by Caleb Carr
Sara sat back, again disappointed at the result of her attempts to make Kreizler see another dimension in the imaginary tale of our killer. And I must confess, I was somewhat confused myself; after all, it had been Kreizler who had asked Sara to come up with such theories, knowing that none of us could. To dismiss her thoughts in such a manner seemed arbitrary at best, especially when those thoughts sounded (to the semitrained ear, at any rate) as well reasoned as his own hypotheses.
“The resentment of immigrants is repeated in the third paragraph,” Kreizler said, plowing on. “And then there is the reference to a ‘Red Injun.’ Other than another attempt to make us think him an ignoramus, what do we make of it?”
“The whole phrase seems important,” Lucius answered. “‘Dirtier than a Red Injun.’ He was looking for a superlative, and that’s what he came up with.”
Marcus pondered the question: “If we assume that the immigrant resentment is family-based, then he himself isn’t an Indian. But he must’ve had some kind of contact with them.”
“Why?” Kreizler asked. “Race hatred doesn’t require familiarity.”
“No, but the two usually do accompany each other,” Marcus insisted. “And look at the phrase itself—it’s fairly casual, as if he naturally associates filth with Indians and assumes everyone else does, too.”
I nodded, seeing his point. “That’d be out west. You don’t usually hear that kind of talk in the East—it’s not that we’re more enlightened, by any means, but too few people share the point of reference. What I mean is, if he’d said ‘dirtier than a nigger,’ you might guess the South, right?”
“Or Mulberry Street,” Lucius suggested quietly.
“True,” I acknowledged. “I’m not saying the attitude’s confined. After all, this could just be somebody who’s read too many Wild West stories—”
“Or someone with excessive imagination,” Sara added.
“But,” I went on, “it might work as a general indication.”
“Well, it’s the obvious implication,” Kreizler sighed, piquing me a bit. “But someone somewhere said that we must never overlook the obvious. What about it, Marcus—does the idea of a frontier upbringing appeal?”
Marcus thought it over. “It has attractions. First of all, it explains the knife, which is a frontier weapon. It also gives us the hunting, recreational and otherwise, without the need for a wealthy background. And while there’s plenty of terrain for mountaineering in the west, it’s concentrated in specific areas, which might help. There are whole communities of German and Swiss immigrants out there, too.”
“Then we shall mark it as a favored possibility,” Kreizler said, doing so on the board, “though we can go no farther for the time being. That takes us to the next paragraph, at which point our man finally gets down to specifics.” Kreizler picked up the note again, and then began to rub the back of his neck slowly. “On February eighteenth he spots the Santorelli boy. Having spent more time than I’d care to admit going over calendars and almanacs, I can tell you right away that February eighteenth was Ash Wednesday this year.”
“He mentions ashes on the face,” Lucius added. “That would mean that the boy went to church.”
“The Santorellis are Catholic,” Marcus added. “There aren’t many churches near Paresis Hall, Catholic or otherwise, but we could try checking a broader area. It’s possible someone will remember seeing Giorgio. He would have been fairly distinctive, especially in a church setting.”
“And it’s always possible that the killer got his first glimpse of him near the church,” I said. “Or even in it. If we get lucky, someone may have witnessed the meeting.”
“You two seem to have planned your weekend quite thoroughly,” Kreizler answered, at which Marcus and I, realizing that we’d proposed long days of footwork, frowned at each other. “Although,” Laszlo went on, “the use of the word ‘parading’ makes me doubt that they met very near a house of worship—particularly one in which Giorgio had just attended services.”
“It does suggest that the boy was hawking his wares,” I said.
“It suggests many things.” Laszlo thought for a moment, sounding the word: “‘Parading…’ It might fit with your idea that the man suffers from a disability or deformity of some kind, Moore. There’s a trace of envy in the word, as if he himself is excluded from such behavior.”
“I don’t quite see that,” Sara answered. “It sounds more—disdainful, to me. That could simply be due to Giorgio’s occupation, of course, but I don’t think so. There’s no pity or sympathy in the tone, only harshness. And a certain sense of familiarity, as with the lying.”
