TWENTY-NINE

 

DAY 7. TUESDAY, 9/26—12:15 P.M.

Once they were inside, McKee took in their appearance more fully. “Can I offer you something? You must be thirsty after your ride.”

“Perhaps some water while we speak,” Noah replied.

McKee pulled a cord on the far wall of a vestibule that was furnished expensively but without ostentation. A man appeared in a doorway at the far end. “A pitcher of water in the study please, Dodson.” The man nodded and disappeared.

“Come this way,” McKee said, extending his arm to the left. “If you wish, Miss Herzberg, some of my oldest daughter’s clothing is here. Her dresses should fit you admirably.”

“Thank you, Mr. McKee, but I have grown attached to this one.”

McKee’s eyebrows rose.

“The woman who owned it killed herself. Her husband and society would have treated her as a criminal because her cancerous breast had been removed. It isn’t much, but I can honor her anguish by wearing this for a while.”

McKee sighed and shook his head. “I admit I never did understand Turner’s attraction for the downtrodden, Miss Herzberg. Nor did I understand yours. I always thought it was akin to those who feel compelled to take in stray animals. I never believed my son when he railed on about endemic injustice. Society always seemed perfectly just to me. Oh, I saw flaws, certainly, but I simply assumed that flaws were the price one paid for freedom. But since I visited the morgue . . . and now . . .”

“Turner!” came a voice from up the curved center staircase. “What are you doing down there?” A woman came into view from the second floor. She was tall and lean, about fifty, attractive with sandy hair gone mostly to gray. She wore a black dress and a veil pulled back over her head. Her face was lined, but the lines seemed recent, as if they had been etched on. She eyed Noah and Miriam at first with surprise. Then her gaze settled on Miriam and her expression turned to disgust.

“I must speak with Miss Herzberg and Dr. Whitestone, Leticia,” McKee said to her. “Please wait for me. I promise we will leave with time to spare.”

“I want her out of my house,” Leticia McKee said icily.

“I said wait for me, Leticia. We may have made an enormous mistake. If we wish to honor Turner’s memory, I must hear them out.”

At the mention of her son’s name, the woman’s eyes filled with tears. Her head began to shake back and forth. “I don’t . . .”

“Trust me, Leticia. Our anger at Miss Herzberg may have been grievously misplaced. If so, please allow me to attempt to right an immense injustice.”

Leticia McKee, now thoroughly confused, nodded perfunctorily. She seemed about to speak once more, but instead turned about and disappeared up the stairs.

“You must forgive her,” McKee offered.

“Nonsense,” Miriam said. “Her feelings are perfectly understandable.”

McKee smiled briefly in thanks and then directed them down the hall to a wood-paneled room lined with bookshelves. “Before we do anything,” McKee said when they were all seated, “you must give me some details.”

Noah provided McKee with a brief rendition of the events that had transpired since his son’s autopsy. He made particular reference to the Patent Medicine Trust, the new drug Heroin, Arnold Frias, and the rogue policemen’s role in the deaths of McKee’s son and Miriam’s father.

“So you see, Mr. McKee, your son died a hero,” Miriam told him. “He won’t be a hero to those who lined their pockets at the expense of the helpless, but he will be a hero to the families of the children who are saved from death or drug compulsion because of his efforts.”

McKee let out a slow breath. “If what you say is true, I will be greatly gratified. I freely admit I want to believe you. I am tempted to believe you. But I cannot do so on your word alone. Now what is the information Turner left here?”

“We’re not sure. But it was sufficiently inflammatory to have cost him his life.”

“You said you knew where it was in the house.”

Miriam spoke. “What was Turner’s favorite book as a child? He said you would know.”

“Oddly enough, it was a dime-store novel by Horatio Alger Jr., Brave and Bold; or, The Fortunes of Robert Rushton. He reread it many times. Why?”

“In your library is a copy of that book. There is a packet behind it.”

