The Alienist (18 page)

I folded the paper and tapped it slowly against my leg. “This is very bad.”

“Bad,” Kreizler said, controlling his anger, “but done. And we must try to undo it. Moore, is there any chance that you can persuade your editors to run a piece in the
Times
denouncing all this as speculation?”

“It’s possible,” I answered. “But it would tip them off to my involvement in the investigation. And they’d probably have someone dig deeper once they knew that much—the connection to the Zweigs is going to make a lot of people a lot more interested in this.”

“Yes, if we attempt to counteract this, I suspect we’ll only make things worse,” Theodore pronounced. “Steffens must be told to keep quiet, and we must hope that the article is ignored.”

“How can it be?!” Laszlo erupted. “Even if every other person in this city fails to pay attention, there is
one
who will see it—and I fear, I truly
fear,
his reaction!”

“And do you imagine that I don’t, Doctor?” Theodore countered. “I knew the press would interfere eventually—that’s why I urged you to hurry your efforts. You can hardly expect to go for weeks without
someone
mentioning the matter!”

Theodore put his hands to his hips, and Kreizler turned away, unable to say anything in reply. After a few moments Laszlo spoke again, more calmly, this time. “You’re right, Commissioner. Instead of arguing we should be making use of the opportunity we have now. But for God’s sake, Roosevelt—if you must share official business with Riis and Steffens, make this an exception.”

“There’s no need to worry on that account, Doctor,” Roosevelt answered, in a conciliatory tone. “This isn’t the first time Steffens has annoyed me with his speculations—but it will be the last.”

Kreizler shook his head in disgust once more, then shrugged. “Well, then. To work.”

We joined the Isaacsons and Sara. Marcus was busy taking detailed photographs of the body as Lucius continued his postmortem, calling out the injuries in a flurry of medical and anatomical jargon, his voice steady and full of purpose. Indeed, it was remarkable how little either detective displayed those quirks of behavior that were usually a cause of laughter or consternation in observers: they moved around the rooftop in a flurry of cerebral inspiration, locking onto apparently insignificant details like trained dogs and taking charge of business as if they, not Roosevelt or Kreizler, were directing the investigation. As their efforts continued, all of us, even Theodore, lent them every possible assistance, taking notes, holding pieces of equipment and lights, and generally making sure that there was no need for either of them to break their concentration even for a moment.

Once he had finished photographing the body, Marcus left Lucius and Sara to complete their grim work and began to “dust” the rooftop for fingerprints, using the small vials of aluminum and carbon powders that he’d shown us at Delmonico’s. Roosevelt, Kreizler, and I, meanwhile, went to work finding surfaces that might be smooth and hard enough to “hold” such prints: door handles, windows, even an apparently new ceramic chimney that ran along the side of the decagonal tower just a few feet from where the body lay. This last site was the one that bore fruit, primarily because, Marcus told us, the watchman had rather lazily allowed the fire downstairs to go out hours earlier. By a particularly clean section of the glazed ceramic, at about the point where a man of the height Marcus and Lucius had posited for our killer would have rested his hand were he leaning against the chimney for support, Marcus put his face close and grew agitated. He told Theodore and me to hold up a small tarpaulin that would block the wind that blew in off the harbor. Then he spread the carbon powder on the chimney with a delicate camel’s hair brush and produced, one can only say magically, a set of smudgelike prints. Their position was exactly consistent with the hypothetical lean of the killer.

Taking the photograph of Sofia Zweig’s bloodstained thumb from his coat pocket, Marcus held it up against the chimney. Laszlo moved close and watched the whole process carefully. Marcus’s dark eyes went very wide as he studied the prints, and they were positively afire when he turned to Kreizler and said, in a notably controlled voice, “It looks like a match.” At that, he and Kreizler went for the big camera, while Theodore and I continued to hold the tarp. Marcus took several close shots of the prints, the burst of the flash powder illuminating the whole roof area but quickly dissipating in the blackness out over the harbor.

