Noah assured Herold that he had.
Herold exposed the scrapings of the tablet to ferric chloride. If morphiates were present, the sample would strike a dark greenish-blue, but the effect might be ephemeral if free acids or alkalis were also present. Noah leaned over the dish, staring, waiting.
There it was! A change in color. Blue. Almost violet. Not greenish-blue, but perhaps the discrepancy was in description. Noah was elated. A definite change.
Herold was not as pleased. “Not morphiates. I’m certain of that. But the result is of equal interest.”
“A substance that might have caused the boy’s death?”
Herold shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Possibly.” Herold could not fail to notice Noah’s disappointment. “Buck up, Whitestone. I need to check further. It could be carbolic acid, gallic acid, or salicylic acid. But the first would be unlikely to be used in pharmaceuticals . . . in its pure form it is quite caustic . . . nor do I think there is high pharmacological probability of the second. Thus, I think it is almost certainly the third.”
“Salicylic acid?” Noah asked. “Wasn’t that used as an analgesic and antipyretic some years ago, but then abandoned because it caused severe gastrointestinal pain?”
Herold reared back, as if stunned. “Very good, Whitestone. You are not hopeless after all. Salicylic acid is highly effective as a pain reliever and lowers fevers remarkably, but the ancillary effects are so severe as to sometimes be fatal.”
“Could this have killed Willard Anschutz?”
Herold shook his head impatiently. “No, no, Whitestone. You don’t understand. First of all, the boy would not have died of respiratory failure from salicylic acid. But, more important, I don’t believe this is simply salicylic acid.”
“What then?”
“We’ll soon know. We can precipitate the product and then check melting and boiling points. If my suspicions are correct, we have a very interesting substance on our hands.”
Herold was deft, sure, and knowledgeable. His fingers moved with a musician’s precision and confidence. Fifteen minutes later, Herold held his hand open toward the substance in the glass tube as if making an introduction.
“Here,” he said, “we have a remarkable compound. Salicylic acid has been combined with acetic anhydride to create acetylsalicylic acid, leaving acetic acid as a by-product. Acetylized salicylic acid has a lower boiling point and lower melting point. If the boy took pure salicylic acid two weeks ago, he certainly would not have improved. Or, at least, the gastrointestinal distress would have overwhelmed any analgesic improvement. Someone has apparently discovered, and it seems quite recently, that acetylized salicylic acid retains the therapeutic properties of the pure substance but without the harmful effects. Whoever it was has marketed the substance as a pharmaceutical without telling anyone yet.”
“Experimenting then?”
“If you wish. One must determine if the substance works on a large scale. Or at least works without making patients sicker. Or killing them. You can’t tell that in a laboratory, or even on test animals, no matter how rigorous you are. Salicylic acid has a notorious history, so this is obviously a secret test of the acetylized version.”
“Frias knows. He must. He prescribed this.”
“Possibly. Or perhaps he was given these tablets by a third party. Many physicians are so unconcerned by what they prescribe that they do no checking at all. But in either case this Frias certainly has information that may help you unravel the threads of the crime.”
“So it was a crime. I didn’t believe him at first.”
“Who?”
“A reporter.”
“He was correct, Whitestone, whoever he was. When a child dies of a foreign substance introduced into his system either intentionally or through neglect, it is a crime. Frias may not be the criminal, but he is a key.”
“But how can I turn that key? Frias won’t speak with me.”
“Perhaps, Whitestone. But I’m confident I can persuade him to speak with me.”
“Thank you, Dr. Herold. I was hoping for your assistance. I cannot begin to express my gratitude.”
“You are quite welcome, Whitestone. While I am, of course, pleased to provide you aid in extricating yourself from this pickle barrel you’ve tumbled into, my primary interest is in the science. If forensic practices are to become integrated into our legal system, we must be able to anticipate the new, not simply recognize the old. Here is an opportunity to use science not only to decipher a crime but to prevent further victims.”
