Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [8]
With supplies from a local pharmacy, Colette threw together a temporary dressing station and surgery inside Trinity Church. Shirtsleeves rolled, Younger did what he could, assisted both by Colette and a volunteer Red Cross nurse. He cleaned and stitched; set a bone or two; extracted metal—from one man’s thigh, another’s stomach.
“Look,” Colette said to Younger at one point, while helping him operate on a man whose bleeding the nurse had not been able to stop. She was referring to an indistinct motion beneath Younger’s operating table. “He’s hurt.”
Younger glanced down. A bedraggled terrier, with a little gray beard, was wandering at their feet.
“Tell him to wait his turn like anybody else,” said Younger.
When Colette’s silence became conspicuous, Younger looked up from his work: she was dressing the terrier’s foreleg.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Several hundred people sat or lay on the pews of Trinity Church, with blackened faces or bleeding limbs, waiting for an ambulance or medical attention. “It will only take a minute,” said Colette.
It took five.
“There,” she said, turning the terrier loose. “All done.”
In mid-afternoon, Littlemore sat at a long table erected in the middle of the plaza, the air still thick with dust and smoke, taking statements from eyewitnesses. Two of his uniformed officers—Stankiewicz and Roederheusen—interrupted him. “Hey, Cap,” said the former, “they won’t let us into the Treasury.”
Littlemore had instructed his men to inspect the surrounding buildings for people too injured or too dead to get out. “Who won’t?” asked Littlemore.
“Army, sir,” answered Roederheusen, pointing to the Treasury Building, on the steps of which some two hundred armed United States infantrymen had taken up positions. Another company was advancing from the south with fixed bayonets, boots trooping rhythmically on the pavement of Wall Street.
The detective whistled. “Where’d they come from?”
“Can they order us around, Cap?” asked Stankiewicz, demonstrating a grievance by tipping back the shiny visor of his cap and sticking his chin out.
“Stanky got in a fight, sir,” said Roederheusen.
“It wasn’t my fault,” protested Stankiewicz. “I told the colonel we had to inspect the buildings, and he says, ‘Step back, civilian,’ so I says, ‘Who you calling civilian—I’m NYPD,’ and he says, ‘I said step back, civilian, or I’ll make you step back,’ and then this soldier pokes his bayonet right in my chest, so I go for my gun—”
“You did not,” said Littlemore. “Tell me you didn’t draw on a colonel in the United States army.”
“I didn’t draw, Cap. I just kinda showed ’em the heater—pulled back my jacket, like you taught us to. Next thing I know, a half-dozen of them are all around me with their bayonets.”
“What happened?” asked Littlemore.
“They made Stanky get on his knees and put his hands behind his head, sir,” said Roederheusen. “They took his gun.”
“For Pete’s sake, Stanky,” said Littlemore. “How about you, Lederhosen? They take your gun too?”
“It’s Roederheusen, sir,” said Roederheusen.
“They took his too,” said Stankiewicz.
“And I didn’t even do anything,” said Roederheusen.
Littlemore shook his head. He handed them a stack of blank index cards. “I’ll get your guns back later. Meantime here’s what you do. We need a casualty list. I want a separate card for every person. Get names, ages, occupations, addresses, whatever you—”
“Littlemore?” shouted a man’s authoritative voice from across the street. “Come over here, Captain. I need to speak with you.”
The voice belonged to Richard Enright, Commissioner of the New York Police Department. Littlemore trotted across the street, joining a group of four older gentlemen on the sidewalk.
“Captain Littlemore, you know the Mayor, of course,” said Commissioner Enright, introducing Littlemore to John F. Hylan, Mayor of New York City. Hylan’s straggly, oily hair was parted in the middle; his small eyes bespoke considerable distress but no great