“Right,” I said. “It’s that lecturing tone you’d get from a schoolmaster who knows just what you’re up to because he was a boy once himself.”
“Then you’re saying he disdains an open display of sexual behavior, not because he was prevented from engaging in such activities himself, but precisely because he did engage in them?” Laszlo cocked his head and puzzled with the notion. “Perhaps. But wouldn’t the adults in his life have stifled such antics? And doesn’t that lead us back to the idea of envy, even if there’s no physical deformity?”
“But the issue must still have caused a scene, at least once,” Sara volleyed, “in order for such restrictions to have been laid down.”
Laszlo paused and then nodded. “Yes. Yes, you have a point, Sara.” That brought a small but satisfied smile to her face. “And then,” Kreizler continued, “whether he defied or submitted to the ban, the seed of future difficulty would have been planted. Good.” Kreizler made a few quick scribbles to this effect on the left-hand side of the board. “On, then, to the ashes and paint.”
“He puts the two together very easily,” Lucius said, “whereas, to the average observer, there’d appear to be some inconsistency—I’ll bet the priest at the service thought so.”
“It’s as if the one isn’t any better than the other,” Marcus added. “The tone remains pretty deprecating.”
“And that presents a problem.” Kreizler went to his desk and fetched a bound calendar, one that bore a cross on its cover. “On February eighteenth he saw Giorgio Santorelli for the first time, and I very much doubt that the encounter was accidental. The specificity suggests that he was out looking for just that type of boy on that day in particular. We have to assume, therefore, that the fact of its being Ash Wednesday is significant. In addition, the ashes, in tandem with the paint, seem to have heightened his reaction, which was essentially one of anger. That might suggest that he resented a boy-whore’s presuming to participate in a Christian rite—yet as the detective sergeants have noted, there is no sense of reverence for that rite in his language. Quite the contrary. I have not, to this point, believed that we are dealing with a man who suffers from a religious mania. The evangelical and messianic qualities that tend to mark such pathologies are not displayed, even in this note. And though my conviction in this regard has, admittedly, been a bit weakened by the schedule of the killings, the indications remain contradictory.” Kreizler studied the calendar hard. “If there were only some significance to the day Giorgio was killed…”
We knew what he was referring to. Laszlo’s recent investigation of the timings of the murders had revealed that all save one could be tied to the Christian calendar: January 1st marked the circumcision of Jesus and the Feast of Fools; February 2nd was the Purification of the Virgin Mary, or Candlemas Day; and Ali ibn-Ghazi had died on Good Friday. There had been holy days when no murders had taken place, of course—Epiphany, for instance, had passed without incident, as had the Five Wounds of Christ on February 20th. But if March 3rd, the date of the Santorelli killing, had possessed a Christian connotation, we could have been relatively certain that some kind of religious element was involved in our man’s timing. No such connotation existed, however.
“Then maybe we’re back to the theory of the lunar cycle,” Marcus said, bringing up a very old bit of folk wisdom that we’d spent a fair amount of time debating, which
ran to the effect that behavior such as our killer’s was somehow connected to the waxing and waning of the moon, making it true “lunacy.”
“I still don’t like it,” Kreizler said with a wave of his hand, eyes ever on his calendar.
“The moon has been linked to other physical and behavioral shifts,” Sara said. “You’ll find a lot of women, for instance, who believe it controls the menstrual cycle.”
“And our man’s urges do seem to run according to a cycle of some kind,” Lucius agreed.
“So they do,” Kreizler replied. “But the suggestion of such an unprovable astrological influence on psychobiology draws us away from the ritualistic nature of the murders. The claimed cannibalism is a new and apparently distinct element of those rituals, I’ll admit. But the savagery has been consistently rising, and it was almost predictable that we should reach some such crescendo—although the absence of that particular feature in the ibn-Ghazi murder suggests he may have ventured into an area that, whatever his shocking statements in the note, was not truly to his liking.”
