City of the Dead

by Herbert Lieberman

  In the drawers and the closet, her clothing, piled and hung neatly, awaits her return—Shetland sweaters, tartan skirts, suits of wool and camel, jackets of suede, old patched and faded denim jeans from college days, shoe racks crammed with pumps and sandals, scuffed and beloved old oxfords, girlish saddle shoes and smart, young-ladyish patent leather. And, further on, in the darkest corner of the closet, a silk organza gown, redolent of orange blossoms from a graduation garden party two years prior.

  “Lolly, who is this man? Why did you bring him here?”

  Konig’s finger plays gently over the flaxen head of the Hummel goose girl. From her basket of wicker she strews feed to three plump geese who promenade about her feet.

  “Daddy, I’m sorry you don’t like Tom’s politics, but I can’t very well ask him to leave.”

  Konig flicks out the light, then picks up the small goose-girl figurine and carries it over to the narrow bed. Sitting on the edge of the bed he kicks off his shoes, and still otherwise dressed in the sour, rumpled, death-drenched clothing of his day, he slumps backward into the thick, welcoming darkness, the small goose-girl figurine balanced comfortingly on his chest.

  Only now that he is off his feet is he aware that the pain in his leg and back is excruciating. A few grams of Demerol will help, he thinks, but as of late he has been relying too heavily on Demerol, craving it always at night, just before sleep.

  Instead of Demerol, he flings an arm across his face and lets the darkness wash over him. It is comforting to hold the little goose girl there on his chest in the dark—in his daughter’s bed, on the down mattress and bedding that still bears the imprint of her body, the memory of her weight. He feels somehow closer to her there in that familiar darkness where he has slept night after night for almost five months. He imagines her in some dingy, squalid place, a small, mean cell, a place of self-banishment. And he wonders if at that same moment she is thinking of him.

  Suddenly the phone rings. Sitting bolt upright in bed, he hears it ring across the hall in his own bedroom. He sits there, eyes open and staring, nerves trembling with expectation, waiting for it to ring again. But it rings only once and then is silent. A mistake, he surmises, and yet his heart is thumping wildly as he hears the echo of that ring fading through the great, gloomy solitude of the house—a cry of anguish from somewhere far out in the clammy, terror-haunted night, like the bleating of a lost and stricken lamb.

  The weekend has commenced now. Spreading out before him, the dreaded hours of idleness and inactivity; hours somehow to be gotten through in order to reach the blessed self-forgetfulness of back-to-work on Monday morning.

  »16«

  “Forty-eight separate pieces in all.”

  “Good—now maybe you can tell me how many separate bodies those forty-eight pieces represent?”

  MONDAY, APRIL 15. 9:00 A.M. AUTOPSY ROOM,

  CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER’S OFFICE.

  Young Tom McCloskey gazes forlornly down at five large trays of assorted upper limbs, trunk sections, extremities, fragments of bone and muscle, anatomical debris. “Sorry, sir—I’m afraid I don’t have the slightest idea how many bodies we’ve got here.”

  Konig’s eyes swivel around at the half dozen or so of the others gathered about the grisly trays—Pearsall, Bonertz, Delaney, the little Parsi, Hakim, and shifty-eyed Strang.

  “Well, then,” Konig goes on a little spitefully, “if you can’t tell me how many bodies you’ve got here, maybe you can give me some idea of the age, sex, and approximate stature of whatever the hell it is you’ve got here.”

  Konig’s eyes, still fastened on McCloskey, glint maliciously. For a moment it appears he’s on the verge of laughter. Then suddenly his shoulders slump a bit, as if after great effort, and he sighs. “Well—this is one hell of a goddamned mess, isn’t it? We don’t even know if we have one body complete. And no heads.”

  “Flynn rang up early this morning,” says Strang. “Said they’d been digging all weekend. Found some more soft parts and sent them over to us yesterday. Thinks he might have more of this stuff for us today.”

  “Might?” Konig laughs scornfully. “What the hell do they expect us to do with this? Don’t they know it’s hard to make identifications without heads, without teeth, without fingers to take fingerprints from? What the hell are we supposed to do?” He gazes ruefully down at one of the hands, badly mutilated, the terminal segments of the fingers hacked off to thwart identification, and no doubt lost forever in the tidal muck of the river. “Oh, well,” he sighs again, “can you break it down a little further for us, McCloskey?”

