In a hospital room in Newark, New Jersey, Arthur Flegenheimer lay between crisp white sheets. He was busy dying. This was in that other country called the past, where they do things differently; 23-24 October, 1935, to be exact. No matter how well paid the medical staff were - the ambulance people alone had been given a whopping $700(1) - people died of peritonitis, whether caused by a ruptured appendix, which was more usual, or by a single rusty bullet ricocheting through the lower torso before exiting out the back of this particular victim who now lay, drugged, barely conscious, and with a body temperature of 106°2, fighting a futile battle for his life.
