Herbert Lieberman - City of the Dead

“Moreover, since the parts of at least two bodies, possibly more, are intermixed, it will be essential that each step in the reassembly of the pieces be proved squarely on anatomical grounds. If by chance there are more than two bodies here—even only a third—the complexity of the task will mount in geometric progression, and the odds that we’ll be able to reassemble, let alone even recover, all the pieces are astronomical. Christ,” Konig sighs, “what a pain in the ass.”

“Offhand,” Strang remarks, “I’d say we’ve got three to four bodies here.”

“Would you?” Konig lights his dead cigar. “Well, I couldn’t begin to say. I’m not even sure yet which of these limbs can be matched into sets.”

“You don’t know what else Flynn is going to come up with, either,” observes Bonertz.

“Without the heads and the dentition”—Hakim shakes his head woefully—“it’s going to be very difficult.”

“It’ll be difficult with or without the heads,” Konig snaps. “Can’t worry about that now. We’ve got to work with what we’ve got here.”

“Well”—McCloskey gazes into the trays—“we know we’ve got at least a man and a woman.”

“Don’t let those painted nails fool you.” Konig smiles shrewdly. “Anyway, it’s the only complete set of fingers we have.”

“Doubt we’ll be able to lift any prints off them,” says Delaney. “Just look at the mutilation of that tissue.”

“Leave that to me.” Konig starts to pack up his notes. “I’d like a crack at that hand this afternoon. Meanwhile, we’ll need some blood types and let’s get some tissue samples of the organs up to toxicology. Max”—he turns suddenly to Bonertz—“see if you can’t work up a moulage of those two feet. It’ll be hard without the toes, but there was a sneaker down at that shack—left sneaker., It’s a long shot, but let’s see if we can’t get a match anyway. McCloskey, you might as well start cleaning up these pieces before we try any reconstruction. Wash everything down with a weak alkali solution, but save me a couple of the maggots and the larvae. Offhand, I’d say they’re Calliphora. But let’s get a reading from Ferguson anyway. Then dump everything in ten percent formalin and lock it all up in the tanks. I’ll be back this afternoon to have a crack at that hand. See if we can’t start matching some, of this stuff.”

The door of the autopsy room swings open again and the same assistant pops his head in. “Flynn’s on the phone, Chief.”

“Tell him I’ll be right up.”

Konig gathers his papers and then starts out “Oh, McCloskey”—he turns at the door—“first-class job.”

“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.”