The Alienist

  I spent several minutes debating whether or not I should call on an actress with whom I’d passed many days (and still more nights) since the end of the Julia Pratt business; and then, for no reason that I could divine, my thoughts turned to Mary Palmer. Bad as I felt, she must have been feeling worse, if what Sara had said to me was true. Why not make a quick trip up to Stuyvesant Park, I mused, and give the girl an afternoon out? Kreizler might not approve; but Kreizler was off having a pleasant day with a splendid girl, and his complaints were therefore invalid. (Thus did spite work its inevitable way into my thoughts.) Yes, as I walked by the new arch at the north end of Washington Square Park, the idea only grew more appealing—but where exactly to take the girl?

  On Broadway I corralled several paperboys, and relieved them of some of their wares. The previous night’s events at Castle Garden received much attention on the front pages. Apparently there was growing concern over the mood in the immigrant neighborhoods. A citizens’ committee was being formed to go to City Hall and express concern about both the murders and, more emphatically, the possible effect of those crimes on civic order. All of which meant little or nothing to me at that particular moment—I quickly turned to the entertainment pages. The pickings seemed slim, until I caught a notice for Koster and Bial’s theater on Twenty-third Street. In addition to singers, gymnastic comedians, and a Russian clown, Koster and Bial were offering a program of short projected films, the first ever in New York, according to the notice. It seemed the right fare, and the theater was certainly convenient to Kreizler’s house. I grabbed the first cab I saw.

  Mary was alone in the house on Seventeenth Street when I arrived, and in as depressed a mood as I’d expected to find her. She was also, at first, very resistant to the idea of venturing out. She looked away from me and shook her head vigorously, pointing around the rooms as if to indicate that her housekeeping chores were too extensive for her to even consider such an idea. But I had been inspired by the notion of cheering someone up: I described the bill at Koster and Bial’s with rare zest and to her wary glances replied that the outing would be nothing more than an expression of thanks for the excellent early morning breakfast. Reassured and obviously excited, she soon gave in and fetched her coat, as well as a small black hat. Not a sound escaped her as we went out of the house, but she smiled in a very pleased and grateful way.

  For an idea that had grown out of such questionable feelings, this turned out to be a remarkably good one. We got into our seats at Koster and Bial’s, a very average theater of only moderate capacity, just as a music hall comedy team from London was winding up its performance. We were in time for the Russian clowns, whose silent antics Mary quite enjoyed. The comedic gymnasts, who threw barbs and jokes at each other while executing some truly remarkable physical feats, were also good, though I could have lived without the French singers and a rather strange dancer who followed them. The audience was large but good-natured, and Mary seemed to enjoy watching them almost as much as the acts.

  There were no wandering eyes, however, when a glittering white screen descended across the proscenium and the house went completely black. Light flashed from somewhere behind us, and then there was near-panic in the first few rows when we were all faced with the image of a wall of blue seawater seemingly crashing into the theater. Naturally, none of us was familiar with the phenomenon of projected images, an experience that in this case had been heightened by the hand-tinting of the black-and-white film. After order had been restored in the theater and the first offering, “Sea Waves,” had come to an end, we were treated to eleven other brief subjects, including a pair of “Burlesque Boxers,” and some less amusing pictures of the German kaiser reviewing his troops. Sitting there in that nondescript theater one hardly had the sense that one was witnessing the advent of a new form of communication and entertainment that would, in the hands of such modern masters as D. W. Griffith, drastically change not only New York City but the world; I was far more concerned with the fact that those flickering, tinted images brought Mary Palmer and me closer together for a brief time, relieving the loneliness that was for me transitory and for her a permanent aspect of existence.

