by Caleb Carr
Kreizler considered that for a moment. “How many men would be capable of it, Detective Sergeant?”
Lucius shrugged. “We’ve got several options as I see it. A doctor, of course, or at least someone with more than cursory medical training. A skilled butcher, possibly—or perhaps a very practiced hunter. Someone accustomed to making full use of a carcass, who would know not only how to dress the principal meat sections but the secondary sources of food, as well—the eyes, innards, feet, and the rest.”
“But if he’s so careful,” Theodore asked, “why commit these atrocities in the open? Why not go to a more hidden place?”
“The display,” Kreizler answered, walking back to us. “The thought that he’s in a publicly accessible spot seems to mean a great deal to him.”
I said, “The desire to be caught?”
Kreizler nodded. “So it would appear. Dueling with the desire to escape.” He turned to look out over the harbor. “And there are other aspects that these sites have in common…”
Just then we got a loud shout from Marcus telling us to pull him up. On Theodore’s count we gave out with several long, laborious heaves, bringing Marcus quickly back to the rooftop. To Kreizler’s questions about what he’d found, Marcus replied that he didn’t wish to speculate until he was fairly certain of his theory; he then moved off to make a few notes, as Lucius called out:
“Dr. Kreizler? I’d like you to look at this.”
Kreizler went immediately over to the body, but Theodore and I moved with more trepidation—there was only so much of it the untrained eye could take. Even Sara, who had started out so bravely, was now averting her eyes whenever possible, the prolonged exposure apparently exacting quite an emotional toll.
“When you examined Giorgio Santorelli, Doctor,” Lucius said, as he removed the short length of twine that bound the dead boy’s wrists, “do you remember finding any abrasions or lacerations in this area?” He held up the victim’s left hand, indicating its base.
“No,” Kreizler answered simply. “Other than the severing of the right hand there was nothing appreciable.”
“And no lacerations or bruising of the forearm?” Lucius inquired.
“None.”
“Yes. It would support what we’ve already hypothesized.” Lucius let the dead arm drop, then mopped his brow. “That’s fairly coarse twine,” he continued, pointing first at the bit of cord on the rooftop, and then at the boy’s wrist again. “Even during a brief struggle it should have left significant marks.”
Sara looked from the twine to Lucius. “Then—there was no struggle?” And in the way she said it there was real sadness, sadness that reverberated heavily in my chest—for the implication was obvious. Lucius went on to state it:
“It’s my suspicion that the boy allowed himself to be tied, and that even during strangulation, he made very little attempt to fight against the murderer. He may not have been fully aware of what was happening. You see, if there’d been an attack and actual resistance, we’d also find cuts or at least bruises on the forearms, made when the boy tried to fend the assault off. But again, there’s nothing. So…” Lucius glanced up at us. “I’d say the boy knew the killer. They may even have engaged in this kind of binding on other occasions. For…sexual purposes, in all likelihood.”
Theodore sucked air sharply. “Good lord…”
Watching Sara’s face again, I saw a glint in the corners of her eyes: welling tears that she blinked away quickly.
“That last part’s just a theory, of course,” Lucius added. “But I feel very confident in saying the boy knew him.”
Kreizler nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing and his voice going soft: “Knew him—and trusted him.”
Lucius finally stood and turned away from the body. “Yes,” he said, switching the worklamp off.
At that, Sara got to her feet in a sudden movement and rushed to the edge of the roof farthest from where we were standing. The rest of us glanced at each other questioningly, and then I went after her. Approaching slowly, I saw that she was looking out at Lady Liberty, and I confess to some surprise at not finding her heaving with sobs. Instead her body was quite still, even rigid. Without turning she said:
“Please don’t come any closer, John.” Her tone, far from hysterical, was icily even. “I’d rather not have any men around me. Just for a moment.”
I stood awkwardly still. “I’m—sorry, Sara. I only wanted to help. You’ve seen a lot tonight.”
