The Alienist

by Caleb Carr

  Victor Maurel, the great Gascon baritone and actor for whom Verdi had written some of his most memorable parts, was in rare form that night, though I fear that we in Kreizler’s box—with the possible exception of Cyrus—were too preoccupied with other matters to fully appreciate the performance. During the first intermission our conversation turned quickly from music back to the Santorelli case. Sara wondered at the fact that the beatings Giorgio received from his father actually seemed to increase the boy’s desire to pursue his sexual irregularities. Kreizler, too, remarked on this irony, saying that if Santorelli had only been able to talk to his son and explore the roots of his peculiar behavior, he might have been able to change it. But by employing violence he turned the affair into a battle, one in which Giorgio’s very psychic survival became associated, in the boy’s mind, with the actions his father objected to. Sara and I puzzled with that concept all the way through Act II; but by the second intermission we were beginning to get it, to understand that a boy who made his living allowing himself to be used in the worst possible ways was, in his own view, asserting himself by doing so.

  The same thing could in all probability have been said of the Zweig children, Kreizler remarked, vindicating my assumption that he would not write off to coincidence the similarity between those two victims and Giorgio Santorelli. Laszlo went on to say that we could not overemphasize the importance of this new information: we now had the beginnings of a pattern, something on which to build a general picture of what qualities inspired violence in our killer. We owed that knowledge to Sara’s determination to visit the Santorellis, as well as to her ability to make Mrs. Santorelli trust her. Laszlo expressed his indebtedness somewhat awkwardly, but nonetheless genuinely; and the look of fulfillment on Sara’s face was worth all the trials of the day.

  Things were fairly chummy, in other words, when Theodore entered our box with Mayor Strong during that same intermission. In an instant the atmosphere in the little enclosure was transformed. For all his use of the rank “colonel” and his reputation as a reformer, William L. Strong was much like any other well-to-do, middle-aged New York businessman—meaning that he had no use for Kreizler. His Honor said nothing in reply to our greetings, just sat in one of the free seats in the box and waited for the lights to go down. It was left to Theodore to awkwardly explain that Strong had something important he wished to say. Talking during a performance at the Metropolitan was not generally considered a barbarity—indeed, some of the city’s most noteworthy personal and business affairs were conducted at such times—but neither Kreizler nor I shared this disrespect for the efforts of those onstage. We did not, in other words, provide a friendly audience when Strong began his lecture during the ominous opening of Act III.

  “Doctor,” the mayor said without looking at him, “Commissioner Roosevelt assures me that your recent visit to Police Headquarters was entirely social. I trust that is true.” Kreizler didn’t answer, which irked Strong a bit. “I am surprised, however, to see you attending the opera with an employee of the Police Department.” He nodded rather rudely in Sara’s direction.

  “If you’d like to see my entire social calendar, Mayor Strong,” Sara said bravely, “I can arrange that.”

  Theodore clutched his forehead quietly but vigorously, and Strong’s anger grew, though he did not acknowledge Sara’s remark. “Doctor, you are perhaps unaware that we are engaged in a great crusade to root out corruption and degeneracy in our city.” Again, Kreizler would not reply, but kept his eyes on Victor Maurel and Frances Saville as they sang together. “In this battle we have many enemies,” Strong continued. “If they can find any way to embarrass or discredit us, they will use it. Am I clear, sir?”

  “Clear, sir?” Kreizler finally answered, still not looking at Strong. “Certainly you are ill-mannered, but as to clear…” He shrugged.

  Strong stood up. “Then let me be plain. If you were to associate yourself with the Police Department in any capacity, Doctor, it would constitute just such a way for our enemies to discredit us. Decent people have no use for your work, sir, for your abominable opinions of the American family, or for your obscene probing into the minds of American children. Such matters are the province of parents and their spiritual advisors. If I were you, I should limit my work to the lunatic asylums, where it belongs. At any rate, no one associated with this administration has any use for such filth. Kindly remember that.” The mayor stood up and made for the exit, pausing to turn briefly on Sara. “And you, young lady, would do well to remember that hiring women to work at headquarters was an experiment—and that experiments often fail!”

  With that, Strong disappeared. Theodore lingered behind just long enough to whisper that future public appearances by the three of us might not be wise, and then he took off after the mayor. It was an outrageous but nonetheless typical incident: there were undoubtedly many people in the audience that night who would have said very similar things to Kreizler, given the chance. Laszlo, Cyrus, and I, having heard it all before, didn’t take it as hard as Sara, who was a newcomer to this kind of intolerance. For much of the remaining performance, she looked as though she might be preparing to blow Strong’s brains out with her derringer; but Maurel and Saville’s final duet was so superbly heartrending that even angry Sara put the real world aside. When the lights went up for the last time we all stood and bellowed bravos and bravas, getting a small wave from Maurel in return. As soon as Sara caught a glimpse of Theodore and Strong in their box, however, her indignation was back in force.

  “Honestly, Doctor, how can you tolerate it?” she said, as we made our way out. “The man is an idiot!”

