Kenneth Barclay’s expression falls flat. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Where are they?”
Barclay points to the desk.
“Get them.”
Dr. Barclay shuffles to the desk, rifles through a stack of folders, and returns with a small bundle of papers, which he sets on the table next to Henry’s body.
Whitman scans the documents. Both reports specify arsenic poisoning as the cause of death, and on the anatomical diagrams, the coroner has drawn the chest incisions in a square according to proper dissection protocol and not as they are: a gash down the middle of both bodies.
Incredulous, Walt looks up at the coroner. “How could you?” He has to fight to control himself. “Fix them.”
“If only it were that simple.”
In a smooth gesture, Whitman reaches for the gun and points it at Barclay. “This morning, I’m afraid, it is that simple.”
Barclay grinds his teeth, his top lip tucked up under his gums. “I can redo the autopsy reports,” he finally says, “but they won’t hold up in court.”
“Then do it.”
The coroner reaches for a white apron stained with streaks of red, brown, and black. From the desk drawer, he removes two blank autopsy reports, a pen, and a bottle of ink.
Whitman instructs Barclay to write the word amended at the top of each form. Barclay does, and then gets to work.
“I don’t know what Elizabeth saw in you,” Walt says.
Barclay ignores him.
“And to think she’s still in love with you.”
The coroner looks up. “If I could stop it, I would.”
“So you just let her hang?”
The two men stare at each other for several moments before Barclay shakes his head and returns to work. Whitman watches Barclay’s hand as it writes, the very same hand that sealed Lena’s fate. “Who told you to alter the autopsy results?”
“Why would I tell you?”
“Was it the new sheriff?”
Barclay doesn’t flinch.
“Isaiah Rynders?”
Barclay shakes his head. “Once word gets out about these autopsies,” he says, “then whoever it is will come knocking anyway. And then you’ll know.”
“Finish your work.”
“There.” The coroner slides the autopsy reports across the table to him. “I did everything you asked. But it doesn’t matter,” the coroner says. “The paperwork is only a formality. All the pieces have already been set in motion and nothing can stop it.”
Whitman punches Barclay in the stomach, causing him to bend over in pain. “You’re pathetic,” he says. With the autopsies secure in a briefcase he finds on the desk, Walt rushes away.
Outside, on the landing, he stops abruptly.
Sheriff Petty leans over the freight wagon with his back toward him. Walt holds his breath as he takes a quiet step backward. But Petty flips around and, when he sees Whitman, rushes up the stairs.
Walt backs inside the coroner’s house and slams the door. Behind him, Dr. Barclay appears. “What’s the matter now?”
Whitman shoves Barclay aside and barrels toward the back door. Behind him, the sheriff enters the house.
With both men now in pursuit, Walt takes the six back stairs in one jump and sprints to the stone fence. He pushes himself up with his arms and almost clears the top, when Barclay grabs his left foot and, with the sheriff’s help, pulls him to the ground.
Petty kicks him in the stomach. “I ought to shoot you.”
Walt coughs.
Sheriff Petty towers over him. His forehead is scraped and bruised and his coat tattered from being dragged along the street.
He kicks Whitman again.
The pain is searing, and Walt struggles to catch his breath.
The sheriff bends down, rolls Walt over, and handcuffs him. “You are a real prick, Mr. Whitman.”
“This man broke into my house,” the coroner says. “Held me at gunpoint.”
“I’m afraid I know all about Mr. Whitman’s exploits.” The sheriff prods Walt with his boot. “Now let’s go.” The sheriff pulls Walt to his feet, and the briefcase containing the autopsy reports drops to the ground.
Petty picks it up. “What’s this?”
Barclay reaches for the briefcase. “That belongs to me.”
The sheriff holds it out of the coroner’s reach.
“Please, Sheriff Petty. I have a lot of work to do today.” He attempts to take the briefcase again, and for the first time, it occurs to Whitman that the sheriff might not be a part of the conspiracy to frame Lena and Elizabeth for murder.
“Of course,” Petty says. “But first tell me: What’s in the briefcase?”
“Just some of my papers,” he answers.
“What sort of papers?”
Barclay stumbles on his words now, and Petty turns to Whitman. “You know what’s inside, don’t you?”
Walt takes a deep breath so he can speak clearly. “The briefcase contains two sets of autopsies. Henry Saunders and Abraham Stowe. One falsified set, one corrected.”
The sheriff stares past them now, as if he is putting it all together, as if he hasn’t known the whole story until now. “That’s why you dug up Abraham Stowe’s corpse?”
Walt nods.
“Where are the bodies now?”
Whitman leads the way, followed by the sheriff and coroner. In a few minutes, Petty will know what Walt knows, and after everything that has happened, he can’t believe his good fortune. He had not once stopped to consider that Sheriff Petty was not at the center of the conspiracy, and when the sheriff sees the bodies, he will have a powerful new ally.
Inside the morgue, the lamp still burns. Walt’s stomach turns at seeing Henry again.
Petty sets the leather sheaf on the empty table nearest the two bodies. He removes the handcuffs, and Walt arranges the autopsy reports on the table.
