by Caleb Carr
“Before we do that, Doctor,” Sara said, quietly but firmly, “I’d like to get back to one point concerning the adults in this man’s past.”
Kreizler nodded, with little or no enthusiasm. “The woman involved,” he sighed.
“Yes.” Sara stood up and walked to the chalkboard, pointing to its various divisions. “We’ve theorized that we have a man who, while still a child, was harassed, embarrassed, blamed, and finally beaten. I can’t contest the theory that the beatings were administered by a male hand. But the intimate nature of so many of the other aspects seems to me to suggest very strongly a woman’s rather sinister presence. Listen to his tone throughout the note, which, after all, is addressed to Mrs. Santorelli specifically—it’s defensive, badgered, even whining at moments, and obsessed with scatological and anatomical detail. It’s the voice of a boy who’s been scrutinized and humiliated regularly, who’s been made to feel that he himself is filth, without ever experiencing a place or person of refuge. If his character truly did form in his childhood, Dr. Kreizler, then I must repeat that the mother would be the far more likely culprit, in this regard.”
Kreizler’s face betrayed irritation. “If that were so, Sara, then wouldn’t massive resentment have been bred? And wouldn’t the victims be women, like the Ripper’s?”
“I don’t argue your reasoning with regard to the victims,” Sara answered. “I’m asking for a deeper look in another direction.”
“You seem to think,” Laszlo replied, a bit snappishly, “that I suffer from blinkered vision. I remind you that I do have some experience with these things.”
Sara studied him for a moment, and then quietly asked, “Why do you resist so strongly the notion of a woman’s active involvement in the formation?”
Laszlo suddenly rose, slammed a hand down on his desk, and shouted, “Because her role cannot have been active, damn it!”
Marcus, Lucius, and I froze for a moment, then exchanged uneasy glances. The rather shocking outburst, quite apart from being unwarranted, didn’t even seem to make sense, given Laszlo’s professional opinions. And yet it went on: “Had a woman been actively involved in this man’s life, at any point, we would not even be here—the crimes would never have happened!” Kreizler tried to regain an even keel, but only half-succeeded. “The whole notion is absurd, there is nothing in the literature to suggest it! And so I really must insist, Sara—we shall presume a record of feminine passivity in the formation and proceed to the issue of the mutilations! Tomorrow!”
As has hopefully become clear by now, Sara Howard was not the kind of woman to take such talk from any man, even one she admired and perhaps (in my opinion, at any rate) had still deeper feelings for. Her eyes went very thin at this last shot from Laszlo, and her voice was ice itself when she said:
“Since you appear to have decided this issue long ago, Doctor, it seems pointless to have asked me to research the subject.” I was a little worried that she’d go for the derringer, but she opted for her coat instead. “Perhaps you thought it would be an amusing way to keep me occupied,” she stormed on. “But I’ll tell you right now that I don’t need to be amused, cajoled, or otherwise mollycoddled—by any of you!”
And with that she was out the door. The Isaacsons and I traded more perturbed looks, but there was no need to say anything. We all knew that Sara had been right and Kreizler inexplicably, pigheadedly wrong. As Laszlo sighed and collapsed into his chair, it seemed for an instant that he might realize as much himself; but he did nothing more than ask us all to leave, claiming weariness. Then he fixed his eyes on the letter before him. The rest of us fetched our things and filed out, saying goodnight to Kreizler but receiving no reply.
Had the incident sparked no repercussions, I would hardly mention it here. True, it was the first real moment of discord we’d experienced at Number 808 Broadway, but it was inevitable that there should be a few, and no doubt we all would have gotten over it soon. But this sharp exchange between Kreizler and Sara did have repercussions: illuminating repercussions that not only revealed much that was unknown, even to me, about Kreizler’s past, but also lit our way toward a face-to-face encounter with one of the most disturbing criminals in the recent history of the United States.