  “As you will soon discover, Sara,” Kreizler said calmly, “one cannot afford to pay the slightest attention to such statements. Although there is one aspect of the mayor’s interest in this matter that does concern me.”

  I didn’t even have to think about it—the idea had occurred to me while Strong was talking: “The two priests,” I said.

  Laszlo nodded to me. “Indeed, Moore. Those two troublesome priests—one wonders who arranged for such ‘spiritual advisors’ to accompany the detectives today. For the moment, however, that must remain a mystery.” He checked his silver watch. “Good. We should arrive exactly on time. I hope our guests will do the same.”

  “Guests?” Sara said. “But where are we going?”

  “To dinner,” Kreizler answered simply. “And to what I hope will be a most illuminating conference.”

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  It is often difficult, I find, for people today to grasp the notion that one family, working through several restaurants, could change the eating habits of an entire country. But such was the achievement of the Delmonicos in the United States of the last century. Before they opened their first small café on William Street in 1823, catering to the business and financial communities of Lower Manhattan, American food could generally be described as things boiled or fried whose purpose was to sustain hard work and hold down alcohol—usually bad alcohol. The Delmonicos, though Swiss, had brought the French method to America, and each generation of their family refined and expanded the experience. Their menu, from the first, contained dozens of dishes both delectable and healthy, all offered at what, considering the preparation that went into them, were reasonable prices. Their wine cellar was as expansive and as excellent as any in Paris. So great was their success that within decades they had two downtown restaurants, and one uptown; and by the time of the Civil War, travelers from all over the country who had eaten at Delmonico’s and taken news of the experience home with them were demanding that the owners of restaurants everywhere give them not only pleasant surroundings, but food that was nutritious and expertly prepared. The craving for first-rate dining became a kind of national fever in the latter decades of the century—and Delmonico’s was responsible.

  But fine food and wine were only part of the reason for the Delmonicos’ prosperity: the family’s professed egalitarianism also drew cu
stomers in. On any given night at the uptown restaurant on Twenty-sixth Street and Fifth Avenue, one was just as likely to run into Diamond Jim Brady and Lillian Russell as Mrs. Vanderbilt and the other matrons of New York’s high society. Even the likes of Paul Kelly were not turned away. Perhaps more amazing than the fact that anyone could get in was the fact that everyone was forced to wait an equal amount of time for a table—reservations were not taken (save for parties in the private dining rooms), and no favoritism was ever exhibited. The wait was sometimes annoying; but to find yourself on line behind someone like Mrs. Vanderbilt, who would squawk and stamp about “such treatment!” could be very entertaining.

  On the particular night of our conference with the Isaacson brothers, Laszlo had taken the precaution of engaging a private room, knowing that our conversation would be deeply upsetting to anyone around us in the main dining room. We approached the block-long restaurant from the Broadway side, where the café was located, then turned left at Twenty-sixth Street and pulled up to the main entrance. Cyrus and Stevie were dismissed for the evening, having had a lot of late nights recently. The rest of us would get cabs home after dinner. We stepped up to the door and then inside, and were immediately greeted by young Charlie Delmonico.

  The family’s older generation had almost completely died off by 1896, and Charlie had given up a career on Wall Street to take over the business. He couldn’t have been better suited to the task: suave, dapper, and eternally tactful, he attended to every detail without a look of care ever narrowing his enormous eyes or ruffling a hair of his natty beard.

  “Dr. Kreizler,” he said as we approached, taking our hands and smiling delicately. “And Mr. Moore. Always a pleasure, gentlemen, especially when you are together. And Miss Howard as well—it’s been some time since you’ve been in. I’m grateful that you are able to return.” That was Charlie’s way of saying he understood Sara had been through a lot since her father died. “Your other guests, Doctor, have already arrived, and are waiting upstairs.” He kept talking as we checked our outer garments. “I remembered you saying that you found neither olive nor crimson conducive to digestion, so I have placed you in the blue room—will that be satisfactory?”

  “Considerate, as ever, Charles,” Kreizler answered. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome to go right up,” Charlie said. “Ranhofer is, as always, ready.”

  “Ah-ha!” I said, at the mention of Delmonico’s brilliant chef. “I trust he’s girding himself for our stern judgment?”

  Charlie smiled again, that same gentle curve of the mouth. “I believe he has something quite remarkable planned. Come, gentlemen.”

  We followed Charlie through the mirrored walls, mahogany furniture, and frescoed ceiling of the main dining room and then up to the private blue room on the second floor. The Isaacson brothers were already seated at a small but elegant table, looking a bit bewildered. Their confusion mounted when they saw Sara, whom they knew from headquarters; but she very cagily sidestepped their questions, saying that someone had to take notes for Commissioner Roosevelt, who was taking a personal interest in the case.

  “He is?” Marcus Isaacson answered, the dark eyes to either side of the pronounced nose going wide with apprehension. “This isn’t—well, this isn’t some sort of test, is it? I know that everyone in the department is up for review, but—well, a case that’s three years old, it doesn’t really seem fair to judge us…”

  “Not that we don’t appreciate that the case is still open,” Lucius said hurriedly, mopping a few beads of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief as waiters arrived with platters of oysters and glasses of sherry and bitters.