Petty’s eyes dart from one sheet to the other. When he reaches the anatomical diagrams, he holds them up in comparison with each body. “I can’t believe it,” he says.
Walt nods.
“Bravo, Mr. Whitman,” Barclay says. “Looks like you’ve figured out how corrupt our world is.”
Walt turns around to see his gun in the coroner’s hand.
“Put the gun down, Doc,” Petty says. “I know you didn’t act alone.”
“Quiet!” Barclay swings the gun back and forth. His arm shakes. He’s even less comfortable with the gun than Whitman was, and Petty knows it. “Let me think.”
“We can still save Elizabeth,” says Walt.
“I’m not responsible for that.”
“Then who is?”
Barclay clearly doesn’t know what to do. He is sweating, his breathing erratic. “I didn’t think it would go this far,” he says. “I didn’t—”
The sheriff takes down Barclay in an instant, and for a moment, the two men struggle on the floor, but the sheriff’s size is too much. He slides the gun to Walt, then handcuffs the coroner.
“You have no idea what’s going on here,” Barclay says.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea, thanks to you.” Petty lifts the coroner by the collar. “Now let’s go,” he says. “You too, Mr. Whitman.”
Walt says, “What about Miss Blackwell?”
The sheriff turns around. “She’s safe where she is.”
“I’m worried about the protestors.”
The sheriff hands the briefcase to Whitman. “This is a good start, but we still have work to do,” he says. “At the moment, Miss Blackwell is safer in jail.”
In the freight wagon, Walt Whitman sits to the right of Kenneth Barclay while the sheriff drives. The briefcase lies in his lap. The three men sit so close Whitman can smell Barclay’s skin, see the black stubble on his chin
and the gold ring he wears on his right index finger.
For a moment, Walt allows himself to enjoy the small victory. There remains work to do, and there have been many losses, but he knows now that he has the means to stop Elizabeth Blackwell’s execution.
Chapter 35
Sheriff Silas Petty steers the phaeton down a narrow passageway to the rear entrance of the watch house. After he locks the brake in place, he pulls Barclay down by his handcuffs, then turns to Walt Whitman. “You have the briefcase?”
Walt lifts it into the air.
“Keep this between you and me for now.”
Whitman nods.
Inside his cell, Kenneth Barclay breaks down. Of course he will testify in court, he says. He is ready to tell the truth.
Petty says, “Then tell us what happened with the autopsies.”
The coroner sits on the cell bed, and Whitman and Petty stand opposite him. “Well,” he begins, “Samuel Clement called on me the morning after Abraham’s murder. He said he needed to tell me the truth, that Abraham Stowe had been murdered, then dissected by his own wife, Lena Stowe.” He stops.
“Then what happened?” Petty says.
“I knew the Stowes, Sheriff Petty. At one time, they were like family to me.” The coroner becomes emotional, and Petty and Whitman wait for him to regain control. “Abraham and I had a falling-out, but I will always be grateful to him for giving me my first post as a surgeon.”
“A falling-out?” Walt can’t believe it. He turns to the sheriff. “He despised Abraham for favoring Lena over him.”
“Is that it?” the sheriff says to the coroner. “Don’t you have anything useful?”
Barclay continues: “With Clement standing across the table from me, I conducted the autopsies. I told him that this was no dissection, and this was when he told me to make the autopsies match his story.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “So I did.”
Hearing the words shakes Walt in a way he didn’t anticipate. For so long he operated under assumptions and ideas, but now he has actual confirmation of his suspicions. He doesn’t know whether to feel exhilarated or horrified. “And then you stood by,” Whitman says, “and watched while the City of New York hanged an innocent woman. Your rival.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
Walt rushes the coroner, takes him by the collar. “You did nothing. You wanted it to happen!”
“Easy, Mr. Whitman.” The sheriff pulls him back.
The sheriff turns his attention back to Barclay. “Tell us who sent Clement to you.”
“There was nothing I could do.” Barclay puts his head down. “I had to protect myself.”
“Who sent Clement?” the sheriff says.
The coroner says nothing, and both Whitman and the sheriff understand that he will not implicate Rynders or the mayor. And why would he? Such an accusation will have no legal traction and only leave Barclay exposed in jail. No, the coroner will keep quiet, and then the powers that be will reward him for it with protection and a light sentence.
So Walt goes a different direction. “Did you alter Mary Rogers’s autopsy too?”
Barclay’s face drops at the mention of her name.
The sheriff turns to him. “Not now, Mr. Whitman.”
But Walt ignores the sheriff. “You did, didn’t you? She was pregnant. Someone brought her to you to get an abortion. When she died during the procedure, you dumped her body. You made it look like a murder, fabricated the autopsy, and then you let Abraham take the blame.”
“I didn’t give Mary Rogers an abortion!”
Walt says, “But you altered the autopsy.”
“Yes, but—” He knows he’s been caught.
“Who told you to do it?” Whitman says.
The coroner puts his head down. “Let’s say I know,” Barclay starts. “What can you do for me if I tell you?”
“Who?” Petty says.
“What can you do for me?”
The sheriff takes the coroner by the neck, slams him against the wall. “Who told you?”
The coroner thinks for a moment. “Jack Harris.”
