The Death Instinct

by Jed Rubenfeld

  'They had famous fathers, Jimmy. Your father — ' Betty hesitated — 'well, you did everything on your own.'

  Littlemore didn't speak.

  'And you're still going places,' said Betty. 'Look at this new job of yours. None of the girls have a husband like mine. You should see the looks in their eyes. You're like a god. Captain Littlemore of the New York Police Department. Special Agent Littlemore of the United States Treasury.'

  'Like a god,' said Littlemore, smiling, wiping his eyes in the darkness. 'That's me all right.'

  The morning papers confirmed Brighton's complaints. The President-elect of Mexico, General Alvaro Obregon, had ordered troops into American-owned silver mines. He was threatening to do the same with the much more lucrative oil wells, claiming that Americans had bought their subsoil rights through illegal, corrupt transactions with the pre-revolutionary regime.

  The American Society for Psychical Research had a perfectly unspiritual office on East Twenty-third Street in Manhattan, lined with scientific publications, most prominently its own. No signs of the occult were anywhere in evidence. Dr Walter Franklin Prince, the acting director, was equally mundane in appearance. He was a largefaced, affable man of about sixty with a receding hairline, and he smoked a pipe with an unusually large bowl.

  'Thanks for making time, Dr Prince,' said Littlemore the next morning, shaking Prince's hand. 'Friend of mine told me you were the outfit to talk to about supernatural stuff.'

  'Delighted to assist,' replied Prince. 'My secretary, Miss Tubby, tells me you doubt whether Mr Edwin Fischer really could have seen into the future.'

  'That's right, but I'm listening.'

  'Certainly he could have. Premonitions of disaster are commonplace.

  In 1902, I myself dreamed in precise detail of a train wreck four hours before it occurred. In 1912, Mr J. C. Middleton, having purchased tickets for the maiden voyage of the Titanic, dreamed two nights in a row of the ship's foundering and of its passengers drowning in the cold sea. He refused to travel and lived.'

  'Didn't happen to tell anybody about his dreams before the ship went down, did he?'

  'I wouldn't mention it otherwise. I have no truck with after-the-fact clairvoyants. Mr Middleton was so alarmed that he immediately told his wife and several friends. Their affidavits are in my drawer. I've been looking into the Fischer case myself, and based on the evidence, I'm convinced his premonition was authentic.'

  'Fischer says it came to him "out of the air,'" said Littlemore. 'That make any sense to you?'

  'He could not have expressed it more felicitously. When we see a twinkling in the night sky, Captain, what are we seeing?'

  'Um — I'm going to say a star.'

  'We're seeing the past. The universe as it existed centuries ago. The past surrounds us at every moment, although we can rarely see it. So too with the future. It's all around us, in the form of waves or perturbations quite invisible to the naked eye — like radio waves, actually. Many of us fleetingly detect these currents, for example in the hair on the back of our necks. In time, science will discover their molecular structure. But there can be little doubt about their source.'

  'Their source?'

  'Death, Captain,' said Dr Prince. 'Death releases this energy into the air. If a true catastrophe is looming, the disturbance becomes such that a sensitive individual may become highly troubled by it. He may be aware of exactly when and where it will occur. He may see an aura around people who are soon to die. Or he may see images of the disaster beforehand, as I did, and as Mr Middleton did. That is what happened to Edwin Fischer.'

  Littlemore nodded. He didn't accept, but he didn't judge. 'Can they ever know more?' he asked. 'Like who's behind it?'

  'I've never heard of that. There is evidence that the souls of the murdered, reached in the spirit world, can tell you who killed them, but I know of no cases documenting such foreknowledge in the living. Are you interested in contacting a medium? I have a very gifted one.'

  'I'll take a rain check on that, Dr Prince.'

  'Would it be helpful to know when the attack was conceived?'

  'Could be very helpful,' said Littlemore. 'You think Fischer might know?'

  'In cases of deliberate slaying, premonitions almost never come before the murderer has formed the intention to kill. Often the initial premonition will come at that very moment. Ask Mr Fischer when he first had his precognition.'

