I Will Fear No Evil (44 page)

“We all reason faultily at times. Are you quite finished? Shall we go on with examination of witnesses?”

“Quite finished, Your Honor.”

“But, Dr. Boyle, do you
know
that you removed the brain from this body—this cadaver, and transplanted it into the body of that woman?”

“Don’t be an ass, old chap. You heard my answer.”

“Your Honor, Petitioners feel that this is proper cross-examination and ask for the Court’s assistance.”

“The Court orders the witness to answer the questions as stated.”

“Judge, you don’t scare me, y’ know. I am here as a voluntary witness—and I am not and never was a citizen of your quaint country. I am now a citizen of China. Your State Department promised our Foreign Affairs Minister that I would have full immunity during my entire stay if only I would appear. So don’t bother to throw your weight around; it won’t go. Care to see my passport? Diplomatic immunity.”

“Dr. Boyle, this court is aware of your immunity. However, you have been induced to come here—at considerable expense I would assume and clearly at some inconvenience to you—to give evidence that only you can give. The Court
requests
you to answer all questions put to you, as fully, explicitly, and clearly as possible, in terms a layman can comprehend, even if it means repeating yourself. We want to find out exactly what you did and what you know of your own knowledge, which might directly or indirectly assist this court in determining the identity of this woman.”

“Oh, certainly, my dear fellow—put that way. Well, let’s go back and run it through again, from A to Zed. A year ago, more or less, I was approached by that old bugger over there—sorry, I mean ‘barrister’—Mr. Jacob Salomon—to do what the Sunday sheets call a ‘brain transplant.’ I accepted the commission. After this and that—you can get the trivia from him—I did it. Moved a brain and some ancillary parts from one human skull to another. That brain was alive in its new digs when I left.

“Now as to
whom
. The brain donor was a very elderly male, the body donor was a young mature female. And that is about the size of it—they are covered, y’ know, sterile sheeting and such, before the surgeon in charge comes in. Prepped. I can add only these hints: The male was in bad shape, kept alive by major supportive means. The female was in worse shape, she was dead—massive trauma to skull and cortex about
here
-head bashed in, I mean to say, and the yolk spattered. Dead as Queen Anne save that her body had been kept alive by extreme support measures.

“Now that unsightly hunk of pickled meat over there has had its brain et cetera removed in a fashion consistent with my own—unique—surgical techniques; I doubt if there is another surgeon alive who can do it my way. I have examined that cadaver carefully; I conclude that it is my work—and, by elimination, I conclude that it
must
be the body Salomon hired me to carve on; there is no conflicting evidence and the cadaver is not from any other case of mine.

“Identifying the young female is another matter. If her head were shaved I might look for scar tissue. If her skull were X-rayed I might look for prosthesis; teflon vitae does not throw the same shadow on a plate as does natural bone. But such tests would be only indicative; scar tissue is easily come by, and other trephining could produce similar X-ray shadow without disturbing the central nervous system.”

“Dr. Boyle, let us stipulate momentarily that you removed a living brain from exhibit JJ, the cadaver—”

“ ‘Stipulate?’ I
did
do so, you heard me say so.”

“I am not contradicting you, I am simply using appropriate language. Very well, you have so testified and you have also testified that you transplanted that brain into a young female body. Look about and see if you can identify that female body.”

“Oh, you’re being an ass again. I am neither a witch doctor nor a beauty contest judge; I am a surgeon. No, thank you. If that young woman—that composite human, female body, male brain—survived and is alive today—a point on which I have no opinion of my own knowledge and I assure you that I have had strong reason to acquaint myself both with relevant forensic medicine and medical jurisprudence; you are not about to trip me into being the ass you are—I would not today be able to single her out with certainty from ten thousand other young women of approximately the same size, weight, build, skin shade, and such. Counsel, have you ever seen a human body hooked up for extreme life support and prepared for such surgery? I’m sure you have not or you would not ask such silly questions. But I assure you that you would not recognize your own wife under such circumstances. If you want me to perjure myself, you’ve come to the wrong shop.”

“Your Honor, Petitioners seem unable to get a responsive answer on this key point.”

