EIGHT

 

DAY 3. FRIDAY, 9/22—10 A.M.

When Noah arrived at the Anschutz home the next morning, parked on the street were three horse-driven carriages and another carriage of a different sort. The passenger seat was of gleaming black leather, and the side and front panels were of lacquered wood. The design was similar to a pony and trap, but lacking the pony. In the rear, for locomotion, was a four-stroke, gasoline-powered, flat-cylindered internal combustion engine. A polished brass plate on the inside of the front panel read BENZ & CIE. MANNHEIM.

It was the most sleek, opulent automobile Noah had ever seen. The cost must have exceeded $1,000. Whatever Frias had come across in Germany, he must have believed it would indeed make him a good deal of money if he had purchased this machine in celebration.

The door opened. Noah hoped it would be Frias on his way out, but instead Paul and Lucinda Barksdale exited. The Barksdales were a middle-aged couple who lived two streets away. Paul owned the second-largest clothier in Brooklyn after Abraham & Straus, so he and Lucinda never appeared in public unless impeccably groomed and attired. They walked stiffly, giving the impression of Barksdale store mannequins brought to life. They were also patients of Arnold Frias. When they saw Noah, their gazes lingered for an accusing extra second. Then, in unison, they gave jerky, perfunctory nods and passed without offering pleasantries.

Alan had been correct. Frias was on the attack.

When the Barksdales had made their way down the street, Noah walked to the door. He took a breath, then firmly rapped the knocker against the strike plate.

When the door opened, Noah found himself looking down at a balding man in his mid-fifties with a sweeping, white, handlebar mustache. The man was a shorter, older version of Brooklyn’s former mayor, Frederick Wurster. Mildred Anschutz’s father, Harold.

Noah took off his hat. “Mr. Wurster?”

The man nodded. His eyes were red, with dark circles underneath.

“Good morning, sir. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about the loss of your grandson. I was hoping to convey my condolences to Mrs. Anschutz as well.”

“Thank you for coming by, sir,” Harold Wurster replied. “And you are . . .”

“Noah Whitestone.”

Wurster stiffened. “The doctor.” The words were uttered in a frigid monotone.

“Yes.”

Harold Wurster stepped aside, glaring as Noah passed by.

The vestibule, which had been the scene of such frantic activity two nights before, was now silent. Drapes were pulled shut. The wallpaper, blue and green stripe, seemed to have darkened overnight.

A somber Molly emerged from a doorway on the left, holding a tray laden with half-filled glasses and an empty bowl. When she noticed Noah, she bit her lip, holding back tears. Harold Wurster made a tiny move with his hand in the direction of the same doorway. Noah left his hat on the front table and entered the parlor. The room was filled with furnishings, accessories, and bric-a-brac. Over the fireplace hung the portrait of a young, willowy, surprisingly attractive Mildred Anschutz. Next to her stood a dashing, black-haired Pug, trim and arresting in the uniform of a lieutenant.

Today’s Mildred Anschutz, older and haggard, was seated on a divan, dressed in a black crepe dress, her eyes cast down. Her daughters sat on either side of her. Aldridge, wearing a black suit, hair plastered and parted in the middle, stood behind the divan, his hand on his mother’s shoulder. Daniel was next to him. No one moved. The scene seemed almost posed, a tableau vivant. In the center of the room facing Noah, barring his way to the family, were dual sentinels, Frederick Wurster and Arnold Frias.

Mrs. Anschutz did not look up as Noah entered but Frederick Wurster took one step forward. He was a trim man, a head taller than his older brother, with full beard and mustache only touched with gray. His eyebrows dove together at the bridge of his nose, giving him the look of a prosecuting attorney. He had been mayor for two years, after two years as fire commissioner. In both positions, he had acquired a reputation for ferocious incorruptibility.

“We were wondering whether you would have the decency to come by,” Wurster said. His voice was soft, his words measured. Not at all what Noah remembered from when he had heard Wurster speak a year before in Grand Army Plaza. “But don’t think for one second that because you have, you will be in any way excused for your terrible act of negligence.”

What had Frias said? “I have committed no act of negligence, Mayor Wurster. I encountered a child in deep distress. I treated his symptoms properly. I came to offer condolences to Mrs. Anschutz for the tragedy of her loss, not out of culpability.”

At that, Arnold Frias emitted a snort. “Symptoms of what, young man?”

“Morphia deprivation,” Noah replied, no longer willing to either lie or equivocate.

“Morphia deprivation?” Frias’s voice was mellifluous, and he drew out the words to emphasize the ludicrousness of the idea. “Was that your diagnosis? Based on what, Dr. Whitestone? Your vast experience in treating morphiate tolerance? Just how many such patients have you attended?”

“I am not unfamiliar with the symptoms.”