  'Thanks, Dr Prince — I may do that.'

  In the Astor Hotel, in mid-October 1920, an increasingly belligerent Director Flynn of the Federal Bureau of Investigation held yet another press conference. Flynn's repeated claims of imminent prosecution had not worked to his advantage. The case had not cracked. No one had been charged. An air of skepticism and defeated expectations had begun to infect several gentlemen of the press.

  As Flynn saw it, the fault was not his. It lay rather with the newspapers, for reporting his setbacks. Every time one of his leads came to nothing, the newspapers made a story of it, which wasn't the kind of behavior Flynn expected from loyal Americans. Embarrassing the federal government's efforts to defeat its enemies was a criminal offense. That's why Eugene Debs was in jail. Flynn could have hauled any one of these reporters into custody. He knew what they were saying to each other on the telephone — because his agents were listening in. He felt they owed their continuing and undeserved liberty entirely to his largesse.

  'Each and every one of you boys,' said Flynn, 'ought to be on your knees in thanks to me. But I ain't going into that today. Instead I'm going to sell more newspapers for you. We got it all sewed up now. Here's your story: yesterday afternoon, my office received information establishing the identity and whereabouts of the political prisoners, which you goons were too busy writing about mental cases to even realize you didn't know who they were.'

  Pencils hung frozen in midair as comprehension sought in vain to work its way through this declaration.

  'Don't you remember nothing, you saps?' asked Flynn helpfully. "'Free the political prisoners" — that's what the anarchist circulars said. Well now, just who exactly are these political prisoners? Figure that out, and you bust the whole case wide open.'

  'But last time you said Tresca did it, Chief,' said a reporter. 'Then Tresca gives a public speech in Brooklyn, and you don't even bring him in. What gives?'

  'Why, I ought to show you what gives,' rejoined Flynn, neck straining at the buttoned collar of his white shirt. 'I never said Tresca did it. All's I said was he was a suspect. Got that?'

  'Director Flynn,' said another man, less disheveled than the others, 'my readers want me to tell you that you're a fine American.'

  'Thank you, Tommy. I appreciate that. You're a fine American.'

  'My readers,' continued Tommy, 'feel a lot safer since you began rounding up the foreigners who are trying to take over this city.'

  'Now that's how to be a newspaperman,' said Flynn. 'Listen good, the rest of you. Once we get our hands on the political prisoners, which we already got our hands on, we'll have this whole bombing wrapped up like a Christmas present. That's your story. Signed, sealed, and delivered. You print that.'

  On Friday, October 15, Littlemore returned to Police Headquarters on Centre Street to pack up a few things. His men Roederheusen and Stankiewicz stopped in. They carried their hats as if attending a funeral.

  'Spanky,' said Littlemore, shaking each by the hand. 'Stanky'

  'We're going to miss you, Cap.'

  'Knock it off,' said Littlemore. 'Now don't forget. The alley is the key — the alley between the Treasury and Assay Office. Look for people who ran into the street on September sixteenth, or went to their window, and saw a big truck carrying a massive load out of that alleyway onto Pine Street. That's how the bombers made their getaway.'

  'Why would the bombers be in a truck?' asked Stankiewicz.

  'Carrying a load of what?' asked Roederheusen.

  'Can't tell you yet, boys,' said Littlemore. 'But find out what that truck looked like and
where it went, and you can break this case. You know where to reach me.'

  The officers put on their hats unenthusiastically. 'Say, Cap,' said Roederheusen on his way out, 'you asked me to locate that Mexican guy — Pesqueira? The consulate says he's gone. Left for Washington last week.'

  'Not interested anymore, but thanks.' Littlemore strode down the corridor to Commissioner Enright's office, knowing it was likely to be the last time. He rapped at Enright's door and, when a voice from inside gave him permission, entered.

  'Captain Littlemore,' said Enright from his desk. 'Not captain much longer, eh?'

  'Already got sworn in down in Washington, Mr Enright. Just packing my things.'

  The Commissioner nodded. 'I knew your father, Littlemore.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'A good man. Imperfect, as we are all are. But a good man.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Your badge, Captain. And your weapon.'

