“Enough,” Kreizler pressed, “to complicate a solution?”
“Doctor!” Kelly feigned shock. “I’ve got half a mind to be insulted.” The gangster flipped open a lid on the head of his cane, revealing a small compartment full of a fine crystalline powder. “Gentlemen?” he said, offering it our way. Laszlo and I both declined. “Gets the system moving at this ungodly hour of the day.” Kelly placed some of the cocaine on his wrist and snorted it hard. “I don’t like to give the appearance of some cheap burny blower, but I’m not much for the morning. Anyway, Doctor”—he wiped at his nose with a fine silk handkerchief and closed the lid of the cane—“I wasn’t aware that there’d been any serious attempt to solve this case.” He stared straight at Kreizler. “Do you know something I don’t know?”
Neither Kreizler nor I answered the question, which prompted Kelly to go on, sarcastically but at length, about the appalling lack of any serious official effort to solve the murders. Finally, the brougham lurched to a fortuitous halt on the west side of Central Park. Laszlo and I stepped out onto the intersection of Seventy-seventh Street, hoping that Kelly would now let the matter drop; but as we got to the curb the gangster poked his head out behind us.
“Well, it’s been my honor, Dr. Kreizler,” he called. “You, too, scribbler. One final question, though—you don’t imagine that the big boys are actually going to let you finish this little investigation of yours, do you?”
I was taken too off guard to reply; but Kreizler had evidently adjusted to the situation and replied, “I can only answer that question with another, Kelly—do you intend to let us finish?”
Kelly cocked his head and looked at the morning sky. “To tell you the truth, I hadn’t thought about that. I didn’t think I’d have to. These murders really have been very useful to me, as I say. If you were actually to jeopardize that usefulness—ah, but what am I saying? With what you’re up against, you’ll be lucky to stay out of jail yourselves.” He held his stick up. “Good morning, gentlemen. Harry! Back to the New Brighton!”
We watched the brougham pull away, Eat-’Em-Up Jack McManus still hanging off of it like some kind of overgrown, malevolent monkey, and then turned to head into the Early Renaissance walls and turrets of the Museum of Natural History.
Though not yet three decades old, the museum already housed a first-rate collection of experts and an enormous, bizarre assortment of bones, rocks, stuffed animals, and pinned insects. But of all the prestigious departments that called the castle-like structure home, none was more renowned, or more iconoclastic, than that of anthropology; and I later learned that the man we were on our way to see that day, Franz Boas, was primarily responsible for this.
He was about Kreizler’s age, and had been born in Germany, where he’d originally been trained as an experimental psychologist before moving on to ethnology. Thus there were obvious circumstantial reasons why Boas and Kreizler should have become acquainted upon the former’s immigration to the United States; but none of these was as important to their friendship as was a pronounced similarity of professional ideas. Kreizler had staked his reputation on his theory of context, the idea that no adult’s personality can be truly understood without first comprehending the facts of his individual experience. Boas’s anthropological work represented, in many ways, the application of this theory on a larger scale: to entire cultures. While doing groundbreaking research with the Indian tribes of the American Northwest, Boas had reached the conclusion that history is the principal force that shapes cultures, rather than race or geographical environment, as had been previously assumed. Different ethnic groups behave as they behave, in other words, not because biology or climate forces them to (there were too many examples of groups that contradicted this theory to allow Boas to accept it) but rather because they’ve been taught to. All cultures are equally valid, when seen in this light; and to his many critics who said that certain cultures had obviously made more progress than others, and could thus be considered superior, Boas replied that “progress” was an entirely relative concept.
Boas had thoroughly energized Natural History’s Department of Anthropology with his new ideas since his appointment in 1895; and when you strolled through the department’s exhibition rooms, as we did that morning, a sense of intellectual vitality and excitement raced through you. Of course, this reaction might have been prompted as much by the sight of the ferocious faces carved into the dozen enormous totem poles that lined the walls; or the large canoe full of plaster Indians—cast from life—who paddled wildly through some imaginary body of water in the center of the main hall; or the case after case of weapons, ritual masks, costumes, and other artifacts that occupied the remaining floor space. Whatever the cause, upon entering those rooms one felt very much like one had stepped out of fashionable Manhattan and into some corner of the globe that those of us who knew no better would immediately have labeled savage.
