by Caleb Carr
Byrnes didn’t acknowledge the comment. “Finally,” he went on, “there’s your misuse of the staff and resources of the Police Department…”
“Ours is not an official investigation,” Kreizler replied evenly.
A smile seemed to grow under Byrnes’s mustache. “Cagy, Doctor. But we know all about your arrangement with Commissioner Roosevelt.”
Kreizler showed no emotion. “You have proof, Inspector?”
Byrnes pulled a slender volume from a shelf. “Soon.”
“Now, now, gentlemen,” said Archbishop Corrigan in his affable way. “There’s no reason to leap to adversarial positions.”
“Yes,” Bishop Potter agreed, without much enthusiasm. “I’m sure that an amenable solution can be reached, once we understand one another’s—points of view?”
Pierpont Morgan said nothing.
“What I understand,” Laszlo announced, primarily to our silent host, “is that we have been abducted at gunpoint and threatened with criminal indictment, simply because we have attempted to solve an abominable murder case which has so far baffled the police.” Kreizler pulled out his cigarette case and, removing one of the number within, began to knock it noisily and angrily against the arm of his chair. “But perhaps there are subtler elements of this escapade to which I am blind.”
“Blind you are, Doctor,” Anthony Comstock said, with the annoying grate of a zealot. “But there is nothing subtle about the matter. For many years I have attempted to suppress the written work of men such as yourself. An absurdly broad interpretation of our First Amendment by so-called public servants has made that impossible. But if you believe for one moment that I will stand by and watch you become actively involved in civic affairs—”
A flash of irritation passed over Morgan’s face, and I could see that Bishop Potter caught it. Like a dutiful lackey—for Morgan was one of the Episcopal Church’s chief benefactors—the bishop stepped in to cut Comstock off:
“Mr. Comstock has the energy and brusqueness of the righteous, Dr. Kreizler. Yet I fear that your work does unsettle the spiritual repose of many of our city’s citizens, and undermines the strength of our societal fabric. After all, the sanctity and integrity of the family, along with each individual’s responsibility before God and the law for his own behavior, are twin pillars of our civilization.”
“I grieve for our citizens’ lack of repose,” Kreizler answered curtly, lighting his cigarette. “But seven children that we know of, and perhaps many more, have been butchered.”
“But that is a matter for the police, surely,” Archbishop Corrigan said. “Why involve such questionable work as your own in it?”
“Because the police can’t solve it,” I threw in, before Laszlo could answer. These were all fairly standard criticisms of my friend’s work, but they were making me a bit hot, nonetheless. “And, using Dr. Kreizler’s ideas, we can.”
Byrnes let out a barely audible chuckle, while Comstock’s face grew red. “I do not believe that is your true motivation, Doctor. I believe you intend, with the help of Mr. Paul Kelly and whatever other atheistic socialists you can find, to spread unrest by discrediting the values of the American family and society!”
If it seems surprising that Kreizler and I neither laughed at this grotesque little man’s statements nor rose to physically thrash him, it must be remembered that Anthony Comstock, however harmless his title of Postal Censor might sound, wielded enormous political and regulatory power. Before the end of his forty-year career, he would boast of having driven more than a dozen of his enemies to suicide; and many more than that had their lives and reputations ruined by his persecutory obsessions. Both Laszlo and I knew that while we were a current target, we had not yet entered the ranks of Comstock’s permanent fixations; but if we now pushed him to pay such unbalanced attention to us, we might one day arrive back at our usual places of employment to discover ourselves under federal indictment for some trumped-up violation of public morals. For these reasons I said nothing in reply to his outbursts, while Kreizler only breathed smoke wearily.
“And why,” Laszlo finally asked, “should I wish to spread such unrest, sir?”
“Vanity, sir!” Comstock shot back. “To advance your nefarious theories, and gain the attention of an ill-educated and sorely confused public!”