Next Marcus had us inspect the ledges of the roof for, as he put it, “Any signs of disturbance or activity—even the smallest chips, cracks, or holes in its masonry.” Now, a building that faces New York harbor is going to have a lot of chips, cracks, and holes in its masonry; but we dutifully set about the task, Roosevelt, Kreizler, and myself each shouting when we located something that seemed to conform to our vague instructions. Marcus, whose attention was focused on a sturdy railing that surmounted the front of the roof, ran over to inspect each of these finds. Most of the sightings proved false; but on the very back of the roof, in the darkest, most hidden corner of the structure, Roosevelt found some marks that Marcus evidently thought bore immense potential.

His next request was rather odd: having taken a rope and tied one end around his waist, he wrapped the bulk of the coil around a section of the roof’s front railing and then handed it to Roosevelt and me. We were instructed to let the rope out as Marcus descended along the rear wall of the fort. When we asked the purpose behind this, Marcus only said that he was working on a theory about the killer’s method of reaching apparently inaccessible spots. So great was the detective sergeant’s fixation on his work, along with our own desire not to distract him, that we asked for no further explanation.

As we lowered him down the wall, Marcus occasionally made noises of discovery and satisfaction, then told us to lower him further. Roosevelt and I would then grunt and struggle again with the rope. In the midst of all this, I took the opportunity to acquaint Kreizler (who, with his bad arm, had elected not to assist us) with the thoughts concerning the occupation and habits of our killer that had occurred to me on the way downtown. His reaction was thoughtful, though mixed:

“You may have something with the notion of his being a regular customer at the houses where these boys work, Moore. But as for the man’s being a transient of some kind…” Laszlo strolled over to watch Lucius Isaacson work. “Consider what he’s done—deposited six bodies, six that we know of, in increasingly public places.”

“It does,” Theodore said with a small roar as we let out more rope, “suggest a man familiar with the city.”

“Intimately familiar,” Lucius threw in, having heard our comments. “There’s no sense of haste about these injuries. The cuts aren’t jagged or ripped. So he probably wasn’t in any particular hurry. My guess would be that, in this and every other case, he’s known exactly how long he has to do his work. He probably selects his sites accordingly. That would match our previous assumption that he’s a capable planner. And the work with the eyes, again, reveals a very careful, steady hand—as well as a fair knowledge of anatomy.”

Kreizler considered that for a moment. “How many men would be capable of it, Detective Sergeant?”

Lucius shrugged. “We’ve got several options as I see it. A doctor, of course, or at least someone with more than cursory medical training. A skilled butcher, possibly—or perhaps a very practiced hunter. Someone accustomed to making full use of a carcass, who would know not only how to dress the principal meat sections but the secondary sources of food, as well—the eyes, innards, feet, and the rest.”

“But if he’s so careful,” Theodore asked, “why commit these atrocities in the open? Why not go to a more hidden place?”

“The display,” Kreizler answered, walking back to us. “The thought that he’s in a publicly accessible spot seems to mean a great deal to him.”

I said, “The desire to be caught?”

Kreizler nodded. “So it would appear. Dueling with the desire to escape.” He turned to look out over the harbor. “And there are other aspects that these sites have in common…”

Just then we got a loud shout from Marcus telling us to pull him up. On Theodore’s count we gave out with several long, laborious heaves, bringing Marcus quickly back to the rooftop. To Kreizler’s questions about what he’d found, Marcus replied that he didn’t wish to speculate until he was fairly certain of his theory; he then moved off to make a few notes, as Lucius called out:

“Dr. Kreizler? I’d like you to look at this.”

Kreizler went immediately over to the body, but Theodore and I moved with more trepidation—there was only so much of it the untrained eye could take. Even Sara, who had started out so bravely, was now averting her eyes whenever possible, the prolonged exposure apparently exacting quite an emotional toll.

“When you examined Giorgio Santorelli, Doctor,” Lucius said, as he removed the short length of twine that bound the dead boy’s wrists, “do you remember finding any abrasions or lacerations in this area?” He held up the victim’s left hand, indicating its base.

“No,” Kreizler answered simply. “Other than the severing of the right hand there was nothing appreciable.”

“And no lacerations or bruising of the forearm?” Lucius inquired.

“None.”

“Yes. It would support what we’ve already hypothesized.” Lucius let the dead arm drop, then mopped his brow. “That’s fairly coarse twine,” he continued, pointing first at the bit of cord on the rooftop, and then at the boy’s wrist again. “Even during a brief struggle it should have left significant marks.”

