The Anatomy of Deception (28 page)

Haggens shook his head. “That good too, Doc?”

I nodded. “Are you ever tired?”

“All the time,” he said.

“No, I mean
very
tired.”

“Sometimes,” he said. “Do you know what I got?”

“I think so,” I said. “You have the symptoms of a condition called mitral stenosis, which is a narrowing of one of the valves in your heart. It prevents adequate blood flow between the chambers.”

“That sounds bad,” he said.

“Not necessarily. In many cases the condition doesn’t progress. If you can tolerate the symptoms and they don’t worsen, you should be fine.”

“What if they do worsen?”

There was no point in lying. Haggens was far too savvy to be taken in by platitudes. “If your symptoms worsen, you could eventually develop either blood clots or an infection of the heart muscle called endocarditis.”

“Bad?”

“Either can kill you.”

Haggens digested the information, sizing up the alternatives as he had when I had asked to borrow Mike. Like many patients, now that he knew the facts, he was able to consider his condition coolly and rationally. “How long is eventually?”

“There is no way to know. But most of the time the condition will stay as it is.”

“Anything I can do for it?”

“Well, you might want to drink less. Coffee won’t help you, either. And you might want to try to avoid nervous stress.”

Haggens guffawed. “Avoid stress? Down here?”

“Well,” I said, “do your best. We have another matter to discuss, however.”

Haggens dropped his eyes in mock shame, as he buttoned his shirt. “I know, Doc. I was a bad boy.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “How many people have tried it?”

“The stuff?”

“Of course, the stuff. I didn’t mean the revolver.”

“I heard rumors that some of it has gotten around.”

“What did these rumors say as to the effects?”

“Rumors said that this is the best stuff anyone has ever tried.”

“Not everyone thought so, I’ll wager. I would venture to say that some who tried it received an unpleasant surprise.” The patient I had seen earlier in the hospital, for one, I thought.

“Unpleasant surprises are everyday happenings down here, Doc.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I’m sure. Has anyone died?”

Haggens turned his palms up. “Do I look like the town undertaker?”

I took a breath. I was about to take my association with Haggens into dangerous territory. “I need whoever is selling it to stop selling it. If they don’t stop selling it, people are going to keep showing up at either the hospital or the morgue with symptoms of poisoning that will force me to tell the police what I know about this mysterious substance.” Haggens began to speak, but I put up my hand. “And please don’t tell me how dangerous it would be for me to do so, or that I would be in just as much trouble as this unnamed party to whom I refer. I already know that. But I cannot allow people to die, and remain a physician. I do hope, however, that I will not be forced into the position of having to make a choice.”

Haggens cocked his head and lightly rubbed the first two fingers of his right hand across his lower lip, trying to choose how to respond. I decided to help him.

“You make a good living down here, Haggens. Why jeopardize it? It would not please me to make good my threat, but I cannot remain silent while poison is being sold, no matter who profits by it.”

Haggens continued to size up the situation. “I could make it that you don’t ever leave this room alive,” he said. “Thought about that?”

“Yes.”

We remained there in silence for some moments, my life suspended in the air between us. Finally, Haggens narrowed his eyes and gave a nod. “Okay, you win.” He broke into a grin. “Can’t kill my own doc after all, can I?” He raised a finger and wagged it in my direction. “But don’t forget. You owe me one.”

“I do indeed,” I agreed. I smiled back at him. “I don’t suppose you’d give it back to me?”

Haggens shook his head slowly. “That far I can’t go, Doc, not even for you. Here’s my deal: As long as a bunch of poor unfortunates don’t show up sick or dead, you stay outta my business and I stay outta yours.”

Now it was me who had to deduce what Haggens had in mind. The upshot was that the issue was moot. If Haggens found a means to deal with the drug in a manner that did not make users sick, I would not know that it was being sold. If I had no evidence that he was continuing the forbidden commerce, I could not act to stop him.

“All right, Haggens,” I said, thrusting out my hand. “It’s a bargain.”

Haggens shook my hand and heaved a sigh. “I’m going to miss it if you stop coming down here, Doc. It’s quite a nice change dealing with such a high-class chap.”