“The Court finds it responsive. Witness states that he can and docs identify the male body but is unable to identify the female body. Doctor, I confess that I am puzzled on one point—perhaps through not being a medical man myself; nevertheless I am puzzled. Are we to understand that you would perform such an operation without being certain of the identity of the bodies?”

“Judge, I’ve never been one to fret about trivia. Mr. Salomon assured me, in legalistic language, that ‘the fix was on’ if I have your American idiom correct. His assurances meant to me that the paper work was done, the legal requirements met, et cetera, and that I was free to operate. I believed him and did so. Was I mistaken? Should I expect an attempt to extradite me after I return home? I think it would be difficult; I have at last found a country where my work is respected.”

“I am not aware that anyone has any intention of trying to extradite you. I was curious, that’s all. What Counsel was getting at is this: There is present in this room a woman who claims to be that composite from your surgery. You can’t point her out?”

“Oh, certainly I can. Though not as a sworn witness. It’s that young lady seated by Jake Salomon. How are you, my dear? Felling chipper?”

“Very much so, Doctor.”

“Sorry if I’ve disappointed you. Oh, I
could
make positive identification . . . by sawing off the top of your skull, then digging out your brain and looking for certain indications. But—heh heh!—you would not be much use to yourself afterwards. I prefer seeing you alive, a monument to my skill.”

“I prefer it, too, Doctor—and truly, I’m not disappointed. I’m eternally grateful to you.”

“Your Honor, this is hardly proper!”

“Counsel, I will be the judge of that. Under these most unusual circumstances I will permit a few human amenities in court.”

“Miss Smith, I’d like to examine you before I go home. For my journal, you know.”

“Certainly, Doctor! Anything—short of sawing off my skull.”

“Oh, just chest-thumping and such. The usual rituals. Shall we say tomorrow morning, ten o’clockish?”

“My car will be waiting for you at nine thirty, Doctor. Or earlier, if you will do me the honor of having breakfast with me.”

“The Court finds it necessary to interrupt. I’m sorry to say that both of you will be
here
at ten o’clock. The hour of recessing is almost on us and—”

“No, Judge.”

“What, Dr. Boyle?”

“I said, ‘No.’ I will not be here tomorrow morning. I speak this evening at twenty o’clock at a dinner of one of your chop-’em-up societies. The American College of Surgeons. Until shortly before that time I am at your disposal. I suppose you can require the presence of Miss Smith tomorrow morning, but not mine. I’m off to merry old China as quickly as possible. No shortage of opportunities for research there—you would be amazed what condemned prisoners will agree to. So I shan’t waste another day on silly-ass questions. But I am willing to tolerate them now.”

“Mmm—I’m afraid that the Court must concede that this is a case of Mahomet and the Mountain. Very well, we will
not
recess at the usual hour.”

“Witness will stand down. Do Petitioners offer more witnesses?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Counsel?”

“Miss Johann Smith offers no further evidence.”

“Mr. Salomon, is it your intention to present an argument or summary?”

“No, Your Honor. The facts speak for themselves.”

“Petitioners?”

“Your Honor, is it your intention to bring this to a terminus
today?
”

“That’s what I am trying to find out. We’ve been at this for many weary days and I find myself in sympathy with Dr. Boyle’s attitude: Let’s sweep up the mess and go home. Both sides agree that there are no more witnesses, no more questions, no more exhibits. Counsel for Miss Smith states that he will not offer an argument. If Petitioners’ counsel wishes to argue, he may do so—in which case Miss Smith, in person or through counsel or both, is privileged to rebut. What I had in mind, Counsel, was a recess . . . then, if you have your thoughts in order, you can say what you wish. If you can’t, we can let it go over till tomorrow morning. You may at that time argue for a postponement—but I warn you that a lengthy postponement will not be tolerated; the Court has become impatient with delaying tactics and red herrings, not to mention language and attitudes flavored with contempt. What is your wish?”

“May it please the Court, if we continue this evening, how long a recess does the Court contemplate?”

