It was an unseasonably cold evening in October, when I found myself, along with Dr. Vinal, ensconced in our brightly lit kitchen—I taking notes from a volume of Oxford’s Manual of Significant Measurements, and the good doctor probing the inner secrets of a victim suspected of elimination by means of foul play.
          The coals of our fires, in both the parlor and the kitchen, burned steadily, keeping the occasional drafts that found their way under the windowsills at bay. The deep-toned bell of St. Clement’s Cathedral had just struck the hour before midnight, when Dr. Vinal glanced up from his surgical endeavors. He cleared his throat—in a most theatrical manner, I must add—solely to obtain my attention. When I looked up, he announced curtly,  “Hand me that tray.”
            Reluctantly, I pried myself away from the painstakingly slow task of note taking. Snapping the book shut, I stretched my legs to their full length. Then rising from the stool, I shrugged the cramps from my shoulders and laid aside my pencil.  To my right, atop the wooden counter, was an array of medical paraphernalia, in various sizes and shapes.   Two rectangular metal trays stood to one side; each covered with several layers of loosely woven gauze.
            “This one?” I asked, reaching for the nearer of the two.
            “No, the other.   Bring it over and set it here by my elbow.”
            The tray weighed heavy in my hands.  I was surprised.  My movements stirred the sullen air and I was aware of a metallic odor—the smell of blood and death.  My nostrils flared in reaction and I breathed from my mouth in an attempt to circumvent a sudden watering deep in the back of my throat. Walking carefully across the wood floor, my eyes instinctively averted from Dr. Vinal, who had both hands thrust forearm-deep inside the midsection of the deceased.  Concentrating on the wide board floor, I could not help but hear the sounds of suction as Vinal foraged in the belly. I positioned the instrument tray near the edge of the table by his right arm, gloved in black rubber from tip to elbow. 
            Although I made every effort to keep my eyes averted, good peripheral vision sighted the gaping, grotesque cavity in the middle of the dead gentleman’s stomach.   I implored with the awkward air of a man who is asking a question in the hope of starting a conversation, “How much longer do you think you might be?”  I noticed what could only be a length of intestine stretching between the cavity and the end of Dr. Vinal’s forceps.  It grew longer as his arm rose—while I turned a greenish shade of queasy. 
            “I’m nearly finished,” he said, very business-like. “I’ve removed the contents of his stomach.  You’ll find it behind me, over there in the blue bowl. I’ve only to repackage and suture him up.”
            The silence between us resumed.  I stood opposite him, marveling at how sometimes, I found it difficult to strike a happy medium between the briskness of his superiority when he was engrossed in his work, and the geniality of us being equals.  After a few more minutes of stillness, I spoke again.
            “I’m rather curious to see if our rodent succumbs,” I said.  The idea of feeding stomach contents to one of the city’s feisty wharf rats was a brilliant idea on my part.  I continued,  “If the creature expires, we will know that whatever our fellow ate or drank was indeed poisoned!”
            “Hmm.  That remains to be seen,” Dr. Vinal said, turning his dark eyes upon me.  I met them full force from across the table.  There was a rather strong emotion gathering in their depths, which rose and deepened until I found myself asking, “You have your doubts, doctor?”
            “Not so much about the poisoning, but the type of poisoning used. I’m quite certain we will find this gentleman died of mercury poisoning.”
           “Mercury poisoning.  You mean the ‘Mad Hatter’s disease?’
           “Yes, I don’t believe it to be hemlock, as you might think.”
            “Why do you say that?”
            “Because our friend here has been using face powder for some time. You see, until just recently, manufacturers used mercury in all powder preparations as a stabilizer.  It has had a disastrous effect on the skin.  Look here,” he said, beckoning me toward the grayish colored face for a closer look.  “Look at this, see?”  He forced open the man’s mouth with a crossed finger movement, exposing severely recessed, ill-kept teeth and gums.  “And, look at his eyes. This poor fellow appears not to have slept in days.  A classic sign of mercury poisoning.  His condition upon arrival was in line with insidious poisoning from inhalation of the powder residue.  My nurse advised me that Hawkroy here, could barely walk, he trembled so—and his behavior was erratic when he arrived.  Hemlock, on the other hand, produces extreme bouts of vomiting and diarrhea, eventually leading to initial fasciculation, mydriasis, hypoventilation and cardiac arrest.
            “Dr. Vinal, kindly refrain from medical gobbledygook. Speak to me in layman’s terms.”
            “Our Mr. Hawkroy, in my opinion, died of mercury inhalation—all in a vain attempt to hide his vitiligo.
            I shot him a look of despair.  “What, pray tell doctor, is vit-te-go?”
           “Not vit-te-go,” he said patiently, “Vi-ti-leg-o,” he said pointing to several large patches of white around the eyes. “See it here.  It’s a disorder that causes white spots to appear on the skin, usually on both sides of the body in the same location. This appears to have originally started here—see how it has progressed down onto the cheeks?”  His gloved finger ran along the man’s face, following the trail of white splotches, like a map.  The color differential reminded me of peeled, sunburned skin in negative.   “Toward the end I suspect he most probably slobbered, was very nervous, irritable, and depressed.  And of course his gums. But, we shall see.  Here, hold this clamp.”
