In the Shadow of Gotham (6 page)

“I admit—I was surprised to hear from you last night,” I began. “Never mind your claim to have important information about a suspect, I can’t make out how you got word of this murder so quickly.”

“Ah, yes.” He leaned back easily, having anticipated the question. “I’ve found it very useful over the years to develop good sources of information—among the police, the press, the fire wardens. In this case,” he confided, “it was one of my newspaper contacts at the
World
who came through with news of the murder last night. Amazing, given how preoccupied they were with yesterday’s election.” He nodded to the
Times
article on my desk. “But those fellows are unstoppable when it comes to newsgathering.” He smiled congenially, assuming we understood each other.

“True enough,” I said. News reporters could be downright predatory. I knew not all of them were so single-minded in their pursuit of a story as to behave indecently, but I did not hold them in high regard.

“How much did you learn about yesterday’s murder?” I asked. I wanted to be sure he knew what he was talking about and was not wasting my time.

He folded his arms in front of him and recited the facts of
the case. “A young woman, mid-twenties, was killed late afternoon at a local residence. She suffered multiple lacerations and bruising.” He went on to detail other relevant facts that allayed any doubts I had about his being fully informed.

“And what about this local case attracts the attention of a professor from Columbia Law School?”

He looked at me with both surprise and respect, for he had told me nothing of who he was or what he did for a living. “It would appear you have cultivated your own sources of information. Those individuals who described you as exceptionally smart and resourceful were quite right.”

I never would have put it that way. And I was very curious as to whom he had spoken about me. But I could not give Alistair the satisfaction of knowing it.

My own inquiry into his background had been rather simple: A brief telephone call last night to the Seventh Precinct had produced a basic outline of Alistair Sinclair’s life. Personally, he had recently celebrated his fifty-second birthday; socially, he was from a wealthy family who counted themselves among Mrs. Astor’s New York Four Hundred; and professionally, he held advanced degrees from both Harvard and Columbia, where he had spent the past ten years as part of their law faculty with a specialty in criminal law. Mulvaney had dug up those facts for me and even remembered one thing more, since it was the tough Irish cop’s guilty pleasure to follow the society pages in the
Journal
. He recalled that Alistair was separated from his wife, who had moved abroad after their only son died tragically two years ago.

“Can’t remember how the son died, though,” Mulvaney had said. “I do recall the obituary mentioned he died while on an archeological expedition in Greece.”

These scraps of information had sated some of my curiosity about the man, but they could not explain his interest in this local murder case. I pressed him once again to explain himself.

“As you’ve already learned, I am a teacher of criminal law,” he said, stretching his long legs out to his side to become more comfortable, “but I consider myself a criminologist. Do you know the term?”

“It means you study crime?” I hazarded a guess.

“Yes—but with a specific focus on criminals and their behavior.” He leaned in closer toward me, and I grew uncomfortable under his direct gaze. “When you arrest a man for a particularly heinous crime, don’t you often wonder why he did it?”

I had to confess I did not.

“Most of the time there’s a pretty simple motive,” I said. “Revenge, jealousy, greed . . . those are the reasons why most criminals kill or steal.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely correct in a general sense. But have you never wondered specifically—
why him
? To put it a different way, suppose fifty men are in dire economic straits, equally desperate for money. But only one will kill to get it. Fifty women may find themselves unhappily married. But only one of them will poison her husband. Why? What makes him—or her—different from the forty-nine others who don’t resort to criminal acts?”

He continued to talk. “I’m taking part in a broader research effort pioneered by criminal scientists in Germany, France, and Italy to further our understanding of criminal behavior by using the collective wisdom of different fields, including sociology, psychology, anatomy, and, of course, law. Together with like-minded colleagues, I’ve established a research center at Columbia to answer some important questions. Why do criminals
behave as they do? What motivates them? What deters them? What actions are necessary to redirect their behavior, or rehabilitate them?”

His hands gesticulated to emphasize his words as he talked. “Imagine the good we could do if only we understood the answers to these questions. If we could identify those people who were predisposed—or simply more
susceptible
than others to committing crimes—then perhaps we could intervene before they ever committed their first criminal act. Or, if we could take a repeat offender and figure out how to rehabilitate him, then you can imagine how much more efficiently our courts and penal systems would operate.”

I did not mention how strongly I disagreed with some of his assumptions, which were grounded in a view of human nature I did not share. I believed some people were capable of doing bad things, plain and simple. Sometimes even otherwise decent people were quite capable of behaving criminally when pushed far enough. Unbidden, my mind filled with images from the
Slocum
disaster, where with rescue efforts under way, I had witnessed normally law-abiding men shamelessly trample over women and young children in their efforts to save themselves. If this were evidence of the human nature of the more civilized among us, then what hope could there be for violent offenders?

But this was not the time for such discussion. A young woman was dead, and her murderer had yet to be identified, much less apprehended. Alistair was beginning to take our conversation in a direction more theoretical than was useful for my purposes. I needed to hear only what practical information he might offer to solve this case.

“This is well and good, but today I am investigating an
actual murder committed by an unknown assailant. I need to know how, exactly, you can help me,” I said.

Alistair spun his chair forward. “It is likely I hold the key to your murder investigation. I know the man responsible. It is someone I have interviewed as part of my research.” He placed a small black-and-white picture on my desk. “It is this man. Michael Fromley.”

I stared at him in silence for a few moments while I thought about what he had just said. I half glanced at the photograph before I pushed it back toward him.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and shook my head, “but I think we misunderstand each other. The murder I’m investigating happened just yesterday. Late yesterday. So any incriminating information that came out of one of your past interviews could not possibly be relevant.”