Sara looked from the twine to Lucius. “Then—there was no struggle?” And in the way she said it there was real sadness, sadness that reverberated heavily in my chest—for the implication was obvious. Lucius went on to state it:

“It’s my suspicion that the boy allowed himself to be tied, and that even during strangulation, he made very little attempt to fight against the murderer. He may not have been fully aware of what was happening. You see, if there’d been an attack and actual resistance, we’d also find cuts or at least bruises on the forearms, made when the boy tried to fend the assault off. But again, there’s nothing. So…” Lucius glanced up at us. “I’d say the boy knew the killer. They may even have engaged in this kind of binding on other occasions. For…sexual purposes, in all likelihood.”

Theodore sucked air sharply. “Good lord…”

Watching Sara’s face again, I saw a glint in the corners of her eyes: welling tears that she blinked away quickly.

“That last part’s just a theory, of course,” Lucius added. “But I feel very confident in saying the boy knew him.”

Kreizler nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing and his voice going soft: “Knew him—and trusted him.”

Lucius finally stood and turned away from the body. “Yes,” he said, switching the worklamp off.

At that, Sara got to her feet in a sudden movement and rushed to the edge of the roof farthest from where we were standing. The rest of us glanced at each other questioningly, and then I went after her. Approaching slowly, I saw that she was looking out at Lady Liberty, and I confess to some surprise at not finding her heaving with sobs. Instead her body was quite still, even rigid. Without turning she said:

“Please don’t come any closer, John.” Her tone, far from hysterical, was icily even. “I’d rather not have any men around me. Just for a moment.”

I stood awkwardly still. “I’m—sorry, Sara. I only wanted to help. You’ve seen a lot tonight.”

She let out a bitter little chuckle. “Yes. But there’s nothing you can do to help.” She paused, but I didn’t leave. “And to think,” she continued at length, “that we actually thought it might have been a woman…”

“Thought?”
I said. “So far as I know, we still haven’t ruled it out.”

“Perhaps the rest of you haven’t. I don’t suppose you could be expected to. You’re working at a disadvantage, in that area.”

I turned when I felt a presence at my side and found Kreizler carefully moving closer. He indicated silence to me as Sara spoke on:

“But I can tell you, John—that’s a man’s work, back there. Any woman who would have killed the boy wouldn’t have…” She groped for words. “All that stabbing, binding, and poking…I’ll never understand it. But there’s no mistaking it, once you’ve…had the experience.” She chuckled once grimly. “And it always seems to begin with trust…” There was another very awkward pause, during which Kreizler touched my arm and with a movement of his head told me to return to the other side of the roof. “Just leave me for a few minutes, John,” Sara finally finished. “I’ll be fine.”

Kreizler and I moved away quietly, and when we were out of Sara’s hearing Laszlo murmured, “She’s right, of course. I’ve never come across any feminine mania—puerperal or otherwise—that could compare to this. Though it probably would have taken me a ridiculously long time to realize it. We must find more ways to take advantage of Sara’s perspective, John.” He glanced around quickly. “But first we must get out of here.”

While Sara remained at the edge of the roof, the rest of us set to work gathering up the Isaacsons’ equipment and removing all traces of our presence, primarily the little splotches of aluminum and carbon powder that dotted the area. As we did so, Marcus initiated a conversation concerning the fact that half of the six murders we now felt confident assigning to our killer had occurred on rooftops: a significant fact, for rooftops in the New York of 1896 were secondary but nonetheless well-worn routes of urban travel, lofty counterparts to the sidewalks below that were full of their own distinctive types of traffic. Particularly in the tenement slums, a broad but definable range of people sometimes did a full day’s business without ever descending to the street—not only creditors seeking payment, but settlement and church workers, salesmen, visiting nurses, and others. Rents in the tenements were generally scaled in proportion to the amount of exertion required to reach a given flat, and thus the most unfortunate residents occupied the top floors of buildings. Those who had business with these poorest of the poor, rather than braving the steep and often dangerous staircases repeatedly, would simply move from one high floor to another by way of the rooftops. True, we still didn’t know just how our man was getting
to
those rooftops; but it was clear that once there he made his way around with great skill. The possibility that he had once held, or currently did hold, one of those roof-traveling jobs was therefore worth exploring.