Gideon’s Sword

“No,” said Gideon wearily. “I’m done here.” He zipped up the bag, slid the drawer shut. He wondered what Eli Glinn would have to say.

As they turned away, he noticed, for the first time, a very large and imposing African American woman standing in the doorway, wearing surgical scrubs, her mask pulled down. She cleared her throat. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said. “I’m Dr. Brown, one of the MEs around here.”

The med tech greeted her, and there was a silence.

Dr. Brown began to speak, very gently. “What was your name again, sir?”

“Gideon Crew.”

“I have some information, Mr. Crew, that might give you some small comfort.”

Gideon waited for another exposition of religious views.

“Mr. Correlli here is correct that it is standard procedure in this country for body parts from surgery to enter the medical-waste stream. But in this case, that would not have happened.”

“Why not?”

“Here in New York City we have an unusual system, perhaps even unique. When a limb is removed in surgery, if the patient doesn’t have specific directions for its disposal, that limb, after it leaves pathology, is placed in a box and delivered to New York’s potter’s field for burial.”

Gideon stared at her. “Potter’s field?”

“That’s right. It’s the place where the indigent are buried. The name comes from the Bible, the field where Judas was buried.”

“New York City has a potter’s field?”

“Correct. When a person dies and the body isn’t claimed, or if the family can’t afford a burial, the city buries the remains in their potter’s field. Same thing for, ah, unclaimed limbs. That’s where your friend’s legs would be buried.”

“And just where is this…potter’s field?”

“On Hart Island.”

“Hart Island?” Gideon repeated. “Where’s that?”

“As I understand, it’s an uninhabited island in Long Island Sound.”

“And the legs were buried there?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Is there a way to…relocate them?”

“Yes,” the ME said. “After going through pathology, all the bodies, limbs, and so forth are placed in numbered, labeled boxes and buried in such a way that they can be retrieved for pathological or forensic reasons. So you needn’t worry. Your friend’s legs received a decent burial.”

“I’m so relieved.” Gideon made an effort to cover up his racing pulse. This was incredible, unbelievable news.

The med tech gave Gideon a kindly pat on the shoulder. “Well, I hope that gives you some small comfort.”

“Yes,” Gideon said. “Yes, it does. Although—” Here Gideon turned a pair of soulful, pleading eyes toward the ME. “—I’d like the opportunity to visit them. Mourn them. Surely you understand?”

For all her self-possession, Dr. Brown seemed disconcerted. “Well, I would think the remains here would be sufficient for mourning purposes.”

“But this is only part of him.” Gideon let his voice quaver a little, as if he might break down at any moment.

Brown considered this, and then spoke. “On a few rare occasions, an ME has had to retrieve human remains. It’s always a huge ordeal, lots of paperwork, taking weeks. A court order is required. You’ve got to understand, Hart Island is completely off-limits to all visitors, period. The burial work is done by prisoners from Rikers Island.”

“But if they can retrieve a limb, how do they know where it’s buried? Do they keep track?”

“I believe the numbered boxes are stacked in their trenches in order. When they fill a trench, they place a cement marker at the end and start a new one.”

“How would I find out the number and location? Do you have that information?”

Brown took the printout from the med tech and consulted it, her brow wrinkling. “The files, here, have the number.”

Gideon extended a hand. “May I?”

She handed Gideon the printout and, fumbling a pen out of his pocket, he wrote down the indicated number: 695–998 MSH.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” the ME asked. “I’m overdue in the autopsy room, if you don’t mind. We’re a little short-staffed at the moment.”

“No, this is all I need. Thank you, Dr. Brown. I can find my way out.”

“I'll have to escort you as far as the waiting room.”

Gideon followed her solid and reassuring form into the corridor and past the autopsy room, which was still filled with activity. At least a dozen homicide detectives and police officers remained in the room; others had moved out into the corridor, almost blocking it. Even as they pushed through, Gideon could see that members of the press had now gathered outside the double doors, shouting and pushing.

“Must be a big deal, that homicide,” said Gideon.

“It was particularly brutal,” said Brown, tersely. “Excuse me,” she said, pushing through the doors and trying to get past an especially aggressive camera crew. As soon as the press saw her doctor’s scrubs, they surged forward with a chorus of shouted questions.

“Good luck.” She retreated behind the doors as the crowd peppered her with questions.

“Suspects,” someone shouted. “Are there any suspects? ”

“Where in the church was the body hidden?”

Gideon tried pushing through the crowd as they continued to yell questions at the closed doors.

“…any witnesses or leads?”

He elbowed a burly soundman aside and made for the exit.

“…true that the throat was ripped out again, like the last one in Chinatown?”

Gideon halted abruptly, turned. Who had said that? He looked about the seething crowd and grabbed a reporter, hanging at the fringes of the crowd, tape recorder in hand.

“This murder — what was that I heard about the throat ripped out?”

“You’re a witness?” the man asked, suddenly eager, sticking out his hand. “Bronwick of the Post.”

Gideon stared at the man, his yellow ferret-teeth pushing out his lower lip. He had an incongruous Cockney accent.

“Maybe. Answer my question: was the throat ripped out?”

“Yes, it was. An ’orrible murder. Up at Saint Bart’s, they found her body hidden beneath some pews. Almost decapitated she was, just like the chap in Chinatown. Now then: your name, sir? And your connection to the case?”

Gideon gripped him harder. “Did you say her? The victim was a woman? What was her name?” He felt a sudden indefinable, hideous sensation, like insects eating at his nerves.

“A girl, yes, in her late twenties—”

“Her name!” He shook the man. “I need her name!”

“Take it easy, guv. Her name was Marilyn…” He consulted his notes. “Marilyn Creedy. Now I’d like to hear what you know, sir.”

Gideon pushed the man away and ran. And kept running.

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