The Alienist

that if for no other reason, the part of you that is still human must pay close attention to me.”

Though Beecham’s eyes remained quite glassy, he nodded slowly. “Good,” Laszlo said. “The police will be here soon. They may or may not find you waiting when they arrive, depending on just how honest you are with me. I’m going to ask you just a few questions now to determine your ability, as well as your willingness, to cooperate. Answer these questions truly and we may be able to arrange a less severe fate than that which the people of this city will demand. Do you understand?” Beecham nodded again, and Kreizler produced his ubiquitous little notebook and a pen. “All right, then. The basic facts…”

Laszlo then launched into a fast, condensed, yet calmly worded review of Beecham’s life, beginning with his childhood as Japheth Dury and going into some detail concerning the murder of his parents. As Beecham answered these queries, all the while confirming more and more of the hypotheses that we’d formulated during our investigation, his tone became increasingly weak and helpless, as if in the presence of this man who somehow knew him as well as he knew himself there was no choice other than complete submission. For his part, Kreizler became ever more satisfied by Beecham’s earnest attempts to cooperate with his inquisition, finding in them proof positive that a hidden yet still strong part of the murderer’s mind had indeed craved this moment.

I suppose that I, too, should have been deeply gratified at the results of this initial interview; yet as I watched Beecham answer Laszlo’s questions—his voice growing ever more compliant and even childish, with none of the threatening, arrogant tone he’d used when we were his prisoners—I became powerfully irritated, disturbed at the very core of my spirit. This irritation soon became outrage, as if this man had no right to exhibit any pitiable human qualities in light of all he’d done. Who was this enormous grotesque, I thought, to sit there confessing and sniveling like one of the children he’d slaughtered? Where was all the violence, cruelty, arrogance, and unstoppability that he’d displayed on other nights? As these and similar questions shot through my head, my anger mounted rapidly, until suddenly, unable to contain the feeling any longer, I stood up straight and bellowed:

“Shut up! Shut the hell up, you miserable coward!”

Both Beecham and Laszlo immediately grew silent and looked up at me in shock. Beecham’s facial spasms intensified dramatically as he eyed the Colt in my hand, while Laszlo’s attitude soon changed from one of stunned surprise to chastising comprehension.

“All right, Moore,” he said, not asking for an explanation. “Go and wait inside with the boy, then.”

“And leave you with him?” I said, my voice still trembling with anger and passion. “Are you insane? Look at him, Kreizler—this is him, this is the man who’s responsible for all the blood we’ve seen! And you sit here letting him convince you that he’s some kind of—”

“John!” Kreizler said, stopping me. “All right. Go and wait for me inside.”

I looked past Kreizler at Beecham. “Well? What are you trying to convince him of?” I leaned down, keeping the Colt pointed at Beecham’s head. “Figure you can still get out of it, don’t you?”

“Damn it, Moore!” Kreizler said, grabbing my wrist but unable to make me move the gun away. “Stop!”

I drew closer to Beecham’s spasming face. “My friend thinks that if you aren’t afraid to die it’s proof that you’re crazy,” I seethed. With Laszlo still trying to disarm me, I shoved the barrel of the revolver up against Beecham’s throat. “Are you afraid to die—are you? To die, like the boys you—”

“Moore!” Kreizler shouted again.

But I was far past listening. Struggling to get my thumb on the hammer of the Colt, I pulled it back in a jerk, causing Beecham to let out a desperate little cry and then pull back from me like a trapped animal. “No,” I seethed at him. “No, you’re not crazy—you are afraid to die!”

With stunning suddenness, the air all around us was consumed by a gunshot. A resonant, slapping sort of impact sounded from somewhere just under my hand, and then Beecham rocked backward in a jerk, revealing a crimson-black hole in the left side of his chest that wheezed with the sound of escaping air. Fixing his small, straining eyes on me Beecham let his manacled hands fall and then slumped over, his jacket falling from his shoulders as he did.

