The Alienist

  By the time I caught up to Kreizler on the street, he’d already flagged down a hansom and gotten into it. Thinking there was a good chance he’d leave me behind if I didn’t hurry, I dashed to the curb and leapt in, closing the doors on our legs.

  “Number 808 Broadway, driver!” Laszlo shouted, and then he began to wave his fist. “Do you see, Moore? Do you see? He’s been out there, our man, he’s witnessed it! He defines such behavior as horrible and dirty—‘dirty as a Red Indian’—yet he also considers himself full of filth. He combats those feelings with anger and violence—but when he kills, he only sinks further down, down to a level he despises even more, down to the lowest, most animal behavior he can imagine—modeled on that of Indians, but, in his mind, even more Indian than an Indian.”

  “He’s been on the frontier, then,” was what it all meant to me.

  “He must have been,” Laszlo answered. “Either as a child or as a soldier—hopefully we can clear that up through our Washington inquiries. I tell you, John, we may have blundered last night, but today we’re closer!”

  CHAPTER 29

  * * *

  Closer we may have been, but we were not, sadly, as close as Laszlo hoped. Sara and Lucius, we learned on returning to our headquarters, had been unable to get anywhere with the War Department, despite Theodore’s contacts. All information relating to soldiers hospitalized or dismissed from service for reasons of mental distress was confidential and could not be discussed by telephone. A trip to Washington now loomed as doubly important; indeed, all clues seemed, for the moment, to be leading us away from New York, for if our killer had, in fact, either grown up on the western frontier or served in one of the military units that patrolled that region, then someone would have to head out there to see whether or not an evidential trail of any kind existed.

  We spent the remainder of the morning researching possible points, both in time and on the map, at which we might begin to look for such a trail. Eventually we came up with two overall areas: Either the killer had, as a child, witnessed the brutal campaigns against the Sioux that had led up to and followed General Custer’s death at the Little Big Horn in 1876, or he had participated as a soldier in the brutal repression of dissatisfied Sioux tribesmen that had culminated in the battle of Wounded Knee Creek in 1890. Either way, Kreizler was anxious to have someone make the trip out west immediately: for, as he told us, he now suspected that the murder of the Zweig children had not been the killer’s first taste of blood. And if the man had in fact committed murder in the West—either prior to or during his military service—there would have to be some record of the case somewhere. True, such a crime would almost certainly have remained unsolved in the years since its commission; quite probably, it would have been written off as the work of marauding Indians. But there would still be documents relating to it, either in Washington or in some western administrative office. And even if no such killing had taken place, we would nonetheless need to have operatives out there ready to follow whatever leads were uncovered in the capital. Only by visiting the actual localities involved could we discover exactly what had happened to our man, and thus be able to predict his future moves accurately.

  Kreizler planned to make the trip to Washington himself; and when I told him that I still knew a good number of journalists and government workers in that city—including one especially good contact at the Department of the Interior’s Bureau of Indian Affairs—he deemed it advisable for me to come along. That left Sara and the Isaacsons, all of whom were eager to make the western trip. Someone, however, had to remain in New York to coordinate our various efforts. After much discussion, it was decided that Sara was the logical choice for this job, since she was still making—and was expected to make—occasional appearances at Police Headquarters on Mulberry Street. Though bitterly disappointed about missing the western journey, Sara had a firm grasp of the overall picture and accepted her assignment with as much grace as possible.

  Roosevelt, meanwhile, was the obvious person to put the Isaacsons in touch with guides in the western states, and when we telephoned him about the project he became wildly enthusiastic, threatening to accompany the two detectives himself. We pointed out, however, that the press followed him wherever he went, and especially when he went out west. Tales of his hunting trips and photographs of him wearing his fringed buckskin suit were guaranteed to sell copies of whatever papers and magazines they appeared in, and questions concerning whom he was traveling with and why would naturally be asked. We couldn’t afford that kind of publicity. Besides, with the power struggle on Mulberry Street about to enter a new and perhaps decisive phase, the Police Department’s main exponent of reform could hardly up and disappear into the wilderness.