That’s when a copper bursts through the front door, shouting the word mob.
With Walt Whitman standing next to him, Sheriff Petty sends couriers out into the city and gathers those on duty, those at home with their families, and those in the bars. These men trudge the streets of the Lower East Side back to Sheriff Petty, who stands on his desk and tells the men how they will approach the prison and end the mob.
The men grab their bayonets and wait in a line from the front door of the station to the back door—a line that winds around desks, chairs, tables, and jail cells. The men in the cells joke at the expense of the watchmen. “Like shooting fish in a barrel,” they say. “Just the way you lawmen like it. Easy.” The men ignore the prisoners—all but one watchman, who smacks the Irish man in cell five in the jaw with his rifle. The sound of wood against bone echoes through the watch house as the militia, the sheriff, and Walt spill outside.
Little Joe is careful not to pinch Elizabeth Blackwell’s skin with the handcuffs, but insists they be tight. He fumbles with the cuffs. “Real sorry about that, miss.” He is here to move her to a safer location to await trial. In different circumstances, Elizabeth might have found his awkwardness charming.
“Ready?” He opens the door and nudges her out into the hall, where the noises of the other prisoners echo. “Just ignore them.”
She tries, but their jeers frighten her.
“That’s right, you little cherry,” the man nearest her calls. “Bring it right here,” he says as he grabs her sleeve.
Little Joe raps the man on his knuckles with the ring of keys until he releases Elizabeth.
At this, the other prisoners cheer. Their bodies press up against the prison bars, their tongues slither through their teeth, and they spit at her, the saliva hot on her skin. One voice croons, “One at a time, lads. I’ve already got my pants at my knees.”
Little Joe unlocks the door that leads to the prison station, a small room separating the prison from the court.
“There you are, miss.” He helps her sit on a bench against the wall. Goose pimples form on her arms and legs. “I’m real sorry about all that, what happened back there. Not a gentleman among them, I’m afraid.”
Elizabeth nods, her eyes vacant. Since her arrest, it hasn’t taken long for her life, and everything she has worked for, to slip out of her control and into the hands of men not much better than those on the other side of that door.
Beside the door leading back into the prison, there are three others—one to the court and another to the warden’s office. The third, she guesses, leads to the street. Little Joe makes sure she is comfortable before he knocks on the door to the warden’s office and waits. A man she can’t see tells him it will be a few minutes yet. Little Joe nods and stands with his back against the door, facing her.
Sitting there looking at Little Joe, she realizes he is even larger than she first thought—arms like pythons and even bigger legs, wider in the waist than in the chest, and a chin that blends in with his neck. He smiles when he catches her staring. “Not quite ready for you,” he says.
She nods.
In the silence, they both hear shouting.
“They’re out there, aren’t they?”
Little Joe shrugs. “Don’t know, miss.”
Just then, the door to the court opens, and three men hurry through to the warden’s office, a look of worry across their faces.
“What is it?” Little Joe says.
“Mob’s getting riled up some,” the last man says. “The warden wants us to be ready.”
Mob.
The word is like a cannonball to her stomach. Images still fresh from two nights before play out in her mind—the smoke rising into the bedroom, the rocks th
rough the window, and the building folding in on itself.
“I knew they’d come for me.”
Little Joe starts to answer but stops himself, and the two of them stay silent. Elizabeth tries to think of happier times, but the moment is too big, and her thoughts drift to what might happen. Everybody knows there is only one way to stop a mob. She thinks of the handcuffs around her wrists, and her stomach turns.
The door to the warden’s office opens again and the same men cross the room and go back through the door to the court.
“Don’t you worry, miss,” Little Joe says. “You’re safe from them in here.”
Just then, there is pounding at the door leading to the street.
The wood bows in the middle, and the daylight shines through the space around the door.
Their voices pour inside.
And then, both she and Little Joe hear it.
Her name. Elizabeth Blackwell. They are chanting her name.
The mob has backed down, and the prison is quiet. Little Joe has sat down next to Elizabeth on the bench, both of them unsure what to do next. He has unlocked her handcuffs, allowing her to move her arms from behind her back to the front before putting them on her again, a gesture she appreciates. Wearing the shackles in the front is not pleasant, but it is an improvement.
“You okay, miss?”
She turns to him. “I’ve been better.”
One of her cuticles stings; a flap of skin has come loose enough to bleed. She nibbles at the skin, but it only bleeds more. “I didn’t kill anyone,” she says. “I want you to know that, no matter what happens.”
“That’s what the court’s for, miss.”
“It didn’t work for Lena Stowe.”
“The court says she killed her husband.”
“What if the court was wrong?”
“That’s not for me to think about.”
She shrugs.
He says, “But I’d be mighty glad to find out you didn’t kill nobody.”
She touches his arm. “Thank you.”
He fidgets with his own fingernails, trims them down to the skin with his teeth, then spits out the remnants onto the floor. He is a hulk of a man but, close up, has the face of a child. Still, the power in his arms and legs is not to be questioned, and his devotion to the law is both an asset and a liability. Lucky for her, he decided to protect her through this process, even if that process turns out to be corrupt.
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