“The implication being that”—Binney leans quickly forward on his desk—“Robinson died at least two days after the beating was inflicted?”
“That’s right,” says Konig.
“And that the wounds, in and of themselves, were not the direct cause of death?”
“That’s right.” Konig smiles wearily at Carslin. “You neglected to mention that in your excellent report, Charley.”
Benjamin laughs out loud, but his hilarity is immediately quashed by a portentous arching of the District Attorney’s brow.
“How can you be sure of this, Paul?” Binney asks.
“Ask Dr. Carslin. He’d be glad to tell you.”
“Is this true, Dr. Carslin?” Binney turns to face the young pathologist. “Were these wounds shown here in your photographs and tissue slides really inflicted forty-eight hours before death?”
“Yes, sir,” Carslin murmurs a little grimly. He is no longer smiling. “What Dr. Konig so shrewdly points out is the simple, incontrovertible fact that a human body responds to injury by mobilizing thousands of white blood cells—we call them leukocytes—at the site of injury. This is a vital reaction. It can occur only in a living animal. There are several basic types of this white blood cell and they arrive at the wound in fairly regular sequence. It’s a process that takes from two to forty-eight hours. Repair cells become abundant about twenty-four hours after the injury has been sustained, and these scar-tissue cells, along with the leukocytes, are spotted quite easily through the microscope. In the tissue specimens we took from Robinson’s body, the number and types of cells present suggest not only that the wounds had been inflicted while he was still alive, but also about forty-eight hours before death.”
Carslin’s voice drops an octave or so in tone as he concedes this last point. Some of the starch has definitely gone out of him.
“Very interesting.” The Deputy Mayor beams happily for the first time that morning.
Carslin’s face has gone a deep red. “What the hell does that mean? Only that he didn’t die directly after the beating. It doesn’t say that he didn’t die as a result of the beating. I defy Dr. Konig to examine the fracture line in this X ray of Robinson’s skull and assert that a skull injury of that magnitude could not cause death—even forty-eight hours after having been inflicted.”
All eyes now shift back to Konig, who appears to be very carefully weighing his reply. “I’ve already conceded a number of things here this morning,” he sighs wearily in his chair. “That Robinson’s injuries were sustained while he was still alive; that they were undoubtedly inflicted during the course of a beating; that the Medical Examiner did not carry out the requisite tests to determine that such a beating took place. I have conceded all that. I have even repudiated the Medical Examiner’s conclusions as to the actual cause of death. Now, yes—I will also concede Dr. Carslin’s last point. Such injuries as the one shown here in this X ray can, in certain instances, be judged the direct cause of death even forty-eight hours after they’re inflicted. I concede that to you, Charley, but, unfortunately, that is not the case here.”
There’s a moment of total silence which the three men struggle to digest the significance of Konig’s final point. Then suddenly Carslin is on his feet shouting. “Not the case here?” he bawls across the room. “Not the case here?”
“That’s what I said.” Konig lifts an X ray from the desk. It shows a skull in profile with a long, dark, clearly verifiable fracture line running along the side of it. “As a matter of fact,” he continues, “while this fracture is long, it’s trivial.”
“Trivial? Trivial?” Carslin splutters, unable to find another word. “You have the colossal gall to sit there and describe that fracture as trivial? I dare say, it might seem trivial to you. I bet it didn’t seem very trivial to poor Robinson at the time they bashed his head.”
“I object to your use of the word ‘bashed,’” snaps Benjamin.
“Well, I assure you it was no love tap that produced that fracture.” Carslin flings another X ray down hard on the desktop beneath the Deputy Mayor’s nose.
“Who’re you kidding, Carslin?” Benjamin sneers. “You’re not interested in this Robinson boy. You’re just out to make a big name for yourself by portraying the prison system of this city as inhuman, barbaric. Something out of the Dark Ages.”
“Well, isn’t it?” Carslin is on his feet again, shouting. “Don’t these X rays and tissue studies prove just that? And I object to your suggesting—this is the second time now—that I’m trying to make a name for myself just because I’m looking for the truth. Would any of this have come out if I hadn’t been looking for the truth? Not if it was up to you. Not if it was up to Paul Konig. This is all too embarrassing, isn’t it? Could cause a scandal. So let’s keep it quiet. Right? All I can say is, thank heavens for the vigilance of a mortician in Yonkers who had the perspicacity to see great disparities between the Medical Examiner’s report and what he could see directly before his eyes.”
“You have just suggested,” Benjamin says between clenched teeth, “that the Department of Corrections, the Medical Examiner’s Office, and the Mayor’s Office are in a conspiracy to suppress—”
“By God, yes,” Carslin shouts. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen”—Binney pounds the desk with an open palm—“we’re straying from the point. We’re not here this morning to judge the merits of the City penal system. What we want to determine is the cause of Robinson’s death, and whether or not there is sufficient evidence here surrounding the circumstances of the boy’s death to convene a grand jury. Paul”—Binney turns back to Konig—“a moment ago you described these skull injuries as ‘trivial.’”
“Trivial!” Carslin laughs bitterly.
The District Attorney scowls at Carslin above his glasses, then continues. “What exactly did you mean by ‘trivial’?”
Konig pauses, his manner suddenly guarded and uneasy. “I meant,” he says at last, “that in all these X rays of the deceased’s skull, and in our own examination of the brain at the time of the first autopsy, we found no visible sign of gross injury or hemorrhage to the brain. I don’t think Dr. Carslin can refute that.”
Struggling between rage and disbelief, Carslin sits down again, struck dumb, shaking his head incredulously. The blood has drained from his face. His lips, clamped tight against each other, have the appearance of rubber bands stretched to the point of breaking. “Would you say that again, please?” His voice as he speaks is barely above a whisper.
“Very well,” Konig sighs. “Neither your X rays nor our autopsy reveals any sign whatsoever of either gross injury or hemorrhage in the brain as a result of that fracture. As evidence, those X rays could only be described as circumstantial. So I most definitely do not concede that the fracture shown there is the cause of death.”
“You’re saying to me then”—Carslin struggles to control the tremor in his voice—“that all blows to the head causing death can be shown to produce either gross injury or hemorrhage to the brain?”
“Now what’s all this about?” Benjamin whimpers feebly.
“It’s a very significant medical point,” Carslin snaps, his eyes still fixed on Konig. “Answer the question, Paul. Yes or no?”
“Yes,” Konig replies in a very quiet voice.
“All blows to the head, Paul?”