by Caleb Carr
“Could it be used,” I said, again remembering Giorgio Santorelli, “as a—well, as a carving and chopping instrument? I mean, would it be heavy enough, and hold a fine edge?”
“Absolutely,” Marcus answered. “The edge depends on the quality of the steel, and in a knife this size, especially if it’s manufactured in Sheffield, you tend to get high-quality, hard steel.” He caught himself, and looked at me with the same suspicious puzzlement he had shown that afternoon. “Why do you ask?”
“It looks expensive,” Sara said, deliberately changing the subject. “Is it?”
“Sure,” Marcus said. “Durable, though. One of these would last you years.”
Kreizler was staring at the knife: this, his gaze seemed to say, is what he uses.
“The marks on the sphenoid,” Lucius resumed, “were created at the same time that the cutting edge dug into the malar bone and the supraorbital ridge. It’s perfectly natural, since he was working in such a small area—the eye socket of a child’s skull—with such a large instrument. Still, for all that, it was probably a skillful job. The damage could have been much greater. Now…” He took a large sip of wine. “If you want to know what he was doing, or why, there we can only speculate. Possibly he was selling body parts to anatomists and medical colleges. Although he would probably have taken more than just the eyes, in that case. It’s somewhat confusing.”
None of us could say anything to that. We stared at the knife, myself at least afraid to touch it, as the waiters appeared again with plates of saddle of lamb à la Colbert and bottles of Château Lagrange.
“Admirable,” Kreizler said. He finally looked up at Lucius, whose fat face was starting to turn red with the wine. “A truly splendid job, Detective Sergeant.”
“Oh, that’s not all of it,” Lucius answered, digging into his lamb.
“Eat slowly,” Marcus whispered. “Remember your stomach.”
Lucius paid no heed. “That’s not all,” he repeated. “There were some very interesting fractures of the frontal and parietal bones, at the top of the skull. But I’ll let my brother—I’ll let Detective Sergeant Isaacson explain those.” Lucius looked up at us with a grin. “I’m enjoying my food too much to talk anymore.”
Marcus watched him, shaking his head. “You’re going to be sick tomorrow,” he mumbled. “And you’re going to blame me—but I warned you.”
“Detective Sergeant?” Kreizler said, leaning back with a glass of Lagrange. “You will have to possess some remarkable information indeed, if you hope to outdo your—colleague, here.”
“Well, it is interesting,” Marcus answered, “and it may well tell us something substantive. The fracture lines that my brother found were inflicted from above—from directly above. Now, in an assault, which this obviously was, you’d expect angles of attack, either from similarity of height or difficulty of approach due to the struggle. The nature of the wounds indicates, however, that not only did the assailant have complete physical control over his victims, but he was also tall enough to strike directly downward very forcefully with a blunt instrument of some kind—possibly even his fists, though we doubt that.”
We allowed Marcus a few moments to eat; but when succulent Maryland terrapin arrived to replace the lamb, from which Lucius had to be almost forcefully separated, we urged him to go on:
“Let me see. I’ll try to make this as accessible as I can—if we take the respective heights of the two children, and then add the aspects of the skull fractures that I’ve just described to the equation, we can start to speculate about the height of the attacker.” He turned to Lucius. “What did we guess, roughly six-foot-two?” Lucius nodded and Marcus continued. “I don’t know how much any of you know about anthropometry—the Bertillon system of identification and classification—”
“Oh, are you trained in it?” Sara said. “I’ve been anxious to meet someone who is.”
Marcus looked surprised. “You know Bertillon’s work, Miss Howard?”
As Sara nodded eagerly, Kreizler cut in: “I must confess ignorance, Detective Sergeant. I’ve heard the name, but little more.”
And so, while disposing of the terrapin we also reviewed the achievements of Alphonse Bertillon, a misanthropic, pedantic Frenchman who had revolutionized the science of criminal identification during the eighties. As a lowly clerk assigned the task of going through the files that the Paris police department kept on known criminals, Bertillon had discovered that if one took fourteen measurements of any human body—not only height, but foot, hand, nose, and ear size, and so on—the odds were over 286 million to one that any two people would share the same results. Despite enormous resistance from his superiors, Bertillon had begun to record the body-part sizes of known criminals and then to categorize his results, training a staff of assistant measurers and photographers in the process; and when he used the information thus collected to solve several infamous cases that had stumped the Paris detectives, he became an international celebrity.