CHAPTER 22
* * *
We saw very little of Kreizler during the next week or so, and I later learned that he spent nearly all of that time in the city’s jails and a variety of residential neighborhoods, interviewing men who’d been arrested for domestic violence as well as the wives and children who’d suffered at their hands. He came into our headquarters only once or twice, saying next to nothing but collecting notes and data with great, almost desperate determination. He never managed to apologize to Sara; but, even though the few words that passed between them were awkward and stilted, she did find it in herself to forgive his harsh statements, which she attributed to a combination of Kreizler’s increasingly emotional involvement in the case and the nervousness that we’d all begun to feel with the changing of the month. Whatever calendar our killer was using, if he followed his established pattern he would strike again soon. At the time, anticipation of that event did seem a more than adequate explanation for Kreizler’s uncharacteristic behavior; but such anticipation, it turned out, was only part of what was driving my friend so hard.
For our part, Marcus and I decided during those first few days of May to divide the tasks we’d outlined on the night the killer’s note arrived. Marcus canvassed every Catholic church on the Lower East Side (as well as some outside that neighborhood) in an attempt to find anyone who might have noticed Giorgio Santorelli, while I took on the job of learning more about the two priests. After a weekend spent trying to get new details out of the man who owned the building where Ali ibn-Ghazi’s father lived, however, as well as from Mrs. Santorelli and her fellow tenants (Sara once again did the interpreting), it became clear that more money had been spread around to ensure more people’s silence. I was therefore forced to shift my activities to the two church organizations involved. We figured that my status as a reporter for the Times would gain me the easiest and quickest access, in this regard, and I decided to start my inquiries at the top: with visits to the Roman Catholic archbishop of New York, Michael Corrigan, as well as the Episcopal bishop of New York, Henry Codman Potter. Both men lived in very pleasant town houses in the fifties near Madison Avenue, and I figured I could cover both interviews in one day.
Potter came first. Although New York’s Episcopals only numbered in the tens of thousands in those days, some of those tens of thousands were among the wealthiest of the city’s families; and the parish reflected that fact in its luxuriously appointed churches and chapels, its extensive real estate holdings, and its heavy involvement in city affairs. Bishop Potter—often referred to as New York’s “first citizen”—personally preferred the quaint villages and churches of his upstate parishes to the bustle, noise, and dirt of New York; but he knew where the Church made its money, and he did his part to expand the flock in the city. All of which is to say that Potter was a man with big things on his mind; and although I waited in his very luxurious sitting room for longer than it would’ve taken him to say mass, when he finally did appear he found that he could spare me only some ten minutes of his time.
I asked if he was aware that a man dressed as a priest and wearing a signet ring that bore the large red and smaller white crosses of the Episcopal Church had been going around to people who had information concerning the recent child murders and paying them large sums of money to keep quiet. If the question shocked Potter, he didn’t show it: cool as a cucumber he told me that the man was undoubtedly an impostor or a lunatic or both—the Episcopal Church had no interest in interfering with any police business, certainly not a murder case. Then I inquired as to whether a signet ring like the one that had been spotted would be a particularly easy item to get hold of. He shrugged and sat back comfortably, the flesh of his neck falling down over his stiff white and black collar, and said t
hat he had no idea how easy it would be to lay hands on such a thing. He supposed any capable jeweler could manufacture one. Obviously, I wasn’t going to get anywhere with the man; but just for the hell of it I decided to ask if he was aware of Paul Kelly’s partially realized threat to stir up trouble among the immigrant communities over the issue of the murders. Potter said he was barely aware of Mr. Kelly at all, much less of any threats he might have made; being as the Episcopal Church had very few members among what Potter called the “recently arrived citizens of the city,” little attention would have been paid to such matters by either himself or his subordinates. Potter concluded by suggesting that I visit Archbishop Corrigan, who had much more contact with such groups and neighborhoods. I told him that Corrigan’s residence was my next stop, and was on my way.
