City of the Dead

»51«

“Deep-grooved, inverted V-shaped abrasions about the neck, caused by mattress ticking; old cut wounds on the front of ulnar aspect of left wrist; recently ingested food particles in the stomach, undigested, intact rice granules and green bean fragments; half-inch-long abrasion above the left eyebrow; ecchymosis, left inner surface of scalp overlying fracture area; fracture of skull, fresh.”

“Those then, I take it, Dr. Konig, to the best of your knowledge, are the salient features of the Medical Examiner’s report?”

“That is correct.”

“And the gist then of the ME report, if I understand it correctly, has been that the injuries enumerated here were sustained when the body fell from where it had hung in the cell? That is, after Robinson was already dead?”

“Yes,” Konig replies briskly. “That is the main thrust of our report.” He gazes sharply about at the three men gathered there—Deputy Mayor Benjamin, Dr. Charles Carslin, District Attorney Clifford Binney.

The District Attorney, a tall, sallow man with a Jesuitical manner, reflects inwardly a moment. Then he turns to Carslin. “Now, Doctor, will you present those features of the second autopsy, conducted by you, that either differ from or are totally omitted from the Medical Examiner’s report?”

“I’d be happy to.” Carslin rises.

“No need to stand, Doctor.” Binney gestures him back to his seat. “We’re quite informal here.”

Looking somewhat miffed, Carslin fumbles back into his chair. Then settling his glasses firmly on the bridge of his nose, he begins to recite aloud from his report.

As Carslin drones on in his most official-sounding voice, Konig’s eyes drift upward and around the District Attorney’s musty, cluttered office with its shelves of books, tomes—torts, New York State law, criminal practice—lining each wall from floor to ceiling. There must be thousands of volumes crowding in upon the office, gathering dust, using up all the available air, making the atmosphere of the place close and oppressive.

“—two additional and separate head wounds not reported by the ME.” Carslin’s voice is strident with accusation. “An area of extensive hemorrhage over the back of the right hand that was not mentioned at all. Dark-red contusion over the right shinbone. And, instead of the superficial abrasion over the left eyebrow described in the ME report, I found a deep, gaping wound reaching to the surface of the skull bone. Also, the injury to the left side of the head was miserably understated. It was twice as large as the one described by the ME.” Carslin’s eyes seem glowing, almost triumphant, as he delivers this final coup de grace.

But the Chief Medical Examiner seems scarcely aware of what is going on around him. He sits listlessly in his chair, his expression vacant and uncaring. At a certain point his straying eyes collide with those of the Deputy Mayor, who is staring at him with a puzzled expression, as if he was waiting for the Chief—expecting him to—make some reply to Carslin’s report. But no reply seems forthcoming.

“Can we come to the crux of the matter, please, Dr Carslin?” Clifford Binney’s tones are calm and reasonable. “Did the prisoner, Robinson, die as a direct result of injuries inflicted upon him by others or were the injuries self-inflicted during the process of a suicide “by hanging?”

“I’m coming back to that now.” Carslin throws back his shoulders and straightens his glasses. “During the course of my examination I concluded that at least five separate injuries had been inflicted on the deceased prior to death, and in all probability were sustained during the course of a beating.”

Benjamin, fidgeting and twisting in his seat, gapes at Konig, waiting for him to reply. But Konig never stirs. The Deputy Mayor swings around to Carslin. “How can you say that? How can you sit there so smug and self-righteous—”

“Maury—” Binney’s voice rises just enough to subdue the Deputy Mayor.

“If you’d just let me finish”—Carslin glowers at Benjamin—“I’d be glad to tell you. Dr. Konig could tell you too.”

There’s a moment of awkwardness as all their gazes appear to converge upon Konig, still sitting there, eyes lowered, looking listless, disheveled, curiously small.

“In any event,” Carslin continues, “the wounds suggest that they were inflicted by a blunt weapon; that they were sufficient enough to have caused considerable pain and suffering. And, as a result of tissue studies I prepared right at the site, tissue studies that the ME had neglected to carry out, I think I can now say without any doubt that the wounds and contusions I found on Robinson were inflicted before he died. Not after, as the ME has reported. And that the most likely explanation of his death was that he was beaten to death or at least into unconsciousness by the prison guards, who then strung him up in order to make his death appear to be a suicide.”

“Preposterous.” Benjamin leaps to his feet, red in the face, shouting, waving his hands. “Preposterous. I will not sit here and—”

“Maury—” snaps the District Attorney.

“—permit that man to impugn the reputation of an entire penal system just because—”

“Maury—” the District Attorney nearly shouts.

“No—I’m sorry, Cliff. I won’t sit here and—”

“Either you sit and keep quiet,” Binney says, jaw taut, voice ominously low, “or get out.”

There is something now in that quiet, Jesuitical manner that brings the Deputy Mayor up sharply, overwhelms and flusters him, so that he falls back to his seat, baffled and puffing.

“Now let me understand this.” Binney swivels back to face Carslin. “You’re suggesting that the deceased did not hang himself, but was strung up by guards after they’d beaten him senseless, so as to make it appear that he took his own life.”

“Don’t you see what he’s trying to do, Cliff?” Benjamin turns appealingly to the District Attorney. “He’s out to make a big name for himself by slandering the entire City Corrections Department.”

“Maury, if you don’t shut up,” Binney suddenly thunders, “I’m going to throw you the hell out of here.”

Benjamin is on the verge of shouting back. But thinking better of it, merely gnashes his teeth, folds his arms, and turns away.

Finally unnerved, Binney sighs, pushes his hand hectically through his hair, and turns to Konig. “What do you have to say about all this, Paul?”

Konig sits silent, unmoving, as if he had not heard the question directed at him.

“Paul?” Binney says once more. His voice is once again quiet, and infinitely patient.

Konig sits stonily, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“Paul, have you been following all this?”

“Yes,” Konig replies listlessly.

“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.