  “Calm yourselves, Detective Sergeants,” Kreizler said. “This is no review. You are here precisely because you are known to be unassociated with those elements of the force that have brought on the current controversies.” At that, both Isaacsons let out considerable amounts of air and attacked the sherry. “You were not,” Kreizler continued, “particular favorites of Inspector Byrnes, I understand?”

  The two brothers eyed each other, and Lucius nodded to Marcus, who spoke: “No, sir. Byrnes believed in methods that were—well, outdated, let’s say. My brother—that is, Detective Sergeant Isaacson—and I have both studied abroad, which made the inspector extremely suspicious. That, and our—background.”

  Kreizler nodded; it was no secret how the department’s old guard felt about Jews. “Well, then, gentlemen,” Laszlo said. “Suppose you tell us what you were able to discover today.”

  After arguing for a moment about who would report first, the Isaacsons decided it would be Lucius:

  “As you know, Doctor, there is a limited amount one can tell from bodies that are in such an advanced state of decomposition. Still, I believe we uncovered a few facts that slipped by the coroner and the investigating detectives. To begin with, the cause of death—excuse me, Miss Howard, but aren’t you going to take notes?”

  She smiled at him. “Mentally. I’ll transfer them to paper later.”

  This answer did nothing for Lucius, who eyed Sara nervously before going on: “Yes, uh—the cause of death.” The waiters reappeared to remove our oyster trays and substitute some green turtle soup au clair. Lucius wiped his broad brow again and took a taste while the waiters opened a bottle of amontillado. “Mmm—delicious!” he decided, the food easing his mind. “But as I was saying—the police and coroner’s reports indicated that death was caused by the throat wounds. Severing of the common carotid arteries, et cetera. It’s the obvious interpretation, if you’ve got a body with a cut throat. But I noticed almost immediately that there was extensive damage to the laryngeal structures, especially the hyoid bone, which in both cases was fractured. That, of course, indicates strangulation.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would the murderer cut their throats if he’d already strangled them?”

  “Blood lust,” Marcus answered, very matter-of-factly, as he ate his soup.

  “Yes, blood lust,” Lucius agreed. “He was probably concerned with keeping his clothes clean, so that he wouldn’t attract any attention during his escape. But he needed to see the blood—or maybe smell it. Some murderers have said it’s the smell rather than the sight that satisfies them.”

  Fortunately, I’d already finished my soup, as this last comment didn’t do wonders for my stomach. I looked over to Sara, who was absorbing it all with great poise. Kreizler was studying Lucius with immense fascination.

  “So,” Laszlo said, “you hypothesize strangulation. Excellent. What else?”

  “There’s the business about the eyes,” Lucius answered, leaning back so that his soup bowl could be removed by the waiters. “I had some trouble with the reports on that one.” We were now presented with aiguillettes of bass done in a creamy Mornay sauce—quite tasty. The amontillado was exchanged for Hochheimer.

  “Excuse me, Doctor,” Marcus said quietly. “But I did want to say—remarkable food. I’ve never had anything quite like it.”

  “I’m delighted, Detective Sergeant,” Kreizler answered. “There is much more to come. Now, then—as to the eyes?”

  “Right,” Lucius said. “The police report made some mention of birds or rats having gotten at the eyes. And the coroner was apparently willing to stand by that, which is fairly extraordinary. Even if the bodies had been out in the open rather than in an enclosed water tower, why would scavengers feed only on the eyes? What puzzled me most, though, about such a theory was that the knife marks were quite distinct.”

  Kreizler, Sara, and I all stopped in mid-chew and looked at each other. “Knife marks?” Kreizler said quietly. “There was no mention of knife marks in any of the reports.”

  “Yes, I know!” Lucius said jovially. The conversation, though gruesome, seemed to be relaxing him; the wine didn’t hurt, either. “It really was strange. But there they were—some very narrow grooves on the malar bone and supraorbital ridge, along with some additional cuts on the sphenoid.”

  T
hey were virtually the same words Kreizler had used to Theodore and me in describing Giorgio Santorelli’s body.

  “At first glance,” Lucius continued, “one might’ve been led to believe that the various cuts were unconnected, indications of separate jabs of a blade. But they seemed to me to bear a relation to each other, so I tried an experiment. There’s a fairly good cutlery store in the neighborhood of your Institute, Doctor, which also sells hunting knives. I went there and bought the kind of blade I thought was probably used, in three different lengths—nine-inch, ten-inch, and eleven.” He fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket. “The largest proved the best fit.”

  At that he dropped a gleaming knife of what seemed gigantic proportions onto the center of the table. Its handle was made of deer antler, the hilt was brass, and the steel of the blade was engraved with a picture of a stag in some brush.

  “The Arkansas toothpick,” Marcus said. “It’s unclear whether Jim Bowie or his brother originally designed the thing, back in the early thirties, but we do know that most of them are now manufactured by one of the Sheffield firms, in England, for export to our western states. It can be used for hunting, but it’s basically a fighting knife. For hand-to-hand combat.”