Bertillon’s system had been adopted quickly throughout Europe, later in London, and only recently in New York. Throughout his tenure as head of the Division of Detectives, Thomas Byrnes had rejected anthropometry, with its exact measurements and careful photographs, as too intellectually demanding for most of his men—undoubtedly an accurate assumption. Then, too, Byrnes had created the Rogues’ Gallery, a room full of photographs of most known criminals in the United States: he was jealous of his creation, and considered it sufficient for the purposes of identification. Finally, Byrnes had established his own principles of detection and would not have them overthrown by any Frenchman. But with Byrnes’s departure from the force, anthropometry had picked up more advocates, one of whom was evidently sitting at our table that night.
“The main shortcoming of Bertillon’s system,” Marcus said, “besides the fact that it depends on skilled measurers, is that it can only match a suspected or convicted criminal to his record and aliases.” Having eaten a small bowl of sorbet Elsinore, Marcus started to take a cigarette from his pocket, evidently thinking that the meal was over. He was very pleasantly surprised when a plate of canvasback duck, prepared with hominy and a currant gelée, was placed before him, along with a glass of splendid Chambertin.
“Excuse my asking, Doctor,” Lucius said in continuing confusion, “but…is there actually a conclusion to this meal, or do we just work our way into breakfast?”
“So long as you are full of useful information, Detective Sergeants, the food will continue coming.”
“Well, then…” Marcus took a big bite of duck, closing his eyes in appreciation. “We’d better stay interesting. Now, as I was about to say, the Bertillon system offers no physical evidence of criminal commission. It can’t put a man at the scene of the crime. But it can help us shorten the list of known criminals who may be responsible. We’re betting that the man who killed the Zweig children was somewhere in the neighborhood of six-foot-two. That’ll produce relatively few candidates, even from the files of the New York police. It’s an advantageous starting point. And the better news is that, with so many cities now adopting the system, we can make our check nationwide—even to Europe, if we want to.”
“And if the man has no prior criminal record?” Kreizler asked.
“Then, as I say,” Marcus answered with a shrug, “we’re out of luck.” Kreizler looked disappointed at this, and Marcus—eyeing, it seemed to me, his plate, and wondering if the food would really stop coming when we reached a dead end—cleared his throat. “That is, Doctor, out of luck so far as official departmental methods go. However, I’m a student of some other techniques that might prove useful in that eventuality.”
Lucius looked worried. “Marcus,” he mumbled. “I’m still not sure, it’s not accepted, yet—”
Marcus answered quietly but quickly: “Not in court. But it would still make sense in an investigation. We discussed this.”
“Gentlemen?” Kreizler said. “Will you share your secret?”
Luci
us gulped his Chambertin nervously. “It’s still theoretical, Doctor, and is not accepted anywhere in the world as legal evidence, but…” He looked to Marcus, seemingly worried that his brother had cost him dessert. “Oh, all right. Go ahead.”
Marcus spoke confidentially. “It’s called dactyloscopy.”
“Oh,” I said. “You mean fingerprinting.”
“Yes,” Marcus replied, “that’s the colloquial term.”
“But—” Sara broke in. “I mean no offense, Detective Sergeant, but dactyloscopy has been rejected by every police department in the world. Its scientific basis hasn’t even been proven, and no actual case has ever been solved by using it.”
“I take no offense at that, Miss Howard,” Marcus answered. “And I hope you won’t take any when I say that you’re mistaken. The scientific basis has been proven, and several cases have been solved using the technique—though not in a part of the world that you’re likely to have heard much about.”
“Moore,” Kreizler interrupted, his voice snapping a bit, “I’m beginning to understand how you must often feel—once again, gentlemen and lady, I’m lost.”
