NINE

 

DAY 3. FRIDAY, 9/22—11:30 A.M.

Not a successful visit to the bereaved, Dr. Whitestone?” The man spoke with perfect diction, in an accent vaguely British. “I gather they blame you for the boy’s death. But I suppose it would have been foolish to expect Dr. Frias to accept responsibility.”

“What do you know of it?”

“I was hoping that we might chat,” the man replied, ignoring the question.

“About what?”

“Murdered children, of course. I want to chat with you about murdered children, Dr. Whitestone.” The man’s smile vanished. “Ridgewood, Astoria, Flatlands, Newark . . .” The man was ticking off the names on his fingers. “And now Brooklyn Heights. In each case, a child has either died or been struck gravely ill.”

“And?” Noah tried to remain outwardly stoical, but he sensed what was coming and was excited to hear the words.

“And in each case, the symptoms were the same. The same as those from which your patient died two nights ago. Encephalitic asphyxiation brought on by respiratory failure. Symptoms remarkably consistent with morphia poisoning. There was one difference in your case, however.” The man waited for Noah to ask.

“And what was that?”

“Each of the other victims came from a poor home. The type of home where they are unable to raise a stink. To be blunt, children who would not be missed. Perfect for experimentation.”

“What sort of experimentation?”

The man cocked his head in the direction away from Joralemon Street. “Let’s go somewhere where we can talk.”

“Just a moment. I’ve got a few questions first. How do you know me?”

“I’ve spent enough time in hospitals these past months to know a doctor when I see one. I asked one of the nurses what your name was. Quite harmless really.”

“And you have been following me since?”

“My apologies.”

“What were you doing there?”

The man shrugged. “A false errand. I had heard that a child had been admitted with the same set of symptoms. It turned out not to be true. But after your furtive conversation with Dr. De Kuyper, I learned my day had not been wasted.”

“How do you know what we discussed?”

“Nurse again. Their presence is usually invisible to you doctors, but they listen to everything.”

“Very well. I’ll hear what you have to say, Mr. . . . ?”

“McKee. Turner McKee.” He extended his hand.

“Mr. McKee.” Noah nodded, shaking what turned out to be a heavily muscled and calloused hand. McKee’s grip could have easily crushed Noah’s fingers.

“I crewed at Yale,” said McKee, noticing Noah’s surprise. “Swam quite a bit as well. I like the water. Very purifying.”

“Allow me to form my own conclusions as to your purity.” Noah then suggested a popular tavern on Fulton Street. He had no intention of asking the man to his rooms.

McKee laughed and shook his head. His teeth were straight and well cared for. “Wrong sort of folks go there. I know a more reliable spot. Peaceful. Refined décor. Courteous service. A bit of a walk, but you’ll like it.” Without waiting for Noah to assent, he turned and started briskly up the street. Noah followed.

They walked through a town in the throes of modernity: macadam where cobblestones had lain, electric lighting instead of gas, brick homes and office buildings in place of wood. On Fulton Street, tracks and overhead wires for the electric trolley cut the thoroughfare in half. Gasoline-and steam-powered vehicles had begun to supplant horses. Even pedestrians strode about with a purposefulness that had been lacking even ten years earlier, as if speed of communication required speed afoot.

During the journey, McKee made no attempt at conversation. Every few blocks, he turned down a side street, always glancing behind him as he did so. Once, he made three rights in a row so that in the end he had returned to his original course. At first, Noah could not help glancing back as well, but they were quite alone. Eventually, he found the intrigue silly, an affectation. It made him more determined to maintain his skepticism. “Murdered children” and “experimentation” were phrases doubtlessly chosen to arouse his curiosity, but curiosity should never be allowed to overcome reason.

They arrived at the edge of the harbor and time once again receded. A series of dilapidated clapboard buildings with peeling paint lined the streets. No electrical wires were visible. Evidence of horse traffic lay strewn in the middle of the road. The smell of brackish water and festering garbage permeated the air.

McKee started down Front Street, the immense span of the Brooklyn Bridge looming over them. Their destination was a seedy tavern, ARTHUR’S, barely discernible in chipped, faded paint on a grimy window, the sort of establishment that Clement Van Meter had likely frequented in his ports of call around the globe. McKee paused before entering, once again glancing up and down the street. When he was satisfied with what he saw, or didn’t see, he opened the door and beckoned Noah inside.

Four kerosene lamps mounted on wall sconces and the soot on the window left the room in constant gloom. Although it was not yet noon, four patrons sat on stools at the bar, one a heavily rouged older woman in a garish orange-and-green dress. None looked up as Noah and his bespectacled companion walked in.

