The Alienist

“Yes,” Marcus replied, “that’s the colloquial term.”

“But—” Sara broke in. “I mean no offense, Detective Sergeant, but dactyloscopy has been rejected by every police department in the world. Its scientific basis hasn’t even been proven, and no actual case has ever been solved by using it.”

“I take no offense at that, Miss Howard,” Marcus answered. “And I hope you won’t take any when I say that you’re mistaken. The scientific basis has been proven, and several cases have been solved using the technique—though not in a part of the world that you’re likely to have heard much about.”

“Moore,” Kreizler interrupted, his voice snapping a bit, “I’m beginning to understand how you must often feel—once again, gentlemen and lady, I’m lost.”

Sara started to explain the subject to Laszlo, but after that last little quip of his I had to jump in and take over. Dactyloscopy, or fingerprinting (I explained in what I hoped was a very condescending voice), had been argued for decades as a method of identifying all human beings, criminals included. The scientific premise was that fingerprints do not change throughout a person’s lifetime—but there were a great many anthropologists and physicians who didn’t yet accept that fact, despite overwhelming supporting evidence and occasional practical demonstrations. In Argentina, for example—a place that, as Marcus Isaacson said, not many people in America or Europe thought much about (or of )—fingerprinting had gotten its first practical test when a provincial police officer in Buenos Aires named Vucetich used the method to solve a murder case that involved the brutal bludgeoning of two small children.

“And so,” Kreizler said, as our waiters appeared yet again, bearing petits aspics de foie gras, “I take it there is a general shift away from Bertillon’s system.”

“Not yet,” Marcus answered. “It’s an ongoing fight. Even though the reliability of prints has been demonstrated, there’s a great deal of resistance.”

“The important thing to remember,” Sara added—and how very satisfying, to see her now lecturing Kreizler!—“is that fingerprints can show who has been in a given place. It’s ideal for our—” She caught herself, and calmed. “It has great potential.”

“And how are the prints taken?” Kreizler asked.

“There are three basic methods,” Marcus answered. “First, obviously, are visible prints—a hand that’s been dipped in paint, blood, ink, anything like that, and has then touched something else. Then there are plastic prints, left when someone touches putty, clay, wet plaster, and so on. Last, and the most difficult, are latent prints. If you pick up that glass in front of you, Doctor, your fingers will leave a residue of perspiration and body oil in the pattern of your fingerprint. If I suspect that you might have done so”—Marcus removed two small vials from his pockets, one containing a gray-white powder and one a black substance of similar consistency—“I will dust with either aluminum powder”—he held up the gray-white vial—“or with finely ground carbon”—he held up the black. “The choice depends on the color of the background object. White shows up against dark objects, black against light; either would be suitable for your glass. The powders are absorbed by the oils and perspiration, leaving a perfect image of your print.”

“Remarkable,” Kreizler said. “But if it is now scientifically accepted that a human being’s fingerprints never vary, how can this not be admitted as legal evidence in court?”

“Change isn’t something most people enjoy, even if it’s progressive change.” Marcus put the vials down on the table and smiled. “But I’m sure you’re aware of that, Dr. Kreizler.”

Kreizler nodded once in acknowledgment of this comment, then pushed his plate away and sat back again. “Grateful as I am for all of your instructive words,” he said, “I get the feeling, Detective Sergeant, that they have some more specific purpose.”

Marcus turned to Lucius yet again, but his brother only shrugged in resignation. With that, Marcus pulled something flat from the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Chances are,” he said, “no coroner would notice or care if they happened on something like this today, much less three years ago.” He dropped the sheet—actually a photograph—on the table in front of us, and our three heads went close together to view it. It was a detail of something, several white objects—bones, I soon determined, but I couldn’t be more specific.

“Fingers?” Sara wondered aloud.

“Fingers,” Kreizler answered.

“Specifically,” Marcus said, “the fingers of Sofia Zweig’s left hand. Note the nail on the tip of the thumb, the one you can see fully.” He took a magnifying lens from his pocket and handed it to us, then sat back to nibble foie gras.

“It seems,” Kreizler mused as Sara picked up the lens, “bruised. At least, there is discoloration of some kind.”

Marcus looked at Sara. “Miss Howard?”

She put the lens before her face, and brought the photograph closer. Her eyes struggled to focus, and then went wide in discovery. “I see…”

“See what?” I said, squirming like a four-year-old.

As Laszlo looked over Sara’s shoulder, his expression became even more astounded and impressed than hers. “Good lord, you don’t mean—”

“What, what, what?” I said, and Sara finally handed me the glass and the picture. I followed instructions and examined the nail at the tip of the thumb. Without the glass it looked, as Kreizler had said, discolored: Magnified, it clearly bore the mark of what I knew to be a fingerprint, left in some kind of dark substance. I was dumb with surprise.

“It’s a very lucky chance,” Marcus said. “Though partial, it’s sufficient for identification. Somehow, it managed to survive both the coroner and the mortician. The substance is blood, by the way. Probably the girl’s own, or her brother’s. The print, however, is too large to be either of theirs. The coffin has preserved the stain extremely well —and now we have a permanent record of it.”

Kreizler looked up, as close to beaming as he was likely to get. “My dear Detective Sergeant, this is almost as impressive as it is unexpected!”

Marcus looked away, smiling self-consciously, as Lucius piped up in the same worried tone. “Please remember, Doctor, that it has no legal or forensic significance. It’s a clue, and could be used for investigative purposes, nothing else.”

“And nothing else, Detective Sergeant, is needed. Except, possibly”—Laszlo clapped his hands twice and the waiters reappeared—“dessert. Which you gentlemen have thoroughly earned.” The waiters took away our last dinner dishes and returned with Alliance pears: steeped in wine, deep-fried, powdered with sugar, and smothered in apricot sauce. I thought Lucius would have an attack when he saw them. Kreizler kept his eyes on the two brothers. “This is truly commendable work. But I’m afraid, gentlemen, that you have undertaken it under slightly…false premises. For which I apologize.”

We then explained our activities fully to the Isaacsons, as we consumed the pears and some delicious petits fours that followed. Nothing was left out of our account: the condition of Giorgio Santorelli’s body, the troubles with Flynn and Connor, our meeting with Roosevelt, and Sara’s conversation with Mrs. Santorelli were all discussed in detail. Nor did any of us try to sugarcoat the issue—the person we were hunting, Kreizler said, might be unconsciously urging us to find him, but his conscious thoughts were fixed on violence, and if we got too close that violence might easily spill over onto us. The warning did give Marcus and Lucius some little pause, as did the thought that our business would be undertaken in secret and disavowed by all city officials if discovered. But both men’s overarching reaction to the prospect was excitement. Any good detective would have felt the same, for it was the chance of a lifetime: to try new techniques, to operate outside the stifling pressures of departmental bureaucracy, and to make one’s name if the affair were concluded successfully.

And, I must confess, after the meal we’d just eaten and the wine that had accompanied it, such a conclusion seemed somewhat inevitable. Whatever reservations Kreizler, Sara, and I had had about the Isaacsons’ peculiar personal behavior, their work far outweighed such considerations: in the space of a day, we’d been given a general idea of our murderer’s physical stature and weapon of choice, as well as a permanent image of one physical attribute that might ultimately prove his undoing. Add to all this the fruit of Sara’s initiative—an initial impression of what the killer’s victims had in common—and success seemed, to a man in my drunken state, well within our grasp.

Yet it also seemed to me that my own part in this stage of the work had been too minor. I had made no