The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [96]
I informed the young man who answered the door that I had come to see Reverend Squires. After a moment in the vestibule, I heard footsteps and soon the Reverend himself made his appearance.
I had formed a picture in my mind’s eye of a tall, glowering fanatic who intimidated society matrons into opening their pocketbooks, but Reverend Squires was instead short and plump with a florid countenance and what seemed to be indefatigable good cheer. He bounced across the floor to greet me. I was heartened. A man more susceptible to flattery would be difficult to imagine.
“Good afternoon, Reverend,” I said. “I’m so lucky to find you in, as I have traveled overnight to see you.”
“Indeed,” replied the Reverend. “And where did your journey begin?”
“New York,” I said, stepping forward and extending my hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Galen Harvey and I work for the New York Sun.”
Reverend Squires shook my hand with appropriate awe. Eakins had judged our man well. “The New York Sun? And you wish to speak with me?”
“Quite so,” I said. “Word of your good work has spread, Reverend Squires, and the Sun believes that the citizens of New York should have the full story.” I sounded very much like a reporter, I decided.
The Reverend apparently agreed. “Well, well,” he said, hardly able to contain his elation. “I would be happy to discuss any of our work here. Is there some specific aspect of our efforts in which you are most interested?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, with a deferential nod. “We feel that your labors on behalf of the poor in obtaining a decent burial are remarkable and noteworthy. In fact, it has been commented that they are unsurpassed. After all, these poor wretches should at least be entitled to their final dignity.”
“Yes, yes.” Reverend Squires nodded, almost dancing before me. “That is so true, Mr. Harvey. They are so often abused in life, why should they also be abused in death?”
“Quite so. And I understand that even after death, paupers are often the subject of hideous medical practices.”
“Yes, yes,” the Reverend said once again, his face now as red as a cherry. “The wretches are butchered, cut up, their insides ripped out and then shoved back in so that they may be stitched up again like a sack of grain.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Sometimes they don’t even get their own parts back.”
“Really?” I said. “I must report that.”
Reverend Squires knit his brows. “You do not seem to be writing what I am saying, Mr. Harvey.”
“It is true, Reverend.” I nodded, trying to form a response, cursing myself for the sin of arrogance. “I have trained my memory to record my interviews. This allows me to give full attention to those with whom I speak.”
Reverend Squires mused on this for a moment. I was fortunate that the man before me so desperately wanted to believe that the New York Sun sought to report on his crusading activities. “Very clever of you, Mr. Harvey,” he admitted finally. “You must be quite important at the Sun,” he added hopefully.
“Alas, Reverend Squires, I have not yet the experience to be important, but with essential stories such as this one, I hope to become so.”
“I wish you the best in that regard,” he said.
“Thank you. I understand that you have created an official organization to support your efforts,” I went on.
“Yes, yes,” he replied. “The Philadelphia League Against Human Vivisection. We are trying to end the un-Godly practice of dissecting human beings. We have great support, particularly among those of means, which is gratifying since the wealthy never need concern themselves with such indignities, only the poor.”
“That is highly commendable, Reverend Squires,” I agreed. “It must be a great relief to have an abundance of funds at your disposal.”
“Oh, never an abundance, Mr. Harvey,” the Reverend assured me. “Never an abundance. There is so much work to do, so many souls