A Curtain Falls (10 page)

But I was in no mood to entertain a heart-to-heart discussion with Alistair.

I glanced at my pocket watch. “What time did your handwriting expert say he would meet us?”

The waiter resurfaced to refill our glasses of Bordeaux, though neither of us had taken more than two or three sips.

Alistair was perturbed by my impatience. “Dr. Vollman should be here momentarily.”

Another server— this one a young boy— brought over the oyster appetizer together with yet another strangely shaped fork. Alistair eagerly sampled one.

“Why not relax, enjoy the food and wine? These oysters on the half shell are delicious. Go ahead and try one.”

Aware that our waiter— who was now arranging dishes to accommodate the used shells— was watching me intently, I followed Alistair’s lead. It was not their briny taste that I disliked so much as their slippery, cold texture. I immediately took a large gulp of Bordeaux.

As if he sensed my lack of appreciation for what others considered a fine delicacy, the waiter frowned in disapproval. I stared back at him until he retreated once again from the table.

Alistair appeared not to notice my reaction, for he went on to say, “These are Blue Point oysters— a rare delight. The original Blue Points from the Long Island South Bay are now extinct, of course, but these transplanted ones are almost as good. They bring the oysters in from the Chesapeake and let them spend a few months in the Great South Bay before selling them.” He smacked his lips. “A pure delicacy. Not like the ones you’re used to in those all-you-can-eat places on Canal Street.”

I was sure he was right. But I had never been a fan of the Canal Street oyster bars, either. Though many New Yorkers considered oysters everyday fare, I had never enjoyed them— never liked the look of them. While their presentation here at Sherry’s was more elaborate than I’d ever seen, even so, they didn’t look appetizing.

“Are you sure your expert can help us? We might have found a better use for this time, talking with some of the players at the Garrick.”

Admittedly, I was second-guessing Alistair’s plan already. I had never fully appreciated what I thought amounted to blind devotion to new theories. And his track record was certainly
not impressive. He had been positive, based on his research and interviews, that he knew the man responsible for the brutal murder I had investigated last fall. And he had been dead wrong.

But Alistair’s laugh was relaxed and easy. “The actors and actresses will be available— and likely to talk more freely— right after the show. You did ask for my help, Ziele.” Alistair pointed this out with no small degree of self-satisfaction. “You can’t say you need me and then reject my advice.”

He refilled his glass with the Bordeaux— for I had apparently offended or frightened our too-helpful waiter— before he continued. “The art of handwriting analysis— and yes, admittedly it is an art, not a pure science— has been with us for hundreds of years. Did you know the first scientific treatise on the subject was a French work published in the early 1600s?”

Before I could respond, an elderly man, small but spry, approached us. He carried a brass cane, but as he did not appear to lean on the stick at all, I decided he employed it more for show than for need.

“Dr. Vollman.” Alistair stood up.

“Professor.” Dr. Vollman nodded in greeting to Alistair, even as he peered at me curiously from behind wire-rimmed glasses. “And you have a new assistant, I see?”

“This is Detective Simon Ziele, and I am assisting
him
in a new investigation,” Alistair said. “Ziele, I’d like you to meet Dr. Henry Vollman, a forensic expert on handwriting— and also a professor of sociology at New York University.”

“I see.” Dr. Vollman smiled as he eased himself into his chair, placing his cane against the table. “So how can I help you gentlemen?”

He waved away Alistair’s offer of a menu. “Perhaps just a touch of cognac. Yes, that would be nice. Something to take the chill from my bones.” He leaned toward me confidentially. “You’ll find as you get to be my age, that’s harder and harder to do.” Then he sighed dramatically as Alistair motioned to our waiter, who now came over reluctantly to take the order.

Moments later, Dr. Vollman had his drink, and Alistair and I were brought our main course. The spring lamb was served sliced over roast potatoes and accompanied by bright green asparagus. I’d had lamb many times before, but never like this. While I couldn’t be sure I fully appreciated the chef’s creative efforts, I knew I was eating something that was far from ordinary.

“Before we begin,” Alistair said diplomatically, “it would be helpful if you would explain to Detective Ziele something of what you do.”

“A novice to my branch of expertise, I presume.” Dr. Vollman sighed in mock exasperation, but he actually seemed pleased to have the opportunity to talk about his occupation. “First, I should tell you my line of work arose from the proliferation of forgeries our country has seen in recent decades. As our society becomes better educated, an unfortunate few are using their newfound skills for illicit purposes. Now more than ever, the law must know if a document is forged or if it is true. And from the close observation of experts, common principles of understanding have emerged.”

I interrupted him roughly, for he seemed to have digressed far afield. “But what we need to know has nothing to do with forgery.”

Dr. Vollman waved me off.

“Just because this line of inquiry began with forgery doesn’t mean its principles are limited only to the identification of forgers.” He made a noise of impatience. “Let me show you, and then you will understand.”

With a shaky, laborious movement, he pulled a notebook and pencil out of his coat and handed it to me. “Would you sign your name five times, please. Just as you normally would.”

Perplexed, I obliged, making a column of my signature.

Alistair’s barely repressed smile suggested he already knew the point of this exercise. Perhaps he had once been subjected to it himself.

“As you can see,” Dr. Vollman said, beaming with pride, “not only is each person’s handwriting unique from any other person’s, but no person writes the same thing the same way twice. Consider your own five signatures. See how they differ: in each case, your
Z
is a different height. Your
e
s vary in width. And even the length of your signature varies a good deal between your first and fifth attempt. Attempt number three is the longest by almost an eighth of an inch.”

I examined what I had written and had to admit he was right.