The bartender, bald and hulking, with the flattened nose and perichondrial hematoma—cauliflower ears—of a prize fighter, gave a perfunctory gesture with his head toward the rear. McKee nodded and walked quickly through the bar toward a brown, dusty curtain stretched across a narrow doorway.

The back room was as disagreeable as the front, three unadorned tables set on a sawdust-covered pine-board floor. Heavy shades were pulled across the windows.

McKee swept an arm grandly from left to right. “What did I tell you, doctor? Handsome accommodations, are they not? Can I offer you something? I’m sure you would not favor beer or whiskey at such an hour, but Dolph makes a surprisingly good cup of coffee, seeing how almost no one who comes here drinks it.” He then pulled out a chair at a table for two, gesturing for Noah to join him. McKee sat facing the door.

“Coffee would be appreciated,” Noah replied, taking his seat.

McKee motioned toward the curtain. How the bartender, Dolph, could see the raised hand remained a mystery.

“Well, Mr. McKee, now that you have dragooned me to this bar, perhaps you might elaborate on the grandiose pronouncement you made earlier.”

McKee nodded. “Very well. In the first place, I wanted to tell you that I know you didn’t kill your patient.”

“Thank you for your confidence. I also know I didn’t.”

Turner McKee smiled and wagged a finger back and forth. “No. You hope you didn’t. I know you didn’t.”

“Which implies that you know who did . . . what did.”

“Both. But strongly suspect would be more accurate. Very strongly, actually.”

The curtain was pulled aside and the man Dolph entered with the coffee. His hands were immense, dwarfing the cups. The smell of java, strong and rich, filled the room. He placed the cups in front of them, then retired as soundlessly as he had entered. Noah wondered if the man could speak at all.

“One of the advantages of proximity to a waterfront,” McKee said, gesturing with his head to the coffee. “Access to imports at a low price. Sometimes no price.”

They each took a sip, eyeing each other. “By the way,” McKee asked, “are you Abel Whitestone’s son?”

“Yes.” McKee’s constant evasions were maddening, but this was a man who required his theatrics. “Do you know my father?”

“I’ve heard the name, that’s all. Fine doctor, your father.”

“Thank you. Yes, he is.”

McKee allowed the flash of a smile to come and go. “Difficult to find honorable men these days.”

“I agree, but might we return to the subject at hand? You distinctly used the word murder. That implies intent.”

“Or willful negligence,” McKee replied.

“So children are dying due to willful negligence. As a result of experimentation. I assume you mean by physicians. Over a wide geographic area.”

“Not only physicians.” McKee idly scratched his chin with an extended forefinger. “Dr. Whitestone, do you think $75 million is a lot of money?”

“I assume the question is rhetorical. Why that specific figure?”

“That is the sum of profits earned . . . stolen to be more precise . . . by the Patent Medicine Trust just last year.”

“I am aware that patent medicines are a scourge, Mr. McKee. I inveigh against their use every day. I have threatened patients, cajoled them, and begged them. Usually to no avail. But patent medicines had nothing to do with the death of my patient. The boy hadn’t been taking patent medicines. I was assured so by his mother and I believe her.”

McKee shrugged. “Perhaps he hadn’t.”

“What’s more, there is no Patent Medicine Trust. Trusts are legal entities, which I assume a Yale graduate should know.”

“Don’t be naïve, Dr. Whitestone. Whenever a group of businessmen band together to buy Congressmen, restrict competition, fix prices, prohibit regulation, ensure obscene profits, all to the detriment of the public, that is a trust whether they set themselves up as a legal entity or not. Even Bulldog Roosevelt knows that.” McKee gave a sad shake of his head. “The National Wholesale Liquor Dealers Association, the Proprietary Medicine Association, and the American Pharmacists Council spend tens of thousands of dollars each year doing all of those things so that they can continue to poison gullible members of the public with patent medicines. Oh, there’s a Patent Medicine Trust, all right.”

“In other words, all of these perfectly legitimate trade groups are part of an evil conspiracy.”

“Perhaps money means nothing to you, but for $75 million these men will bribe, steal, even murder to maintain their monopoly. Why do you think I duck around corners like a thief? Money is moving everywhere. Not just in the halls of government. Some of your colleagues accept handsome rewards from drug manufacturers to prescribe products without inquiring first what is in them. Or whether they have been tested. Patent medicines. Prescription medicines. Public welfare means nothing. People are dying, doctor. Make no mistake. Usually the poor and indigent. Often the victims are children, or the old, the weak, the infirm.”

“And my patient, you are saying, was dosed with a medicine, an opiate, whose properties and effects were untested?”

“Each of the children who died was treated for a cough with what their doctor called a new miracle drug. Other than your patient, they were all poor and uneducated. And your patient was not really your patient, was he? He was Frias’s.”

