The Alienist

  For long seconds my vision faded, everything around me blending into a kind of vague grayness; then I heard a sound that I’d last detected on the Williamsburg Bridge anchor the night Giorgio Santorelli was killed—the powerful churning of my own blood. My head began to shake, and when I put my hands up to hold it still I noticed that my cheeks were moist. The kinds of memories that usually accompany news of such tragedy—quick, out of sequence, and in some cases silly—flashed through my mind, and when I heard my own voice again I didn’t really know where it was coming from.

  “It’s not possible,” I was saying. “It isn’t. The coincidence, it doesn’t make—Sara, Laszlo was just telling me—”

  “Yes,” she said. “He told me, too.”

  I got up, feeling awfully unsteady on my feet, and went to stand by the window with Sara. The dark clouds in the dawn sky were continuing to prevent daybreak from really taking hold of the city. “The sons of bitches,” I whispered. “The lousy sons of…Have they got Connor?”

  Sara threw the stub of her cigarette out the window, shaking her head. “Theodore’s out now, with some detectives. They’re searching the hospitals, and all of Connor’s known haunts. I’m guessing they won’t find him, though. How Connor’s men found out you were in Boston is still a bit of a mystery, though it’s probably safe to say they checked the ticket sellers at the depot.” Sara touched my shoulder as she continued to stare out the window. “You know,” she murmured, “from the very first time I walked into this house, Mary was afraid that something would happen to take him away from her. I tried to help her understand that that something wouldn’t be me. But she never seemed to lose the fear.” Sara turned and went back across the room to sit down. “Perhaps she was smarter than the rest of us.”

  I put a hand to my forehead. “It can’t be…” I breathed again; but on a deeper level I knew that, in fact, it could easily be, given who we were dealing with, and that I’d better start adjusting to the reality of this nightmare. “Kreizler,” I said, forcing some kind of strength into my voice. “Kreizler’s at the morgue?”

  “Yes,” Sara answered, taking out another cigarette. “I couldn’t tell him what happened—Dr. Osborne did it. He said he’s had practice.”

  I gnashed a new surge of remorse away with my teeth, tightened my fist, and headed for the stairs. “I’ve got to get over there.”

  Sara caught my arm. “John. Be careful.”

  I nodded quickly. “I will.”

  “No. I mean really careful. With him. If I’m right, the effects of this are going to be a lot worse than you may be expecting. Cut him a wide path.”

  I tried to smile, and put a hand on hers; then I kept on moving, down the stairs and out the door.

  My cabbie was still waiting at the curb, and when I appeared he jumped back up onto his hansom smartly. I told him to get me to Bellevue in a hurry, and we sped off at the same lively pace. The rain was beginning to pick up, blown by a strong, warm, westerly wind, and as we bounced up First Avenue I pulled off my cap and tried to use it to shield my face from the water that was spraying off the roof of the cab. I don’t remember having any thoughts, as such, during that ride; there were just more quick images of Mary Palmer, the quiet, pretty girl with the remarkable blue eyes who, in the space of just a few hours, had evolved in my mind from housemaid to future wife of a dear friend to no more. There was no sense in what had happened, no sense at all, and even less in trying to create any; I just sat there and let the images fly by.

  When I reached the morgue I found Laszlo outside the large iron door in the back that we’d used to enter the building when we’d examined Ernst Lohmann’s body. He was leaning against the building, his eyes as wide, vacant, and black as the gaping holes our killer had left in the heads of his victims. Rain was cascading down off a gutter on the edge of the roof above and drenching him, and I tried to pull him away from it. But his body was stiff and intractable.

  “Laszlo,” I said quietly. “Come on. Get in the cab.” I tugged at him a few more times without achieving anything, and then he finally spoke, in a hoarse monotone:

  “I will not leave her.”

  I nodded. “All right. Then let’s just stand in the doorway here, you’re getting soaked.”

  His eyes alone moved as he glanced at his clothes; then he nodded once, and stumbled with me into the minimal shelter of the doorway. We stood there for quite some time until, finally, he spoke in the same lifeless voice:

  “Did you know—my father—”

  I looked at him, my own heart ready to burst at the pain that was in his face, and then nodded. “Yes. I knew him, Laszlo.”