Frias almost sneered. “Symptoms that could be attributed to a plethora of causes. And where did you gain this familiarity? Textbooks?” He tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his vest. “I, on the other hand, have treated hundreds of dope cases. Moreover, I visited Willard just last week. If he were in the throes of morphiate addiction—just the thought is idiotic—I most certainly would have noticed. Unless, of course, you are implying that I intentionally infected the boy and was secretly supplying him with drugs.”

“Of course not,” Noah said. “And I have treated dope cases as well. But what has caused your change of heart, Dr. Frias? Just yesterday, you expressed to me that Willard’s death was a tragedy for whom no one is to blame.”

“That was before I realized the full extent of your malfeasance. I was willing to grant you benefit of the doubt, but can do so no longer. It would be a disservice to the community.”

Noah turned to Wurster. “I would like to give you the details of the occurrence, Mayor Wurster, but don’t you believe, as gentlemen, we should be speaking of this in private?”

“We will speak of it here. I wish my niece to have no doubts about the man who is responsible for her son’s death but tries to blame another.”

Frias offered a small nod of acknowledgment to Wurster. “Poor Mildred told me that throughout your visit, you questioned both my motives and my skill.”

“I did no such thing, sir,” Noah protested, although he had certainly done both.

“And how do we know, doctor,” Frias pressed, his nostrils flaring as if the scent of blood was actually in them, “that given the abysmal judgment and lack of skill that you demonstrated, you did not give poor Willard three drops of laudanum in error? Maybe even four. Six? Or perhaps it was not error at all, but simply too large a dose, which you later realized and are now attempting to deny.”

“Mrs. Anschutz saw me administer the dose.”

“She says she did not. She was looking away at the time.”

Noah turned his eyes to Mildred Anschutz, but she refused to look up.

“I know your father, doctor,” Frias continued, almost rising up on his toes. “I cannot imagine that he would ever have treated a young, helpless patient with the disdain that you apparently showed last night. Disdain and false pride. And the patient has paid for your hubris.”

“I treated him properly. I wonder, Dr. Frias, what you would have done had you been at the boy’s side.” Noah thought about Viola Mangino but forced back the temptation to mention her. “What has caused you to spread this calumny? Is it simply a desire to blacken my name out of spite, or do you have a different motive?”

Before Frias could reply, Frederick Wurster spoke. “You murdered my nephew, Dr. Whitestone. Murdered him just as surely if you had wielded a gun, a knife, or a club. There is no place in the noble profession of medicine for opportunists such as yourself. I have dealt with the corrupt and the incompetent before. The cause of death on Willard’s death certificate will be changed to read ‘overdose of laudanum.’”

“On what grounds? How can the coroner possibly determine such a thing without a postmortem? Do you intend an autopsy?”

“We are not cutting the boy open,” Frederick Wurster said with finality. “The facts could not be more obvious. Moreover, I intend to contact the Board of Regents personally and see that proceedings are initiated to have your medical license revoked. Whether or not I should pursue criminal charges, I have not yet decided.”

“Mayor Wurster, you are making a grievous error. I was there and Dr. Frias was not. I encountered a helpless boy in agony, and I took steps to alleviate his symptoms. I have already discussed this tragedy with the head of pediatrics at Brooklyn Hospital, and he has affirmed both my diagnosis and my treatment. I cannot say why events proceeded as they did. I was hoping members of poor Willard’s family would want to discover the reasons as much as I do. I see now, however, that you seem more interested in revenge. To Mrs. Anschutz I can only offer my deepest sympathies. I know the terrible pain of losing a loved one.”

A hand appeared between Wurster and Frias. Both looked behind them with surprise, then moved apart to allow Aldridge Anschutz to pass. The boy posted himself opposite Noah. He was standing quite erect, taller than he had appeared two nights ago. The beginnings of whiskers were visible below his sideburns and on his chin. His eyes were dark brown, like Willard’s. He stared at Noah without fear or emotion.

“Dr. Whitestone, I cannot speak to your motives. Or your ability as a doctor. But my brother is dead. My mother is devastated, and our family will never be the same again. You treated Willard and assured my mother that you would help him. You did not. You are not welcome in this house. I ask you to leave and never return.”

For some moments, no one spoke. The only sounds in the room were of breathing and the soft whimpering of Mildred Anschutz. Wurster he could fight. Or Frias. But not a sixteen-year-old boy. Finally, Noah nodded to the boy, retrieved his hat from the hall, and was once again out on the street, wondering how his future as a doctor and even his freedom could have been put in so dire peril from two drops of laudanum.

Noah suddenly had the sensation of being observed. He looked about and saw, waiting at the end of the block, leaning against a wall, the man with the wire-framed spectacles from Brooklyn Hospital. The man smiled slowly and crooked his finger for Noah to join him.