  Littlemore placed his badge on Enright's desk. It hurt so much he almost couldn't let' it go. 'The gun's mine,' he said.

  'Well, I'm not happy to do the formalities,' said Enright, 'but by the power vested in me as chief of the New York Police Department, I hereby revoke your commission. Mr Littlemore, you're no longer a member of the Force.' Littlemore said nothing. 'Do us proud, my boy,' said Enright.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After a day at sea, an ocean liner steaming out of New York becomes its own and only point of human reference. No other vessels interrupt the vast waters. Under a cloudless morning sky, Colette and Younger strolled the upper deck, the swell unsteady enough to make her accept his arm. The ship's engines set up a dull, churning roar behind them.

  'What did they want with me?' she asked.

  'The redheads or the kidnappers?'

  'All of them.'

  'The more I think about it,' said Younger, 'the more I think the note we got at the hotel — the note from Amelia — was a trap. Bait. We thought Amelia never came back to the hotel the next morning. But perhaps she did, with the kidnappers.'

  'Why?'

  'Maybe it's their business — kidnapping girls, selling them.'

  'Selling them?'

  'We have a term for it: white slavery. Perhaps they were going to lure you somewhere; Amelia would prey on your compassion, telling you she needed your help. They expected you to be alone. Instead I was with you. So they changed plans. They followed us to Wall Street. Amelia was caught in the bombing. But her friends kept watch, and when you went back to the hotel, they took you.'

  'Why me?'

  'Because you're a foreigner. No family in America, no connections. Young and beautiful would be further qualifications.'

  'I am not beautiful. How would they know I was a foreigner with no family?'

  'How did they know you lived in New Haven? Or that you were going to Hamburg? One thing is certain: they have money. Enough to investigate people.'

  Unexpectedly, she rested her head on his shoulder. 'At least we're safe on this ship. I can feel it. I wish we never had to reach Europe.'

  Younger had made inquiries with the ship's bursar, from whom he learned that he'd been the last one to buy tickets. Colette, it seemed, was right. The ship was safe; no one had followed them aboard. 'We don't have to get off when the ship gets to Bremen,' he suggested. 'We could stay on for the return voyage. At New York, we could stay on again. Go back and forth forever.'

  'Don't say anything else,' she answered, closing her eyes. 'I'm going to dream about that.'

  He looked at her lovely face: 'Yes, if I were running a white slavery ring, you'd be at the top of my list.'

  Later that morning, Younger emptied onto the deck the contents of a large sack he'd brought along with his luggage. There was a baseball, a bat, a jumble of wooden pegs and metal plates, and assembly instructions. A half-hour later, he had constructed a batting tee — a freestanding pedestal for holding a baseball in place, about waist high, so that a batter can practice his swings at it. Younger then fashioned a bag of netting around the baseball, tying off this bag with a long cord of rope borrowed from a seaman. The other end of the rope Younger secured to a winch. He then set the bagged ball atop the tee and gave Luc a lesson in hitting. After each swing, they retrieved the baseball, soaking, by reeling in the rope.

  Soon a good number of male passengers wanted a go, doffing their hats and undressing to their shirtsleeves to take their cracks. Naturally, the handful of other boys on the voyage were eager to try as well. Younger made them ask permission first from Luc, who solemnly granted it, and who for the rest of the journey thereby became an indispensable member of the little gang of boys, despite his muteness.

  Of all the men and boys who had a go at the batter's tee that day, Younger hit the most towering drives. But the next morning several of the ship's seamen joined in. One of these was a muscular swab who had played for the Brooklyn Robins during the war and who, taking his shirt off altogether, packed so Ruthian a wallop into his first swing that the rope was not long enough. The netting broke; the ball was lost. Younger tried several substitutes — an orange, a globe of wood cut by the ship's carpenter, a golf ball lent to them by another passenger — but there's nothing quite like a baseball, and that was the end of that.

  As the days of oceangoing passed one to the next, Younger found he couldn't make any further headway with Colette. His relations with her were intimate enough, but only in a friendly way. She was affectionate, but distant. And she became more so as they drew nearer to Europe.

