Pope Brock - Charlatan: Americas Most Dangerous Huckster, the Man Who Pursued Him, and the Age of Flimflam

Contents

For my daughters,
Molly and Hannah

Truth, sir, is a cow that will yield such people no more milk,
and so they are gone to milk the bull.

SAMUEL JOHNSON

Prologue

UNDER THE KNIFE, UNDER THE GUN
SEPTEMBER 15, 1930

E very member of the panel showed up for the demonstration, but the carload traveling from Kansas City was delayed by bad roads. It was nearly eleven A.M. before the stragglers finally arrived in Milford, a sketchy little town with an extraordinarily large post office on the banks of the Republican River.

Nearing the clinic, the driver looked for some shade to park in. There wasnt any. That summer had been the hottest ever recorded in Kansas, and instead of the usual jungles of corn, there were miles of shriveled stalks and cracked earth stretching off in all directions, nothing growing to speak of but a few cane-thin cottonwood trees. The birdcage shadow of the radio tower looked painted on the ground.

The screen door banged, and a couple of staffers came outside to welcome them. In a conference room the late arrivals found their fellow delegates and, even better, the lemonade.

Shortly afterward Dr. J. F. Hassig, president of the Kansas State Medical Board, and more than twenty colleagues and reporters clattered up the narrow-walled stairs to the second floor. Leading the way was the clinics second-in-command, Horatius Dwight Osborn, a symbol to some of doglike devotion, since Osborn had only one earor to be more precise, only one ear left.

The herd moved along the corridor. As they peered into patients rooms, looks of reserved surprise were discernible among the doctors. Envy perhaps? (A reporter noted that the facilities here surpassed for modernity, convenience and luxury the places in which their own carving was done.) There were sixteen private rooms, no two the same, but each graced with an overstuffed davenport, heartening artwork, bits of bric-a-brac: Mrs. Brinkleys touch, no doubt. Country music floated from bedside radios. What the visitors were seeing, in short, was a rare marriage of charm and the healing arts, and to have such a renowned physicianfor Dr. John R. Brinkley, M.D., Ph.D., M.C., LL.D., D.P.H., Sc.D., was now a world figurechoose such an unassuming little town as Milford, Kansas, for his medical mecca made its personal feel all the more personal.

Inspection complete, the group returned to the first floor. There they mused among the exhibits in the so-called trophy room, where the doctor kept some of his odder removals on display.

Then through a window someone spied their hostthe Burbank of Humanity, the Chinese called himheading toward the building. Brisk, rather short, with a sandy Vandyke, Dr. Brinkley was dressed in full medical regalia and a surgeons cap. He carried his mask in his hand. In the downstairs hall he shook hands with several of his guests. He seemed quite calm: a vessel of intellect oblivious to pressure. Of course he had performed his famous procedure hundreds of times but rarely with such a distinguished audience.

Another handclasp, a wave of thanks to the rest, and the doctor disappeared into the operating room. An aide passed out sterile robes to everyone. When the last bow was tied, another assistant pushed back the door.

This way, gentlemen.

It was a tight fit. The twelve members of the state medical board, four other observing surgeons, and of course the press with their marginal manners all had to wedge themselves into the room as best they could, taking care to leave sufficient space for Brinkleys staffand for the man on the table, whom the doctor now introduced.

This is Mr. X, he said.

There were mumbled hellos. Mr. Xidentified as a fifty-five-year-old mail carriersmiled but did not speak.

At a nod from her husband Mrs. Brinkley, wearing spectacles and a trapezoidal cap, came forward and gave the patient a local anesthetic, injecting him twice just below the waistline. Other aides toyed with the umbrella-frame lighting system overhead, tilting and focusing each bulb till the doctor was satisfied.

Then an orderly brought up the goat from the basement.

Why the goat was being kept downstairs was never explained. Ordinarily they resided in pens outside in the fresh aireven now the baaing of others could be heard through the open window. No matter; what counted was that this particular goat, a three-to four-week-old male, was Mr. Xs personal choice.

The trembling animal was placed, hoofs clattering, on a side table. Then Mrs. Brinkley drew a chair up close to it and sat. Her fingertips, freshly dipped in antiseptic, played in a tray of shining instruments. A nurse stood by with a nest of gauze.

While the orderly held the goats head, the doctors wife brushed part of its underbelly with Mercurochrome. Then she picked up a small pair of scissors.

Someone down the hall heard the bleating of the goat ringing through the corridors.

The nurse held out her hands, and Mrs. Brinkley deposited the testicles one by one onto the gauze. As the doctor donned rubber gloves, the glands were transferred to a stainless-steel tray and placed beside him.

The patient lay lightly strapped down, a wet towel on his forehead. Dr. Brinkley inspected each gland closely, then raised his mask and set to work.

No one who was at the institution for this unusual display of a surgical performance went away doubting that [Brinkley] has nerve, reported the Kansas City Journal-Post.

Aside from Brinkley himself, those closest to the table were Drs. Nesselrode, Edgerton, Orr, and Carr, the four official spectators charged with making a scientific report on what they saw. Dr. Brinkley, however, took care that everyone had a clear view, standing back from time to time to explain another step of the so-called four-phase compound operation. Dr. Hassig, who also took precise notes, saw the doctor first make twin incisions in the patients scrotum, slitting it and injecting each way through a blunt needle about two ccs of one-half percent Mercurochrome, after which a fresh goat testis was implanted on each side and then sutured to the loose tissue.

The procedure was supposed to take ten minutes. At fifteen, the spectators began to exchange glances. Dr. Brinkley abandoned explanations and bent more closely to his work. Twenty minutes, thirty. Although he betrayed no alarm, more than one of those watching felt that first touch of dread at the temples, a faraway fear that the patient mightShould someone intervene? Doubtless sensing the uneasiness, the doctor paused briefly to lower his mask and give a smile of reassurance. Then he returned to his labors.

A full forty-five minutes passed before he drew the last catgut stitch and stepped back. Assisted by a nurse, Mr. X sat up dizzily, swung his legs over the side, pitched a bit to the right, but was caught and steadied. He took a few breaths. Then he slid off the table and, with a drunkards dignity, exited the room.

Dr. Brinkley took off his mask. While pronouncing the operation a success, he spoke candidly about the unexpected complications. He suggested without quite saying so that they had been a lucky thing, allowing him to demonstrate skills and resourcefulness that might otherwise have gone untested. If any of you gentlemen have patients that you feel need attention of this kind, he concluded suavely, we will be glad to handle them here.

The members of the Kansas State Medical Board thanked him and took their leave, repairing en masse to the Barfell House in nearby Junction City for lunch.