Kreizler and I found Boas in a cluttered office in one of the museum’s turrets overlooking Seventy-seventh Street. He was a small man, with a large, roundish nose, an ample mustache, and thinning hair. In his brown eyes was that same fire of the crusader that marked Kreizler’s gaze; and the two men shook hands with a warmth and vigor that is only shared by truly kindred spirits. Boas was in a somewhat harassed state: he was preparing a massive expedition to the Pacific Northwest, to be paid for by the financier Morris K. Jesup. Kreizler and I therefore had to state our case quickly. I was somewhat shocked by the complete candor with which Kreizler revealed our work; and the story gave Boas a shock of his own, to judge by the way he stood up, looked sternly at the two of us, and then firmly closed the door to his office.
“Kreizler,” he said, in an accented voice that was as definitive as Laszlo’s, if slightly gentler, “do you have any idea of what you’re exposing yourself to? Should this become known, and should you fail—the risk is atrocious!” Boas threw his arms up and went for a small cigar.
“Yes, yes, I know, Franz,” Kreizler answered, “but what would you have me do? These are children, after all, however outcast and unfortunate, and the killings will go on. Besides—there are enormous possibilities, should we not fail.”
“I can understand a journalist getting involved,” Boas railed on, nodding at me as he lit his cigar. “But your work, Kreizler, is important. You are already distrusted by the public as well as by many of your colleagues—should this go badly you will be utterly ridiculed and dismissed by them!”
“As always you are not listening to me,” Kreizler answered indulgently. “You might assume that I’ve been over such considerations many times in my own mind. And the fact of the matter is that Mr. Moore and I are pressed for time, as are you. Therefore, I must ask bluntly—can you help us or not?”
Boas puffed away and scrutinized us both carefully, shaking his head. “You want information on the Plains tribes?” Laszlo nodded. “All right. But one thing is strengt verboten—” Boas pointed a finger at Kreizler. “I will not have you saying that the tribal customs of such people are responsible for the behavior of a murderer in this city.”
Laszlo sighed. “Franz, please—”
“Oh, about you I have little doubt. But I know nothing of these people you are working with.” Boas eyed me again, more than a little suspiciously. “We already have enough trouble changing the public view of the Indians. So you must pledge that to me, Laszlo.”
“I pledge it for my colleagues as well as for myself.”
Boas grunted once disdainfully. “Colleagues. I’m certain.” He began shuffling papers on his desk in annoyance. “My own knowledge of the tribes in question is insufficient. But I have just hired a young man who will be able to help you.” Rising and crossing to the door quickly, Boas pulled it open and shouted at a secretary: “Miss Jenkins! Where is Dr. Wissler, please?”
“Downstairs, Dr. Boas,” came a reply. “They’re installing the Blackfoot exhibit.”
“Ah.” Boas returned to his desk. “Good. That exhibit’s already la
te getting in place. You’ll have to talk to him down there. Don’t be deceived by his youth, Kreizler. He’s come a long way in just a few years, and seen a great deal.” Boas’s tone softened as he came around to Laszlo and extended his hand again. “Much like some other distinguished experts I’ve known.”
The two men smiled at each other briefly, but Boas’s face went straight with suspicion once more as he shook my hand and then showed us out of his office.
After trotting quickly downstairs, we passed back through the hall that contained the large canoe, then asked a guard for directions. He indicated another exhibition room, the door of which was locked. Kreizler rapped on it a few times, but there was no response. We could hear banging and voices within, and then a series of wild, rather chilling whoops and cries such as one might indeed have heard on the western frontier.
“Good God,” I said, “they’re not going to put live Indians on display, are they?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Moore.” Kreizler pounded on the door again, and finally it opened.
