The next shelf over contained more up-to-date texts on both childbirth and neonatology, some of them real doorstoppers. Mark remembered his OB rotation under Charles Braden – it had been the man’s last year before retirement – and, whatever he thought of him personally, begrudgingly admitted how excellent he’d been as a teacher. Always on top of current practices, Braden had a wonderful knack for putting those techniques and advances in the context of how things were before.
A few steps farther, he found a whole section of completely contemporary editions, including the latest works on high-risk births, neonatology intensive care, and the management of congenital birth defects. There were scientific publications as well – molecular biology, DNA, the human genome – and tucked alongside them were reprints of articles that Charles Braden coauthored six years ago outlining the potential of screening amniotic fluid for mutated genes to diagnose genetic abnormalities in utero. Handwritten notes in the margins outlined the commercial possibilities of marketing kits to make doing the job easier. Well-thumbed journals with the latest studies in theoretical applications of gene and stem cell therapies completed the collection.
This was not a person who had slipped into retirement and let his profession pass him by. He’d kept up.
On the adjacent shelves, he found the other end of the spectrum – the less noble records of the profession, including yellowed tracts from the thirties and forties that were little more than fascist rants on eugenics. Filled with crude caricatures of Africans pointing out their Negroid features and accompanying texts that were outright racist in attributing inferiority to such physiognomy, these were published in both Boston and New York. Other paperbound manuals hailing from the University of Berlin spewed similar filth about Jews, but had been translated into English by a well-known Manhattan publishing house better known these days for bestsellers by lawyers. Still others were journals that tried to argue the superiority of the white race through exhaustive measurements of cranium sizes on cadavers.
“I see you found my hall of shame,” Charles Braden said from the doorway.
Mark gave a start. He quickly slid one of the works he’d been perusing back into its slot.
“I remember poking through books in here as a kid, Dr. Braden.” He gestured to the room as a whole, hoping to draw attention away from that particular section. “Except I obviously didn’t appreciate then the extent of the medical collection. It’s very impressive.”
“Please, continue to browse. And don’t be embarrassed. Most doctors are drawn to those particular writings. They’re both fascinated and repulsed.” He started toward him, and pointed to the shelves near the end of the wall. “Down there are the big results, the global offspring of these poisonous tracts” – he hooked his thumbs at the odious titles Mark had been looking at- “if they are allowed to bear fruit. Come, take a look. The legacy of hate.”
Not sure what Braden was getting at, or why the man would even collect such despicable material, he hesitated.
“Don’t be shy.” Braden walked to the next set of shelves and ran his hands over the half dozen maroon spines of what resembled an encyclopedia set. “These are bound articles related to war crimes of doctors in Germany and Japan during World War II.” He pulled one out and handed it to Mark. “This author actually does a good job at explaining why genocide occurs.”
As Mark glanced at it, he recognized the name of a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist whose work he still read regularly in the Herald. Braden had tagged some of the more insightful pieces, often the same ones that Mark remembered clipping and saving when he needed a little extra help sorting out the latest ethnic cleansing on the planet.
Braden moved on to less-weathered volumes. “The study of how our profession has strayed into evil is a pursuit of mine,” he said. “We should all be forced to read the obscenities of science, in order that none of us drift into a similar arrogance.”
Mark picked up the top sheet of a printout that had obviously been taken off the Internet. It reported on recent war crime prosecutions in Tokyo. Included were photos of a vivisection being done on an unanesthetized pregnant woman in a notorious torture camp during Japan’s occupation of Manchuria. The woman had screamed entreaties that her baby be saved as they cut out the womb, read the caption quoting one of the witnesses. He shuddered, and returned it to its place. “Strong stuff.”
“We have our local brand of monsters.” Braden reached up a few shelves and handed Mark a pamphlet written in the early thirties by a Dr. Brown from a town not twenty miles north of Hampton Junction. It argued for the smothering of babies at birth if they have obvious physical defects.
The back of Mark’s throat closed as he tossed the paper onto the nearest shelf. “That’s hideous!”
“Don’t think this guy was that far off the thinking of the time, at least in small places like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was the depression. The good Dr. Brown and every other GP in impoverished, isolated parts of the land would look at a severely deformed baby they’d just delivered and think, What about the family? Barely able to survive now, how will trying to care for this hapless creature sap the little energy and money they have for the healthy siblings? Most doctors might just despair, but some might act – think the right thing to do would be protect the other children from even more abject poverty than they already suffered. Haven’t you ever wondered why there are so few older adults with severe disabilities in the little villages of rural America?”
“You’re kidding. You don’t believe doctors actually smothered infants.”
“And you don’t believe it ever happened.”
Mark felt too startled to speak. He’d heard stories from long ago about midwives doing that kind of thing, but not doctors. “Surely that’s the stuff of rural legends.”
“I think you’re hopelessly naive.”
“Hopelessly naive to say most doctors draw the line at murder.”
“Yes, it is about drawing lines. Except those lines – between right and wrong, life and death – change with the circumstances and the times. Look how blurred it’s getting these days in ICUs with all the high-tech advances we have in keeping people alive.”
Even though Braden’s tone was quiet and polite, almost professorial, Mark felt uncomfortable. Why was the man going on about this? It certainly wasn’t what he’d brought him into the library for. And right now, that was all Mark had an interest in. “Why did you want to see me, sir?” The question sounded more impertinent than he intended, but it got to the point.
The landscape of Braden’s features shifted slightly, from pensive to thoughtful. Not different in a way he could describe, but different.
“I wanted to thank you for the discreet way you’ve been handling your investigation into Kelly’s murder,” he said.
The compliment caught him by surprise. “I haven’t done anything special.”
“That can’t be true, not for Mark Roper. You’re too much like your father. Best damn mind. Inquisitive as hell. That’s what made him such a great doctor. Could have been a leading specialist in any field he chose.”
“He was. He chose to be a country doctor, and was the best at it.”
“Well, yes…”
“Dr. Braden, why did you invite me here?”
“Who do you think killed my daughter-in-law?” he answered without missing a beat.
Mark didn’t reply, beginning to feel all the digressions in their conversation were deliberate, meant to throw him off.
Charles looked him right in the eye. “Your asking around after the memorial service, did it give you any idea who the mystery man was?”
“No.”
“You looking for him?”
“I’m looking at all the possibilities of who her killer might have been.”