  Kreizler shook his head in a stiff jerk. “No. Do you know what my—father always said to me, when I was—a boy?”

  “No. What?”

  “That—” The voice was still scraping terribly, as if it were a labor to produce it, but the words began to come faster: “That I didn’t know as much as I thought I did. That I thought I knew how people should behave, that I thought I was a better person than he was. But one day—one day, he said, I would know that I wasn’t. Until then, I’d be nothing more than an—impostor…”

  Once again, I couldn’t find a way to tell Laszlo how fully I understood, in light of Sara’s discovery, what he was saying; so I simply put a hand to his uninjured shoulder as he began to straighten his clothes absentmindedly. “I have—made arrangements. The mortician will be here soon. Then I’ve got to get home. Stevie and Cyrus…”

  “Sara’s looking after them.”

  His voice became suddenly strong, even somewhat violent: “I’ve got to look after them, John!” He shook a fist before him. “I’ve got to. I brought these people into my house. I was responsible for their safety. Look at them now—look! Two near dead, and one—one…” He gasped and looked at the iron door, as if he could see right through it to the rusted metal table on which now lay the girl who had embodied his hope of a new life.

  Gripping him tighter, I said, “Theodore’s out looking—”

  “I’m no longer interested in what the commissioner of police is doing,” Kreizler answered, quickly and sharply. “Nor in the activities of anyone else in that department.” He paused, and then, wincing as he moved his right arm, took my hand from his shoulder and looked away from me. “It’s over, John. This wretched, bloody business, this…investigation. Over.”

  I was at something of a loss for words. He seemed perfectly serious. “Kreizler,” I finally said, “give yourself a couple of days before you—”

  “Before I what?” he answered quickly. “Before I get one of you killed, too?”

  “You’re not responsible for—”

  “Don’t tell me I’m not responsible for it!” he raged. “Who, then, if not me? It’s my own vanity, just as Comstock said. I’ve been in a blind fury, trying to prove my precious points, oblivious of any danger it might pose. And what have they wanted? Comstock? Connor? Byrnes, those men on the train? They’ve wanted to stop me. But I thought that what I was doing was too important for me to take any note—I thought I knew better! We’ve been hunting a killer, John, but the killer isn’t the real danger—I am!” He hissed suddenly and clenched his teeth. “Well, I’ve seen enough. If I’m the danger then I shall remove myself. Let this man keep killing. It’s what they want. He’s a part of their order, their precious social order—without such creatures they’ve no scapegoats for their own wretched brutality! Who am I to interfere?”

  “Kreizler,” I said, ever more worried, for there was no question now that he meant what he was saying. “Listen to yourself, you’re going against everything—”

  “No!” he answered. “I’m going along! I’ll go back to my Institute and my dead, empty house, and forget this case. I’ll see to it that Stevie and Cyrus heal and never again face unknown attackers because of my vain schemes. And this bloody society that they’ve built for themselves can go down the path they have planned for it, and rot!”

  I stood back a couple of s
teps, knowing in some part of myself that it was useless to argue with him, but stung by his attitude nonetheless. “All right, then. If self-pity’s going to be your solution—”

  He swung at me hard with his left arm, but missed badly. “Damn you, Moore!” he seethed, breathing in short, quick contractions. “Damn you and damn them!” He grabbed the iron door and drew it open, then paused to get his breathing under control. Eyes again wide with horror, he stared into the dark, miserable hallway before him. “And damn me, too,” he added quietly. The heaving in his chest finally began to subside. “I’m going to wait inside. I would appreciate it if you’d go. I’ll arrange to have my things removed from Number 808. I—I’m sorry, John.” He entered the morgue, the iron door swinging shut with a crash as he went.

  I stood there for a moment, my sodden clothes now starting to cling to my body and limbs. I looked up at the square, feelingless brick buildings around me, and then at the sky. More clouds were being blown in by the westerly wind, which was only picking up pace. In a sudden movement I reached down, tore a bit of grass and earth from the ground beneath me, and then threw it at the black door.