Now was the time to reveal the rest. “But while I appreciate your help, Dr. Herold, I feel that I must warn you. There may be danger if you involve yourself in this affair.”
Noah told Herold of the death of Turner McKee, of the Patent Medicine Trust, of his examination of the corpse, the bruising on the wrists, and Lieutenant Laverty. He even told him of Pug Anschutz, and Frederick Wurster.
Herold listened with growing excitement. “And you say the corpse is just now being removed to Campbell’s mortuary?”
“Yes. I was hoping you might to willing to—”
“We must move quickly. Tell me, Whitestone, do you believe you could convince McKee’s father to permit an autopsy?”
“I’ve already done that.”
“Excellent. Then we must contact McKee immediately. Or Campbell’s. They must postpone embalming until I arrive.”
“I’ve done that, too.”
Herold stopped. He looked to Noah and gave one long, appreciative nod. “Fine work, Whitestone. You get better all the time. You are not remotely the dolt I agreed to see on the telephone.”
“You weren’t interested in my description of the case?”
“I was interested to see who was spewing more hyperbole than a character in a dime-store novel.”
“How gratifying.”
Herold patted Noah on the shoulder. “Don’t take it to heart, man. You have acquitted yourself admirably. That’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“No supposing about it.” Herold reached for his hat and coat. “We must leave immediately. At the very least, we should be able to determine if water is present in the man’s lungs. If not, of course, he would have been dead before he entered the water. Even if water is present, I can discern whether or not he was conscious. The first stage of drowning, ‘surprise inspiration,’ essentially a deep reflexive breath in which the victim aspirates a large quantity of water, will be absent. And, while I’m sure your examination in the morgue was as thorough as possible under the circumstances, the more significant bruising will tell us a great deal if examined under more propitious conditions.” Herold clapped his hands. “Have you ever assisted at an autopsy? Outside of medical school, I mean.”
“I would be excited to watch you work, Dr. Herold, but I can’t go with you.”
“You expect me to go to Campbell’s alone?”
“I’m sorry, but I must return to New Visions.”
“Why? What do you expect to find there?” Herold seemed insulted, like a star performer asked to play to a half-empty theater.
“I realize now that Turner McKee wasn’t lying when he said he had vital information. I’ve got to ask . . . to try to find out what it might have been.”
“Very well.” Herold grunted. “Telephone me later tonight.”
FOURTEEN
DAY 4. SATURDAY, 9/23—12:30 P.M.
Would the Red Lady be in tears? Enraged? Noah pushed open the door to New Visions, more eager than he wanted to be to find out.
But Miriam Herzberg showed no outward sign that she was even aware that her lover had died. She was occupied much as she had been the day before: talking with a man at a desk, pointing at something on a piece of paper curling out from a Type-Writer, responding to queries from other members of the staff. Once again, he waited at the railing. She didn’t look up although he was certain she knew he was there.
A boy of about sixteen with s
hiny skin, a broad Slavic face, and smallpox scars sauntered to where Noah was standing. He made a point of looking Noah up and down, as if to snicker at his suit.
“Yeah?”
“I’d like to speak to Miss Herzberg.”
“Busy.” The boy turned to leave.
“Stay where you are, sonny.”
The boy turned back. He wore a smug smile as if to pronounce that he was not intimidated, merely curious. His eyes fixed on Noah’s. Small eyes. Hard eyes. Not a boy’s eyes at all.
“You will be so kind as to tell Miss Herzberg that if she is interested in learning the true circumstances of Turner McKee’s death, she will speak with me.”
The boy put his fingers to his chin and rubbed at small patches of stubble that he seemed to be cultivating to hasten his ascent into manhood. Then he shrugged, turned, and walked across the room. He tapped Miriam on the shoulder, gestured with his head toward Noah, and spoke a few words that Noah could not make out. She nodded and returned to what she had been doing. Noah didn’t move. After a few minutes, she glanced his way, then walked across the room. She arrived with the same studied nonchalance as the previous day. But her eyes were puffy and red.
