Herbert Lieberman - City of the Dead

“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.”

“The paintings just got sadder and sadder. Got harder and harder to peddle the stuff.”

“I see.” Francis Haggard nods wearily. “And when did you say was the last time you saw her?”

“I didn’t say,” Mr. Anthony Redding replies curtly. “But it must have been about three months ago. She brought in a batch of new things. But we spoke on the phone quite regularly—only last week, as a matter of fact.”