  “Damn you all, then!” I shouted, holding up my muddy fist; but there was no relief in the exclamation. I let the hand fall slowly, then wiped rainwater from my face and stumbled back to my cab.

  CHAPTER 37

  * * *

  Not wanting to see or talk to anyone after I left the morgue, I ordered my cabbie to take me to Number 808 Broadway. The building was fairly deserted, and when I stumbled into our headquarters the only sound I could hear was the blast of rain against the ring of Gothic windows around me. I collapsed onto the Marchese Carcano’s divan and stared at the large, note-covered chalkboard, my spirits sinking ever lower. Grief and hopelessness were finally and mercifully overwhelmed by exhaustion, and I fell asleep for most of the dark, gloomy day. But at about five o’clock I shot up to the sound of loud knocking at the front door. Staggering over and opening the thing, I found myself facing a dripping Western Union boy who had a sodden envelope in his hand. I took the message from him and peeled it apart, my lips moving rather idiotically as I read it:

  CAPTAIN MILLER, FORT YATES, CONFIRMS CPL JOHN BEECHAM HAD FACIAL SPASM. CARRIED SIMILAR KNIFE. KNOWN TO CLIMB MOUNTAINS WHEN OFF DUTY. ADVISE.

  As I finished reading the wire for a third time, I became aware that the delivery boy was saying something, and I looked up blankly. “What’s that?”

  “Reply, sir,” the boy said impatiently. “Do you want to send a reply?”

  “Oh.” I thought about it for a moment, trying to decide what the best course would be in light of the morning’s developments. “Oh…yes.”

  “You’ll have to write it down on something dry,” the boy said. “My forms are soaked.”

  I walked over to my desk, pulled out a slip of paper, and scribbled a short note: RETURN BY FASTEST TRAIN. EARLIEST OPPORTUNITY. The delivery boy read the thing and gave me a price for its transmission, to which I pulled some money out of my pocket and handed it to him uncounted. The boy’s attitude immediately improved, from which I divined that I’d given him a sizable tip, and then he was back in the elevator and on his way.

  There seemed little point in the Isaacsons staying in North Dakota if our investigation was about to come to an abrupt conclusion. Indeed, if Kreizler was serious about dealing himself out of the game there seemed little point in any of us doing anything except cashing in our chips and heading back to our ordinary walks of life. Whatever understanding Sara, the Isaacsons, and I had of our killer was due to Laszlo’s tutelage, and as I looked out over rainswept Broadway, where furtive shoppers were doing their best to avoid rushing carriages and delivery wagons as they tried to get in out of the downpour, I could imagine no way in which we could succeed without his continued leadership.

  I’d just reconciled myself to this conclusion when I heard a key turning in the front door. Sara came bustling in, umbrella and grocery parcels in hand, her movements and air nothing like they’d been that morning. She was stepping and talking quickly, even lightly, as if nothing at all had happened.

  “It’s a flood, John!” she announced, shaking her umbrella and depositing it in the ceramic stand. She took off her wrap, then lugged her parcels back toward the little kitchen. “You can barely get across Fourteenth Street on foot, and it’s worth your life to try to find a cab.”

  I looked back out the window. “Cleans the streets, though,” I said.

  “Do you want something to eat?” Sara called. “I’ll get some coffee going, and I brought food—sandwiches will have to do, I’m afraid.”

  “Sandwiches?” I answered, not very enthusiastically. “Couldn’t we just go out somewhere?”

  “Out?” Sara said, reemerging from the kitchen and coming over to me. “We can’t go out, we’ve got—” She stopped as she caught sight of the Isaacsons’ telegram, then picked it up carefully. “What’s this?”

  “Marcus and Lucius,” I answered. “They got confirmation on John Beecham.”

  “But that’s wonderful, John!” Sara said in a rush. “Then we—”

  “I’ve already sent a reply,” I interrupted, disturbed by her manner. “Told them to get back as soon as they can.”

  “Even better,” Sara said. “I doubt if there’s much more for them to discover out there, and we’ll need them here.”

  “Need them?”

  “We’ve got work to do,” Sara answered simply.

