The Alienist (36 page)

The
fons et origo
of all reality, whether from the absolute or the practical point of view, is thus subjective, is ourselves. As bare logical thinkers, without emotional reaction, we give reality to whatever objects we think of, for they are really phenomena, or objects of our passing thought, if nothing more. But, as thinkers with emotional reaction, we give what seems to us a still higher degree of reality to whatever things we select and emphasize and turn to WITH A WILL.

William James,
The Principles of Psychology

Don Giovanni, you invited me to sup with you: I have come.

Da Ponte,
from Mozart’s
Don Giovanni

CHAPTER 30

I
stepped with trepidation toward a pair of luxuriantly upholstered easy chairs that sat near Morgan’s desk and across from the fireplace. Kreizler, however, stood rigidly still, answering the financier’s hard stare with one of his own.

“Before I sit in your house, Mr. Morgan,” Laszlo said, “may I ask if it is your general custom to compel attendance with firearms?”

Morgan’s large head snapped around to scowl at Byrnes, who only shrugged in a very unconcerned way. The ex-cop’s gray eyes twinkled a bit, as if to say: When you lie down with dogs, Mr. Morgan…

Morgan’s head began a slow, slightly disgusted shake. “Neither my custom nor my instructions, Dr. Kreizler,” he said, holding out an arm to the easy chairs. “I hope you will accept my apologies. This affair seems to have brought out strong emotions in all who have knowledge of it.”

Kreizler grunted quietly, only partially satisfied, and then we both sat down. Morgan also returned to his seat, and brief introductions were made (save of the two priests behind the settees, whose names I never did learn). After that Morgan gave the slightest of nods to Anthony Comstock, who moved his unimposing little figure into the center of the room. The voice that emerged from that frame proved as thoroughly unpleasant as was the face.

“Doctor. Mr. Moore. Let us be frank. We know of your investigation, and for a variety of reasons we want it stopped. If you do not agree, there are certain matters you will be pressed on.”

“Pressed on?” I said, my immediate dislike for the postal censor giving me confidence. “This isn’t a morals case, Mr. Comstock.”

“Assault,” Inspector Byrnes said quietly, looking at the crowded bookshelves, “is a
criminal
charge, Moore. We’ve got a guard at Sing Sing who’s missing a couple of teeth. Then there’s the matter of consorting with known gangland leaders—”

“Come on, Byrnes,” I said quickly. The inspector and I’d had many run-ins during my years at the
Times,
and though he made me very nervous I knew it would be foolish to show it. “Even you can’t call a carriage ride ‘consorting.’”

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 cigarette. “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.”