  “Yes, sir.” McCloskey adjusts the glasses on his nose and proceeds to read aloud from a clipboard. “The total number of separate parts is forty-eight, and that includes what came in yesterday. Twenty pieces of bone, twenty-seven pieces of assorted soft tissue varying in size from fourteen inches by eight inches downward. Carefully examined from the point of view of identification, we found no scars or other special marks.” The young pathologist glances up from his clipboard. “Shall I take it piece by piece, Chief?”

  “Why not?” Konig peers gloomily about at his staff. “We’ve got the whole morning and no place special to go.”

  And so the morning begins at the Medical Examiner’s Office. Six men huddle about five grisly trays as the young assistant, already sweating beneath high, bright fluorescent lights, begins somewhat falteringly to read.

  “Right forearm and hand. Disarticulated at elbow joint. Skin and tissue absent from upper third of forearm. First segment of thumb completely devoid of soft tissue. Terminal segments of all fingers missing.

  “Left forearm and hand. Disarticulated at elbow. Terminal segments of all fingers and thumb missing.

  “Right thigh. Disarticulated at hip and knee joints. Most of tissue removed from femur except for small triangular flap of skin, five and three-quarter inches by four inches, holding patella in position.

  “Left thigh. Disarticulated at hip and knee joints. Small tuft of blackish pubic hair on inner side of thigh.

  “Right leg and foot. Disarticulated at knee joint. Toes either mutilated or missing.

  “Left leg and foot Disarticulated at knee joint. Toes also mutilated or missing.”

  The door of the mortuary swings open and the head of an assistant pokes through. “Dr. Konig?”

  “Over here.”

  “There’s a call for you upstairs.”

  “Who is it?”

  “The Times. Something about a story they want to do.” Konig glances at Strang, whose eyes drop quickly to one of the trays. “Tell them I’m busy now.”

  “They say it’s important.”

  “So is this, goddamn it.” Konig flings a hand at the trays. “Tell them to call back later. Go ahead, McCloskey.”

  The door swings closed and McCloskey resumes his grisly inventory.

  “Trunk. We’ve only one trunk. It’s malodorous and maggot infested. The soft tissue at the sides of dismemberment shows some putrefactive changes. It’s been divided in two parts through the upper abdomen Spine’s been severed in the upper lumbar region. The upper portion contains the whole of the thorax, complete with heart and lungs. Left half’s been entirely stripped of covering muscle. Diaphragm severed. We also found five stab wounds in the thoracic wall. Two wounds of the left lung and a wound perforating the left atrium of the heart and transfixing the aorta. Probably inflicted by a small-bladed knife.”

  “Any hemorrhage?” Konig asks.

  “Nothing on the inner surface of the pericardium,” Pearsall replies. “No blood or blood clot within the pericardial sac.”

  “Postmortem wounds,” Bonertz remarks.

  “Probably.” Konig nods. “Inflicted while trying to remove the viscera from the thorax. Made a botch of that diaphragm, too. Get us some tissue sections on the organs for histology, will you, Hakim?” Konig grumbles. “Go ahead, McCloskey.”

  “Lower trunk portion,” the young man continues, scarcely missing a beat, “includ
es the entire pelvis and its organs with the exception of the genitals, which have been cut out. But we know it’s a male pelvis from the bone configuration and the amount of adherent prostatic tissue we found.”

  “Can’t be too sure of that,” Strang says archly. “Not at all uncommon to find residual prostatic tissue in female cadavers.”

  “Yes, sir,” McCloskey stammers, “but—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Konig snarls. “You’ve got the goddamned cock and balls right over there, Carl. I can see they fit. Can’t you?”

  Strang’s eyes flutter from the sting of rebuke. For a moment both men glare at each other. Then Konig turns back to the young assistant. “It’s a male pelvis all right. Go on, McCloskey.”

  The young pathologist takes up quickly where he’d left off.

  “Thighs on lower trunk portion disarticulated at hip joints.

  “Right upper arm. Humerus disarticulated at shoulder and elbow joints.