“It seems to me,” Morgan said, quietly but firmly, “that Dr. Kreizler already receives more attention from the public than he might prefer, Mr. Comstock.” None of the others even attempted to agree or disagree with this statement. Morgan rested his head on one large hand and spoke to Laszlo. “But these are serious charges, Doctor. If they were not, I would hardly have asked that you be brought to this meeting. I take it you are not in league with Mr. Kelly?”
“Mr. Kelly has a few ideas that are not altogether unsound,” Kreizler answered, knowing that the comment would further pique the group around us. “But he is essentially a criminal, and I have no use for him.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Morgan seemed genuinely satisfied with the answer. “And what of these other questions, about the social implications of your work? I must admit that I am not well acquainted with such matters. But as you may know, I am senior warden of St. George’s Church, across Stuyvesant Park from your own house.” One of Morgan’s coal-black eyebrows went up. “I have never seen you among the congregation, Doctor.”
“My religious opinions are a private matter, Mr. Morgan,” Laszlo replied.
“But surely you realize, Dr. Kreizler,” Archbishop Corrigan interrupted cautiously, “that our city’s various church organizations are vital to the maintenance of civic order?”
As these words were coming out of Corrigan’s mouth, I found myself glancing at the two priests, who continued to stand like statues behind their respective bishops—and suddenly, I got an inkling as to just why we were in that library and talking to that collection of men. This germ of understanding began to grow as soon as it flashed across my brain, but I said nothing, for comment would only have sparked further disagreement. No, I simply sat back and let my thoughts run on, becoming more comfortable as I recognized that Laszlo and I were in less danger than I’d originally thought.
“‘Order,’” Kreizler replied to Corrigan’s query, “is a word rather open to interpretation, Archbishop. As to your concerns, Mr. Morgan—if what you required was an introduction to my work, I believe I could have suggested an easier route than abduction.”
“No doubt,” Morgan answered uneasily. “But as we are here, Doctor, perhaps you will favor me with an answer. These men have come to solicit my aid in putting an end to your investigation. I would like to hear both sides of the issue before deciding on a course of action.”
Kreizler sighed heavily, but did go on: “The theory of individual psychological context that I have developed—”
“Rank determinism!” Comstock declared, unable to contain himself. “The idea that every man’s behavior is decisively patterned in infancy and youth—it speaks against freedom, against responsibility! Yes, I say it is un-American!”
At another annoyed glance from Morgan, Bishop Potter laid a calming hand on Comstock’s arm, and the postal censor relapsed into disgruntled silence.
“I have never,” Kreizler went on, keeping his eyes on Morgan, “argued against the idea that every man is responsible before the law for his actions, save in cases involving the truly mentally diseased. And if you consult my colleagues, Mr. Morgan, I believe you will discover that my definition of mental disease is rather more conservative than most. As for what Mr. Comstock somewhat blithely calls freedom, I have no argument with it as a political or legal concept. The psychological debate surrounding the concept of free will, however, is a far more complex issue.”
“And what of your views on the family as an institution, Doctor?” Morgan asked, firmly but without any trace of censure. “I have heard these and many other good men speak of them with great alarm.”
Kreizler shrugged, stubbing out his cigaret
te. “I have very few views on the family as a social institution, Mr. Morgan. My studies have focused on the multitude of sins that can often be concealed by the family structure. I have attempted to expose those sins, and to deal with their effects on children. I will not apologize for that.”
“But why single out families in this society?” Comstock whined. “Surely there are regions of the world where far worse crimes—”
Morgan stood suddenly. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said to the postal censor and the churchmen, in a voice that promised hard measures if there was further argument. “Inspector Byrnes will show you out.”
Comstock looked a bit nonplussed, but Potter and Corrigan had evidently experienced such dismissal before: they departed the library with remarkable speed. Alone with Morgan, I felt much relieved, and it seemed that Kreizler did, too. For all the man’s great and mysterious power (he had, after all, single-handedly arranged the United States government’s rescue from financial ruin just one year earlier) there was something comforting in his obvious cultivation and breadth of vision.