McKee led them back across the main hall. The library was two stories tall, filled with books of all sorts. The value of the collection fairly screamed out from the shelves. A section was devoted to natural history, one to travel, one to the history of the Americas. Many of the volumes were antiquarian, some dating from as far back as the fifteenth century. Some volumes were in French, others in German. Many were in Latin. A section devoted to contemporary literature was stunning. Beautiful leather-bound sets of Dickens, Trollope, Twain.

Noah stood awestruck, as if he had walked into a cathedral. He wondered how Miriam felt, being in the presence of such splendor. Here were the trappings of wealth, it was true, but wealth used to preserve a great intellectual heritage. The countervailing forces of her father’s life.

“My father was a bibliophile, Dr. Whitestone. I have enhanced his collection. I was hoping Turner . . .” McKee shook his head. “I have an excellent selection of works tracing the history of medicine. I wish there was time so that I might show you. But, as it is, our interest is in one of the least impressive volumes in this room. Except to me, of course. But first, I must show one of my acquisitions to Miss Herzberg.”

McKee strode across the room to a section in the far corner. He withdrew a volume bound in gleaming red leather from the bottom shelf. He returned and handed it to Miriam. She gasped when she opened the cover, then collapsed into a chair and cried.

McKee was distraught. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I thought you would be pleased.”

Miriam looked up, her face blotches of crimson. “I am, Mr. McKee. Thank you so much. I thought they were all gone.” She caressed the title page as if it were her child.

McKee gently took the book from Miriam and handed it Noah. It was entitled, Eine Kritik der Empirismus von Occam nach Leibniz, “A Critique of Empiricism From Occam to Leibniz.” It had been published in Berlin in 1879. The author was Mauritz Herzberg, professor of philosophy at Georg-August University of Göttingen.

“It is evidently quite brilliant,” McKee told Noah. “I sent this to William James himself. He pronounced it a groundbreaking study of the evolution of scientific thought. I never told Turner I had purchased it. I was ashamed, I suppose, to admit that I was sufficiently curious to spend three hundred dollars on a rare book written by a man of whom I never spoke well. I wish now I had said something.” He took the book from Noah and gave it once again to Miriam. “This is yours if you want it, my dear.”

She sniffed loudly and shook her head. “I have nowhere to keep it where I know it will be safe. Papa belongs here, I think. In a fine library, in the company of all these wonderful thinkers.”

“Very well.” McKee returned the book, then grabbed one of the sliding ladders that allowed access to the upper shelves. “Now to the subject at hand.” He slid the ladder halfway down the wall and climbed a few steps. He pulled a small, ragged volume, bound in paper from a shelf, fondled it gently, as Miriam had the philosophy text, then removed a few books on either side. McKee poked his hand into the opening, nodded, then withdrew a rolled-up sheaf of papers tied with ribbon. After he replaced the books, he climbed down.

“Let us return to the study and see what Turner gave his life to tell us.”

Moments later, Noah was leafing through the material. He was astonished.

“Your son was correct, Mr. McKee,” Noah said after he had finished. “His research is superb and the magnitude of the conspiracy immense. Many millions are at stake. Heroin, diacetylmorphine chemically, is to be marketed throughout the nation in elixirs, tablets, pastilles, and powders. It will be prescribed for asthma, dysentery, nervous disorders, respiratory disease, and, most ironically, as a treatment for morphine addiction. Its most widespread application, however, will be as a cough suppressant, particularly for children.

“The Bayer Company has recruited a number of physicians in America and Europe to both test the substance and provide testimonials. Bayer will soon begin to advertise extensively within the medical community, although not to the public at large. Whether or not any or all of these physicians are aware they are dealing with a morphiate is uncertain. But Bayer certainly knows. Felix Hoffmann, the chemist who synthesized the substance, was quite open to his superiors as to process. Heinrich Dreser, the head of his section and the man responsible for testing new drugs, attempted to claim credit for the process when he saw the potential value of the discovery. Dreser, Turner discovered, negotiated an agreement with Bayer in which he shares in the profits of any new drug discovered in his section.

