The Alienist

you that.”

Marcus’s face went a little red with anger and then he addressed Kreizler with deliberate seriousness, sensing the meeting wasn’t going well. “Well, you see, Doctor, it was our parents again, though I do understand that it may not be a particularly interesting explanation. My mother wanted me to be a lawyer, and my brother—the detective sergeant here—he was supposed to be a doctor. It didn’t work out. We’d started reading Wilkie Collins when we were boys, and had pretty well decided by the time we went to college that we wanted to be detectives.”

“Law and medical training were useful, at first,” Lucius continued, “but then we moved on and did some work for the Pinkertons. It wasn’t until Commissioner Roosevelt took over the department that we actually got a chance to join the police. I suppose you’ve heard that his hiring practices are a bit…unorthodox.”

I knew what he was referring to, and later explained it to Laszlo. Besides investigating nearly every officer and detective in the Police Department, and thus prompting many to resign, Roosevelt had made a point of hiring unlikely new recruits, in an effort to break the hold that the clique headed by Thomas Byrnes and such precinct heads as “Clubber” Williams and “Big Bill” Devery had on the force. Theodore was especially fond of bringing in Jews, whom he considered exceptionally honest and brave, referring to them as “Maccabean warriors for justice.” The Isaacson brothers were apparently representative of this effort, though “warriors” was not the first word that came to mind on meeting them.

“I take it,” Lucius ventured hopefully, wanting to get off the subject of their backgrounds, “that you want some help with this exhumation?” He indicated the two tables.

Kreizler studied him. “How did you know it’s an exhumation?”

“The smell, Doctor. It’s very distinct. And the positions of the bodies indicate a formal burial, not a random interment.”

Kreizler liked that, and brightened a bit. “Yes, Detective Sergeant, you have presumed correctly.” He moved over and whipped the sheets off the tables, at which point the stench was complemented by the rather disturbing sight of two small skeletons, one draped in a decaying black suit and the other in an equally decrepit white dress. Some bones were still connected, but many had come free of one another, and there were bits of hair and nails, along with spatterings of dirt, all over them. I tightened up and tried not to look away: this sort of thing was going to be my fate for a while, and I figured that I’d better get used to it. But the grisly grimaces of the two skulls spoke eloquently of the unnatural way in which the two children had died, and it was hard to continue examining them.

The Isaacson brothers’ faces displayed nothing but fascination as they approached the tables and listened to Laszlo: “Brother and sister, Benjamin and Sofia Zweig. Murdered. Their bodies found—”

“In a water tower,” Marcus said. “Three years ago. The case is still officially open.”

This, too, pleased Kreizler. “Over here,” he continued, indicating a small white table in the corner that was piled with clippings and documents, “you’ll find all the information concerning the case that I’ve been able to assemble. I should like the two of you to review it, and study the bodies. There is some urgency about the matter, so I can only offer you the afternoon and evening. I will be at Delmonico’s at eleven-thirty tonight. Meet me there, and in exchange for your information I shall be happy to offer you an excellent dinner.”

Marcus Isaacson’s enthusiasm broke for a moment of curiosity. “Dinner isn’t necessary, Doctor, if this is official business. Though we appreciate the offer.”

Laszlo nodded with a slight smile, amused at Marcus’s attempt to draw him out. “We’ll see you at eleven- thirty, then.”

At that the Isaacsons started in on the materials before them, barely conscious of Kreizler’s and my farewells. We went upstairs, and as I fetched my coat from the consultation room, Laszlo continued to look intrigued.

“There’s no doubting they’re idiosyncratic,” he said as he walked me to the front door. “But I’ve a feeling they know their work. We shall see. Oh, by the way, Moore—do you have a clean set of clothes for tonight?”

“Tonight?” I asked, pulling my cap and gloves on.

“The opera,” he replied. “Roosevelt’s candidate for liaison between our investigation and his office is due to meet us at my house at seven.”

“Who is he?”

“No idea,” Laszlo said with a shrug. “But whoever it is, the liaison’s role will be crucial. I thought we’d take him to the opera, and see how he reacts. It’s as good a test of character as any, and God knows when we’ll get another chance to go. We’ll use my box at the Metropolitan. Maurel is singing Rigoletto. It should suit our purpose.”

“It certainly should,” I said happily. “And speaking of purposes, who’s singing the hunchback’s daughter?”

Kreizler turned away with an expression of mild disgust. “My God, Moore, I should like to get the particulars of your infancy someday. This irrepressible sexual mania—”

“I only asked who’s singing the hunchback’s daughter!”

“All right, all right! Yes, Frances Saville, ‘She of the Legs,’ as you put it!”

“In that case,” I said, bouncing down the steps and toward the carriage, “I definitely have clothes.” As far as I was concerned, you could take Nellie Melba, Lillian Nordica, and all the rest of the half-attractive, four-star voices at the Metropolitan and, as Stevie Taggert would have put it, go chase yourself. Give me a really beautiful girl with a decent voice and I was a docile audience member. “I’ll be at your place at seven.”

“Splendid,” Kreizler answered with a frown. “I can scarcely wait. Cyrus! Take Mr. Moore to Washington Square!”

I spent the quick trip back up and across town pondering what an unusual—but nonetheless enjoyable—way to open a murder investigation the opera and dinner at Delmonico’s would be. Unfortunately, such entertainments did not turn out to be said opening; for when I arrived home, I found a very agitated Sara Howard on my doorstep.

CHAPTER 8

Sara paid no attention to my greeting. “This is Dr. Kreizler’s carriage, isn’t it?” she asked. “And his man. Can we take them?”

“Take them where?” I answered, looking up to see my grandmother peering anxiously out the window of her parlor. “Sara, what’s going on?”

“Sergeant Connor and another man, Casey, went down to talk to the Santorelli boy’s parents this morning. They returned and said they’d found nothing—but there was blood on the cuff of Connor’s shirt. Something’s happened, I know it, and I want to find out what.” She wasn’t looking at me, perhaps because she knew what my reaction was likely to be.

“A little off the beaten trail for a secretary, isn’t it?” I asked. Sara didn’t answer, but a look of bitter disappointment filled her face, a frustration so severe that all I could do was open the calash door. “What about it, Cyrus?” I said. “Any objection to taking Miss Howard and myself on a little errand?”

Cyrus shrugged. “No, sir. Not so long as I’m back at the Institute by the end of interviewing hours.”

“And so you shall be. Climb aboard, Sara, and meet Mr. Cyrus Montrose.”

In an instant Sara’s aspect went from ferocious to exuberant—not an uncommon transformation for her. “There are moments, John,” she said, jumping up onto the calash, “when I think I may have been wrong about you all these years.” She shook Cyrus’s hand eagerly and then sat down, throwing a blanket over my legs and hers when I got in. Directing Cyrus to an address on Mott Street, she clapped her hands once excitedly as the calash began moving.

There aren’t many women who would have ventured into one of the worst parts of the Lower East Side with