  Sometimes he would catch her staring out to sea into a future he couldn't penetrate. Or was it a past — a memory of falling in love with a devout, ailing soldier in Paris, to whom she had given her heart, and whom she hadn't seen for more than two years?

  You're his hero, you know,' she said to him one day, coming out of such a reverie.

  'Whose?'

  'Luc's.'

  'Am I?' said Younger. 'Who's yours?'

  'I have two: Madame Curie and my father. I'm lucky that way. The Germans killed my father when he was still a hero to me — fearless, strong, noble in every way. Even the Germans couldn't take that from me. But Luc barely remembers him. I used to try to remind him about Mother and Father — tell him stories of Father's strength and bravery.

  But he wouldn't listen. He isn't even curious. That's what he really needs — a father.'

  'And you're doing your best to find him one?'

  She didn't answer.

  'Do you really think he loves you?' Younger went on. 'Heinrich, I mean.'

  'Hans.'

  'Heinrich hasn't written you a single letter in two years. That doesn't sound like love to me.'

  'It doesn't matter whether he's written me.'

  'You mean you love him regardless? You don't. I'm sorry, but you don't. If you loved him, you'd be thinking of one thing only: how he'll react when he sees you. You'd be in a panic to know whether he still cares for you. You'd be looking in mirrors. You also wouldn't concede that he hasn't written you. You'd tell yourself that he wrote to the hospital in Paris, but that you never received the letters. Instead you say it doesn't matter.'

  She didn't answer.

  'Is he that handsome?' asked Younger. 'Or did you give yourself to him, and now you think you have to marry him on that account?'

  Colette looked away: 'Don't talk about him anymore. Please.'

  'What do you owe him? You nursed the man when he was sick, but you act like he was the one who saved you. As if you owed him your life.'

  'You can't understand what I owe him,' she said. She looked at him: 'Do you want me to say I love you more than him? That I'll give him up for you? I won't. I'm sorry. You shouldn't love me. You should just — leave me alone.' She got up and went to her cabin and didn't return.

  On the last night of their voyage, as he contemplated the unfathomable force drawing Colette to her soldier from thousands of miles away, Younger tried to decide which was the greater illusion — the false motion of the stars, which seem
ed over the course of a night slowly to cross the sky, or the false motionlessness of the earth, which was in reality soaring around the sun at unthinkable speed.

  How could it be that a young man whom Colette had known for only a few months exerted such power over her, or that this French girl exerted such power over him — Younger — against his will, against his reason, against his judgment? He seemed to be in orbit around her, circling her, closing on her, then falling away, always with some final, unbridgeable distance between them. Does the earth find its orbit a cause of unending torment?

  The Amityville Sanitarium on Long Island was spotless and white and healthful, but Edwin Fischer, its newest resident, did not seem content. Gone was the gregarious good cheer so conspicuous when he was taken into custody in New York City a month earlier.

  'How are they treating you, Fischer?' asked Littlemore, taking a seat in the visiting room.

  'The Popes have always been against me,' replied Fischer. 'Are you Roman Catholic, Officer?'

  'Catholic? My wife is.'

  'None of the Popes has ever been a true Catholic. They pretend, of course, but it's always been a lie. They are using their powers against me. Why did you come here?'

  'Funny — I'm asking myself that same question right now.'

  'Shall I tell you the reason the Popes wish to keep me confined?'

  'Because you're crazy?'

  'They don't believe I'm an agent of the United States Secret Service.'

  'You're not.'

  'Why do you say that?' Fischer looked genuinely hurt. 'I resent that very much. Are you a Secret Serviceman?'

  'No.'

  'Are you the Secretary of the Treasury?'

  'Why?' asked Littlemore.

  'If you were, you'd be in charge of the Secret Service.'

  'I don't think so.'

  'You don't think you're the Secretary of the Treasury?' replied Fischer. 'Most people are sure, one way or the other.'

  'I happen to work for the Secretary of the Treasury, and I don't think he's in charge of the Secret Service.'

  'Then he's an impostor. I know why you're here.'

  'Is that right?'