She let out a bitter little chuckle. “Yes. But there’s nothing you can do to help.” She paused, but I didn’t leave. “And to think,” she continued at length, “that we actually thought it might have been a woman…”
“Thought?” I said. “So far as I know, we still haven’t ruled it out.”
“Perhaps the rest of you haven’t. I don’t suppose you could be expected to. You’re working at a disadvantage, in that area.”
I turned when I felt a presence at my side and found Kreizler carefully moving closer. He indicated silence to me as Sara spoke on:
“But I can tell you, John—that’s a man’s work, back there. Any woman who would have killed the boy wouldn’t have…” She groped for words. “All that stabbing, binding, and poking…I’ll never understand it. But there’s no mistaking it, once you’ve…had the experience.” She chuckled once grimly. “And it always seems to begin with trust…” There was another very awkward pause, during which Kreizler touched my arm and with a movement of his head told me to return to the other side of the roof. “Just leave me for a few minutes, John,” Sara finally finished. “I’ll be fine.”
Kreizler and I moved away quietly, and when we were out of Sara’s hearing Laszlo murmured, “She’s right, of course. I’ve never come across any feminine mania—puerperal or otherwise—that could compare to this. Though it probably would have taken me a ridiculously long time to realize it. We must find more ways to take advantage of Sara’s perspective, John.” He glanced around quickly. “But first we must get out of here.”
While Sara remained at the edge of the roof, the rest of us set to work gathering up the Isaacsons’ equipment and removing all traces of our presence, primarily the little splotches of aluminum and carbon powder that dotted the area. As we did so, Marcus initiated a conversation concerning the fact that half of the six murders we now felt confident assigning to our killer had occurred on rooftops: a significant fact, for rooftops in the New York of 1896 were secondary but nonetheless well-worn routes of urban travel, lofty counterparts to the sidewalks below that were full of their own distinctive types of traffic. Particularly in the tenement slums, a broad but definable range of people sometimes did a full day’s business without ever descending to the street—not only creditors seeking payment, but settlement and church workers, salesmen, visiting nurses, and others. Rents in the tenements were generally scaled in proportion to the amount of exertion required to reach a given flat, and thus the most unfortunate residents occupied the top floors of buildings. Those who had business with these poorest of the poor, rather than braving the steep and often dangerous staircases repeatedly, would simply move from one high floor to another by way of the rooftops. True, we still didn’t know just how our man was getting to those rooftops; but it was clear that once there he made his way around with great skill. The possibility that he had once held, or currently did hold, one of those roof-traveling jobs was therefore worth exploring.
“Whatever his occupation,” Theodore announced, coiling the rope we’d used to lower Marcus down the wall, “it would take a cool mind to plan this kind of violence so precisely and then carry it out so thoroughly, when he knows that the possibility of apprehension is never very far off.”
“Yes,” Kreizler answered. “It almost suggests a martial spirit, doesn’t it, Roosevelt?”
“What’s that?” Theodore turned to Kreizler with an almost injured look. “Martial? That was not my meaning, Doctor—not my meaning at all! I would be loath indeed to call this the work of
a soldier.”
Laszlo smiled a bit, devilishly aware that Theodore (who was still years away from his exploits on San Juan Hill) viewed the military arts with the same boyish reverence he had since childhood. “Perhaps,” Kreizler needled further. “But a cool head for carefully planned violence? Isn’t that what we endeavor to instill in soldiers?” Theodore cleared his throat loudly and stomped away from Kreizler, whose smile only broadened. “Make a note of it, Detective Sergeant Isaacson,” Laszlo called out. “A military background of some kind is definitely indicated!”
Theodore spun around once more, eyes wide; but he only managed to bellow “By thunder, sir!” before Cyrus burst out of the staircase, as alarmed as I could remember ever having seen him.
“Doctor!” he shouted. “I think we’d better get moving!” Cyrus raised one of his big arms to point north, and all our eyes followed the indication.