Alistair said, “And you were writing your signature in a fairly controlled environment: same time, same pencil, same paper. Imagine the slight variation caused by writing on different paper, with varied instruments— sometimes a pencil, sometimes a pen, each of them a different width. Sometimes you write in a rush; other times slowly and deliberately. And your writing surface may vary from wood to a desk pad to a notebook.”

“Aging influences your writing as well,” Dr. Vollman said
with a rueful smile. “My writing today is a frail, shaky affair compared to what it was when I was younger, like yourself.”

“Then how can analysis help us at all, if handwriting is so susceptible to environment and change?” I asked. I had begun to suspect this meeting was shaping up to be another of Alistair’s frustrating exercises, a game to provide intellectual amusement but no real information.

“Ah.” Dr. Vollman nodded sagely. “Because despite all these minor inconsistencies, there are things I can tell from your writing, based on close observation, that you cannot disguise however much you try.”

Dr. Vollman was obviously accustomed to defending his work from skeptics. He went on to instruct us, saying, “Look at the initial
S
in your first name. It has a distinctive loop that carries throughout each of your signatures . . . despite the size variation. Your leftward slant is consistent, your writing flows firmly with a bold stroke, and your letters are somewhat crowded together with minimal lifting. But more particularly—” he broke off, and his small gray eyes bored into my own, “I suspect you have not always written with your left hand. Something happened— an injury to your right arm or hand perhaps— that caused you to change the hand with which you write. Your signature strives to be firm and bold, but it is slow. There is a wavering, a shakiness if you will, that betrays the fact your signature is newly formed, not developed from the habit of years. This trait would also be found in a man who had developed arthritis. You are no longer young, but you are not yet old enough to suffer ailments of the joints. So it follows that you were injured, and your signature bears witness to the fact, like it or not.”

“Fair enough.” I was impressed with his discovery, but I didn’t want to show it. And what mattered was his opinion about our suspect’s writing, not mine. I handed him the Downs murder letter that Mulvaney had left us, and Alistair passed him the longer missive that
The Times
had received.

“What do you make of these?”

He did not answer, though it was clear he was giving each letter close attention.

“Not that we have any real doubt,” I said, summarizing, “but we assume you’ll confirm they’re by the same author. It’s the same blue paper from Crane’s and the same light, spidery handwriting. And we see similarities in how the
y
s, the
s
s, and the
w
s are formed in each letter. They are nearly identical.”

Dr. Vollman grunted, then picked up the first letter found next to Eliza Downs’s body. “What I tell you first about this, I suspect you already know. But to review: its content shows he is a well-educated man, familiar with poets like Browning. I see his spelling is accurate, and his word choice is formal, with no errors in usage or punctuation.” But when Dr. Vollman turned to the longer letter sent to
The Times,
his eyes were full of excitement, as though he were about to impart a particularly compelling secret. “Now this letter, however, is pure gold— at least in its value to you. Why, you ask? I will explain.”

He placed the letter before us so we might see, and even Alistair peered curiously as he waited to hear what Dr. Vollman would say.

Eventually he cleared his throat and spoke. “To the extent that any of this man’s writing will help you to identify and find him, this letter to
The Times
will do it. Because of its length, it reveals important information about the writer’s linguistic hab
its as well as his actual handwriting. Anyone can alter his phrasing and handwriting for a short while. But not for a longer missive. His writing is consistent throughout, so we can say with confidence that his true hand is at work.”

“Why is his tone so much more casual?” I asked, quoting from the letter: “ ‘Here’s your chance to cover the biggest story of the day. Your job?’ ”

“He’s writing for a different audience,” Alistair said quietly. “By reaching out to the papers— and specifically,
The Times
— he is communicating with people who were not there. People who did not know his victim, who did not see her body. So his point is less about what he’s done and more about who he is and what he wants.”

So, who was he? And what did he want?

I reread the message I found so troubling—
Hell Awaits
— and I shuddered in spite of myself. It was disturbing enough to have seen this killer’s victim this morning, but his writing about it struck me as even more menacing.

Dr. Vollman spoke again, drawing my attention back to the letter. “His true handwriting spacing is naturally wide, with frequent pen lifts. That movement of the pen is something ingrained in him. It would be nearly impossible for him to disguise it in any of his writing. You can compare.” He gestured to the first words of each letter. “Note that he attempts a severely angled leftward slant at the beginning of each letter. But it cannot hold. So by midletter,” and he showed us specifically, “he has reverted to his natural, slightly rightward slant. There is a loop to the tail of his
j
and
y
that I suspect is natural.”

Dr. Vollman was pleased with himself. He went on to say, “I can also tell you with some confidence that he is a man still in
the prime of his life. You may be tempted to think he is older, that he writes in a thin, frail hand.”

I nodded. I thought of the style as spidery.

“But to maintain it, given his cycle of pen movements and lifts, would be extremely unlikely were he truly an elderly man. As I have shown you, age increases irregularity— whereas his pen remains consistent.”

The doctor’s explanation had certainly been interesting, but I remained dubious it would actually help us identify the writer of these letters— absent our having the good fortune to come into a document penned in his own name. I said as much, and, to my surprise, he agreed with me.

“There are limits to what handwriting analysis can offer, Detective.” He smiled. “But what uses we have, I offer you freely.”

“So you can tell me nothing about his personality from his handwriting?” I asked. I had heard of so-called handwriting experts doing so, and I admit, that was what I had anticipated of this meeting.

“That would be a whole different kind of analysis, called graphology,” he responded soberly. “And while you may want to consult a graphologist to see if you learn anything of interest, be very cautious. That field is filled with charlatans who’ll take your money and give you nothing for it but the ramblings of their imagination that bear no relation to scientific thought.”