Sara started to explain the subject to Laszlo, but after that last little quip of his I had to jump in and take over. Dactyloscopy, or fingerprinting (I explained in what I hoped was a very condescending voice), had been argued for decades as a method of identifying all human beings, criminals included. The scientific premise was that fingerprints do not change throughout a person’s lifetime—but there were a great many anthropologists and physicians who didn’t yet accept that fact, despite overwhelming supporting evidence and occasional practical demonstrations. In Argentina, for example—a place that, as Marcus Isaacson said, not many people in America or Europe thought much about (or of )—fingerprinting had gotten its first practical test when a provincial police officer in Buenos Aires named Vucetich used the method to solve a murder case that involved the brutal bludgeoning of two small children.
“And so,” Kreizler said, as our waiters appeared yet again, bearing petits aspics de foie gras, “I take it there is a general shift away from Bertillon’s system.”
“Not yet,” Marcus answered. “It’s an ongoing fight. Even though the reliability of prints has been demonstrated, there’s a great deal of resistance.”
“The important thing to remember,” Sara added—and how very satisfying, to see her now lecturing Kreizler!—“is that fingerprints can show who has been in a given place. It’s ideal for our—” She caught herself, and calmed. “It has great potential.”
“And how are the prints taken?” Kreizler asked.
“There are three basic methods,” Marcus answered. “First, obviously, are visible prints—a hand that’s been dipped in paint, blood, ink, anything like that, and has then touched something else. Then there are plastic prints, left when someone touches putty, clay, wet plaster, and so on. Last, and the most difficult, are latent prints. If you pick up that glass in front of you, Doctor, your fingers will leave a residue of perspiration and body oil in the pattern of your fingerprint. If I suspect that you might have done so”—Marcus removed two small vials from his pockets, one containing a gray-white powder and one a black substance of similar consistency—“I will dust with either aluminum powder”—he held up the gray-white vial—“or with finely ground carbon”—he held up the black. “The choice depends on the color of the background object. White shows up against dark objects, black against light; either would be suitable for your glass. The powders are absorbed by the oils and perspiration, leaving a perfect image of your print.”
“Remarkable,” Kreizler said. “But if it is now scientifically accepted that a human being’s fingerprints never vary, how can this not be admitted as legal evidence in court?”
“Change isn’t something most people enjoy, even if it’s progressive change.” Marcus put the vials down on the table and smiled. “But I’m sure you’re aware of that, Dr. Kreizler.”
Kreizler nodded once in acknowledgment of this comment, then pushed his plate away and sat back again. “Grateful as I am for all of your instructive words,” he said, “I get the feeling, Detective Sergeant, that they have some more specific purpose.”
Marcus turned to Lucius yet again, but his brother only shrugged in resignation. With that, Marcus pulled something flat from the inner pocket of his jacket.
“Chances are,” he said, “no coroner would notice or care if they happened on something like this today, much less three years ago.” He dropped the sheet—actually a photograph—on the table in front of us, and our three heads went close together to view it. It was a detail of something, several white objects—bones, I soon determined, but I couldn’t be more specific.
“Fingers?” Sara wondered aloud.
“Fingers,” Kreizler answered.
“Specifically,” Marcus said, “the fingers of Sofia Zweig’s left hand. Note the nail on the tip of the thumb, the one you can see fully.” He took a magnifying lens from his pocket and handed it to us, then sat back to nibble foie gras.
“It seems,” Kreizler mused as Sara picked up the lens, “bruised. At least, there is discoloration of some kind.”
Marcus looked at Sara. “Miss Howard?”
She put the lens before her face, and brought the photograph closer. Her eyes struggled to focus, and then went wide in discovery. “I see…”
“See what?” I said, squirming like a four-year-old.
As Laszlo looked over Sara’s shoulder, his expression became even more astounded and impressed than hers. “Good lord, you don’t mean—”
“What, what, what?” I said, and Sara finally handed me the glass and the picture. I followed instructions and examined the nail at the tip of the thumb. Without the glass it looked, as Kreizler had said, discolored: Magnified, it clearly bore the mark of what I knew to be a fingerprint, left in some kind of dark substance. I was dumb with surprise.