Facing us was a curly-haired young man of about twenty-five with a small mustache, a cherub’s face, and dancing blue eyes. He wore a vest and tie, and a very professional pipe was sticking out of his mouth; but on his head was an enormous and rather frightening war bonnet, composed of what I assumed were eagle’s feathers.
“Yes?” the young man said, with a very engaging grin. “Can I help you?”
“Dr. Wissler?” Kreizler said.
“Clark Wissler, that’s right.” The man suddenly realized he was wearing the war bonnet. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said, removing it. “We’re installing an exhibit, and I’m particularly concerned about this piece. You’re—”
“My name is Laszlo Kreizler, and this is—”
“Doctor Kreizler?” Wissler said hopefully, opening the door further.
“That’s right. And this—”
“This is a real pleasure, is what this is!” Wissler held out his hand and shook Kreizler’s energetically. “An honor! I believe I’ve read everything you’ve written, Doctor—although you really ought to write more. Psychology needs more work like yours!”
As we entered the large room, which was in near-total disarray, Wissler went on in this vein, pausing only briefly to shake my hand. It seemed that he, too, had originally trained in psychology before moving on to anthropology; and even in his current work, he focused on the psychological aspects of different cultures’ value systems, as expressed through their mythologies, artwork, social structures, and the like. This was a fortunate circumstance, for after we drew away from a group of workmen and into a deserted corner of the large room to tell Wissler in confidence of our work, he expressed even stronger concern than had Boas about the potential effects of tying such abominable acts as our killer’s to any Indian culture. When Kreizler gave him the same assurances he’d given Boas, however, Wissler’s unbridled admiration for Laszlo allowed trust to flourish. The fellow reacted to our thorough description of the mutilations involved in the murders with quick and penetrating analysis, of a kind I’ve rarely heard from one so young.
“Yes, I can see why you’ve come to us,” he said. Still carrying the war bonnet, he looked around for a place to lay it, but saw only construction rubble. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but—” He slipped the bonnet back on his head. “I really must keep this clean until the display is ready. So—the mutilations you’re describing, or at least some of them, do bear a resemblance to acts that have been committed on the bodies of dead enemies by various tribes on the Great Plains—most notably the Dakota, or Sioux. There are important differences, however.”
“And we shall get to those,” Kreizler said. “But what of the similarities—why are such things done? And are they done only to dead bodies?”
“Generally,” Wissler answered. “Despite what you may have read, the Sioux don’t show a marked propensity for torture. There are some mutilation rituals, certainly, that involve the living—a man who can prove that his wife has been unfaithful, for example, can cut her nose off to mark her as an adulteress—but such behavior is very strictly regulated. No, most of the terrible things you’ll come across happen to enemies of the tribe who are already dead.”
“And why to them?”
Wissler relit his pipe, being careful to keep the match away from the eagle’s feathers. “The Sioux have a very complex set of myths concerning death and the spirit world. We’re still collecting data and examples and trying to comprehend the entire fabric of their beliefs. But basically, each man’s nagi, or spirit, is gravely affected not only by the way in which the man dies, but by what happens to his body immediately after death. You see, the nagi, before embarking on its long journey to the spirit land, lingers near the body, for a time—preparing for the trip, as it were. The nagi is allowed to take whatever useful implements the man possessed in life, in order to help him on the journey, and to enrich his afterlife. But the nagi also assumes whatever form the body was in at the time of death. Now, if a warrior killed an enemy he admired, he wouldn’t necessarily mutilate his body, because, according to another part of the myth, that dead enemy must serve the warrior in the spirit land—and who wants a mutilated servant? But if the warrior truly hated his enemy, and didn’t want him to enjoy all the pleasures of the spirit land, then he might do some of the things you’re talking about. Castration, for instance—because male spirits can copulate with female spirits in the Sioux vision of the afterlife without the female spirits becoming pregnant. Cutting off the dead man’s genitals, obviously, means he won’t be able to take advantage of that very appealing aspect of the spirit land. There are also games and contests of strength—a nagi without a hand, or without a vital organ, can’t expect to do well in them. We’ve seen many examples of mutilations like that on battlefields.”