“What have you got to tell me, Dr. Whitestone? We’re all very busy.”
“I wanted first to tell you how sorry I am about Mr. McKee. You obviously thought very highly of him.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve completed a cursory examination of his body. A full autopsy is being done at this moment.”
“For whom? The police?”
“For his father.”
She let out a breath at the mention of a man whose loss was at least as great as her own. “A nice man. How is he?”
“Aggrieved. And irate.”
“Yes. He would be. He loathed that Turner took up with us.”
“He’s not irate at you, Miss Herzberg. He’s irate at the people who killed his son.”
“Is that what you discovered? Your great revelation? That Turner didn’t drown? There isn’t a person in this room who believes he did.”
“Perhaps. But does anyone know that he was murdered by at least two men, one of whom held or bound his wrists? Or that the men were in his flat when I went to see him? He warned me off and, I believe, saved my life. I intend to avenge his death.”
“How? How will you avenge Turner’s death?”
“I can continue his investigation into the Patent Medicine Trust. After all, it is in my interest, too. I’m trying to prove I didn’t kill a child. To begin with, I would like to look over his papers. Anything to demonstrate that his death and the death of my patient are linked.”
She considered the proposal. Noah could hear himself breathe.
“Come and talk to my father.”
She led him toward the door from which he had first seen her emerge. The staff had ostensibly returned to their previous activities, although everyone’s eyes were on Noah and Miriam. The Slavic boy stood, hands on hips, glaring.
She knocked perfunctorily, then opened the door and walked in. The inner office was much like the staff room. Untidy mountains of papers, back issues of the magazine, stacks of the New York Herald, New York Times, and sundry items crammed the bookcases and covered the floor. Across the room, in front of a large window stood a single desk.
A man in his fifties sat behind it. He exuded symmetry; square and short haired, with a pince-nez that sat on the bridge of his nose perfectly parallel to his mouth. His goatee and mustache were precisely cut. He sat perpendicular in his chair, and his head did not tilt in either direction from the vertical.
“This is Noah Whitestone,” Miriam said. “He claims he has information about Turner’s murder and wants to help.” She neither expressed skepticism nor suppressed it.
Miriam’s father rose from his chair without bending his torso. Only when he was fully erect did he extend his hand. The only other Jewish army officer that Noah had ever heard of in Europe was Dreyfus. Herzberg’s grip was firm but restrained. A cultured man as well.
“Please take a seat.” Like Jacobi, Herzberg spoke with an accent vestigially German.
Noah sat in the chair across the desk. Miriam moved around to the other side and stood at her father’s shoulder.
Noah related his visit to the morgue and the transfer of McKee’s body to a mortuary, neglecting to say which one. He noted that a full autopsy was being performed by an expert, but did not use Herold’s name. Herzberg’s eyes never left Noah’s face during the recitation, nor did he seem to blink, although Noah was certain he must have.
“We are familiar with the circumstances that caused Turner to be in contact with you, Dr. Whitestone.” Herzberg was measured but without antagonism. “Your offer of assistance is, of course, welcome, but as you would expect, we are forced to deal with outsiders with caution. The authorities will go to exceptional lengths to infiltrate our movement.”
“You think I’m a police agent?”
A wry grin made an appearance and then was gone. “Not likely, I agree, but one becomes accustomed to elevating the unlikely to the possible.”
“I can assure you my motives are genuine.” Noah’s eyes flitted to Miriam and then back again.
“Yes,” Herzberg agreed without altering expression. “I suspect they are.”
Miriam placed her hand lightly on her father’s shoulder. Noah felt the blood rush to his face.
“But you should be aware of the risks, Dr. Whitestone. You will be harassed by the authorities, your career might be ruined, and even prison is not beyond the realm of possibility.”
“Thank you for the warning, Mr. Herzberg, but I am already in danger of each of those.”