I’ll admit that I’d been in a suspicious mood even before I encountered Potter; but his very un-churchmanlike lack of interest only made me more so. Where was any sense of concern for the victims of the crimes? Where was the pledge that if there was anything he could do, I had only to ask? Where was the head-shaking wish that the fiendish murderer be captured, and the fervent pressing of the flesh on that wish?
All these, I soon learned, were at Archbishop Corrigan’s residence, behind the almost-completed magnificence of the new St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue between Fiftieth and Fifty-first streets. The new St. Pat’s was unarguable evidence that the architect James Renwick had only been warming up when he’d designed our downtown neighbor, Grace Church. The enormous spires, archways, stained glass windows, and brass doors of St. Patrick’s were on a scale, and had been executed with a speed, unheard-of even in New York. And, in good Catholic tradition, all the considerable work had been paid for not by the kind of crass business ventures that lined the coffers of the Episcopal Church, but by subscriptions from the faithful—including wave after wave of Irish, Italian, and other Catholic immigrants, whose numbers were rapidly swelling the power of a religion which, in the first days of the republic, had been frowned on by nearly all the populace.
Archbishop Corrigan was far more animated and engaging than Potter had been; a man who lives by subscriptions, I reasoned as I met him, has little choice but to be. He took me on a short tour of the cathedral, and outlined all the work that was still to be done: the Stations of the Cross needed to be installed, the Ladies’ Chapel was as yet unbuilt, the chimes had to be paid for, and the spires required crowning. I began to think that he was going to ask me for a contribution; but I soon discovered that all this was just a buildup to a visit to the Catholic Orphan Society, where I was to be shown that the Church had another side. The Society was located across Fifty-first Street, in a four-story building with a pleasant front yard and plenty of well-behaved children wandering about. Corrigan took me there, he said, because he wanted me to understand the depth of the Church’s commitment to lost and abandoned children in New York; they were avowedly just as important to him as the great cathedral in whose shadow the Orphan Society stood.
All of which was fine—except that I suddenly realized I hadn’t asked him anything yet. This very pleasant, welcoming, deep-feeling fellow knew why I was there, a fact that became especially apparent after I started putting the same questions I’d asked Potter to him. Corrigan answered as if he’d been carefully rehearsed: Oh, yes, it was a terrible shame about those murdered boys; horrible; he couldn’t imagine why anyone purporting to be a Catholic priest would be interfering (though he didn’t seem very shocked by the suggestion); certainly, he would make inquiries, but he could assure me…On and on. I finally spared him any further effort by pleading a pressing engagement downtown, then caught a hansom on Fifth Avenue and headed in that direction.
I was now sure that in recent days I hadn’t developed what Dr. Krafft-Ebing called “paranoia”: we were faced with some sort of a conspiracy, a deliberate effort to conceal the facts of these murders. And what reason could these distinguished gentlemen have for such an effort, I thought with mounting excitement, other than to protect themselves from scandal—the kind of scandal that would have arisen if the murderer were revealed to be one of their own?
Marcus agreed with my reasoning; and over the next couple of days we began playing devil’s advocate in an effort to find flaws in the theory of a renegade priest. Nothing we could come up with, however, ruled out the core hypothesis. Perhaps it was unlikely, for example, that a priest would be an accomplished mountaineer, but it was not impossible; and as for his remark about a “Red Injun,” that could have grown out of missionary experience in the West. The hunting skills might have presented a problem, insofar as Lucius had already postulated that the man had spent a lifetime hunting—but our imagined priest could easily have developed the expertise in childhood. Priests, after all, are not born such. They have parents, families, and pasts like everyone else. And that, finally, meant that all of Kreizler’s psychological speculations could be made to fit Marcus’s and my picture as well as any other.