  It wasn’t until we were back out on the street that my mental repose was turned to restless inquisitiveness by the training I’d struggled through during the last several weeks. As I watched my very pleased, very attractive companion enjoying the cold, bright afternoon, I wondered: How could this girl have killed her father? I fully appreciated that there were few things so reprehensible as a man violating his own daughter; but there were other girls who’d endured the experience without chaining the guilty party to a bed and roasting him alive. What had pushed Mary to the act? The beginnings of an explanation, I soon realized, were quite easy to detect even years after the fact. As Mary watched the dogs and pigeons in Madison Square Park, or when her blue eyes were captured by such glittering treasures as the enormous golden statue of naked Diana atop the square spire of Madison Square Garden, her lips moved as if to give expression to her pleasure—and then her jaws clamped closed, her face displaying a fear of what incoherent, humiliating noises might emerge should she try to speak. I remembered that Mary had been considered idiotic in her youth; and most children are anything but kind to idiots. In addition, her mother had considered her fit for nothing more than charwork. Thus by the time her father’s sexual advances began, Mary must already have been so frustrated and tormented that she was near ready to explode. Removal of any one of these disadvantages and wretched experiences might have changed the outcome of her life; together, they wove a fatal pattern.

  Perhaps life had been very similar for our killer, I posited as Mary and I entered Madison Square Garden in order to have a cup of tea in the arcade restaurant on the roof. By now I had realized that a companion’s extensive chatter only made Mary feel more keenly her inability to participate verbally, so I began to communicate through smiles and gestures, privately pursuing what seemed a fertile line of psychological reasoning as I did so. With Mary sipping her tea and craning her neck in order to gather all the sights that were available from the excellent vantage point of the Garden’s roof arcade, I remembered what Kreizler had said the night before: that violence, for our murderer, had been the childhood starting point. In all likelihood that meant beatings administered by adults—such would fit with Laszlo’s theory that there were both self-protective and vengeful instincts at work in the man. But thousands of young boys suffered such torment. What had pushed this one, like Mary, over a seemingly indefinable but very real line into violence? Had he, too, suffered from some crippling impairment or deformity that during his youth made him an object of derision and scorn, not only on the part of adults, but of other children as well? And, having endured this, had he gone on to suffer (again like Mary) some sort of outrageous, degrading sexual assault?

  It still seems odd that so lovely a girl as Mary Palmer should have inspired me to such grim cogitations; but odd or no, I felt I was onto something, and wanted to get Mary back to Kreizler’s place so that I could meet Marcus Isaacson on time and share my thoughts with him. I felt a bit bad about ending an outing that had brought Mary such apparent joy—by the time we reached Stuyvesant Park she was absolutely radiant—but she also had duties to attend to; and her mind was brought back to them in a rush, I could see, when she spotted Kreizler’s calash sitting outside the house on Seventeenth Street.

  Stevie was brushing the horse Frederick down, while Kreizler was standing and smoking a cigarette on the small iron balcony that ran outside the French windows of the parlor on the second floor. Both Mary and I braced for trouble as we entered the small front yard; and we were both surprised when a very genuine smile came into Kreizler’s face. He took out his silver watch, checked the time, and spoke in a cheerful voice:

  “You two must have had quite an afternoon—was Mr. Moore a satisfactory host, Mary?”

  Mary smiled and nodded, then rushed to the front door. There she turned and, after removing th
e small black hat, said “Thank you” with a big smile and only a trace of difficulty. Then she disappeared inside, and I looked up at Kreizler.

  “I believe we may yet get spring, John,” he said, indicating Stuyvesant Park with a wave of his cigarette. “Despite the cold, the trees are budding.”

  “I thought you’d still be on Long Island,” I answered.

  He shrugged. “There’s little for me to learn there. Sara, on the other hand, seemed quite fascinated by Mrs. Hulse’s attitude toward her children, so I left her. It may prove very useful for her, and she can take a train back tonight.” That seemed a bit strange, given the theories I’d cooked up earlier that day; but Kreizler’s manner was quite normal. “Will you come up for a drink, John?”

  “I’ve got to meet Marcus at five—we’re going to explore the Golden Rule. Any interest?”