  The Isaacsons would go on their own, then; and we reasoned that if they left immediately, they could be in place by the time Laszlo and I dug up any useful information to wire them from Washington. It was with some shock, therefore, that Marcus arrived at Number 808 Broadway after developing his eyeball photographs (which turned out to be a resounding failure, Monsieur Jules Verne notwithstanding) and learned that he would be leaving the next morning for Deadwood, South Dakota. From there he and his brother would proceed south to the Pine Ridge Sioux Reservation and Agency, where they would begin to investigate any and all mutilative murders from the last ten to fifteen years that had not been solved. Meanwhile, I would use my contact at the Bureau of Indian Affairs to pursue the same line of research in Washington. Kreizler, for his part, would press the War Department and St. Elizabeth’s Hospital for information concerning western soldiers dismissed for reasons of mental instability, while doing further research on the individual that St. Elizabeth’s had written to us about.

  By the time we’d finished hammering all this out it was late afternoon, and the weight of a sleepless night was beginning to bear down on all of us quite heavily. In addition, there were domestic arrangements to make, and of course all our packing needed to be done. We decided to cut our day somewhat short. Goodbyes were said all around, but exhaustion obscured the true importance of the moment—indeed, I don’t think either of the Isaacsons really comprehended the fact that they were going to get up the following morning and take a train halfway across the continent. Not that Kreizler and I were in much better shape: as Sara left, she announced that she intended to pick us both up the next day in a cab and take us to the station, the near-dead look on each of our faces having caused her to doubt that we could be relied on to rise at all, much less catch a train.

  Just as Kreizler and I were walking out the door of Number 808, Stevie appeared, his own strength reconstituted by several hours’ sleep. Reminding us that Cyrus had been alone in a hospital room all day, Stevie said that he’d brought the calash and was prepared to drive us to St. Vincent’s Hospital to pay our wounded comrade a visit. Weary though we were, neither Laszlo nor I could refuse; and, remembering the appalling quality of food in the average New York hospital, we decided to call Charlie Delmonico and have him order his staff to prepare a really first-rate meal that we could transport to St. Vincent’s.

  We found Cyrus heavily bandaged and nearly asleep at about six-thirty. He was delighted with the meal, and complained about nothing, even the fact that the nurses in the hospital objected to caring for a black man. Kreizler lit into a couple of hospital administrators about that, but otherwise we passed a very pleasant hour in Cyrus’s room, the window of which offered an excellent view of Seventh Avenue, Jackson Square, and the sunset beyond.

  It was nearly dark when we stepped back out onto Tenth Street. I told Stevie that we’d mind the calash for a few minutes so that he could go up and say hello to Cyrus, at which the boy eagerly ran into the hospital. Kreizler and I were about to deposit our creaking bones in the soft leather upholstery of the carriage when an ambulance clattered up at considerable speed and came to a halt next to us. Had I been less exhausted I might have noticed that the ambulance driver’s face was not altogether strange to me; as it was, I focused t
he little attention I could muster on the vehicle’s doors, which burst open and spewed forth a second man. I recognized this individual—who looked like anything but a hospital attendant—with an immediate, throbbing pulse of dread.

  “What in hell?” I mumbled, as the man stared at me and grinned.

  “Connor!” Laszlo said in shock.

  The former detective sergeant’s toothy gash widened, and then he took a few threatening steps forward. “So you remember me, then? All the better.” From under his somewhat ragged jacket he produced a revolver. “Get in the ambulance. Both of you.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Laszlo answered sharply, despite the gun.

  I tried to take a different tack, having a far better idea than did Kreizler of whom we were dealing with: “Connor, put the gun away. This is crazy, you can’t just—”

  “Crazy, is it?” the man replied angrily. “Hardly. I’m just doing my new job. I lost my old one, you might remember. Anyway, I’ve been told to fetch you two—though I’d just as soon leave you dead on the sidewalk. So move.”