During the rest of the week Marcus and I looked for more details to support our work. A priest who possessed the kind of intimate knowledge of rooftops that our killer displayed would almost certainly be associated with mission work, we reasoned, and we therefore investigated those Catholic and Episcopal agencies that dealt with the poor. Much resistance was encountered, during this pursuit, and little hard information was gleaned. But our enthusiasm was not dampened; in fact, by Friday we were feeling so confident about our theory that we decided to explain it to Sara and Lucius. They expressed some appreciation for our efforts, but also insisted on highlighting little inconsistencies that Marcus and I had played down. What about the theory of a military background, Lucius asked, which accounted for our man’s ability to plot violence carefully and execute it coolly when danger was all around? Where would a priest have developed such a capacity? Perhaps, we answered, he had served as a chaplain in some part of the Army of the West. That would give us not only the military experience, but the Indian and frontier connections, as well. Lucius replied that he was not aware that chaplains were trained for combat; and anyway, Sara added, if our man had served many years on the frontier, and we already knew he was no older than thirty-one, then when had he found the time to become so intimately familiar with New York City? In childhood, we answered. If that were true, Sara continued, then we would have to accept that he did indeed come from a wealthy family, in order to explain his mountaineering and sporting expertise. All right, we said—so he was wealthy. Then there was the fact that Catholics and Protestants were working together: Wouldn’t either group, Sara asked, be just as happy if the other had a murderous priest on its hands? We couldn’t answer that one with anything more effective than a claim that Sara and Lucius were merely jealous of our work. They got a bit incensed at that, declaring that they were only following procedure by peppering us with objections and inconsistencies, and just to make sure we got the point, they went right on doing so.
Kreizler appeared at about five o’clock, but did not participate in the debate; instead, he pulled me rather urgently aside and told me that I was to accompany him immediately to the Grand Central Depot. The fact that I hadn’t had much contact with Laszlo for a number of days hadn’t kept me from worrying about him, and this sudden, secretive announcement that we were going to board a train didn’t ease my mind. I asked him if I needed to pack a bag, but he said no, that we were only taking a brief ride on the Hudson River Line for the purpose of conducting an interview at an institution that was not far upstate. He’d decided to schedule the meeting for the evening, he said, because most of the institution’s senior staff would be gone, and we could come and go fairly unnoticed. That was all the detail he was prepared to provide, a fact that struck me at the time as very mysterious; knowing what I do now, however, it makes perfect sense, for had he told me exactly where we were bound and who we were scheduled to meet, I almost certainly would have refused to go.
It’s less than an hour by train from the middle o
f Manhattan to the small town on the Hudson River named by an early Dutch trader for the Chinese city of Tsing-sing; but for visitors and prisoners alike, the trip to Sing Sing is usually divorced from real time, seeming at once the shortest and longest journey imaginable. Situated hard by the water and offering a commanding view of the Tappan Zee bluffs opposite, Sing Sing Prison (originally known as “Mount Pleasant”) was opened in 1827 amid claims that it embodied the most advanced ideas in penology. And indeed, in those days when prisons were, in effect, small factories where inmates manufactured everything from combs to furniture to cut stone, prisoners did seem in many ways better-off (or at least better occupied) than they were seventy years later. True, they were beaten and tormented mercilessly in those early decades of the century, but so had they always been, and so are they still; and work, most will tell you, was preferable to “penitence,” a largely idle state in which there is little to do save brood over the acts that have brought one to such a terrible place—that and plan schemes of revenge against those responsible. But prison manufacture died with the advent of organized labor, which would not tolerate wages being driven down by cheap convict workers; and for this reason more than any other, Sing Sing had degenerated, by 1896, into a horribly pointless place, where prisoners still wore their striped costumes, still obeyed the rule of silence, and still marched in lockstep, even though the jobs they’d once marched to had all but vanished.
Forbidding as the prospect of a visit to such a brutal, hopeless place was, it was overshadowed by the real apprehension I experienced when Kreizler finally told me whom we were going to see.