“Dreser tested the substance in the laboratory, on animals, and on a number of Bayer workers. He insisted this research demonstrated that Heroin creates no tolerance. In other words, the user develops no craving for the drug at shorter and shorter intervals. Turner could not determine whether Dreser’s testing was fraudulent or simply incompetent. One of the researchers may have called Heroin an extremely dangerous poison but was ignored. Dreser also seems to have sampled the substance himself. Heroin is four times as powerful as morphine but inexpensive to synthesize from the base substance. Thus, if a user develops a tolerance, the profits of his craving will be far greater. And as we have seen from the children who died, tolerance is certainly developed and it seems to be quicker and more profound than with ordinary morphine.”

“Then the testing had to be fraudulent,” McKee exclaimed. “This Dreser knew he was dealing with a product made from morphine. How could he have missed that it created tolerance?”

“Tolerance in adults takes a good deal longer to evolve than in children. With morphine, it might take weeks. Even with the increased potency of Heroin, Dreser might well have given the drug to test subjects, noted it was efficacious, and then discontinued usage before they developed a craving. Or he and researchers are continuing to take it without awareness that they are developing a tolerance.

“After the laboratory phase, Dreser presented the drug to the Congress of German Naturalists and Physicians. He told his audience that Heroin was ten times more effective in suppressing coughs than codeine—which, as you may know, is also a morphiate—but was only one-tenth as toxic. Most of all, he insisted Heroin, given in prescribed doses, was completely safe.

“This year, Bayer will produce a ton of Heroin. They will send the product around the world, but fully half of the production will come to the United States. America has restrictive patents, but almost no safety standards for pharmaceuticals. That combination means that nowhere in the world will Heroin be more profitable. Drug companies will simply purchase the substance from Bayer and fabricate it any way they wish.

“Turner tracked down some examples of the manner in which the drug will be sold in the United States. For example, the Martin H. Smith Company . . . that’s the firm that had the appointment on Stone Street . . . intends to market an elixir called Glyco-Heroin. Heroin mixed with glycerin, which likely will improve the taste. To ensure that the drug is widely prescribed, Smith has followed the widespread practice of purchasing testimonials that will run in medical journals throughout the nation. Here’s an editorial for the Southern Practitioner.

“‘Of all the remedies and drugs in our experience, which would tend to ameliorate and suppress cough, we find in Glyco-heroin an agent that to all appearances is a remedy par excellence.’

“A doctor named Levian in the Buffalo Medical Journal will say the following: ‘The combination that makes up the Glyco-heroin should appeal to anyone who is treating patients afflicted with pulmonary and laryngeal diseases. The composition of Glyco-heroin is in our opinion quite a happy one. It is an excellent stimulating expectorant without producing nausea. A teaspoonful of this preparation, I found to be a definite dose, the effects of which lasted for three to four hours. Two weeks’ trial on six patients convinced me of its utility.’”

“Do these men have no shame?” McKee asked. “They are willing to abet the deaths of children?”

“You don’t understand, Mr. McKee,” Noah told him. “It is more a case of turning a blind eye than of open malfeasance. These doctors know they are being asked to endorse a product—paid to endorse a product—so, like the Bayer chemists, they simply see the positive results and nothing else.” Noah tapped the pile of papers. “Here is the worst of the lot. Arthur B. Smith of Springfield, Ohio. He will write this for the Texas Medical Journal: ‘Recently, my attention was called to a preparation composed of a solution of Heroin in glycerin, combined with expectorants, called Glyco-Heroin (Smith). Each teaspoonful of this preparation contains one-sixteenth grain of Heroin by accurate dosage. It is of agreeable flavor, therefore easy to administer to children, for whom the dose can be easily reduced with any liquid, or by actual measurement. It possesses many advantages not shown by any other preparation I have used, and has none of their disagreeable features.’

“He includes five case studies. Three are for children. Of a sixteen-year-old with severe bronchitis, he says, ‘Prescribed Glyco-Heroin (Smith) one teaspoonful every two hours, decreased to every three hours. After a few doses were taken there was a decided improvement, the respirations were slower and deeper, the expectoration freer, and the temperature normal. In a few days, the patient was practically well and able to return to school. No medicine except Glyco-Heroin (Smith) was given, and the results from its use were excellent.’