“Perhaps. But you will heighten the probability of each. Any association with us will further inflame the passions of those already aligned against you. Moreover, you will come to the attention, if you have not already, of the same people who disposed of Turner. And, make no mistake. They will attempt to dispose of you as well if you threaten their interests or those of their employers.”
Herzberg formed a steeple with his fingertips. His fingers were long and graceful like his daughter’s.
“And then there is Pug Anschutz. The man, as I believe you now know, is a disgrace to military officers everywhere. A brute legitimized by a commission. We have information, although not irrefutable proof, that to persuade a prisoner to give information about a suspected arms cache, he threatened to burn down the man’s home. With the family inside. The prisoner refused. Anschutz then had the hut set afire. A woman and six children burned to death. The next prisoner Anschutz questioned was more than willing to provide any information the colonel required. The cache was discovered. I might add that Anschutz was cited favorably by his superiors for depriving the rebels of a goodly number of guns and ammunition.”
Noah would have scoffed at such an outrageous tale just three days before. Now he couldn’t be sure.
“Leaving yourself to the recriminations of such a man,” Herzberg went on, “will take a hardy spirit indeed.”
“Do you discourage everyone who offers you assistance, Mr. Herzberg?”
“I am not discouraging you in the least. Just ensuring that you do not underestimate the risks. Those who do, regardless of how genuine their motives, tend to become unreliable at the most inconvenient moments. They then become a danger to others. We cannot allow that. The work we do is far too important to permit it to be put at even greater risk.”
“And what work do you do, Mr. Herzberg? If I may be permitted to ask.”
“It’s quite simple, Dr. Whitestone. We attempt to keep the promise of America. The oppressed from all over the world come to this country—as I did—because of that promise. But it is a promise to which bankers, plutocrats, rich idlers, government officials . . . and members of the Patent Medicine Trust . . . feel no obligation. We simply endeavor to remind them. We in the press are in a unique position to do so, Dr. Whitestone. We are not McClure’s or Collier’s, but
I believe we do our part.”
“I respect your motives, Mr. Herzberg, but they are not mine. I’m a physician. I want to know what killed my patient. And what may be killing other doctors’ patients.”
“But our interests do coincide. Turner’s focus, as I believe he told you, had shifted to bona fide pharmaceuticals. He insisted that, for years, your colleagues have been accepting money from pharmaceutical concerns to use their products without first ascertaining whether or not they were safe. Often the medicines prescribed by willing physicians were harmful, addictive, or both. He eventually learned, although I’m not certain how, that two drugs had recently been developed in Germany. One of them seemed to be a new form of a pain reliever and fever suppressant . . .”
“Acetylsalicylic acid.”
“Explain please.”
Noah told him of Herold’s findings, once again not mentioning the pathologist by name.
“Interesting. The other was evidently an opiate, but unique according to the chemist who synthesized it in that no tolerance is developed. The patient feels no craving when deprived of a continued supply. If this is true, of course, it would be a boon since opiates have exceptional medicinal qualities. After some digging, Turner turned up four or five cases of children dying from what seemed to be morphia poisoning. All very recent. The most promising for our purposes was a case last week in Newark in which a seven-year-old girl was given a new mysterious cough remedy and died three days later, although her doctors were quick to claim the girl had a congenital breathing disorder. The search for an effective children’s cough remedy has been intense, as I am certain you know . . .”
“Yes. Cough is among the leading causes of death in children.”
“And thus whoever succeeds in finding a preventative will garner millions in profits.”
“Of which breathing disorder did this girl allegedly die?” Noah asked.
“The details remain vague.”
“Yes, I’m certain they would be.”
“Turner discovered that the girl’s physician . . . Tilson, I believe, was his name . . . had recently returned from a voyage to Europe exultant over the immense progress made there in fabricating pharmaceuticals. He questioned why Americans couldn’t formulate the sort of miracle cures that Europeans seemed to produce with regularity. Turner believed Tilson was speaking specifically of Germany.”
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