  “A great deal of interest,” he answered. “But it will be better if I’m not seen in too many places associated with the case. I trust the pair of you to take copious mental notes. Remember—the keys will be in the details.”

  “Speaking of that,” I said, “I’ve had some ideas that I think may be useful.”

  “Excellent. We’ll discuss them at dinner. Telephone me at the Institute when you’ve finished. I’ve a few things to see to there.”

  I nodded and turned to depart; but my perplexity was too strong to leave matters so unresolved.

  “Laszlo?” I said uncertainly. “You’re not angry that I took Mary out this afternoon?”

  He shrugged simply again. “You didn’t discuss the case with her?”

  “No.”

  “Then, on the contrary, I’m grateful. Mary isn’t exposed to enough people and new experiences. I’m sure it will have an excellent effect on her disposition.”

  And that was that. I turned back around and headed through the gate, leaving behind the slight inkling into the behavior of my friends that I thought I’d achieved that morning. I got onto the Third Avenue El at Eighteenth Street and headed downtown, trying to keep my thoughts away from other people’s personal business and on the case. By the time we passed Cooper Square, I was actually succeeding; and when I met Marcus at Fourth Street, I was ready to pay close attention to his most recent theories on our murderer’s method, a recitation that took up most of our time during the march across town to the Golden Rule Pleasure Club.

  CHAPTER 17

  * * *

  The notion of our killer’s being an experienced mountain and rock climber had first occurred to Marcus, he explained, when I brought the boy Sally’s story back from Paresis Hall. But when he’d tried to find evidence of such activity at the Williamsburg Bridge anchor, and then at the Hall, he’d come up with almost nothing, and thought of abandoning the idea. His mind kept being brought back to the idea, however, by the speed with which the man had negotiated some pretty tricky spots, as well as by the absence of any ladders or other, more conventional climbing apparatus. There could be no other explanation, to Marcus’s way of thinking: the murderer had to be using advanced mountaineering techniques to get in and out of the windows of his intended victims’ rooms. That the man was especially expert was indicated by the fact that he must have been carrying the boys when he left the buildings, since they almost certainly knew nothing about climbing. All of this was consistent with the idea, already stated by the Isaacsons at Delmonico’s, that the killer was a big, powerful man. Faced with all these considerations, Marcus had done some more detailed research into climbing techniques, and returned to the bridge anchor and Paresis Hall.

  This time, his better-trained eye had indeed found marks on the exterior walls of Ellison’s joint that could have been left by a climber’s nail-studded boots, as well as by pitons, large steel spikes that climbers drive into rock with hammers for direct hand and foot support, and also as anchors for ropes. The marks were hardly conclusive, so he hadn’t mentioned them at any of our meetings. But at Castle Garden Marcus had discovered distinctive rope fibers along the rear edge of the rooftop: a further suggestion that the killer was a climber. The fibers seemed to lead to the front railing of the roof, which turned out to be very solidly anchored. That had been the point at which Marcus had told us to lower him down the rear wall of the fort, where he found more marks that matched those he’d discovered at the Hall. At that point, Marcus had begun to work out a probable sequence of events for the Castle Garden killing:

  The murderer, with his latest victim on his back, had climbed to the roof of the fort using pitons. (The watchman hadn’t noticed the sound of the hammering because, Marcus had learned, he actually spent most of his time sleeping, a fact of which Marcus was sure the killer was aware.) Once on the roof, our man had committed the murder, then wrapped a rope around the front railing and rappelled back to the ground. This last was a European term for the technique of descending a sheer mountainside by way of a rope that had been looped around a secure anchor point above. Both strands of the rope were then dropped, so that the whole could be pulled down by the climber when he reached the bottom. As our killer lowered himself along the wall, he’d been able to remove the pitons he’d used for support earlier.

