher, “I’ll have to file a complete report with the DA. Then I suppose—”

“A hearing,” Konig says, completing the sentence for him.

“No doubt.” Carslin’s eyes scan up and down the cluttered aisles of stones as if they were searching for something there. “Look here, Paul. You have to understand. There’s nothing—personal. It’s simply a straightforward matter of—”

Konig waves him to silence. “Spare me the lecture on ethics. No recitations of the Hippocratic oath, please.”

“I had no intention of—” Miffed, Carslin gazes into Konig’s haggard face, transfixed by something strange and awful that he sees there. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Why?”

“I don’t know.” Carslin seems embarrassed. “Something about the way you were looking at me just then.”

“Oh?”

“I thought for a moment—”

“Yes?”

“I thought for a moment,” Carslin murmurs, obviously having a difficult time, “you were going to ask me to do something I couldn’t do.”

Konig smiles. “I was—but only for a moment. You know, Charley, I’d never ask one of my old students to compromise himself to save my neck. I’d be awfully pissed off with you if you did. Goodbye, Charley.” He thumps the younger man on the back, and as he weaves his way through the maze of headstones to his car, conscious of Carslin’s eyes still burning on his back, his knees momentarily buckle. He totters, slips, and very nearly goes down. Hearing a rush of movement at his back, coming toward him, he recoveres his balance, thrusts his shoulders back, stiffens his carriage, kicks out smartly with his aching leg, and with a million confluent streams roaring in his head with something like the sound of rushing water, his eyes swimming before him, he lurches blindly to his car.