  Left upper arm. Humerus disarticulated at shoulder and elbow joints.

  “Right forearm and hand. Disarticulated at elbow joint. Hand mutilated by removal of terminal segment of thumb and of each of four fingers. Fine reddish hairs on the back of forearm and hand.

  “Left forearm. Disarticulated at elbow joint. No hand present.

  “Left hand. Disarticulated at wrist. No mutilation other than extensive abrading of tissue at fingertips, probably done with a file or rasp, and obviously an attempt to obliterate fingerprint pattern. Nails heavily lacquered in purple.”

  “Ah, the plot thickens,” Pearsall sings out, a waggish glint in his eyes. “A tortured love triangle.”

  “You think so?” Konig grumbles, tilting his glasses back on his head, once again scrutinizing that garish, obscene hand. “Maybe.” He shrugs. “Go on, McCloskey.”

  And so it continues, this grisly inventory through the bright April morning. Sun shining outside. Lilacs blooming. People up above on the pavements scurrying about their business. Lovers, arm in arm, strollinjg the river promenade.

  “Right thigh. Disarticulated at hip and knee joint.

  “Left thigh. Disarticulated at hip and knee joint and at joint below the talus. No foot present.

  “Left leg. Disarticulated at knee joint and below, through the talus. No foot present.

  “Right upper arm. Humerus disarticulated at shoulder and elbow joints.

  “Left upper arm. Humerus disarticulated at shoulder and elbow joints.

  “Two patellae. One badly damaged, apparently by a hacksaw. Probably slipped.” McCloskey glances up. “That covers the hard stuff.”

  “Any questions, gentlemen?” Konig gazes around at the assembled group.

  “All very neat,” Delaney remarks, gazing down at the round gleaming head of a femur. “Fellow knew his stuff. Cut neatly.”

  “Very little damage to these joints at the disarticulation points,” Bonertz observes.

  “Let’s be grateful for that,” snaps Konig. “All the easier to reconstruct the stuff. And this fellow hasn’t given us too many breaks. Might as well take the soft parts now, McCloskey.”

  The remainder of the morning is spent listing and tagging soft tissue, cutaneous and subcutaneous—ears, cheeks, buttocks, genitals, gobbets of flesh, torn, severed, hacked out—much of it barely, if even, recognizable.

  By noon the tedious business of the inventory is over. The men, still gathered around the trays, gaze ruefully down upon them. With sinking heart, Konig has already gauged the enormity of the task ahead. The task of identification. In the next moment he turns, addressing the small group.

  “There are four questions that have to be answered before the police can even begin to move on this. One, how many bodies are represented in all these various parts. Two, the sex of each body. Three, probable age of each. Four, probable stature. I hate to do this and I’d do anything to avoid it, but I see no way out. The obvious first step is reassembly.” He glances around at them expectantly, then continues. “This is no simple matter of a single body roughly dismembered by knife or saw. Were it only that, it would be no great feat to put the parts together again. We’ve got one hell of an anatomical problem here. Number one, there is obviously more than one body. So there’s already the complication of which part goes to which body. Number two, there’s been gross mutilation of the individual parts by the deliberate removal of skin and soft tissue. Not only have the skeletal parts been separated from each other by disarticulation with a saw and possibly a knife through the joints, but they’ve also been denuded of much of their covering tissue in a deliberate effort to foil identification.

  “Moreover, since the parts of at least two bodies, possibly more, are intermixed, it will be essential that each step in the reassembly of the pieces be proved squarely on anatomical grounds. If by chance there are more than two bodies here—-even only a third—the complexity of the task will mount in geometric progression, and the odds that we’ll be able to reassemble, let alone even recover, all the pieces are astronomical. Christ,” Konig sighs, “what a pain in the ass.”

  “Offhand,” Strang remarks, “I’d say we’ve got three to four bodies here.”

  “Would you?” Konig lights his dead cigar. “Well, I couldn’t begin to say. I’m not even sure yet which of these limbs can be matched into sets.”

  “You don’t know what else Flynn is going to come up with, either,” observes Bonertz.

  “Without the heads and the dentition”—Hakim shakes his head woefully—“it’s going to be very difficult.”