  Satisfied with his reasoning, Marcus had first attempted to find specific evidence to support it at Paresis Hall, since the Santorelli murder was long past and there weren’t likely to be any policemen around. But then he’d realized that at the Hall the killer would have been descending from the roof, not coming up from the ground, and probably wouldn’t have used pitons at all (the marks Marcus had originally thought to be left by pitons at that site were therefore made by something else, probably something altogether unconnected to our case). So Marcus had returned to Castle Garden just before meeting me, and continued a search of the grounds that he’d barely begun the night before—I’d been right when I thought he was looking for something just before our hasty departure from that place. The few cops who were positioned at Castle Garden that afternoon were nowhere near the rear entrance of the fort, and so Marcus had been free to scour that area.

  At this point in his tale, my companion reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a rather innocuous steel spike that he’d discovered lying in some grass. The thing had an eye at one end: for securing ropes, Marcus told me. He’d dusted the piton for prints once he’d gotten it home, and found a set that exactly matched those we’d taken from the ceramic chimney the night before. I had to give the man a firm, admiring slap on the back, at that: Marcus was as dogged as any detective I’d met during the years I’d been covering the police beat, and considerably more intelligent. It was small wonder he hadn’t gotten along with the old guard at the Division of Detectives.

  For the remainder of our walk Marcus went on to explain the larger implications of his discovery. Though mountaineering hadn’t really caught on as a form of recreation in North America as of 1896, in Europe the sport was well established. Throughout the last century, expert teams on that continent had knocked off peaks in the Alps and the Caucasus, and one intrepid German had even ventured to East Africa and conquered Mount Kilimanjaro. Nearly all these groups, Marcus told me, had been either English, Swiss, or German; and in those countries mountain and rock climbing of a less ambitious nature had become a very popular form of recreation. Given that our killer displayed what could only be called expertise, it was likely that he’d been exposed to the sport quite a long time ago, perhaps even in his youth; and it was therefore very possible that his family had immigrated to America from one of those three European nations in the not-too-distant past. That might not mean much just at the moment; but it was easy to see that, when added to other crucial factors further down the road, it could become highly illuminating. In such knowledge there was real cause for hope.

  We would need an abundant reservoir of that particular emotion during our visit to the Golden Rule Pleasure Club, a pestilential little hole that could not have had a more sadly ironic name. Paresis Hall at least had the advantages of being aboveground and fairly roomy; the Gold
en Rule was housed in a dank, cramped basement that had been divided into small “rooms” by shoddy partitions, where any one client’s activities were made known to everyone in the place by sound if not by sight. Run by a large, repulsive woman called Scotch Ann, the Golden Rule offered only effeminate young boys who painted themselves, spoke in falsetto voices, and called each other by women’s names, leaving the other variations on male homosexual behavior to joints like Ellison’s. In 1892 the Golden Rule had gained notoriety when the Reverend Charles Parkhurst, a Presbyterian pastor and head of the Society for the Prevention of Crime, had visited the place during his campaign to bare the links between New York’s criminal underworld and various agencies of the city government, particularly the Police Department. Parkhurst, a strong, noble-looking fellow who was far more tolerable than most antivice crusaders, had enlisted a private detective, Charlie Gardner, as a guide for the odyssey. Charlie was an old friend of mine, and he’d immediately invited me to come along on what promised to be a thoroughly entertaining spree.

  By 1892, however, the fires of my youth had begun to cool, and I’d started to make a strong run at mending my reprobate ways. Wondering if perhaps there wasn’t something to the idea of a stable, peaceful existence, both professional and domestic, I’d fixed my eyes on Washington politics and Julia Pratt, and was not prepared to jeopardize either my journalistic or my romantic standing by throwing in with Charlie Gardner for even one night. Thus my only contribution to Reverend Parkhurst’s soon-to-be-famous adventure was a short list of dives and hells that I thought the group should visit. Visit them they did, along with many other centers of infamy; and subsequent written accounts of Parkhurst’s exposure to the realm of vice generally—and to the Golden Rule in particular—made polite society’s hair stand on end.