“And what about the eyes?” I asked. “The same thinking, in that area?”
“The eyes are somewhat different. You see, the nagi’s journey to the spirit world involves a very perilous test: he must cross a great mythical river on a very narrow log. If the nagi is afraid of this test, or fails it, he must return to our world and wander forever as a lost and forlorn ghost. Of course, a spirit who can’t see stands no chance of making the great trip, and his fate is preordained. The Sioux don’t take this lightly. There are few things they fear more than being lost in this world in the afterlife.”
Kreizler was recording all this in his little notebook, and began to nod as he got this last concept down. “And the differences between the Sioux mutilations and what we’ve described?”
“Well…” Wissler smoked and puzzled. “There are some larger issues, as well as some details, that set the examples you’re giving me apart from Sioux customs. Most importantly, there’s the injury to the buttocks, and the claim to cannibalism. The Sioux, like most Indian tribes, are horrified by cannibalism—it’s one of the things they disdain most about whites.”
“Whites?” I said. “But we’re not—well, let’s be fair, we’re not cannibals.”
“Not usually,” Wissler answered. “But there have been a few notable exceptions that the Indians know about. Remember the Donner party of settlers, in 1847? They got trapped for months without food in a snowbound mountain pass—and some of them ate each other. Made for good stories among the western tribes.”
“But”—I felt the need to protest further—“well, hang it, you can’t base your judgment of an entire culture on what a few people do.”
“Of course you can, Moore,” Kreizler said. “Remember the principle we’ve established for our killer: because of his past experience, his early encounters with a relatively small number of people, he has grown to view the entire world in a distinctive fashion. We may call it a mistaken fashion, but, given his past, he cannot do otherwise. It’s the same principle here.”
“The western tribes haven’t had contact with a very flattering cross section of white society, Mr. Moore,” Wissler agreed. “And then there are miscom
munications that back up those original impressions. When the Sioux leader Sitting Bull was dining with some white men several years back, for example, he was served pork—which he, never having seen such meat, but having heard the story of the Donner party, immediately assumed was white human flesh. That’s the unfortunate way in which cultures get to know each other, generally.”
“What of the other differences?” Kreizler asked.
“Well, there’s the stuffing of the genitals into the mouth—that’s gratuitous, in a way that wouldn’t make sense to the Sioux. You’ve emasculated the man’s spirit already. Stuffing the genitals into his mouth isn’t going to serve any practical purpose. But most of all, there’s the fact that these victims are children. Kids.”
“Now, wait a minute,” I said. “Indian tribes have massacred children, we know that.”
“True,” Wissler agreed. “But they wouldn’t commit this kind of ritual mutilation against them. At least, no self-respecting Sioux would. These mutilations are carried out against enemies that they want to make sure never find the spirit land, or can’t enjoy it when they get there. To do this to a child—well, it would be admitting that you considered the child a threat. An equal. It’d be cowardly, and the Sioux are very touchy about cowardice.”
“Let me ask you this, Dr. Wissler,” Kreizler said, having glanced over his notes. “Would the behavior we’ve described to you be consistent with someone who had witnessed Indian mutilations but was too ignorant of their cultural meaning to interpret them as anything more than savagery? And who, in imitating them, might think that more savagery will make his actions look more like an Indian’s?”
Wissler weighed the idea and nodded, knocking burnt tobacco from his pipe. “Yes. Yes, that’d be about how I’d see it, Dr. Kreizler.”
And then Laszlo got that look in his eyes, the one that said we had to get out, get into a cab, and get back to our headquarters. He pled pressing business to Wissler, who very much wanted to talk further, and promised to return for another visit soon. Then he bolted for the door, leaving me to apologize more fully for the abrupt departure—which, not surprisingly, Wissler didn’t seem to mind at all. Scientists’ minds may jump around like amorous toads, but they do seem to accept such behavior in one another.