            “Oh my, I really haven’t the stomach for this,” I protested, feeling my last meal bubbling in my throat.  “Why do you always bring these bodies home to dissect?”
            “Are you suggesting I do this unauthorized autopsy—as a favor to you, I might add—in the infirmary where I could have my license suspended and be taken away by the authorities for unsolicited human desecration?”  He slapped the clamp into my hand.
            “No,” I said.  “I guess I much prefer you to steal the body, bring it home, lay it out on my kitchen table, slice it open and ask me to assist you!”
            A bitter jab of remorse made me feel guilty.  My dear friend was risking his reputation as well as his license to do me this favor.  Nevertheless, I had to know if Hawkroy was poisoned in order to silence him, and Dr. Vinal was my only hope. 
            I sneaked a quick peek at his face.  He seemed unaffected, concentrating on his work. One characteristic about our friendship, I knew, was that Vinal was always quick to forgive my lapses in feelings. 
          “Sorry old man. There was no need for me to react in such an ungrateful manner.  Perhaps I am a bit too eager to complete this investigation.  More so, a tad too insensitive to the risks you are taking in the name of our friendship.  Please accept my apologies.”
            “Well if you have no further comments, hold your clamp tight right there on that piece of flesh.”  He pointed to an eviscerated fold of skin.   I hesitantly fastened the serrated clamps upon it, feeling the ends bite into the flesh.  I immediately experienced shivers creeping up my forearms at the feel of it through the tongs.  Dr. Vinal guided me further—in my unsolicited career as his medical assistant.  “Yes, now pull it back toward you and hold it.  Good.”  I pursed my lips and stared straight over his right shoulder at the knobs adorning our cupboards with extreme interest.  “Very good.”  Observing my obvious discomfort he added, “I can always depend on your assistance in these matters, old friend.  Thank you.”
            “Yes, that you can, but nonetheless, hurry up. It’s half past the hour. This body needs to be back on the slab before dawn.”
            “I’m well aware of that.” Finishing the last of what surely was some attempt at sewing together the man’s insides, he said,  “Now will you take this gentleman’s arm so I can finish suturing the incision.”  He removed the clamps from my hand.  I gave up without argument and held up the dead man’s left arm, draped over the side of the kitchen table, somewhere in the vicinity of my right thigh.  It was cold—far colder than the room—and slightly stiff.  Certainly not at all like the living flesh one might expect to hold—or even recently dead flesh, for that matter.  My grip shied away until only my fingertips were in contact with the offending appendage. 
            “Wilkes!”
           I flinched with guilt.  I was not sure what I might have—or might not have—done correctly or incorrectly for that matter. “Not up in the air—hold it out.  You’re pulling the skin.  I’m trying to connect these flaps.” 
          I held the arm about six inches parallel to the man’s chest, through no knowledge of my own, simply because I did not know what else to do with it.  “Good, that’s perfect! Thank you.”
            Vinal sutured in silence.  I watched with some curiosity now that the major portion of the gentleman’s belly seemed back together.  He nimbly darned a running stitch up the outside of the man’s stomach, neatly pulling the skin together. I wondered, with morbid curiosity, why then—with such talent, that he so often gave his mending to Mrs. Emery to complete.  For some minutes, I watched, transfixed, as he expertly closed the incision. When he reached the upper most end, I inquired, “How did you manage to get him up here, if you don’t mind my asking?”
            “In a carpet.”
            “What?”
            “I wrapped him in a carpet. How else might I carry him in without Mrs. Emery’s knowledge? Fortunately for me, she was in the kitchen preparing dinner, and had no idea a dead body was making its way up her stairway.
            “To be autopsied on one of her kitchen tables, right above her head,” I offered.
            Not wishing to be outdone, Dr. Vinal tied a final knot.  He added with a mischievous smile, “With his stomach contents resting neatly in her favorite blue bowl!”
            “Naked!” I laughed. Vinal discretely covered Hawkroy’s male anatomy with a washing cloth. “Did you bring him here naked,” I asked, nodding toward the cloth, my curiosity getting the better of me.
            “Yes I did,” he said.  He peeled off his heavy black gloves.  “You can let go of his arm now.”
          I gladly laid the appendage on the table; wiped my hands on my trouser legs, and stepped away while Dr. Vinal untied his apron and hung it on a nearby hook near the sink.
          “Shall we feed the rodent first,” I asked.
            “No.  Our urgency at the moment lies in returning Mr. Hawkroy to the morgue.  He will need freshening up and redressing before morning.  I certainly would not want anyone to discover evidence of my unauthorized dissection, now would I?  We still have a great deal to do before daylight, so it’s in our best interest to hurry along.  You fetch the carpet. It’s outside, just down the hallway near the back.”
            “How are we to transport him,” I asked over my shoulder, heading toward the hallway door.  Secretly, I was glad to be away from the heavy air in the kitchen and only hoped that Vinal would throw open the windows before we left.
            “Mr. O’Reilly should be in a cab waiting outside.  I arranged for him to call back at midnight.”
            “I certainly hope you can trust…” 
            Dr. Vinal interrupted me in a tone that I knew he reserved for errant shopkeepers.   “Mr. O’Reilly will not say a word, you can be assured.”   He pulled up a drape from the bottom of the table.  It bloused out over the body before gently coming to rest in a life-like portrait of the man’s features and physique.