“It’s a very lucky chance,” Marcus said. “Though partial, it’s sufficient for identification. Somehow, it managed to survive both the coroner and the mortician. The substance is blood, by the way. Probably the girl’s own, or her brother’s. The print, however, is too large to be either of theirs. The coffin has preserved the stain extremely well—and now we have a permanent record of it.”
Kreizler looked up, as close to beaming as he was likely to get. “My dear Detective Sergeant, this is almost as impressive as it is unexpected!”
Marcus looked away, smiling self-consciously, as Lucius piped up in the same worried tone. “Please remember, Doctor, that it has no legal or forensic significance. It’s a clue, and could be used for investigative purposes, nothing else.”
“And nothing else, Detective Sergeant, is needed. Except, possibly”—Laszlo clapped his hands twice and the waiters reappeared—“dessert. Which you gentlemen have thoroughly earned.” The waiters took away our last dinner dishes and returned with Alliance pears: steeped in wine, deep-fried, powdered with sugar, and smothered in apricot sauce. I thought Lucius would have an attack when he saw them. Kreizler kept his eyes on the two brothers. “This is truly commendable work. But I’m afraid, gentlemen, that you have undertaken it under slightly…false premises. For which I apologize.”
We then explained our activities fully to the Isaacsons, as we consumed the pears and some delicious petits fours that followed. Nothing was left out of our account: the condition of Giorgio Santorelli’s body, the troubles with Flynn and Connor, our meeting with Roosevelt, and Sara’s conversation with Mrs. Santorelli were all discussed in detail. Nor did any of us try to sugarcoat the issue—the person we were hunting, Kreizler said, might be unconsciously urging us to find him, but his conscious thoughts were fixed on violence, and if we got too close that violence might easily spill over onto us. The warning did give Marcus and Lucius some little pause, as did the thought that our business would be undertaken in secret and disavowed by all city officials if discovered. But both men’s overarching reaction to the prospe
ct was excitement. Any good detective would have felt the same, for it was the chance of a lifetime: to try new techniques, to operate outside the stifling pressures of departmental bureaucracy, and to make one’s name if the affair were concluded successfully.
And, I must confess, after the meal we’d just eaten and the wine that had accompanied it, such a conclusion seemed somewhat inevitable. Whatever reservations Kreizler, Sara, and I had had about the Isaacsons’ peculiar personal behavior, their work far outweighed such considerations: in the space of a day, we’d been given a general idea of our murderer’s physical stature and weapon of choice, as well as a permanent image of one physical attribute that might ultimately prove his undoing. Add to all this the fruit of Sara’s initiative—an initial impression of what the killer’s victims had in common—and success seemed, to a man in my drunken state, well within our grasp.
Yet it also seemed to me that my own part in this stage of the work had been too minor. I had made no inauguratory contribution, except to escort Sara earlier that day; and as we fairly well carried Lucius Isaacson to a cab, the clock in Del’s having long since tolled two, I combed my rather fuzzy mind for a way to right that situation. What I came up with was equally fuzzy: after getting Sara and Kreizler a hansom and saying good night to them (he would drop her off at Gramercy Park), I turned south and made for Paresis Hall.
CHAPTER 11
* * *
Knowing that I would need to be on my toes once I reached the hall, I decided to walk the mile or so to Cooper Square and let the cold air sober me up a bit. Broadway was nearly deserted, except for the occasional group of young men in white uniforms who were shoveling snow into large wagons. This was the private army of Colonel Waring, the street-cleaning genius who had tidied up Providence, Rhode Island, and then been imported to work the same magic in New York. Waring’s boys were unquestionably efficient—the amount of snow, horse manure, and general garbage on the streets had declined sharply since their advent—but their uniforms apparently made them think that they had some sort of enforcement status. Every so often a kid of about fourteen, dressed in one of Waring’s white tunics and helmets, would catch a less than stellar citizen throwing refuse carelessly onto the street and try to make an arrest. It was impossible to convince these zealots that they had no such authority, and the incidents continued. Sometimes they ended in violence, a record of which the boys were proud—and one which made me cautious as I passed them that night. My gait must have given away my condition, however, for as I walked by several teams of broom- and shovel-wielding vigilantes, they took my measure suspiciously, making it clear that if I wanted to soil the streets, I’d better do it in some other town.