I would miss him too, although I would never admit to it. “Well, Haggens, you never know. Maybe I’ll come by from time to time just for a drink.”

“You’ll always be welcome, Doc.”

“Thank you. One more thing before I go. If you won’t give me back the, uh, stuff, would you mind giving me one of the tins that it came in?”

“Empty?” Haggens looked at me as if I had lost my wits.

“Have you changed your mind about giving it to me full?”

“No chance.”

“Then empty will do.”

Haggens considered for a moment. When he could not think of what underhanded ploy I might be attempting, he agreed.

He asked me to leave the office. When, a few moments later, he called me back in, one of the empty tins was sitting on his desk. He gestured with his head that I should take it.

“Thank you,” I said, making to leave. I tapped my chest. “You will try to relax more.”

Haggens chortled. “Sure. Anything you say. I always wanted to die of old age.”

I
T WAS TIME TO KEEP
my word to Abigail and determine once and for all the fate of Rebecca Lachtmann.

As the city was responsible for providing funeral services for the indigent, I assumed that the Department of Health would have a record of a young woman recently buried in Potter’s Field. I sent word to the hospital that I was ill, then journeyed downtown to check the records of recent interments. To my surprise, not only was there no record of anyone matching Rebecca Lachtmann’s description receiving a public burial during the previous month, but the number of public burials—only twenty-five—seemed to be far fewer than I would have thought. I thanked the clerk, left, and returned to West Philadelphia. I had hardly begun and had run into my first complication, and would therefore be forced to add an additional and potentially dangerous step. My next stop was the Dead House.

I entered through the Blockley entrance, hoping that this would not be one of the rare days that the Professor was performing an impromptu autopsy. I had never spoken to Cadaverous Charlie except to pass an occasional comment on his duties. I tried the handle on the heavy door, found it unlocked, and entered. The dissecting room was empty, but I heard a gravelish sound emanating from the morgue. When I peered in, Charlie was changing the ice, muttering as he transferred shovelfuls from a large bucket in the middle of the floor into the chests that held the cadavers. Shoveling ice was
an extremely arduous activity and I realized that, despite his bony frame, Charlie must have been quite strong. He was from some region in western Germany—Alsace, I believe the Professor had said—and he seemed to be surviving the chore by swearing in a mixture of German, French, and English. Charlie had doubtless heard someone knock and move about, but remained at his task with his back toward me.

I cleared my throat, but he continued to refuse to acknowledge my presence. “Excuse me … Charlie … could we speak for a moment?” I uttered finally.

Charlie deposited another shovelful of ice into one of the chests, which held the corpse of an enormously corpulent man of about thirty, and then paused, as if deciding whether to grace me with an answer. After a moment, he straightened up, leaned the shovel against the wall, and turned. He was covered in perspiration. It glistened off his extremely flat and fleshy nose, giving him the appearance of a giant exotic marsupial.

“I would like to ask you a question or two,” I began affably.

Charlie stared back at me.

“About what is done with the cadavers after dissection …”

Still, not a word in return.

“I would be happy to pay for the information.”

Charlie nodded slowly, as if I had uttered a magical phrase, and then wiped his hands on his apron. “How much?” he asked.

“Fifty cents?” I offered. The price of a steak dinner should seem a bounty to a man of Charlie’s rank.

“Fi’ dollars,” he countered instantly, holding up the requisite number of fingers in case I had missed the message. I had forgotten that taking bribes was Charlie’s
métier
. For a man who toiled at such a menial task, given his income from the Professor, Reverend Squires, and goodness knew who else, he was likely substantially wealthier than I.

I dug through my pockets. I had some money with me but not nearly enough to satisfy Charlie’s rapacious tastes.

“I can offer you one dollar,” I said, holding out my hand.

Charlie sniffed, but allowed me to drop the coins into his palm. “Vot you vanna know?” he asked.

“I was just wondering what happens to the cadavers after we finish our work here.”

“Dey get buried. Sometime cremated.”

“Why, yes,” I agreed quickly. “I know that they are buried … or cremated … but who handles the arrangements?”

