THIRTEEN
DAY 4. SATURDAY, 9/23—10 A.M.
Noah instructed Turner McKee to have his son’s remains transported to the new Frank E. Campbell Burial and Cremation Company on Madison Avenue and Eighty-First Street. Frank E. Campbell had opened the year before to much fanfare. Its advertising promised to provide funeral services for New York’s new breed of apartment dwellers every bit as dignified and intimate as one could host in a private home. Relieved of the burden of providing ceremony and sustenance in confined spaces, New Yorkers had made Campbell’s an instant success. McKee was puzzled as to why Noah would choose a mortuary so remote from his home, but promised to do as Noah suggested.
After Noah sent McKee off, he stopped at the Gramercy Hotel on Twenty-Third Street to place a paid telephone call. From there, it was back to the Third Avenue el for a journey even farther uptown.
After leaving city employ in 1888, Justin Herold had taken offices in Yorkville, at 385 East Eighty-Seventh Street. To obtain an audience, Noah used the same stratagem with which Alan had enticed Dr. Jacobi. He promised to lay out the details of a forensic mystery the likes of which Herold had never seen. Fortunately, Herold was no less curious than the pediatrician.
Herold’s office and, Noah assumed, his residence were in a three-story row house in an area populated by German, Irish, and Slavic immigrants. Firmly working class. Why a physician of Herold’s reputation and achievements would choose such an area instead of Fifth Avenue or one of the other more prestigious sections of New York was a mystery. Noah hadn’t been in Justin Herold’s office five minutes before he found out.
“Sorcerers. And alchemists. This is what I’m speaking of, Whitestone. Those who are charged to bring scientific knowledge into our criminal system still believe that the sun circles the Earth.”
Herold was pacing the carpet when Noah entered. Without pleasantries, with one brusque sweep of his arm, he’d gestured for his visitor to sit. Herold was thin, clean shaven, almost completely bald, with an unlined and extremely handsome face. The offices were sparsely furnished and incommodious. For some moments, Herold continued to pace, sighing and nodding to himself. Finally, throwing up his hands in frustration, he dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk.
“Whitestone, what do you know of the Meyer case?”
“The poisoner? He’s in the penitentiary.” The case, six years earlier, had been one of the most lurid of the decade. Henry Meyer, a homeopathic physician, along with his wife, had been accused of killing two acquaintances, Ludwig Brandt and Gustave Baum, by arsenic poisoning. Mrs. Meyer then posed as each man’s widow and redeemed the victims’ life insurance policies. Meyer’s first trial was adjourned when one of the jurors went insane in the courtroom. Rumors of demonic possession had been rampant. Meyer had only escaped the electric chair in his second trial because one juror refused to vote for first-degree murder.
Herold wagged a finger back and forth. “The alleged poisoner, you mean. Brandt and Baum may both still be alive. Brandt has even reportedly been seen . . . in Mexico . . . living off the proceeds that Meyer is supposed to have stolen.”
“But I thought both Baum and Brandt had been positively identified through their remains.”
“After three months? Are you joking, Whitestone? Neither cadaver had been embalmed. I have performed over 2,200 autopsies. It is impossible to render an identification of an unembalmed corpse after three weeks, let alone three months. Four experts testified to that fact at the trial. I was one of them. I copiously laid out the forensics. But did the jury listen? Of course not! Not with the public devouring accounts of the proceedings like pigs at the trough. A conviction; that was all that was important. What did it matter that science disagreed? The judge, the jury, the prosecution . . . all are ignorant of legal medicine. Or choose to be ignorant. A jury would rather convict for the prurient joy of an expected electrocution than to follow science.”
“Is that why you left the coroner’s office?”
“I was forced out by Tammany Hall. My predecessor, Conway, a physician in name only, had spent three years bristling at my appointment. He found himself unable to secure a living by honest work, so he imposed upon his cronies to get him his old job back. Politics trumps competence, so I am out and Conway is in. The irony, of course, is that the coroner himself employs me as his private physician. I asked him once why he didn’t use Conway and he merely laughed.