“Mr. Comstock,” Morgan said as he sat back down, “is a God-fearing man, but there is no talking to him. You, on the other hand, Doctor…Though I understand very little of what you have told me, I get the feeling that you are a man with whom I can do business.” He straightened his frock coat, dabbed at his mustache, and sat back. “The mood in the city is volatile, gentlemen. More volatile, I suspect, than you realize.”
The moment had come, I decided, to share my realizations: “And that’s why the bishops were here,” I announced. “There’s been more trouble in the slums and ghettos. A lot more. And they’re worried about their money.”
“Their money?” Kreizler echoed in confusion.
I turned to him. “They weren’t covering for the murderer. They were never concerned with the murderer. It was the reaction among the immigrants that had them spooked. Corrigan’s afraid that they’ll get angry enough to listen to Kelly and his socialist friends—angry enough to stop showing up on Sunday and coughing up what little money they have. Basically, the man’s afraid he won’t get to finish his damned cathedral, and all the other little holy projects he’s probably got planned.”
“But what about Potter?” Kreizler asked. “You told me yourself that the Episcopals don’t have many adherents among the immigrants.”
“That’s right,” I said, smiling a bit. “They don’t. But they have something even more profitable, and I’m an ass for not remembering it. Perhaps Mr. Morgan would be willing to tell you”—I turned toward the big walnut desk and found Morgan staring back at me uncomfortably—“who the largest slum landlord in New York is?”
Kreizler took in breath sharply. “I see. The Episcopal Church.”
“There is nothing illegal in any of the Church’s operations,” Morgan said quickly.
“No,” I replied. “But they’d be in a tight spot if those tenement dwellers were to rise up in a mass and demand better housing, wouldn’t they, Mr. Morgan?” The financier turned away silently.
“But I still don’t understand,” Kreizler puzzled. “If Corrigan and Potter are so afraid of the effects of these crimes, why obstruct a solution?”
“We have been told that a solution is impossible,” Morgan answered.
“But why try to frustrate an attempt?” Kreizler pressed.
“Because, gentlemen,” said a quiet voice from behind us, “as long as the case is thought to be unsolvable, no one can be blamed for not solving it.”
It was Byrnes again, back in the room without our having heard his approach. The man really was unnerving. “The great unwashed,” he went on, taking a cigar from a case on Morgan’s desk, “will be made to understand that these things happen. It’s no one’s fault. Boys engage in criminal conduct. Boys die. Who kills them? Why? Impossible to determine. And there’s no need to. Instead, you fix the public’s attention on the more basic lesson—” Byrnes struck a match on his shoe and lit his cigar, the tip of which flamed high. “Obey the law in the first place and none of the rest occurs.”
“But damn it, Byrnes,” I said, “we can solve it, if you’ll just get out of the way. Why, just last night I myself—”
Kreizler stopped me by grabbing my wrist tightly. Byrnes slowly came over to my chair, leaned down, and let me have a big dose of cigar smoke. “Last night you what, Moore?”
It was impossible not to remember at such a moment that you were dealing with a man who’d personally beaten dozens of suspected and de facto criminals senseless, a style of interrogation that had become known throughout New York and the rest of the country by the name Byrnes himself had given it: “the third degree.” All the same, I attempted defiance. “Don’t try that strong-arm stuff with me, Byrnes. You’ve got no authority anymore. You haven’t even got your thugs to back you up.”
I glimpsed teeth behind the mustache. “You’d like me to call Connor in?” I said nothing, and Byrnes chuckled. “You always had a big mouth, Moore. Reporters. But let’s play it your way. Tell Mr. Morgan here how you’ll solve the case. Your principles of detection. Explain them.”
I turned to Morgan. “Well, it won’t make sense to men like Inspector Byrnes, sir, and it may not to you, but—we’ve adopted what you might call a reverse investigative procedure.”
Byrnes laughed out loud. “What you might call ass-backwards!”
