The Anatomy of Deception

by Lawrence Goldstone

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 20

  IT 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 b
egan.

  “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.

  Eakins shook his head. “No, no. That’s not at all what I mean. We wish him to reveal his activities, not sit for a portrait…. Wait!” he exclaimed, then smiled slowly, looking quite feline. “Of course. You must go as another,” Eakins said.

  “As another? Misrepresent myself?”

  “As you said, he will not confide in a physician.”

  “Impossible. He would see right through me. This is your scheme; you should execute it.”

  Eakins shook his head. “I’m sorry to inform you, Dr. Carroll, but I am sufficiently well known that I can hardly go anywhere in this city as anyone but myself. Even in that guise, I am often unwelcome. No. I’m afraid it will have to be you.”

  “I expect you have a firm idea of who that alter ego should be.”

  “A very firm idea,” said Eakins.

  I listened as Eakins told me. “I’ll be back,” I said.

  One hour later, I pulled up in a hansom at the Germantown Mission on Wayne Avenue, a wide, tree-lined road just off Fairmount Park. The two-story building with the gold cupola at which the carriage stopped was part of a larger complex that seemed to sprawl across the street on either side. The Germantown Mission, in addition to its ecclesiastical activities, housed an orphanage and a soup kitchen, and provided a number of other services for the poor.

  I informed the young man who answered the door that I had come to see Reverend Squires. After a moment in the vestibule, I heard footsteps and soon the Reverend himself made his appearance.

  I had formed a picture in my mind’s eye of a tall, glowering fanatic who intimidated society matrons into opening their pocketbooks, but Reverend Squires was instead short and plump with a florid countenance and what seemed to be indefatigable good cheer. He bounced across the floor to greet me. I was heartened. A man more susceptible to flattery would be difficult to imagine.

  “Good afternoon, Reverend,” I said. “I’m so lucky to find you in, as I have traveled overnight to see you.”

  “Indeed,” replied the Reverend. “And where did your journey begin?”

  “New York,” I said, stepping forward and extending my hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Galen Harvey and I work for the New York Sun.”

  Reverend Squires shook my hand with appropriate awe. Eakins had judged our man well. “The New York Sun? And you wish to speak with me?”

  “Quite so,” I said. “Word of your good work has spread, Reverend Squires, and the Sun believes that the citizens of New York should have the full story.” I sounded very much like a reporter, I decided.

  The Reverend apparently agreed. “Well, well,” he said, hardly able to contain his elation. “I would be happy to discuss any of our work here. Is there some specific aspect of our efforts in which you are most interested?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, with a deferential nod. “We feel that your labors on behalf of the poor in obtaining a decent burial are remarkable and noteworthy. In fact, it has been commented that they are unsurpassed. After all, these poor wretches should at least be entitled to their final dignity.”

  “Yes, yes.” Reverend Squires nodded, almost dancing before me. “That is so true, Mr. Harvey. They are so often abused in life, why should they also be abused in death?”

  “Quite so. And I understand that even after death, paupers are often the subject of hideous medical practices.”

  “Yes, yes,” the Reverend said once again, his face now as red as a cherry. “The wretches are butchered, cut up, their insides ripped out and then shoved back in so that they may be stitched up again like a sack of grain.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Sometimes they don’t even get their own parts back.”

  “Really?” I said. “I must report that.”

  Reverend Squires knit his brows. “You do not seem to be writing what I am saying, Mr. Harvey.”

  “It is true, Reverend.” I nodded, trying to form a response, cursing myself for the sin of arrogance. “I have trained my memory to record my interviews. This allows me to give full attention to those with whom I speak.”

  Reverend Squires mused on this for a moment. I was fortunate that the man before me so desperately wanted to believe that the New York Sun sought to report on his crusading activities. “Very clever of you, Mr. Harvey,” he admitted finally. “You must be quite important at the Sun,” he added hopefully.

  “Alas, Reverend Squires, I have not yet the experience to be important, but with essential stories such as this one, I hope to become so.”

  “I wish you the best in that regard,” he said.

  “Thank you. I understand that you have created an official organization to support your efforts,” I went on.

  “Yes, yes,” he replied. “The Philadelphia League Against Human Vivisection. We are trying to end the un-Godly practice of dissecting human beings. We have great support, particularly among those of means, which is gratifying since the wealthy never need concern themselves with such indignities, only the poor.”

  “That is highly commendable, Reverend Squires,” I agreed. “It must be a great relief to have an abundance of funds at your disposal.”

  “Oh, never an abundance, Mr. Harvey,” the Reverend assured me. “Never an abundance. There is so much work to do, so many souls to care for, that our funds are disbursed almost as they arrive. In fact, I am scheduled to speak at a gathering tomorrow evening at the home of one of Philadelphia’s leading citizens who has volunteered to become a major benefactor. Do you know of Elias Schoonmaker?”

  I assured the Reverend I did not. Dinner at the Benedicts’ had apparently gone even worse than the Professor and I had imagined.

  “You should meet Mrs. Schoonmaker. She is an extremely distinguished woman. Did you intend to remain in Philadelphia overnight?”

  “Alas, no. I must return directly to New York.”

  “A pity,” he said. “I was hoping you might witness for yourself the outpouring of support for our cause.”

  “I’m sure that everyone in the city applauds your efforts.”

  “Oh, no,” he exclaimed with a wag of his finger. “Not everyone.
There are those in the medical profession who believe that it is perfectly acceptable to go against Scripture simply to satisfy morbid curiosity.” His features puckered. “The worst is this Canadian … man named Osler….” He pronounced it Ah-sler instead of Oh-sler. “This Osler dared come to see me, to try to convince me that carving up the dead was part of the advancement of science.” His jaws began to work back and forth at the memory of it. “Blasphemy,” he muttered.

  “Quite so,” I replied. “I would like to return to your efforts to serve those who have died without funds for burial. Does your League pay for those burials as well?”

  A cloud passed over the Reverend’s plump face. “It is the city’s responsibility to provide services for the indigent,” he said. “Private citizens cannot simply bury who they wish.”

  I smiled, with what I hoped was a conspiratorial glint. “Nonetheless, Reverend Squires, I have heard that you have sometimes taken it upon yourself to provide a more dignified service than that offered by the city.”

  “Where did you hear that?” he demanded, looking far less jolly than a moment before.

  “I would not be much of a reporter if I could not unearth a story. Especially of a man who does God’s work with such zeal. I would, of course, not include any details that might prove embarrassing to you in any article we publish, but the Sun would be that much more interested in a man who takes risks for his convictions.”

  Reverend Squires was eager to demonstrate that he was indeed such a man. “Of course, we provide burials,” he said. “It is a far more humane alternative than letting the poor be dumped in a hole in the ground.”

  “I could not agree more strongly,” I said. “But it must stretch your resources to provide services for so many.”

  “It is one of our most pressing expenses. You would be surprised, Mr. Harvey, at everything that is involved. One must obtain the space at the cemetery—we use St. Barnabas—hire men to prepare the site, obtain suitable transport….”