The conversation ground to a halt for a moment, and as it did an idea began to form in my mind. “Kreizler,” I said, carefully weighing my words, “let’s assume for a moment that we’re right about all this. You’ve said yourself that it seems to further reinforce the notion that there’s a religious element to the murders.”
Kreizler turned to me, weariness starting to show in his eyes. “It can be taken that way,” he said.
“Well, what about our two priests, then? We’ve already figured that their behavior could easily be seen as an attempt to protect someone. Suppose it’s one of their own?”
“Ahh,” Lucius said quietly. “You’re thinking of someone like that reverend in Salt Lake City, John?”
“Exactly,” I answered. “A holy man gone very wrong. One with a second, and secret, life. Suppose his superiors have gotten wind of what he’s doing, but they can’t locate him for some reason—maybe he’s gone into hiding. The potential for scandal would be enormous. And given the role that the Catholic and Episcopal churches play in the life of this city, the leaders of either group could easily get not only the mayor’s office but the richest men in town to help them conceal it. Until they can deal with it privately, I mean.” I sat back, rather proud of this bit of work, but waiting for Kreizler’s reaction. His continued silence didn’t seem a good sign; so I added, a bit uncomfortably, “It’s just a thought.”
“It’s a damned good thought,” Marcus judged, with an enthusiastic knock of his pencil against his desk.
“It might tie a lot of things together,” Sara agreed.
Kreizler finally began to react: a slow nod. “It might, indeed,” he said, as he scrawled INCOGNITO PRIEST? in the center of the board. “The traits of background and character that we have described could fit a man of the cloth as well as any other—and the fact of his being a priest offers an attractive alternative to a religious mania. These could be personal conflicts playing out according to a schedule that happens to be natural, even convenient, for him. A more vigorous investigation of those other two priests will doubtless shed further light on the subject.” Kreizler turned. “And that—”
“I know, I know,” I said, holding up a hand. “The detective sergeants and myself.”
“How splendid to be correctly anticipated,” Kreizler answered with a chuckle.
As Marcus and I briefly discussed our growing investigative chores for the next few days, Lucius glanced over the note again. “The next line,” he announced, “seems to get back to the notion of sadism. He decides to wait, and to see the boy several times before the murder—again, he’s toying with him, while all the time he knows what he’s going to do. It’s the sporting, sadistic hunter.”
“Yes, I fear there’s nothing new in that sentence—not until we reach the end.” Kreizler tapped his chalk on the board. “‘That place’—the only expression, other than ‘lies,’ which receives the upper case.”
“Hatred again,” Sara said. “Of Paresis Hall specifically, or of the general type of behavior practiced there?”
“Maybe both,” Marcus said. “After all, Paresis Hall caters to a very specific clientele—men who want boys who dress up like women.”
Kreizler kept tapping at the box marked THE MOLDING VIOLENCE AND/OR MOLESTATION. “We have returned to the core of the matter. This is not a man who hates all children, nor a man who hates all homosexuals—nor, for that matter, a man who hates all boy-whores who dress up like women. This is a man of very particular tastes.”
“But you still do consider him homosexual, don’t you, Doctor?” Sara asked.
“Only in the sense that the London Ripper could be called heterosexual,” Kreizler answered, “because his victims happened to be women. The issue is almost irrelevant—this note proves as much. He may be homosexual, and he may be a pedophile, but sadism is the predominant perversion, and violence seems far more characteristic of his intimate contacts than do sexual or amorous feelings. He may not even be able to distinguish between violence and sex. Certainly, any sense of arousal seems to translate quickly into violence. And that, I am sure, is a pattern that was established during these initial molding experiences. The antagonists in those episodes were without question male—that fact comes into play far more than any true homosexual orientation, when he’s selecting his victims.”
“Was it a man that committed those early acts, then?” Lucius asked. “Or maybe another boy?”
Kreizler shrugged. “A difficult question. But we know this—certain boys inspire in the killer a rage so deep he’s constructed his entire existence around its expression. Which boys? As Moore has pointed out, those who are—either in the killer’s eyes or in fact—deceitful, as well as insolent.”
