The Alienist (27 page)

“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 his 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.”

“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.