At the edges of Battery Park, near the several points of entry, crowds were gathering: not the kind of well-dressed, politely behaved throngs that occupied the area during the day, but milling pockets of shabbily dressed men and women on whom the mark of poverty was plain even from a distance. Some carried torches and several were accompanied by children, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying this unusual early morning foray. As yet there were no overt signs of threat, but it had all the makings of a mob.
CHAPTER 15
* * *
Sara came and stood by me. “John—who are they?”
“Offhand,” I answered, feeling a different and a more vital sense of concern than I had at any point during that night, “I’d say that the morning edition of the Post has reached the streets.”
“What do you suppose they want?” Lucius asked, his head sweating more than ever despite the cold.
“They want an explanation, I expect,” Kreizler answered. “But how did they know to come here?”
“There was a cop from the Twenty-seventh Precinct,” Cyrus said, still very anxious, for it had been a mob much like the one we now faced that had tortured and killed his parents. “He was down there with two other men, explaining something to them. Then those two fellas went into the crowd and started talking it up pretty good, about how it’s only poor foreign kids that’re getting killed. Seems most of those people out there come from over on the East Side.”
“The officer was, no doubt, Roundsman Barclay,” Theodore said, his face full of that particular anger that was inspired by treacherous subordinates. “He’s the man who was here earlier.”
“There goes Miller!” Marcus said suddenly, at which I looked down to see the watchman fleeing without his hat toward the Bedloe’s Island ferry station. “Fortunately I kept his keys,” Marcus added. “He didn’t look like a man who’d be around long.”
Just then the noise of the largest group of people, who were straight ahead of us and quite visible through the branches of the park’s still-bare trees, began to grow louder, reaching a crescendo with a couple of venomous yells. We heard a clatter of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels, and then Kreizler’s calash appeared, barreling down the main path of the park toward the castle. Stevie held his horsewhip high and drove Frederick hard, around the front walls of the fort to the pair of large doors in the rear.
“Good man, Stevie,” I murmured, turning to the others. “That’ll be our best way out—through the back doors and up the river side of the park!”
“I suggest we get to it,” Marcus said. “They’re moving.”
With another series of shouts, the crowd at the main entrance came into the park, at which the groups to their right and left also began to surge forward. It now became clear that there were still more people streaming into the area from surrounding streets—the mob would soon number in the many hundreds. Someone had done an expert job of inflammation.
“The devil!” Theodore grunted ferociously. “Where is the night watch from the Twenty-seventh? I’ll have them over hot coals!”
“An ideal plan for the morning,” Kreizler said, making for the staircase. “At the moment, however, escape seems imperative.”
“But this is a crime scene!” Theodore continued indignantly. “I will not have it disturbed by any mob, whatever their complaint!” He glanced about the roof, then picked up a stout section of cut wood. “Doctor, none of you can be found here—take Miss Howard and go. The detective sergeants and I will face these people at the front gate.”
“We will?” It had gotten out of Lucius’s mouth before he quite knew what he was saying.
“Steel yourself,” Roosevelt answered with a grin, grabbing Lucius’s shoulder heartily and then taking a few good cuts at the night air with his piece of wood. “After all, this fort defended us from the British Empire—it can certainly withstand a mob from the Lower East Side!” It was one of those moments when you wanted to slap the man, even if there was sense in his blustering.
In order to conceal completely the nature of our work, it was necessary for the rest of us to take the Isaacsons’ equipment away in the calash. Having made our way back down and through the tanks of fish, we stowed the various boxes on board the carriage, and then I turned to wish the Isaacsons good luck. Marcus seemed to be searching the ground for something, while Lucius was checking a police-issue revolver uncomfortably.
“You may not be able to avoid a fight,” I said to them, with a smile that I hoped was reassuring, “but don’t let Roosevelt force you into one.”
Lucius only groaned a bit, but Marcus smiled bravely and shook my hand. “We’ll meet you at Number 808,” he said.