“So, Whitestone, I now engage in private practice in a neighborhood where my services are appreciated and, as a sideline, have become a consulting forensic practitioner. I am flattered to be often solicited to provide scientific evidence at criminal trials. With good fortune, I may advance legal medicine as a private citizen more so than I was able to as a government functionary.” Herold thrust his right hand into his trouser pocket. “Now, suppose you tell me of this extraordinary case you have been so kind as to bring my way.”
Noah once again recounted the details of Willard Anschutz’s death and its aftermath, omitting, for the moment, mention of murder, Turner McKee, New Visions, or any conspiracy that might be afoot among the manufacturers of pharmaceuticals.
Herold listed attentively without interruption, paying particular attention to the recitation of Noah’s failed chemical analysis. “If the sulphomolybdic acid test and nitric acid test were negative,” he asked finally, “why not run the others?”
“I was afraid to destroy the remainder of the sample.”
“Nonsense. How much of the tablet is left?”
Noah withdrew the envelope from his inside coat pocket and passed it across the desk. Herold peered inside and then glared at Noah as if he was confronting a simpleton. “Half? You used half a tablet for two tests? You could perform ten tests on this and still have sufficient quantity for a court exhibit. Where did you learn forensic analysis, Whitestone?”
“Medical school.”
“Of course,” Herold muttered. He pushed himself from his chair. “Now let us go find out what this is.” At the side of the office, Herold opened a door and Noah realized where Herold had spent the money he had saved on furnishings. The laboratory inside was more modern and better equipped than the one Noah had used at Brooklyn Hospital.
After some preparations, Herold used a scalpel to scrape a few grains from the blue tablet into a ceramic dish. “This is all you really need, you know. If the test is negative, repeat it, with shavings from a different section of the sample. And again, if necessary. In that manner, if the material is distributed unevenly, you almost will achieve a positive result in one of your tests.” Herold reached to the shelf over his countertop and withdrew a small, corked bottle. Withdrawing the cork, he partially filled a medicine dropper. “We shall try the ferric chloride test first. Iodic acid is not as reliable, if have you read my book . . . you did read my book?”
Noah assured Herold that he had.
Herold exposed the scrapings of the tablet to ferric chloride. If morphiates were present, the sample would strike a dark greenish-blue, but the effect might be ephemeral if free acids or alkalis were also present. Noah leaned over the dish, staring, waiting.
There it was! A change in color. Blue. Almost violet. Not greenish-blue, but perhaps the discrepancy was in description. Noah was elated. A definite change.
Herold was not as pleased. “Not morphiates. I’m certain of that. But the result is of equal interest.”
“A substance that might have caused the boy’s death?”
Herold shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Possibly.” Herold could not fail to notice Noah’s disappointment. “Buck up, Whitestone. I need to check further. It could be carbolic acid, gallic acid, or salicylic acid. But the first would be unlikely to be used in pharmaceuticals . . . in its pure form it is quite caustic . . . nor do I think there is high pharmacological probability of the second. Thus, I think it is almost certainly the third.”
“Salicylic acid?” Noah asked. “Wasn’t that used as an analgesic and antipyretic some years ago, but then abandoned because it caused severe gastrointestinal pain?”
Herold reared back, as if stunned. “Very good, Whitestone. You are not hopeless after all. Salicylic acid is highly effective as a pain reliever and lowers fevers remarkably, but the ancillary effects are so severe as to sometimes be fatal.”
“Could this have killed Willard Anschutz?”
Herold shook his head impatiently. “No, no, Whitestone. You don’t understand. First of all, the boy would not have died of respiratory failure from salicylic acid. But, more important, I don’t believe this is simply salicylic acid.”
“What then?”
“We’ll soon know. We can precipitate the product and then check melting and boiling points. If my suspicions are correct, we have a very interesting substance on our hands.”
Herold was deft, sure, and knowledgeable. His fingers moved with a musician’s precision and confidence. Fifteen minutes later, Herold held his hand open toward the substance in the glass tube as if making an introduction.