“You do misunderstand,” Alistair said, “so please bear with me a moment while I explain.” He folded his hands and asked, “Are you familiar with Eugene Vidocq and his way of thinking about the criminal act?”

He continued talking—almost lecturing, really—before I had a chance to think, much less answer his question.

“Vidocq was a notorious French thief. After his last arrest, the police made him a unique offer: if he wished to avoid jail, he might put his skills to good use and join the police. He eventually became chief of the Sûreté, and you may have heard of him in your line of work because he is responsible for so many of your modern practices, such as having policemen work in disguise. Or ‘undercover,’ as you would say.”

Alistair got up to pace, once again gesticulating with his hands. “He is also famous for creating a filing system—but no ordinary filing system. For each criminal his department arrested,
he recorded information about their age, appearance, and background as well as the details of their crimes. Vidocq showed us that every criminal has a certain kind of behavior pattern—or style—that remains consistent in each crime he commits. It could be a certain kind of weapon or a specific kind of victim. It might even be a habit of choosing a particular place or time of day.”

Alistair sat down again. I began to perceive that his constant alterations between sitting and pacing were a sign of his boundless energy, which was difficult for him to contain.

“So do you mean to imply,” I asked, trying to understand, “that what you’ve heard about the murder here in Dobson is similar in style to criminal behavior that you’ve previously encountered?”

“That’s exactly it!” Alistair beamed at me, pleased to have gotten his point across.

I had to admit that Alistair’s argument made some sense. I had not heard of Vidocq, but I knew from experience that the gang-style murders I had previously encountered all followed certain patterns; each gang’s handiwork was unique.

I reached for the small photograph that still lay on my desk. It showed a young man of about twenty or so. From underneath a full shock of wavy blond hair, he stared insolently at the camera. He had high cheekbones, wide eyes, and full lips twisted in a half smile. I gazed into the picture searching for a sign of that peculiar brand of evil that turned an ordinary man into a murderer. But of course I wouldn’t see it. I never did. Some people said it lurked in a man’s expression. I knew better—for whatever it was that led someone to murder, it was concealed deep within the soul.

Yet Alistair’s resolution sounded too simple.

“If your suspect has committed this type of murder before, then how did he avoid the electric chair, much less prison?” I was filled with disgust that a murderer should have ever been given a chance to repeat his crime.

Before he could answer, though, my frustration began to grow, and I reversed myself, determined to get to the point. “That doesn’t matter now. Do you know where I can find this man?”

Alistair responded with frustration. “We have been trying to locate him ourselves for over two weeks—and we have failed.”

“You mean he was in prison, but escaped?”

Alistair shook his head.

“Even so, there should be a case history on him.” I began thinking of alternatives, saying, “I’ll need the background you have on his past arrests.”

Alistair looked at me oddly. “It’s not as simple as that, I fear. You won’t find any help in his arrest records—at least, not the sort you seem to want.” He rubbed his chin as he explained. “Our man has a police record, to be sure: assault, battery, even petty theft, if I’m not mistaken. But it has not—at least not yet—included murder.”

“Then how can you even think he may be responsible?” I sputtered. I could hardly control another flash of anger, as I thought of the valuable time I had lost pursuing this entire conversation. I would have said more, but Alistair responded to my frustration immediately.

“Please—a moment’s patience. Let me back up, and tell you the story. Then you will see why I believe he is responsible, and what I am telling you will make perfect sense.”

I glanced at my watch: near half past eight already. I had
promised Joe I would return to the Wingate house this morning.

“I must get back over to the crime scene. You’re welcome to accompany me; we can talk on the way.”

I hustled Alistair out the door, and after we had settled ourselves into a waiting cab, I leaned back and tried to listen with an open mind to a tale that grew stranger, and more disturbing, with every new detail that emerged.

Our driver whistled loudly to himself, oblivious to our conversation. Nonetheless, Alistair leaned in toward me to ensure the driver could not overhear his words.

“Are you capable of rehabilitating a monster?” Alistair demanded. His eyes locked into my own, blazing with intensity. “That challenge is one Michael Fromley’s older brother Clyde Wallingford—half brother actually—granted me right after Michael’s first serious arrest, three years ago.” He paused dramatically before continuing. “The boy had been in trouble before, to be sure—but not like this time. There had been barroom fights, petty thefts, and more property damage than you would care to pay for. But no harm was done that money could not fix. And his behavior was not so extreme that it couldn’t be sugarcoated within the Wallingfords’ social circle as simply that of a young man sowing his wild oats.” His tone became sober. “The incident three years ago was different, and Wallingford was beside himself with worry.”

I listened, becoming more interested in spite of myself.

Alistair gripped the sides of his seat to keep his balance as the wheels of the cab rattled violently against the cobblestones. Dobson’s steeper roads were all cobblestone, which helped the horses to keep their footing, but made for a bumpy ride.

“Michael is the youngest son of Louise Wallingford Fromley by her second husband.” He shook his head and grimaced. “Awful woman—so domineering and loud, both husbands undoubtedly hastened to the grave just to get away from her. She nonetheless did a fine job raising her four oldest children, whose father was Earl Wallingford. But for some reason, it was difficult with Michael, right from the beginning. ‘Even in the womb,’ she told me, though of course she was being typically melodramatic. Still, as a small child, he so terrorized the nannies who cared for him that none lasted more than a month or two.”