With that they closed the fort’s rear doors and replaced the chains and locks. I jumped up and grasped the side of the calash—Kreizler and Sara were already in the two seats, and Cyrus was up top with Stevie—and we started with a jolt down a path that took us to the harbor’s edge and then northward along the river. The noise of the crowd outside Castle Garden had continued to grow, but as we passed within sight of the fort’s front gates the angry shouts suddenly subsided. I strained my head around to see Theodore outside the structure’s heavy black portal, calmly holding his club with one hand and pointing toward the edge of the park with the other. The action-crazed fool simply couldn’t stay safely inside. The Isaacsons were in the doorway behind him, ready to rebolt the doors at a moment’s notice. But that didn’t look to be necessary—the crowd actually seemed to be listening to Theodore.
As we approached the northern edge of the park, Stevie picked up speed, and nearly ran us headlong into a phalanx of about twenty cops as they trotted toward Castle Garden. We took a hard left at Battery Place in order to keep to the deserted waterfront, and as we did I got a brief but clear glimpse of an expensive brougham that was parked at a corner which enjoyed a full view of the events at the fort. A hand—well manicured, with a tasteful silver ring on the little finger—appeared at the brougham’s door, followed by the upper part of a man’s body. Even in the dim light of the arc lamps I could see the gleam of an elegant tie stud, and soon a set of handsome Black Irish features: Paul Kelly. I yelled to Kreizler and told him to look, but we were moving too fast for him to catch a glimpse. When I related what I’d seen, however, his face showed that he’d drawn the obvious conclusion.
The crowd, then, had been Kelly’s work, probably in response to Steffens’s remarks about Biff Ellison in the Post. It all fit—Kelly was not known for making idle threats, and whipping up a fury over the murders among a deeply and perpetually disgruntled segment of the populace would have been child’s play for so devious a man. Nevertheless, the move had almost cost our team dearly, indeed I feared it might still do so; and as I continued to cling to the side of the speeding calash, I vowed that, should anything happen to Theodore and the Isaacsons, I would hold the chief of the Five Pointers personally responsible.
Stevie didn’t ease up on Frederick at any point during our ride home, and no one asked him to—each of us, for his or her own reasons, wanted to put some distance on Castle Garden. There were pools of rainwater
in many of the roughly paved streets on the West Side, and by the time we reached Number 808 Broadway I was splattered with mud, cold as the tomb, and ready to call it a night (or a morning, since dawn was not far off ). But the job of dragging the equipment upstairs and recording our thoughts on the murder while they were still fresh remained, and we set about it dutifully. When the elevator reached the sixth floor, Kreizler discovered that he had misplaced his key, and I gave him mine, which was caked with mud. Overall, it was a bedraggled, exhausted little group that filed into headquarters at 5:15 A.M. that Saturday.
My surprise and joy were all the greater, therefore, when the first thing that greeted my senses was the smell of steak and eggs frying and strong coffee brewing. A light was on in the small kitchen at the rear of our floor, and I could see Mary Palmer—dressed not in her blue linen uniform but in a pretty white blouse, a plaid skirt, and an apron—moving about in quick, capable motions. I dropped the cases I was lugging.
“God has sent me an angel,” I said, stumbling toward the kitchen. Mary started a bit when she saw my muddy frame coming out of the shadows, but her blue eyes soon settled down and she showed me a little smile, offering a bit of hot, sizzling steak on the end of a long fork and then a cup of coffee. I started to say, “Mary, how did you…,” but quickly abandoned the attempt and concentrated on the delicious food and drink. She had quite a production going: a legion of eggs and what looked like sides of lean beef in deep iron skillets that she must have brought from Kreizler’s house. I could have stayed in there for quite a while, bathing in the warmth and the aromas; but as I turned back around, I found Laszlo standing behind me, his arms folded and a sour scowl on his face.
“Well,” he said. “I suppose I know now what happened to my key.”
I assumed his admonishment was in jest. “Laszlo,” I said through a mouthful of steak, “I believe I may actually revive—”