“Then he cited a six-year-old boy. ‘Capillary bronchitis with pains over chest, cough, and difficult expectoration. Glyco-Heroin (Smith) administered 15 drops every three hours. After taking a few doses the condition was much improved, and a speedy return to perfect health followed.’

“Finally, this Dr. Smith will discuss a girl, only five. ‘Whooping cough. Spasmodic paroxysms of coughing, sometimes being so severe as to cause vomiting. Tenacious mucus was present, requiring great expulsive effect to loosen it. There was little fever, but the patient was much prostrated and weakened by the cough. Glyco-Heroin (Smith) was given in 10-drop doses every two hours with good results. In a few days the condition was much ameliorated, the cough under fair control, expectoration was freer and easier to raise, and convalescence uneventful. The case was discharged cured and there were no unpleasant sequela, the patient at present being in perfect health.’”

“My son uncovered all of this?”

“There is more, Mr. McKee. Much more. Your son was a hero, as Miriam said. He died trying to save the lives . . . and the souls . . . of countless children who would otherwise have been victims of this poison.” Noah removed another sheet of paper. “This says that the Fraser Tablet Company has contracted to produce five million Heroin tablets per year, beginning in three months. They will be marketed as a treatment for asthma. Fraser’s factory is in Brooklyn, on Prospect Hill. They will be sending salesmen throughout the nation to sell Heroin tablets to pharmacies. There is no telling how widely this poison will spread unless someone speaks out.”

Turner McKee Sr. flopped back in his chair, his hands hanging over the armrests. “Horatio Fraser. I know him. Not well, but we served on a committee together. To raise money for a children’s home on Delancey Street. A children’s home. There are no words.”

“This nation is blinded by greed, Mr. McKee.” It was Miriam. “Only through people like your son can we hope to protect those caught in its wake.”

“I never approved of Turner’s politics,” McKee said softly. “Thought he was agitating against his country out of spite. I told him more than once that I could not understand what had made him so . . . angry. He tried to tell me that I did not understand. That injustice was being perpetrated under the guise of freedom of commerce. That America much more resembled a crooked card game than a fair deal. I told him he had been corrupted.” He turned to Miriam. “I hated you and your father for despoiling my son. I was convinced that he had been led astray by seductive arguments and a beautiful woman. I hated you even more when Turner died. I thought his death a waste. Useless. But I see now that not only had Turner made his own decisions, but that his decisions were correct. He was not corrupt at all. I was. A fool. I am proud to own your father’s text, Miss Herzberg.”

“Thank you, Mr. McKee,” Miriam replied. “But how could you be expected to believe tales of injustice that seemed so outlandish?”

“I should have believed my son.” McKee looked at his watch. “I must go to the cemetery now. But I thank you both. Deeply and profoundly. I am forever in your debt. Whatever help I can provide, whatever risk must be borne, for as long as I live, you need only to ask.”

“Thank you, Mr. McKee,” Noah replied. “We will not hesitate to ask if the need arises.”

“You are both welcome at Turner’s service, but I don’t think it would be wise to give away your whereabouts. Neither of you is safe. You both must remain here. I could not live with myself if what befell Turner happened to you. I’m not without influence. I’ll see that this information reaches the proper authorities.”

“You’re very generous,” Noah replied. “But we can’t stay. I wish we could attend the service . . . your son has earned that . . . but there are elements of the problem that require immediate attention. There is no better way to honor his memory than to see that justice is done. If you could supply a pen and paper, I would, if I may, copy some of this material. Then I will return it to same spot on the shelves. If anything should happen to me, or Miss Herzberg, you are then free to use it as you wish. For the moment, however, just keep it safe. I’ll need it in the future.”

McKee considered for a moment trying to dissuade them, but instead stood and put out his hand. “I will leave you then. Godspeed in your endeavors.”