  “It’ll be difficult with or without the heads,” Konig snaps. “Can’t worry about that now. We’ve got to work with what we’ve got here.”

  “Well”—McCloskey gazes into the trays—“we know we’ve got at least a man and a woman.”

  “Don’t let those painted nails fool you.” Konig smiles shrewdly. “Anyway, it’s the only complete set of fingers we have.”

  “Doubt we’ll be able to lift any prints off them,” says Delaney. “Just look at the mutilation of that tissue.”

  “Leave that to me.” Konig starts to pack up his notes. “I’d like a crack at that hand this afternoon. Meanwhile, we’ll need some blood types and let’s get some tissue samples of the organs up to toxicology. Max”—he turns suddenly to Bonertz—“see if you can’t work up a moulage of those two feet. It’ll be hard without the toes, but there was a sneaker down at that shack—left sneaker., It’s a long shot, but let’s see if we can’t get a match anyway. McCloskey, you might as well start cleaning up these pieces before we try any reconstruction. Wash everything down with a weak alkali solution, but save me a couple of the maggots and the larvae. Offhand, I’d say they’re Calliphora. But let’s get a reading from Ferguson anyway. Then dump everything in ten percent formalin and lock it all up in the tanks. I’ll be back this afternoon to have a crack at that hand. See if we can’t start matching some, of this stuff.”

  The door of the autopsy room swings open again and the same assistant pops his head in. “Flynn’s on the phone, Chief.”

  “Tell him I’ll be right up.”

  Konig gathers his papers and then starts out “Oh, McCloskey”—he turns at the door—“first-class job.”

  »17«

  “Read all about ya in the Daily News.”

  “Swell.”

  “Right up there. Page four. Picture. Headline. The works. How come they never take my picture?”

  “You’re unsightly, that’s why. What can I do for you, Flynn?”

  “‘Chief Medical Examiner scours murder site,’ it said,” Flynn runs on unfazed. “I was there too, scourin’, but not a mention of me. And I betcha don’t even know you were on TV last night. Eleven o’clock news, Channel Two. How does it feel to be famous? A celebrity?”

  “Marvelous.” Konig lights his cigar and flicks through the morning mail on his desk. “What’s on your mind, Flynn? I’m very busy.”

  “That Doblicki business.”

  “What about it?”


  “The Jersey authorities refuse to release the body for reautopsy.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. They’ve got to—Tell them—”

  “Hold it. Hold it.” Flynn’s long, disconsolate sigh issues through the receiver. “Will you please lemme finish?”

  “Well, then, get to the point, for Chrissake.”

  “I am—I am—or at least I’m try in’ to. What I was gonna say before you jumped all over me was that while they refuse to release the body to us, they’re perfectly willin’ to do it themselves.”

  “Fine. Beautiful. Why didn’t you say that in the first place? I don’t care if they do it. Just as long as someone does it.”

  “All you have to do is tell them what the hell you’re lookin’ for.”

  “My pleasure.” Konig’s eyes glance over the details of several of the morning’s autopsies. “Who’d you talk to over there? Weinstein?”

  “That’s the man.”

  “Fine. He’s very good. Studied under me.”

  “I sort of got that feelin’—from the way he shouted at me all the time.”

  “Tell him we found no soot or cinders in the trachea.”

  “The trachy—what?”

  “Never mind. Tell him in the lungs. That’ll do. And tell him—”

  “Hold it. Hold it. You talk too fast.”

  “You write too slow. Tell him we also found no appreciable CO levels in the blood. Very suspicious finding in a person who supposedly died in a fire. Tell Henry to—”

  “Henry?”

  “Weinstein. Dr. Weinstein. Tell him to look for a bullet wound around the back of the head or for traces of a slug in the brain. Reason we didn’t look for a slug is ’cause we’re slipshod around here. The troopers’ report described a fatal accident due to drunken driving, and like the goddamned fools we are, we just accepted that. The guy did have a lot of booze in him,, but he was dead before he ever set foot in the car. Most of the skull and brain was incinerated in the fire, and the slug itself probably embedded in the debris. But there’s a good chance if Weinstein sifts through what’s left he’ll find some residual lead or a bullet hole.”