Realizing my mistake, I went for another approach: “That is, we start with the prominent features of the killings themselves, as well as the personality traits of the victims, and from those we determine what kind of a man might be at work. Then, using evidence that would otherwise have seemed meaningless, we begin to close in.”
I knew I was on shaky ground, and was relieved to hear Kreizler chime in at this point:
“There is some precedent, Mr. Morgan. Similar efforts, though far more rudimentary, were made during the Ripper murders in London eight years ago. And the French police are currently seeking a Ripper of their own—they’ve used some techniques that are not unlike ours.”
“The London Ripper,” Byrnes called out, “was not apprehended without my hearing about it, was he, Doctor?”
Kreizler frowned. “No.”
“And the French police, using their anthropo-hodge-podge—have they made any progress in their case?”
Laszlo’s scowl deepened. “Very little.”
Byrnes finally did us the decency of looking up from his book. “Quite a pair of examples, gentlemen.”
There was a moment of silence, during which I felt our cause to be weakening. Putting new determination into my words, I said, “The fact remains—”
“The fact remains,” Byrnes interrupted, coming back over to us but speaking to Morgan, “that this is an intellectual exercise which offers no hope of solving the case. All these people are doing is giving every person they interview the idea that a solution is possible. As I say, that’s not just useless, it’s dangerous. The only thing the immigrants ought to be told is that they and their children had better obey the laws of this city. If they don’t, nobody else can be held responsible for what happens. Maybe they’ll find that point hard to swallow. But this idiot Strong and his cowboy police commissioner will be out before long. And then we’ll be able to bring back the old force-feeding techniques. Quickly.”
Morgan nodded slowly, then glanced from Byrnes to Kreizler. “You’ve made your point, Inspector. I wonder if now you’ll excuse us?”
In contrast to Comstock and the churchmen, Byrnes seemed almost amused by Morgan’s curt dismissal: as he left the library he began to whistle lowly. When the paneled door had closed again, Morgan stood up and looked out a window. It almost seemed as though he was making sure Byrnes left his house.
“Can I offer you gentlemen anything to drink?” Morgan said at length. After Kreizler and I both declined, our host took one of the cigars from the case on his desk and lit it, then began slowly to pace the thickly carpeted floor. “I agreed to see the delegation th
at has just left us,” he announced, “out of deference to Bishop Potter, and because I have no desire to see the recent outbreaks of civil unrest go on.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Morgan,” I said, a bit amazed by his tone. “But have you, or any of the gentlemen who were here, even discussed this matter with Mayor Strong?”
Morgan passed a hand before him quickly. “Inspector Byrnes’s point about Colonel Strong is well-taken. I have no interest in dealing with a man whose power is limited by elections. Besides, Strong doesn’t have the mind to deal with a matter of this nature.” Morgan’s heavy, deliberate pacing went on, and Kreizler and I remained silent. The library slowly filled up with thick cigar smoke, and when Morgan finally stood still and spoke again, I could barely see him through the brownish haze.
“As I see it, gentlemen, there really are only two advisable courses—yours, and that advocated by Byrnes. We must have order. Particularly now.”
“Why now?” Kreizler asked.
“You are probably not in a position to know, Doctor,” Morgan answered carefully, “that we are at a crossroads, both in New York and in the country as a whole. This city is changing. Dramatically. Oh, I don’t simply mean the population, with the influx of immigrants. I mean the city itself. Twenty years ago, New York was still primarily a port—the harbor was our chief source of business. Today, with other ports challenging our preeminence, shipping and receiving have been eclipsed by both manufacture and banking. Manufacture, as you know, requires workers, and other, less fortunate, nations in the world have provided them. The leaders of organized labor claim that such workers are treated unfairly here. But fairly or no, they continue to come, because it is better than what they have left behind. I mark from your speech that you are of foreign extraction yourself, Doctor. Have you spent much time in Europe?”
“Enough,” Kreizler answered, “to take your point.”