“Vhy you vanna know dat?”

Why indeed? “It occurred to me that the poor are not always properly interred and it has weighed on my conscience.”

Charlie stared at me as though he were confronting an inmate from the lunatic ward. “Dey get buried fine,” he said.

“By whom?” I pressed.

“De city sometime.”

“And other times?”

Charlie began to shift from one foot to another and I realized that I had actually unearthed a clue. I felt quite triumphant. “Well,” I pressed. “I did not pay you for nothing.”

The pecuniary argument was persuasive.

“Sometime de League bury dem,” he said.

“Reverend Squires’ League?” I asked. “The same people who try to keep us from conducting autopsies?”

“Yeah,” Charlie replied. “How many leagues dere are?”

“Does Formad decide who buries whom?”

“Formad?” sneered Charlie. “Vat he know?”

I had a revelation. “He pays you, does he not? Reverend Squires? To allow him to take the cadavers for burial?” Charlie did not reply, which was reply enough. This explained why the cadavers had been removed so quickly after we autopsied them. Charlie, in effect, had sold the bodies to Reverend Squires. “I think, Charlie, that under the circumstances, it would not be a good idea for either of us to mention this conversation. Do you agree?”

Charlie most certainly did.

I still needed one last bit of confirmation.

“Does anyone on the medical staff ever urge you to bury the bodies quickly?”

“Vot you mean? Like Formad?”

“Other than Formad.”

“Ve always get rid of ze bodies quick.”

I considered pressing the matter further, trying to bring it around to the body that I suspected was Rebecca Lachtmann’s and whether it had been the Professor or Reverend Squires who had given Charlie special instructions, but decided against it. Arousing Charlie’s curiosity, I was certain, would result in even more money changing hands, more secrets exposed. If the Professor learned that I had continued involving myself in these affairs, I was finished. If it had been Reverend Squires, I would have to find out from him independently; if not, there was no point in alerting Charlie to my motives.

The problem of how to proceed, however, was not so easily disposed of. I knew at once that I could not hope to obtain information from the head of the Philadelphia League Against Human Vivisection by revealing that I was a physician. I was going to need assistance and there was only one person to whom I might turn.

This time, when I arrived at Mount Vernon Street, I did not catch a glimpse of the man with the mustache. “Why, hello, Dr. Carroll,” Susan Eakins said as she opened her door, as if I had just returned from an extended journey, “how lovely to see you again.” She did not, however, move to invite me in.

“Hello, Mrs. Eakins—” I began.

“Susan,” she corrected.

“Susan.” I cleared my throat softly. “I wonder if I might have a very brief word with your husband?”

She shook her head with a sigh. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Carroll, but Thomas can never be disturbed while he is working.”

“I understand that this is an unconscionable intrusion,” I persisted, “but it is quite urgent.”

She considered this for a moment. Then she nodded. “I’ll let him know you are here.”

A few moments later, Eakins came down the stairs. He looked like a madman, hair mussed, wild-eyed and paint-stained. I understood why it was unwise to disturb him. He ushered me into the small parlor.

“I need your assistance,” I said.

I told Eakins of my conversation with Cadaverous Charlie. He reached up with paint-spattered fingers and tugged on his earlobe. “I agree that our next step is to interview this Reverend Squires. What role did you have in mind for me?”

I explained why I could not see Reverend Squires myself. “Even if he did not discover that I worked with Dr. Osler, I am sure that he would never confide in a medical man.”

“And you think it more likely that he would confide in me?” asked Eakins. “I’m sorry, Carroll, but I must tell you that you have not thought this through. If this Reverend Squires is as you describe him, he will not be a party to any conspiracy, regardless of who seeks to engage him. It seems clear to me that he must be made to reveal information without being aware he is doing so, or at the very least, unaware of what we are actually attempting to learn.”

“I don’t see how we can cause him to do that,” I confessed.

Eakins thought for a moment. “He must
want
to give information rather than be coerced. He must think he is speaking with someone who can be of assistance to him.”

“Are you going to suggest that you wish to paint him?” I asked.