“Here,” he said, “we have a remarkable compound. Salicylic acid has been combined with acetic anhydride to create acetylsalicylic acid, leaving acetic acid as a by-product. Acetylized salicylic acid has a lower boiling point and lower melting point. If the boy took pure salicylic acid two weeks ago, he certainly would not have improved. Or, at least, the gastrointestinal distress would have overwhelmed any analgesic improvement. Someone has apparently discovered, and it seems quite recently, that acetylized salicylic acid retains the therapeutic properties of the pure substance but without the harmful effects. Whoever it was has marketed the substance as a pharmaceutical without telling anyone yet.”
“Experimenting then?”
“If you wish. One must determine if the substance works on a large scale. Or at least works without making patients sicker. Or killing them. You can’t tell that in a laboratory, or even on test animals, no matter how rigorous you are. Salicylic acid has a notorious history, so this is obviously a secret test of the acetylized version.”
“Frias knows. He must. He prescribed this.”
“Possibly. Or perhaps he was given these tablets by a third party. Many physicians are so unconcerned by what they prescribe that they do no checking at all. But in either case this Frias certainly has information that may help you unravel the threads of the crime.”
“So it was a crime. I didn’t believe him at first.”
“Who?”
“A reporter.”
“He was correct, Whitestone, whoever he was. When a child dies of a foreign substance introduced into his system either intentionally or through neglect, it is a crime. Frias may not be the criminal, but he is a key.”
“But how can I turn that key? Frias won’t speak with me.”
“Perhaps, Whitestone. But I’m confident I can persuade him to speak with me.”
“Thank you, Dr. Herold. I was hoping for your assistance. I cannot begin to express my gratitude.”
“You are quite welcome, Whitestone. While I am, of course, pleased to provide you aid in extricating yourself from this pickle barrel you’ve tumbled into, my primary interest is in the science. If forensic practices are to become integrated into our legal system, we must be able to anticipate the new, not simply recognize the old. Here is an opportunity to use science not only to decipher a crime but to prevent further victims.”
Now was the time to reveal the rest. “But while I appreciate your help, Dr. Herold, I feel that I must warn you. There may be danger if you involve yourself in this affair.”
Noah told Herold of the death of Turner McKee, of the Patent Medicine Trust, of his examination of the corpse, the bruising on the wrists, and Lieutenant Laverty. He even told him of Pug Anschutz, and Frederick Wurster.
Herold listened with growing excitement. “And you say the corpse is just now being removed to Campbell’s mortuary?”
“Yes. I was hoping you might to willing to—”
“We must move quickly. Tell me, Whitestone, do you believe you could convince McKee’s father to permit an autopsy?”
“I’ve already done that.”
“Excellent. Then we must contact McKee immediately. Or Campbell’s. They must postpone embalming until I arrive.”
“I’ve done that, too.”
Herold stopped. He looked to Noah and gave one long, appreciative nod. “Fine work, Whitestone. You get better all the time. You are not remotely the dolt I agreed to see on the telephone.”
“You weren’t interested in my description of the case?”
“I was interested to see who was spewing more hyperbole than a character in a dime-store novel.”
Herold patted Noah on the shoulder. “Don’t take it to heart, man. You have acquitted yourself admirably. That’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“No supposing about it.” Herold reached for his hat and coat. “We must leave immediately. At the very least, we should be able to determine if water is present in the man’s lungs. If not, of course, he would have been dead before he entered the water. Even if water is present, I can discern whether or not he was conscious. The first stage of drowning, ‘surprise inspiration,’ essentially a deep reflexive breath in which the victim aspirates a large quantity of water, will be absent. And, while I’m sure your examination in the morgue was as thorough as possible under the circumstances, the more significant bruising will tell us a great deal if examined under more propitious conditions.” Herold clapped his hands. “Have you ever assisted at an autopsy? Outside of medical school, I mean.”
“I would be excited to watch you work, Dr. Herold, but I can’t go with you.”
“You expect me to go to Campbell’s alone?”
“I’m sorry, but I must return to New Visions.”
“Why? What do you expect to find there?” Herold seemed insulted, like a star performer asked to play to a half-empty theater.
“I realize now that Turner McKee wasn’t lying when he said he had vital information. I’ve got to ask . . . to try to find out what it might have been.”
“Very well.” Herold grunted. “Telephone me later tonight.”