“I was only called because of emergency.”

“Precisely. Here is my proposal. If I aid you in proving what actually killed your patient, will you help me in exposing the abuses by the drug trust?”

“Tell me first where Dr. Frias fits in all of this.”

“I’m not certain. I was hoping you might help in that regard. You certainly have motive for doing so.”

“You are obviously a journalist of some sort.”

“Of some sort.”

“Of what sort, Mr. McKee?”

“I work for New Visions magazine.”

“The socialists. Radicals. As I suspected.”

McKee leaned back. The insouciant grin returned. “Actually, I consider myself more of an anarchist.”

“If I am not mistaken, you are the people who featured a cover depicting the flag with the red stripes dripping blood.”

“You disapprove.”

“Of course I disapprove. Any decent person should.”

“My country, right or wrong?”

The same phrase Alan had used. “I can be willing to disapprove of some of my country’s policies without disapproving of my country.”

“If you say so.”

“So let me understand you, Mr. McKee. You have perceived that I am in trouble, so you have hauled me off to a clandestine rendezvous, spewed out a stream of unsubstantiated accusations, indicting businessmen, those in government, and even doctors—the very people you loathe—and now you expect me to be so outraged that, without verifying any of your diatribe, I leap to aid you in trying to uncover some shadowy cabal? To sweeten the mixture, you dangle Dr. Frias in front of me. All of which will help you sell more copies of your magazine. Sorry, Mr. McKee. You’ll have to find someone more credulous.”

McKee shook his head. “I was wrong about you, Whitestone. You’re not as astute as I thought.”

“Perhaps. But I’m no naïf, Mr. McKee. Of course, I realize that occasionally a physician will violate his oath. Perhaps, as you imply, Dr. Frias is one of them. But the problem of corrupt doctors is hardly the endemic situation you describe. Your politics have run away with your objectivity.”

“You think so, doctor? What if I can prove it to you that my theory is sound?”

“How could you do that?”

“Let us leave that aside for a moment. Let us simply hypothesize that I could.”

“I would be extremely disturbed.”

“Disturbed enough to help me?”

“But I don’t think you can.”

“Come by the offices. We’re near Cooper Square. If you find my evidence lacking, you may leave uncorrupted, and I will promise never to cross your path again.”

“You have no evidence about Dr. Frias specifically, I presume.”

“Not yet. Although I adore his new automobile. Don’t you?”

“I will not deny that I would be interested to learn what killed poor Willard Anschutz,” Noah said despite himself.

McKee’s brow furrowed. “Did you say Anschutz? Was that your patient’s name?”

Noah nodded. “I thought you knew everything.”

“I heard the essentials, but not all of the details. Anschutz as in Pug Anschutz?”

“Yes. That was his house you saw me walk out of. How do you know him?”

“Pug Anschutz is a killer, Dr. Whitestone. A murderer whose crimes are excused because he wears a uniform while committing them.”

“You seem addicted to hyperbole, Mr. McKee.”

“Hardly. Pug has been serving in the Philippines under General Merritt, helping put down the revolt. Not really a revolt when one understands that Filipinos simply wish for the independence our government promised them if they supported us against Spain. Only after they helped us kick the Spanish out did we inform them that we were now their rulers instead. They then had the temerity to fight back. There have been stories filtering out of Manila about some unpleasant treatment of ‘rebels.’ Extremely unpleasant. Entire villages have been razed to the ground. Upward of one hundred thousand Filipinos have died. Women, children. The army has made no distinction. Colonel Anschutz is one of the men in charge of ‘pacifying’ the native population. He approaches the task with enthusiasm.”

“Propaganda,” Noah replied. “I know their forces are no match for ours, but no American would behave so barbarically.”

“Oh yes, Dr. Whitestone. It must be socialist propaganda. Nonetheless, I hope for your sake you have resolved your difficulties before he arrives home.”

“Do you believe that threatening me will cause me to break down and throw in with you?”

“No. You are clearly a man of strong, if misguided, resolution.”

Noah stood. “Thank you for the coffee, Mr. McKee.”

They passed through to the bar, which had acquired two additional patrons. McKee nodded to the ever-silent Dolph, then walked out onto the street. Noah was about to begin the walk to Adams Street, but McKee placed a hand on his wrist.

“Wait. Where are you off to?”

“I have an appointment in Manhattan.”

“Very well. We must take different paths. I am prone to attracting the attention of parties you would not wish to meet. You return from the direction we came. Some vigilance on your part would not be misplaced. I will navigate my own course. Perhaps we can meet later at the magazine.”

“I don’t expect so,” Noah said, but McKee had already left, walking close to the buildings of Front Street until he disappeared around a corner.