“—and rebuttal having been concluded, we are ready to rule. But first a statement by the Court. Inasmuch as a novel point in Constitutional Law is involved in this matter, if an appeal is made, the Court will, under the Declaratory Relief Act of 1984, on its own motion send the matter directly to Federal Appellate Court with recommendation that it be referred at once to the Supreme Court. We cannot say that this will happen but there are aspects which lead us to believe that it could happen; this matter is not trivial.

“We have heard the petition, we have heard witnesses. and seen exhibits. It is possible to rule in one of four ways:

“That both Johann Sebastian Bach Smith and Eunice Evans Branca are alive;

“That Eunice is alive and Johann is dead;

“That Eunice is dead and Johann is alive;

“That both Eunice and Johann are dead.

“The Court rules—please stand up, Miss Smith—that this person before us is a physiological composite of the body of Eunice Evans Branca and the brain of Johann Sebastian Bach Smith and that in accordance with the equitable principle set forth in ‘Estate of Henry M. Parsons v. Rhode Island’ this female person is Johann Sebastian Bach Smith.”

22

“—take it that you are offering me your lovely body. Sorry, m’dear. I have no interest in women. Nor in men. Nor in rubber garments or high heels or other toys. I’m a sadist, Miss Smith. A
genius
sadist who realized quite young that he must become a surgeon to stay out of the clutches of Jack Ketch. Sublimation, y’know. Thanks just the same. A pity, you do have a magnificent body.” (Well, Boss, you got turned down. It’s a lesson every woman must learn. So you bresh your hair and start all over again.)

(Eunice, I’m relieved. But he was entitled to the lagniappe if he wanted it.) “I’m your Galatea, Dr. Boyle; I owe you anything you care to name—short of sawing off my skull. The debt remains on the books. All I was offering was symbolic down-payment. But you don’t respond like a typical Australian—nor sound like one, either.”

“Oh, that. I’m a fake, dear. From the Sydney slums into a sadists’ finishing school—a stylish British boarding school, a ‘public’ school right out of the second drawer. Then on to the University of London and the best surgeons in the world. Put your pretty robe on and I’ll be going. I say, would you mind having that extr’ordinary slow-motion somersault filmed in stereocinema for my archives?”

“Where shall I send it, Doctor?”

“Jake Salomon knows. Keep your pecker up, m’dear, and try to live a long time; you’re my masterpiece.”

“I’ll certainly try.”

“Do. Ta ta!”

An unidentified flying object roughly disc-shaped was reported to have landed in Pernambuco and its humanoid crew to have visited with local yokels; the report was denied officially almost faster than it reached the news services. The number of licensed private police in the United States reached triple the number of public peace officers. Miss Joan nee Johann Smith received over two thousand proposals of marriage, more than that number of less formal proposals, one hundred eighty-seven death threats, an undisclosed number of extortion notes, and four bombs—not any of which she received in person as they were diverted to Mercury Private Courier Service under procedures set up years earlier. The waldoes of one package-opening bunker had to be replaced; the other bombs were disarmed.

The Postmaster General died from an overdose of barbiturates; the career Assistant Postmaster General declined an interim appointment and put in for retirement. A woman in Albany gave birth to a “faun” which was baptized, dead, and cremated in eighty-seven minutes. No flowers. No photographs. No interviews—but the priest wrote a letter to his seminary roommate. The F.B.I. reported that recidivism was up to 71%, while the same rate figured only on major felonies—armed robbery, rape, assault with a deadly weapon, murder, and attempted murder—had climbed to 84%. The paralysis at Harvard University continued.

“Jake, the last time you refused to marry me, you
did
promise me a night on the town if we won.”

Mr. Salomon put down his cup. “A delightful lunch, my dear. As I recall, you told me at the time that a nightclub check was no substitute for a marriage license.”

“Nor is it. But I haven’t nagged you about marrying me since you accorded me the honor of first concubine. Uh . . . erase ‘first.’ I have no idea what you do with your time when you’re not here. Well, I don’t have to be ‘first.’ ” (Twin, never crowd a man about sex. He’ll lie.) (Pussy cat, I’m
not
crowding Jake about sex; I’m confusing the issue. He’s going to take us nightclubbing and we’re going to wear that lush blue-and-gold job—it’s meant to be seen, not just modeled for Winnie and put away.)