I’ve killed him, I thought clearly. There was neither joy nor guilt in the realization, just a simple acknowledgment of fact—but then, after Beecham had crumpled to the stone pathway, my gaze fell on the hammer of my Colt: it was still cocked. Before I could get my confused brain to make any sense of this sight, Laszlo had jumped over to Beecham and made a cursory examination of the bullet wound. Shaking his head as the unpleasant sound of gushing air and blood continued to come out of Beecham’s chest, Laszlo made a fist and looked up furiously. His glare, however, was directed past me; and following it, I turned around slowly.

Connor had somehow slipped his bonds, and was standing in the center of the promenade. His back was bent with dizziness and pain, and he was clutching his bleeding side with his left hand as he held a small, crude twin- barreled pistol with the other. A twisted smile came into his bleeding mouth, and then he staggered forward a step or two.

“It ends tonight,” he said, holding the gun higher and pointing it at us. “Drop it, Moore.”

I complied, slowly and carefully; but just as the Colt touched the pathway another gunshot cut through the air—this one from farther off—and then Connor jerked forward as if he’d been struck hard in the back. He fell on his face with a small grunt, revealing a hole in his jacket out of which blood began to pump immediately. The powder smoke from the shot Connor had fired at Beecham had not even cleared when a new figure stepped forward on the dark promenade and became visible in the moonlight.

It was Sara, pearl-gripped revolver in hand. She stared down at Connor for an instant without betraying any emotion, then looked up at Kreizler and me.

“I thought of this place just after we’d gotten into position at High Bridge Tower,” she said tightly, as the Isaacsons appeared in the darkness behind her. “When Theodore said you’d left the opera, I knew…”

I let out an enormous breath. “And thank God you did,” I said, wiping my brow with my hand and then picking up the Colt.

Laszlo stayed in a crouch by Beecham, but looked up at Sara. “And where is the commissioner?”

“Out searching,” Sara said. “We didn’t tell him.”

Laszlo nodded. “Thank you, Sara. You had little reason for such consideration.”

Sara’s expression remained impassive. “You’re right.”

Beecham suddenly let out with a bloody, choking cough, and Kreizler got an arm under his neck, bringing the large head up. “Detective Sergeant?” Laszlo said, at which Lucius rushed over to assist him.

Taking a quick look at Beecham’s chest, Lucius shook his head definitively. “It’s no good, Doctor.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Kreizler snapped. “I just need—rub his hands, will you? Moore, get those blasted manacles off. I just need a few minutes.” As I freed the dying man’s hands Laszlo reached into his pocket, brought out a small vial of ammonia salts, and wafted them under Beecham’s nose. Lucius began to slap and rub at Beecham’s palms, while Laszlo’s aspect became steadily more concerned and his movements steadily more agitated, until they reached a level of near desperation. “Japheth,” he began to murmur, softly but pleadingly. “Japheth Dury, can you hear me?”

Beecham’s eyelids fluttered for an instant and then opened, the dulling orbs beneath them rolling helplessly about in his head. Finally he fixed them on the face that was very close to his own. He wasn’t spasming, now, and his expression was that of a terrified child who looks to a stranger for help that he somehow knows he isn’t going to get.

“I—” he gasped, coughing up a little more blood. “I’m—going to die…”

“Listen to me, Japheth,” Laszlo said, wiping blood from the man’s mouth and face as he continued to cradle the head. “You must listen to me—what did you see, Japheth? What did you see when you looked at the children? What made you kill them?”

Beecham’s head began to shake from side to side quickly, and then a shudder went through his body. He turned his terrified gaze to the heavens and opened his jaw wider, revealing the big teeth, which were now coated with blood.

“Japheth!” Laszlo repeated, sensing that the man was slipping away. “What did you see?”

As his head continued to shake, Beecham’s eyes shifted back to Laszlo’s pleading face. “I—have never known—” he gasped, the tone both apologetic and pleading. “I—have never—known! I—didn’t—they—”

The shaking in his face spread throughout his body for an instant, and then he grabbed Laszlo by the shirt. Face still full of mortal fear, John Beecham spasmed one final time, spat some blood mixed with vomit out one side of his mouth, and grew still. His head rolled away from Kreizler, the eyes finally losing their expression of