Deadly Cure

by Lawrence Goldstone

  “As do I.”

  “I’m certain you do, Noah. But I thought perhaps I might help the process along. As your wedding present, I would like to present you with a home on Columbia Street.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Noah said. “Your generosity is overwhelming, but I couldn’t possibly accept.” I’d have Frias for my neighbor, he thought.

  “Nonsense,” De Kuyper grunted with a dismissive wave. “Adelaide and I insist. You enter this family and you live like this family. You will face the bay and have an unobstructed view of the Manhattan skyline. In fact, if you look carefully, you might be able to make out my offices on Water Street.” De Kuyper puffed up, pleased with himself.

  “I cannot refuse then. Maribeth and I are supremely grateful. Perhaps, each morning, we can wave to you from the promenade,” Noah offered.

  “Well . . . yes,” De Kuyper replied. “I suppose you could.”

  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.

  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.”