A Deadly Affection (16 page)

Wasn't a mother-daughter relationship at least as sacred as the spousal one? Why was killing someone who had taken away your child any different than killing a man who had seduced your wife? Shouldn't Eliza's “natural” feelings and “sacred” maternal bond also be taken into consideration?

But of course, I didn't expect a jury to be sympathetic to such an argument. Not only because Eliza didn't have the influence and lawyers that Harry Thaw's forty million dollars could buy, but because she was a woman, accused of murdering a man. An all-male jury was unlikely to sympathize with a mother's pain, especially where it had resulted in the murder of one of their own. It might be different if women were allowed to serve on juries—but wishing couldn't make it so.

Which made it all the more imperative to prove that Eliza was innocent. With a renewed sense of urgency, I tried again to glean some useful tidbit from Henri, but elicited nothing of value. As the last stitches were being basted into my hem, I asked him outright what he'd heard along the avenue concerning the doctor's murder. His response suggested that the dominant reaction, along with the expected shock and incredulity, was a sort of vague disapproval that the perpetrator had committed the deed so close to the most important ball of the season, followed by relief that she'd been apprehended so quickly and that life could go on as before. “For which I am sure,” Henri concluded, “even the poor doctor would be grateful.”

When the fitting finally concluded, I retired to my mother's bedroom and changed into my street clothes in record time, anxious to get away before Father returned. Before I could leave for the medical library, however, I needed to contact Attorney Harlan. As Mama was returning my dress to Henri, I snuck out the hallway door and down the stairs to the telephone closet, where I found Harlan & Bidwell in the business directory and put a call through to their Broadway office. I was disappointed to learn that Attorney Harlan would be in court for the rest of the day but made an appointment to meet with him the following afternoon. As I stepped out of the phone closet, I heard rustling to my right and turned to see Katie dusting off the candlesticks on the hall console table.

“Everything all right?” she asked.

“Everything's fine,” I whispered. “Where's Father, do you know?”

“In his study, I think,” she whispered back. “Do you want me to go look?”

“No, you needn't bother. If he asks for me, could you tell him I had to go out but will be back soon?” The medical library of the College of Physicians and Surgeons, where Professor Bogard had secured research privileges for me, was over forty blocks away; even if I took cabs both ways, I'd be lucky if I was back by dinnertime. I knew Father would be angry, but I could see no way around it.

Katie raised her feather duster in the affirmative, then watched with a worried frown as I donned my hat and coat and slipped quietly out the front door.

The malady known as chorea, I discovered over the next few hours, had a long and bizarre history. The first report of the disease was recorded shortly after the Black Death swept through France, involving a band of wandering Germans who broke into a frenzied “dance” in the village square at Aix-la-Chapelle, jerking like puppets on a string before they collapsed, exhausted, to the ground. Outbreaks of the so-called dancing mania spread quickly throughout Europe and persisted for several centuries. The Renaissance physician Paracelsus attributed the illness to “ideas of the imagination,” coining the term
chorea
—from the Greek word for
dance
—to describe the uncontrollable writhing of limbs it entailed.

Although the hysterical form eventually burned itself out, other illnesses involving dance-like contortions were later identified, which, although arising from physical causes, were called by the same name. The type most commonly seen in our time was Sydenham's chorea, which began with twitching of the face and spread to spasmodic contractions of all the voluntary muscles. This type, as I had correctly recalled, was thought to be caused by a germ infection and was self-limiting, usually lasting less than six months. It almost always struck during childhood, effectively ruling out Eliza out as a potential victim.

In the monograph referred to in Dr. Hauptfuhrer's letter, which I found in an 1872 issue of the
Medical and Surgical Reporter
, Dr. Huntington introduced a different type of chorea. After discussing the more common variety, Huntington wrote:

And now I wish to draw your attention more particularly to a form of the disease I have observed in my practice in Long Island, which is peculiar in itself and seems to obey fixed laws. The hereditary chorea, as I shall call it, is confined to certain families and has been transmitted to them, an heirloom from generations away back in the dim past. It is spoken of by those in whose veins the seeds of the disease are known to exist with a kind of horror, and not at all alluded to except through dire necessity, when it is mentioned as “that disorder.” It is attended generally by all the symptoms of common chorea, only in an aggravated degree hardly ever manifesting itself until adult or middle life, and then coming on gradually but surely, increasing by degrees, and often occupying years in its development, until the hapless sufferer is but a quivering wreck of his former self. I have never known a recovery or even amelioration of symptoms in this form of chorea; when once it begins it clings to the bitter end.

