“—two additional and separate head wounds not reported by the ME.” Carslin’s voice is strident with accusation. “An area of extensive hemorrhage over the back of the right hand that was not mentioned at all. Dark-red contusion over the right shinbone. And, instead of the superficial abrasion over the left eyebrow described in the ME report, I found a deep, gaping wound reaching to the surface of the skull bone. Also, the injury to the left side of the head was miserably understated. It was twice as large as the one described by the ME.” Carslin’s eyes seem glowing, almost triumphant, as he delivers this final coup de grace.
But the Chief Medical Examiner seems scarcely aware of what is going on around him. He sits listlessly in his chair, his expression vacant and uncaring. At a certain point his straying eyes collide with those of the Deputy Mayor, who is staring at him with a puzzled expression, as if he was waiting for the Chief—expecting him to—make some reply to Carslin’s report. But no reply seems forthcoming.
“Can we come to the crux of the matter, please, Dr Carslin?” Clifford Binney’s tones are calm and reasonable. “Did the prisoner, Robinson, die as a direct result of injuries inflicted upon him by others or were the injuries self-inflicted during the process of a suicide “by hanging?”
“I’m coming back to that now.” Carslin throws back his shoulders and straightens his glasses. “During the course of my examination I concluded that at least five separate injuries had been inflicted on the deceased prior to death, and in all probability were sustained during the course of a beating.”
Benjamin, fidgeting and twisting in his seat, gapes at Konig, waiting for him to reply. But Konig never stirs. The Deputy Mayor swings around to Carslin. “How can you say that? How can you sit there so smug and self-righteous—”
“Maury—” Binney’s voice rises just enough to subdue the Deputy Mayor.
“If you’d just let me finish”—Carslin glowers at Benjamin—“I’d be glad to tell you. Dr. Konig could tell you too.”
There’s a moment of awkwardness as all their gazes appear to converge upon Konig, still sitting there, eyes lowered, looking listless, disheveled, curiously small.
“In any event,” Carslin continues, “the wounds suggest that they were inflicted by a blunt weapon; that they were sufficient enough to have caused considerable pain and suffering. And, as a result of tissue studies I prepared right at the site, tissue studies that the ME had neglected to carry out, I think I can now say without any doubt that the wounds and contusions I found on Robinson were inflicted before he died. Not after, as the ME has reported. And that the most likely explanation of his death was that he was beaten to death or at least into unconsciousness by the prison guards, who then strung him up in order to make his death appear to be a suicide.”
“Preposterous.” Benjamin leaps to his feet, red in the face, shouting, waving his hands. “Preposterous. I will not sit here and—”
“Maury—” snaps the District Attorney.
“—permit that man to impugn the reputation of an entire penal system just because—”
“Maury—” the District Attorney nearly shouts.
“No—I’m sorry, Cliff. I won’t sit here and—”
“Either you sit and keep quiet,” Binney says, jaw taut, voice ominously low, “or get out.”
There is something now in that quiet, Jesuitical manner that brings the Deputy Mayor up sharply, overwhelms and flusters him, so that he falls back to his seat, baffled and puffing.
“Now let me understand this.” Binney swivels back to face Carslin. “You’re suggesting that the deceased did not hang himself, but was strung up by guards after they’d beaten him senseless, so as to make it appear that he took his own life.”
“Don’t you see what he’s trying to do, Cliff?” Benjamin turns appealingly to the District Attorney. “He’s out to make a big name for himself by slandering the entire City Corrections Department.”
“Maury, if you don’t shut up,” Binney suddenly thunders, “I’m going to throw you the hell out of here.”
Benjamin is on the verge of shouting back. But thinking better of it, merely gnashes his teeth, folds his arms, and turns away.
Finally unnerved, Binney sighs, pushes his hand hectically through his hair, and turns to Konig. “What do you have to say about all this, Paul?”
Konig sits silent, unmoving, as if he had not heard the question directed at him.
“Paul?” Binney says once more. His voice is once again quiet, and infinitely patient.
Konig sits stonily, his eyes fixed on the floor.
“Paul, have you been following all this?”
“Yes,” Konig replies listlessly.
“Is this true, Paul? Did your office omit doing these rather crucial tissue studies?”
“Yes,” Konig says, eyes lowered, shoulders slumped wearily. “It’s true. And the man responsible for the omission has been reprimanded.”
“And,” Benjamin interjects, “he refuses to identify the man on his staff who conducted the first autopsy.”
“Let’s not open that can of beans now,” says Binney, sitting back in his chair, the tips of his fingers folded across his vest. He is still looking toward Konig, studying him intently. “And now, Paul, now that you’ve had an opportunity to examine the tissue studies prepared by Dr. Carslin, what’s your opinion of his conclusions?”
“Very plausible,” Konig replies at once.
Benjamin’s head snaps around. Gaping at the Chief incredulously, he has the hurt, puzzled look of a man betrayed.
Carslin smiles quietly to himself.
Konig’s eyes slowly rise from the floor, and he stares around at them. “This sort of thing has certainly happened before in penal institutions. No one has ever suggested that the Tombs is a fresh-air fund for underprivileged boys.”
“Let me get this straight, Paul,” says Binney. “Are you now repudiating the conclusions of your own office?”
“Yes, sir, I am. But only those aspects of the report that pertain to time of death in relation to the time when the injuries in question were sustained. And I must also concede that Dr. Carslin’s excellent tissue studies demonstrate enough leukocytic infiltration at the site of the injuries to leave no doubt in my mind that the injuries were sustained while the deceased was still alive, and undoubtedly were inflicted by guards Or other prisoners.”
“More like guards, Paul.” Carslin’s manner, now that he’s had substantial concessions, is suddenly full of solicitude and warm regard for his old teacher. “Robinson had been isolated, put in solitary confinement, for at least two weeks before his death.”
“That’s because he was a goddamned troublemaker,” Benjamin snarls. “You know that as well as I do, Carslin. Daily fistfights and quarreling with other prisoners and guards.”
“So I’ve been told.” Carslin shrugs. “Be that as it may, however, he was in solitary confinement. Other prisoners simply could not have gotten at him.”
“Guards, prisoners, whatever,” says Konig with sudden irritability. “The fact remains he was beaten. I concede that. I concede that my office neglected to carry out the requisite tests to determine that he was beaten. I concede that the ME report stating that Robinson’s injuries were caused as a result of the body falling to the floor while it was being cut down from where it hung in the cell—that, too, was wrong. Wildly wrong. I concede that.” Konig gazes around at the three men gathered there, staring back at him raptly. “But I think also—” his gaze suddenly drops on Carslin like a trap—“that Dr. Carslin would have to concede to me that those same superb tissue preparations of his also reveal that the wounds shown there are at least forty-eight hours old.”