Sara indicated the note with a nod of her head. “‘Saucy.’”
“Yes,” Kreizler answered. “We have been correct in that assumption. We have further postulated that he chooses violence as a form for expressing that rage because he learned to do so in some sort of domestic setting, quite probably from a violent father whose actions went unacknowledged and unpunished. What was the cause of that original violence, insofar as our killer understood it? We have speculated on that, too.”
“Wait,” Sara said, in a moment of realization. She looked up at Kreizler. “We’ve come full circle, haven’t we, Doctor?”
“We have indeed,” Kreizler replied, drawing a line from one side of the chalkboard to the other: from the killer’s traits to those of his victims. “Whether our man, in his youth, was a liar, sexually precocious, or generally so ill behaved that he required terrorizing in addition to beatings, he was in some fundamental way very much like the boys he is now killing.”
That, as they say, was a thought. If, by committing these murders, our killer was not only trying to destroy intolerable elements of the world around him, but also and more fundamentally parts of himself that he simply could not abide, then Kreizler might well be right about his entering a new and markedly more self-destructive phase; indeed, eventual self-destruction seemed, in this light, almost a certainty. But why, I asked Kreizler, should the man see those aspects of himself as so intolerable? And, if he did, why not simply change them?
“You said it yourself, Moore,” Laszlo replied. “We only do that sort of learning once. Or, to paraphrase our former teacher, this killer makes the best of a pursuit that disagrees, because there is no other for which he is fitted, and it is too late for him to begin again. In the remainder of this fourth paragraph he describes abducting the boy, using a highly imperative tone. Does he mention desire? No—he tells us that he ‘must.’ He must because those are the laws by which his world, disagreeable as it may be, has always functioned. He has become what Professor James calls a ‘mere walking bundle of habits,’ and to abandon those habits would, he fears, mean abandoning himself. You remember what we once said about Giorgio Santorelli—that he came to associate his psychic survival with the activities that caused h
is father to beat him? Our man is not so very different. He no doubt enjoys his murders as much or as little as Giorgio enjoyed his work. But for both of them those activities were, and are, vital, despite the deep self-loathing they may create—and which you have already detected in this note, Moore.”
Now, I’ll confess that I hadn’t been fully aware of just how many incisive statements I’d made that evening; but I was now having no trouble keeping up with Laszlo’s elaboration of them. “He gets back to that toward the end of the letter,” I said. “The remark about Giorgio being ‘unsoiled’ by him—the filth he despises is actually in him, a part of him.”
“And would be transmitted through the act of sex,” Marcus added. “So you’re right, Doctor—sex is not something he values or enjoys. It’s the violence that’s his goal.”
“Isn’t it possible that he isn’t even capable of sex?” Sara asked. “Given the kind of background we’re supposing, that is. In one of the treatises you gave us, Doctor, there’s a discussion of sexual stimulation and anxiety reactions—”
“Dr. Peyer, at the University of Zurich,” Kreizler said. “The observations grew out of his larger study of coitus interruptus.”
“That’s right,” Sara continued. “The implications seemed strongest for men who had emerged from difficult home lives. Persistent anxiety could result in a pronounced suppression of the libido, creating impotence.”
“Our boy’s pretty tender on that subject,” Marcus said, going to the note and reading from it. “‘I never fucked him, though I could have.’”
“Indeed,” Kreizler said, writing IMPOTENCE in the center of the board without hesitation. “The effect would only be to magnify his frustration and rage, producing ever more carnage. And that carnage emerges now as our most difficult puzzle. If these multilations are indeed personal rituals, unconnected to any definite religious theme other than dates, then regardless of whether he’s a priest or a plumber it becomes all the more important to understand the details, for they will be specific to him.” Kreizler went over to the note. “This document, I fear, gives us very little help along such lines.” Laszlo rubbed his eyes as he checked his silver watch. “And it’s quite late. I suggest we conclude.”