It was a chilling description. I dreaded to think Eliza might be a victim of such a disease. But if the symptoms mirrored those of common chorea, then any psychical disturbance should be limited to mood swings and diminution of the intellectual faculties. I continued reading, hoping I'd seen the worst—and landed on the following paragraph:

The tendency to insanity, and sometimes that form of insanity that leads to suicide, is marked. I know of several instances of suicide of people suffering from this form of chorea or who belonged to families in which the disease existed. As the disease progresses, the mind becomes more or less impaired, in many amounting to insanity, while in others, mind and body both gradually fail until death relieves them of their sufferings. At present, I know of two married men, whose wives are living, and who are constantly making advances to some young lady, not seeming to be aware that there is any impropriety in it. They are suffering from chorea to such an extent that they can hardly walk and would be thought, by a stranger, to be intoxicated…yet they never let an opportunity to flirt with a girl go past unimproved. The effect is ridiculous in the extreme.

I sat slowly back in my seat. Dr. Huntington seemed to be describing a type of insanity that, if the lecherous men in his example were any indication, impaired not only one's intellectual processes, but one's moral judgment as well. And apparently Dr. Hauptfuhrer, after reading the Huntington monograph, had concluded that Eliza was so afflicted.

However much his conclusion conflicted with my own impressions, I couldn't dismiss it out of hand. The doctor had attended Eliza for years, after all, and had been in a position to detect subtle changes that I could not. The monograph's explicit reference to sexually inappropriate behavior, moreover, was disturbing. I couldn't help wondering if the promiscuity that led to Eliza's illicit pregnancy in her youth might have been an early indicator of the disease.

I told myself not to panic; nothing in the monograph suggested that the impairment brought on by the disease was of a kind apt to lead to criminal conduct. Inappropriately flirtatious behavior was, after all, a far cry from murder, while suicide, for someone cursed with this deadly affection, might well be viewed as a rational act. I pulled the stack of journals toward me and pored over the rest of the articles, hoping to put my mind at ease.

Instead, to my dismay I found a long list of serious psychic disorders that had been observed in patients with Huntington's chorea, including delusion and paranoia, irrational jealousy, extreme aggression, and an inability to foresee the consequences of one's behavior. One man terrified his family for years with “outbreaks of cruelty and brutality” before being committed to an insane asylum. Others had been known to throw things during fits of rage or attack those who tried to restrain them. Disturbingly, these behaviors sometimes appeared early in the disease's progression, when the patient was still active and ambulatory and showed few or no physical symptoms.

I pushed the journals away. If Eliza had this disease, she was one of the unluckiest people alive. I feared she was also almost certain to be held accountable for Dr. Hauptfuhrer's death. Right now the biggest thing in her favor was the prosecution's inability to identify a motive for the murder that would support its allegation of intent to kill. If the DA offered proof that Eliza's mind was affected by disease, a jury might well forgive this absence of motive, believing that Eliza's actions were based on faulty reasoning and understandable only to her. As I had learned from numerous alienists' lectures on giving testimony in the courts, a defendant could be mentally unsound and still be convicted of murder. So long as he retained sufficient mental power to know what he was doing and to know that what he was doing was wrong, he could be held criminally responsible.

Of course, Eliza's lawyer could always try to establish an insanity defense, but acquittal on that ground was rare, and unless the jury could be convinced her insanity was “temporary,” as Harry Thaw's lawyers were planning to argue, would leave her no better off than a criminal conviction. She would simply be sent to an insane asylum instead of to prison, where, if past history was any indicator, she would languish for the remainder of her days.

I rubbed my aching temples. I
had
to find some way to prove that Eliza didn't have this disease. Pulling Huntington's monograph back out from under the pile of journals, I continued where I'd left off, beginning with the discussion of the disease's hereditary transmission:

When either or both of the parents have shown manifestations of the disease, and more especially when these manifestations have been of a serious nature, one or more of the offspring almost invariably suffer from the disease if they live to adult age. But if by any chance these children go through life without it, the thread is broken, and the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of the original shakers may rest assured that they are free from the disease. This you will perceive differs from the general laws of so-called hereditary diseases, as for instance in phthisis, or syphilis, when one generation may enjoy entire immunity from their dread ravages, and yet in another you find them cropping out in all their hideousness. Unstable and whimsical as the disease may be in other respects, in this it is firm; it never skips a generation to again manifest itself in another; once having yielded its claims, it never regains them.

I nearly shouted in relief. This was the exception I was looking for. If the disease could not skip generations, then the only way Eliza could have it was if one of her parents was affected, which did not appear to be the case. Mrs. Braun, although not in the most robust of health, displayed none of the incoordination or writhing movements the literature described. Nor was there any mention of paternal illness in Eliza's clinic file. I continued to the final paragraph.

“Its third peculiarity,” the doctor concluded, “is its coming on, at least as a grave disease, only in adult life. I do not know of a single case that has shown any marked signs of chorea before the age of thirty or forty years, while those who pass the fortieth year without symptoms of the disease are seldom attacked.”