  Odd how fear can cure exhaustion. I was suddenly aware of a new burst of energy, all of it directed at my feet. But flight was out of the question—Connor was quite serious, I knew, about his willingness to shoot us. So I pulled Kreizler, who struggled and objected all the way, to the rear of the ambulance. As we got in I looked up just long enough to see that the driver of the vehicle was one of the men who’d tried to waylay Sara and me at the Santorellis’ flat. Loose ends were beginning to come together.

  Connor locked the ambulance door from the outside, then climbed up top with the other man. We careened off at the same hell-bent speed that’d marked their arrival, although it was impossible to tell through the small caged windows in the vehicle’s rear door exactly where we were heading.

  “Feels like uptown,” I said, as we were jostled around the dark compartment.

  “Kidnapped?” Kreizler said, maintaining that irritatingly detached tone that he assumed at times of danger. “Is this someone’s very bizarre idea of humor?”

  “It’s no joke,” I said, trying the door but finding it quite solid. “Most cops are only about three steps away from being criminals, anyway. I’d say Connor’s taken those steps.”

  Laszlo was utterly astounded. “One doesn’t really know what to say in such a situation. Do you have any particularly gruesome confessions you’d like to make, Moore? I’m not a cleric, of course, but—”

  “Kreizler, did you hear what I just said? This is not a joke!” Just then, we whipped around a corner and were thrown with a crash to one side of the ambulance.

  “Hmmm,” Kreizler noised, pulling himself up and checking for damage. “I begin to see your point.”

  In another fifteen minutes our wild ride finally came to an end. Whatever neighborhood we were in was very quiet, the stillness broken only by the grunts and curses of our drivers. Connor finally opened the door again, and we spilled out onto what I recognized to be Madison Avenue, in the Murray Hill district. A nearby lamppost bore a marker that read “36th Street,” and in front of us stood a very large but tasteful brownstone with two columns on each side of its front door and large bay windows bulging out toward the street.

  Kreizler and I looked at each other, instant recognition in our faces. “Well, well,” Kreizler said, intrigued and perhaps even a little awed.

  I, on the other hand, was nearly flattened. “What in hell?” I whispered. “Why would—”

  “Move,” Connor said, indicating the front door but staying by the ambulance.

  Kreizler glanced at me again, shrugged, and began to climb the front steps. “I suggest we enter, Moore. He’s not a man accustomed to waiting.”

  A very English butler admitted us to Number 219 Madison Avenue, the interior of which reflected the same rare combination—extreme wealth and very fine taste—that marked the outside of the brownstone. Marble flooring met our feet, and a simple yet spacious white stairway wound away into the house’s upper floors. Our destination, however, lay directly ahead. We passed splendid European paintings, sculpture, and ceramics—all elegantly and simply displayed, with none of that piling-on effect that families like the Vanderbilts were so appallingly entranced by—and kept moving toward the back of the house. There the butler opened a paneled door that led into a cavernous room that was dimly lit. Laszlo and I stepped inside.

  The high walls of the room were paneled with Santo Domingo mahogany that was nearly black; indeed, the room was known, to the staff of the house as well as in New York legend, as “the Black Library.” Luxurious carpets covered the floor, and a large fireplace was set into one wall. More European canvases, framed in rich, ornate gold, hung from the walls, and tall bookshelves were crammed with splendid leather-bound rarities gathered during dozens of trips across the Atlantic. Some of the most important meetings in the history of New York—indeed, of the United States—had taken place in this room; and while that fact might have caused Kreizler and me to wonder all the more what we were doing there, the collection of faces that stared at us on our entrance soon made matters clearer.

