Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [69]
“So could five hundred other patients in this hospital,” snapped the doctor. “I’ll have to ask you to excuse me. I’m very busy.”
After the physician had left, Littlemore said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have told him you were a Harvard doctor. I don’t know why people resent what they ought to admire. What the heck is that thing on her neck?”
“I don’t know, but we might find out pretty soon.” Younger pointed to a thin, bluish vertical fissure that was developing on the distended mass. The fissure ran from the girl’s chin to her sternum. “Whatever’s inside may be trying to get out.”
“Great,” said Littlemore.
“It could be a teratoma.”
“What’s that?”
“Encapsulated hair or teeth, usually,” said Younger.
“Teeth—like a molar?” asked Littlemore.
“Maybe. Or a twin.”
“What?”
“A twin that was never born,” said Younger. “Not alive. There’s never been a case of a live one.”
“First we see a woman with no head on Wall Street, and now we got one with two. That’s what I call—wait a minute. She was a redhead too.”
“The woman with no head? Was a redhead?” asked Younger.
“Her head was. We walked right past it. And I’m pretty sure she was wearing a dress like this girl’s. I’ll go to the morgue. Maybe she was missing a molar.”
That same morning, newspapers all over the country reported that Edwin Fischer, the man who knew in advance about the Wall Street bombing, was in custody in Hamilton, Ontario, having been adjudged insane by a panel of Canadian magistrates. Fischer had been taken before the Canadian judges by his own brother-in-law, who had read about the now-famous postcards and motored from New York to Toronto in the company of two agents of the United States Department of Justice.
Younger had a look around Bellevue Hospital after the detective left. It wasn’t difficult for a doctor to pose as a personage of authority in a large, overcrowded hospital. At any rate it wasn’t difficult for Younger, who had learned in the war how to command obedience from subordinates through the simple artifice of acting as if it went without saying that one’s orders would be followed.
He found the roentgen equipment on the second floor. It was as he’d hoped: a modern unit, driven by transformer, not induction, and equipped with Coolidge tubes. The milliamperage was clearly marked. He knew he could operate it.
At police headquarters, Officer Roederheusen knocked on Littlemore’s door. “I’ve got the mailman, Captain,” said Roederheusen. “The one who picks up at Cedar and Broadway.”
“What are you waiting for?” asked Littlemore. “Bring him in.”
“Um, sir, do you think I could have a nickname?”
“A nickname? What for?”
“Stanky has a nickname. And my name’s kind of hard for you, sir.”
“Okay. Not a bad idea. I’ll call you Spanky.”
“Spanky?”
“As opposed to Stanky. Now bring me that mailman.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Roederheusen returned in a moment, mailman in tow. Littlemore offered the man a seat, a doughnut, and coffee. The postman, who accepted all these offerings, coughed and sniffled.
“So you’re the one who found the circulars,” said Littlemore. “Did you get a look at the men who mailed them?”
The man shook his head, mouth full.
“Okay, here’s what I want to know—when did you first see the circulars? Did you see them when you opened the mailbox or only later, when you got back to the post office?”
The postman blew his nose into a paper napkin. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. The box was empty.”
“Empty?” repeated Littlemore. “The mailbox at Cedar and Broadway? Day of the bombing? Eleven fifty-eight pickup?”
“The 11:58? I never made the 11:58. Hung my bag up after morning rounds. Too sick. Lucky thing, huh?”
“Did somebody cover for you?”
“Cover for me?” The man laughed into his napkin. “Fat chance. What’s this all about, anyway?”
Littlemore sent the postman away.
Eighty miles away, in a laboratory at Yale University, a human-like creature in a helmet and what looked like an undersea diver’s suit was also working on Saturday. The creature was