  My shoulders drooped with the realization that my worries about her attitude had been well founded. “Sara, Kreizler told me this morning that—”

  “I know,” she answered. “He told me, as well. What of it?”

  “What of it? It’s over, that’s what of it. How are we supposed to go on without him?”

  She shrugged. “As we went on with him. Listen to me, John.” Grabbing hold of my shoulders, Sara led me over to my desk and sat me on it. “I know what you’re thinking—but you’re wrong. We’re good enough now without him. We can finish this.”

  My head had started shaking even before she finished this statement. “Sara, be serious—we don’t have the training, we don’t have the background—”

  “We don’t need any more than we have, John,” she answered firmly. “Remember what Kreizler himself taught us—context. We don’t need to know everything about psychology, or alienism, or the history of all similar cases to finish this job. All we need to know is this man, his particular case—and we do, now. In fact, when we put together what we’ve gathered during the last week, I’ll bet that we know him as well as he knows himself—perhaps even better. Dr. Kreizler was important, but he’s gone now, and we don’t need him. You can’t quit. You mustn’t.”

  There were undeniable bits of truth in what she was saying, and I took a minute to digest them; but then my head began to shake again. “Look, I know how much this opportunity means to you. I know how much it could have helped you convince the department—”

  I shut up instantly as she took a good cut at my shoulder with her right fist. “Damn it, John, don’t insult me! Do you honestly think I’m doing this just for the opportunity? I’m doing it because I want to sleep soundly again someday—or have your little trips up and down the eastern seaboard made you forget?” She dashed over and grabbed some photographs off of Marcus’s desk. “Remember these, John?” I glanced down only briefly, knowing what she held: pictures of the various crime scenes. “Do you really think you’re going to spend many easy hours if you stop now? And what happens when the next boy is killed? How will you feel then?”

  “Sara,” I protested, my voice rising to match hers, “I’m not talking about what I’d prefer here! I’m talking about what’s practical.”

  “How practical is it to walk away?” she shouted back. “Kreizler’s only doing it because he has to—he’s been hurt, hurt as badly as anyone can be, and this is the only way he can find to respond. But that’s him, John. We can go on! We’ve got to go on!”
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  Letting her arms fall to her sides, Sara took several deep breaths, then smoothed her dress, walked across the room, and pointed to the right side of the chalkboard. “The way I see it,” she said evenly, “we’ve got three weeks to get ready. We can’t waste a minute.”

  “Three weeks?” I said. “Why?”

  She went over to Kreizler’s desk and picked up the thin volume with the cross on its cover. “The Christian calendar,” she said, holding it up. “I assume you found out why he’s following it?”

  I shrugged. “Well, we may have. Victor Dury was a reverend. So the—the—” I tried to find an expression, and finally latched onto one that sounded like something Kreizler would have said: “The rhythms of the Dury house, the cycle of the family’s life, would naturally have coincided with it.”

  Sara’s mouth curled up. “You see, John? You weren’t entirely wrong about a priest being involved.”

  “And there was something else,” I said, thinking back to the questions that Kreizler had put to Adam Dury just as we were leaving the latter’s farm. “The reverend was fond of holidays—gave some rattling good sermons, apparently. But his wife…” I tapped a finger slowly on my desk, considering the idea; then, realizing its importance, I looked up. “It was his wife who was Japheth’s chief tormentor, according to his brother—and she gave the boys hellfire and brimstone over holidays.”

  Sara looked very gratified. “Remember what we said about the killer hating dishonesty and hypocrisy? Well, if his father’s preaching one thing in his sermons, while at the same time, at home…”

  “Yes,” I mumbled, “I do see it.”

  Sara returned to the chalkboard slowly, and then did something that rather struck me: She picked up a piece of chalk and, without hesitation, jotted down the information I’d given her on the left-hand side of the board. Her handwriting, at that angle, was not quite as neat and practiced as Kreizler’s, but it looked like it belonged there, just the same. “He’s reacting to a cycle of emotional crisis that’s existed all his life,” Sara said confidently, setting the chalk back down. “Sometimes the crises are so severe that he kills—and the one he’ll reach in three weeks may be the worst of all.”