  Sitting on a settee on one side of the fireplace was Bishop Henry Potter, and in a matching piece of furniture on the fireplace’s other flank was Archbishop Michael Corrigan. Behind each man stood a priest: Potter’s man tall and thin, with spectacles, and Corrigan’s short, rotund, and sporting large white sideburns. Before the fireplace stood a man I recognized as Anthony Comstock, the notorious censor of the U.S. Post Office. Comstock had spent twenty years using his congressionally mandated (and constitutionally quite questionable) powers to persecute zealously anyone who dealt in contraceptive devices, pregnancy abortions, ribald literature and photographs, and anything else that met his rather expansive definition of “obscene.” Comstock’s was a hard, mean face, not surprisingly; yet it wasn’t as disconcerting as that of the man who stood next to him. Ex-Inspector Thomas Byrnes had a pair of high, bushy eyebrows that arched over penetrating, all-encompassing eyes; yet at the same time, his enormous, drooping mustache made an accurate reading of his mood and thoughts disturbingly difficult. As we came further into the chamber Byrnes turned to us, and the eyebrows arched enigmatically; then he tilted his head toward an enormous walnut desk that sat in the center of the room. My eyes followed his indication.

  Sitting at the desk, going over a few papers and scribbling an occasional note, was a man whose power was greater than that of any financier the world has ever known; a man whose otherwise handsome features were counterbalanced by a nose that had been cracked, swollen, and deformed by acne rosacea. You had to be very careful, however, not to stare at that nose openly—you were likely to pay for your morbid fascination in more ways than you could imagine.

  “Ah,” said Mr. John Pierpont Morgan, looking up from his papers and then standing. “Come in, gentlemen, and let’s get this business settled.”

  The fons et origo of all reality, whether from the absolute or the practical point of view, is thus subjective, is ourselves. As bare logical thinkers, without emotional reaction, we give reality to whatever objects we think of, for they are really phenomena, or objects of our passing thought, if nothing more. But, as thinkers with emotional reaction, we give what seems to us a still higher degree of reality to whatever things we select and emphasize and turn to WITH A WILL.

  William James,

  The Principles of Psychology

  Don Giovanni, you invited me to sup with you: I have come.

  Da Ponte,

  from Mozart’s Don Giovanni

  CHAPTER 30

  * * *

  I stepped with trepidation toward a pair of luxuriantly upholstered easy chairs that sat near Morgan’s desk and across from the fireplace. Kreizler, however, stood rigidly still, answering the financier’s hard stare with one of his own.

  “Before I sit in your house, Mr. Morgan,” Laszlo said, “may I ask if it is your general custom to compel attendance with firearms?”

  Morgan’s
large head snapped around to scowl at Byrnes, who only shrugged in a very unconcerned way. The ex-cop’s gray eyes twinkled a bit, as if to say: When you lie down with dogs, Mr. Morgan…

  Morgan’s head began a slow, slightly disgusted shake. “Neither my custom nor my instructions, Dr. Kreizler,” he said, holding out an arm to the easy chairs. “I hope you will accept my apologies. This affair seems to have brought out strong emotions in all who have knowledge of it.”

  Kreizler grunted quietly, only partially satisfied, and then we both sat down. Morgan also returned to his seat, and brief introductions were made (save of the two priests behind the settees, whose names I never did learn). After that Morgan gave the slightest of nods to Anthony Comstock, who moved his unimposing little figure into the center of the room. The voice that emerged from that frame proved as thoroughly unpleasant as was the face.

  “Doctor. Mr. Moore. Let us be frank. We know of your investigation, and for a variety of reasons we want it stopped. If you do not agree, there are certain matters you will be pressed on.”

  “Pressed on?” I said, my immediate dislike for the postal censor giving me confidence. “This isn’t a morals case, Mr. Comstock.”

  “Assault,” Inspector Byrnes said quietly, looking at the crowded bookshelves, “is a criminal charge, Moore. We’ve got a guard at Sing Sing who’s missing a couple of teeth. Then there’s the matter of consorting with known gangland leaders—”

  “Come on, Byrnes,” I said quickly. The inspector and I’d had many run-ins during my years at the Times, and though he made me very nervous I knew it would be foolish to show it. “Even you can’t call a carriage ride ‘consorting.’”