A Case of Need: A Novel
stainless-steel tables, each six feet long. They were tilted slightly and made with a lip. Water flowed constantly down the table in a thin sheet and emptied into a sink at the lower end. The water was kept running all during the autopsy, to carry away blood and bits of organic matter. The huge exhaust fan, three feet across and built into one frosted-glass window, was also kept on. So was the small chemical unit that blew scented ersatz air-freshener into the room, giving it a phony pine-woods odor.
    Off to one side was a changing room where pathologists could remove their street clothes and put on surgical greens and an apron. There were four large sinks in a row, the farthest with a sign that said THIS SINK FOR WASHING HANDS ONLY. The others were used to clean instruments and specimens. Along one wall was a row of simple cabinets containing gloves, bottles for specimens, preservatives, reagents, and a camera. Unusual specimens were often photographed in place before removal.
    As I entered the room, the two men looked over at me. They had been discussing a case, a body on the far table. I recognized one of the men, a resident named Gaffen. I knew him slightly. He was very clever and rather mean. The other man I did not know at all; I assumed he was Hendricks.
    “Hello, John,” Gaffen said. “What brings you here?”
    “Post on Karen Randall.”
    “They’ll start in a minute. Want to change?”
    “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll just watch.”
    Actually I would have liked to change, but it seemed like a bad idea. The only way I could be certain of preserving my observer’s role would be to remain in street clothes. The last thing I wanted to do was to be considered an active participant in the autopsy, and therefore possibly influencing the findings.
    I said to Hendricks, “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m John Berry.”
    “Jack Hendricks.” He smiled, but did not offer to shake hands. He was wearing gloves, and had been touching the autopsy body before them.
    “I’ve just been showing Hendricks a few physical findings,” Gaffen said, nodding to the body. He stepped back so I could see. It was a young Negro girl. She had been an attractive girl before somebody put three round holes in her chest and stomach.
    “Hendricks here has been spending all his time at the Mem,” Gaffen said. “He hasn’t seen much of this sort of thing. For instance, we were just discussing what these little marks might represent.”
    Gaffen pointed to several flesh tears on the body. They were on the arms and lower legs.
    Hendricks said, “I thought perhaps they were scratches from barbed wire.”
    Gaffen smiled sadly. “Barbed wire,” he repeated.
    I said nothing. I knew what they were, but I also knew that an inexperienced man would never be able to guess.
    “When was she brought in?” I said.
    Gaffen glanced at Hendricks, then said, “Five A.M. But the time of death seems to be around midnight.” To Hendricks he said, “Does that suggest anything?”
    Hendricks shook his head and bit his lip. Gaffen was giving him the business. I would have objected but this was standard procedure. Browbeating often passes for teaching in medicine. Hendricks knew it. I knew it. Gaffen knew it.
    “Where,” Gaffen said, “do you suppose she was for those five hours after death?”
    “I don’t know,” Hendricks said miserably.
    “Guess.”
    “Lying in bed.”
    “Impossible. Look at the lividity. 5 She wasn’t lying flat anywhere. She was half seated, half rolled over on her side.”
    Hendricks looked at the body again, then shook his head again.
    “They found her in the gutter,” Gaffen said. “On Charleston Street, two blocks from the Combat Zone. In the gutter.”
    “Oh.”
    “So,” Gaffen said, “what would you call those marks now?”
    Hendricks shook his head. I knew this could go on forever; Gaffen could play it for all it was worth. I cleared my throat and said, “Actually, Hendricks, they’re rat bites. Very

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