My elation faded as uncertainty returned. The late onset of the disease posed a potential problem. Since Mrs. Braun was well into her fifties and exhibiting no symptoms, I could be confident that she was not afflicted. But Eliza's father was a different story. Although Eliza's file didn't indicate he'd ever been diagnosed with a disease, it did mention that he'd died at a relatively young age. It was therefore possible that he'd carried the disease and died too early to manifest it. Or perhaps he had exhibited choreic movements toward the end of his life, but no one—including Dr. Hauptfuhrer—had recognized them at the time. Years after his death, when Hauptfuhrer came across the Huntington monograph, he might have recognized the father's symptoms in retrospect, prompting him to view Eliza's current behavior in a suspicious light.

I closed my eyes, exhausted by unknowns. Even if it turned out that the father was afflicted, I told myself, all was not lost. Huntington's monograph specifically stated that “one or more” children in each generation might inherit, meaning it was possible that Eliza had been spared. I supposed that, if necessary, I could have her examined by a physician familiar with this type of chorea, preferably Dr. Huntington himself, to try to prove that this was the case. For now, though, I must concentrate on trying to establish that Eliza's father had been free of the disease.

I wearily began to gather up my things. As I was returning my pen and inkwell to my book bag, my fingers brushed against something I didn't immediately recognize. Peering into the bag, I saw Professor Bogard's notes wedged into the corner. The research paper. I'd forgotten all about it. And I'd promised to have it done by the end of next week.

It was too much, I thought, feeling tears spring to my eyes. I couldn't write the paper with everything else going on. The professor would just have to find another graduate to assist him. Then I remembered that he was out of town giving lectures. If the paper wasn't substantially completed by the time he returned, he would miss his publication date. “Damn,” I muttered. “Damn, damn, and triple damn.” I didn't even realize I'd spoken out loud until I heard the man at the next table clear his throat and turned to see him frowning at me over his spectacles. Shielding my face with one hand, I pulled out the notes with my other and slapped them onto the table. I'd give it one hour. It wasn't nearly enough, but it was all I could manage for now.

It was well past the dinner hour by the time my hansom cab rolled to a stop in front of my house. A soft light shone through the window shades, promising a warm plate of leftovers and the sweet oblivion of my bed. But I knew that Father would be waiting for me as well, upset over Simon's reappearance and angry that I'd left without speaking to him. The horse shifted restlessly in the harness, but I made no move to get out. Poor Father; he'd been trying so hard to treat me like an adult, disregarding his doubts to support me and my class experiment. And look what had happened. It terrified me to think I might have failed to see a mental defect in Eliza where others would have. If it turned out she was guilty, I didn't know how I could ever stand confidently in front of a class again, let alone hope for my father's respect. The specter of such an outcome flushed me with new resolve. Grabbing the speaker tube, I told the cabbie to continue on to Eighty-Eighth Street.

• • •

I arrived at the Holy Trinity Church rectory to learn that Reverend Palmers had left just moments before to visit a family in the cigar tenements on Seventy-Third Street. I hurried back to the cab, which I'd left waiting at the curb, and instructed the driver to follow him down. I needed to speak to someone who'd known Eliza's father in his last years, and since I wasn't sure Mrs. Braun would be willing to meet with me, given her hostility in the courtroom, I'd decided to start with the Reverend.

As I didn't know precisely where the cigar tenements were located, I told the driver to let me out at the corner, intending to ask for directions. The moment my feet hit the ground, however, I was struck by a dank, woodsy odor that made any inquiry unnecessary. I followed the smell toward a row of shabby tenements that squatted along the middle of the block, fronted by the longest line of ash cans I'd ever seen. Continuing apprehensively down the unlit street, I was rewarded by the sight of the Reverend's spry form alighting from his buggy at the curb.

As I was hurrying toward him, he looked up and waved to a dark-haired young girl who was leaning out of a tenement window. The girl waved back, then drew inside and pulled the window shut. The Reverend secured the reins and started toward the building's entrance.

“Reverend Palmers!” I called.

He turned. “Dr. Summerford!” His eyes blazed with their usual intensity at my approach, tempered only slightly by surprise. “What brings you this way?”

“Your wife told me you'd be here. Have you heard about Eliza Miner?”

“Why, no,” he said with a frown. “Not bad news, I hope?”

Before I could respond, the tenement door opened, and the girl from the window ran out onto the sidewalk.

“Good evening, Father,” she said breathlessly, dropping an awkward curtsy. She was about ten years old, with large dark eyes and wavy brown hair that hung loosely to her shoulders. She had a deep crease between her eyebrows and stains on her wide collar that matched her sallow complexion.