The Alienist

after writing it, he failed to spot the inconsistency. That indicates that, while he’s unquestionably a capable planner, he may have an exaggerated opinion of his own cleverness.”

After another sip of Pilsener Marcus lit a cigarette and continued, his words finally starting to emerge at a relaxed pace: “Up to this point, we’re on pretty solid ground. All this is good science, and would stand up in a court of law. Age about thirty, several years of decent schooling, a deliberate attempt at deception—no judge would reject it. Now, however, things become less clear-cut. Are any traits of character betrayed by the script itself? A lot of handwriting analysts believe that all people, not just criminals, reveal their basic attitudes during the physical act of writing, regardless of what words are actually written. Macleod’s done a lot of work in this area, and I think it may be useful to apply his principles here.”

A sudden shout of “Jesus Christ, I never seen a fat man move like that in my life!” came from across the terrace, and I was about to make another request for quiet when I saw my friends already attending to the job. Marcus was then free to proceed:

“First of all, the slashing downstrokes and the extreme angularity of a lot of the characters suggest a man who’s pretty tormented—he’s under enormous inner tension of some kind, and it can’t find any vent other than anger. In fact, the thrusting, snapping motion of the hand—you see it, here?—is so pronounced that a tendency toward physical violence, and maybe even sadism, is pretty safe to assume. But it gets more complicated than that, because there are other, contrasting elements. In the high register, what’s called the ‘upper zone’ of the writing, you can see these florid little wanderings of the pen. They usually indicate a writer with imagination. In the lower zones, on the other hand, there’s a fair amount of confusion—it’s most apparent in the tendency to place the loops of letters like g and f on the wrong side of the stem. It doesn’t happen every time, but the fact that it keeps happening is important, given that he’s been trained in penmanship and is at all other times very deliberate and very calculating.”

“Excellent,” Kreizler judged; yet I noticed his pen wasn’t moving. “But I wonder, Detective Sergeant, if these last elements could not have been divined from the contents of the note, as well as from your initial and somewhat more scientific analysis of the handwriting?”

Marcus smiled and nodded. “Probably. And that shows why the so-called art of reading personality into handwriting hasn’t been accepted as a science yet. But I thought it’d be useful to include the observations, because they at least show no marked inconsistency between the content and the script of the note. If it were a fake, you’d almost certainly find that kind of a gap.” Kreizler accepted the statement with a nod, though he still didn’t write any of it down. “Well, that about does it for the handwriting,” Marcus concluded, as he pulled out his vial of carbon powder. “I’m just going to dust the edges of the paper itself for fingerprints and make sure we get a match.”

As he did so, Lucius, who’d been scrutinizing the envelope, spoke up: “There’s nothing particularly revealing about the postmark. The thing was sent from the Old Post Office by City Hall, but our man probably traveled to get there. He’s careful enough to expect that the postmark will be examined. But we can’t rule out the possibility that he lives in the City Hall area.”

Marcus had pulled a set of photographed prints from his pocket, and was holding them against the now smudged letter.

“Um-hmm,” he noised. “A match.” And as he said it the unrealistic but flickering hope that the note was a forgery was snuffed out.

“Which leaves us,” Kreizler said, “with the considerable task of interpreting the contents.” He pulled out his watch and checked the time—nearly nine. “It might be better if our minds were fresh, but…”

“Yes,” Sara said, her balance finally restored, “but.”

We all knew what the “but” was—our killer wasn’t factoring rest periods for his pursuers into his schedule. With that pressing thought in mind, we got up to depart for Number 808 Broadway, where coffee would be brewed. Whatever engagements any of us had been foolish enough to make for later in the evening were implicitly canceled.

As we left the terrace, Laszlo touched my arm, indicating that he wanted a private word. “I had hoped that I was wrong, John,” he said, as the others went ahead. “And I still may be, but—I’ve suspected from the beginning that our man has been observing our efforts. If I’m right he probably followed Mrs. Santorelli to Mulberry Street and kept careful track of whom she spoke to. Sara says she translated the note for the unfortunate woman near the front steps of the building—the killer, if he was there, could not have missed their discussion. He may have followed Sara here; he may be watching us right now.” I spun to look at Union Square and the blocks around us, but Kreizler pulled me back in a jerk. “Don’t—he won’t be visible, and I don’t want any of the others to suspect this. Especially Sara. It may affect their work. But you and I should heighten all precautions.”

“But—watching us? Why?”

“Vanity, perhaps,” Laszlo answered. “Desperation, as well.”

I was dumbfounded. “You say you’ve suspected all along?”

Kreizler nodded as we began to follow the others. “Since we found that bloodstained rag in the calash on the very first day. The torn page that was wrapped up in it was—”

“Was an article of yours,” I said quickly. “Or so I guessed.”

“Yes,” Laszlo answered. “The killer must have been observing the bridge anchor at the time I was called to the scene. I suspect that the page was his way of acknowledging me, somehow. And mocking me, too.”

“But how can you be sure it was definitely the killer who left it?” I asked, looking for a way to avoid the harrowing conclusion that we had been, at least intermittently, under the scrutiny of a murderer.

“The rag,” Kreizler explained. “Though bloodied and soiled, the material bore a striking resemblance to that of the Santorelli boy’s chemise—which, if you recall, was missing a sleeve.”

Ahead of us, Sara had begun to look over her shoulder inquisitively, prompting Laszlo to pick up his pace. “Remember, Moore,” he said. “Not a word to the rest of them.”

Kreizler rushed up to Sara, leaving me to steal one more very nervous glance at the dark expanse of Union Square Park across Fourth Avenue.

The stakes, as they say, were rising.

CHAPTER 21

First of all,” Kreizler announced, as we came into our headquarters that night and began to settle ourselves at our desks, “I think we can finally dispense with one lingering uncertainty.” At the top right- hand corner of the chalkboard, under the ASPECTS OF THE CRIMES heading, sat the word ALONE, with a question mark after it—a question mark that Laszlo now removed. We were already relatively certain that our killer had no accomplices: no pair or team of confederates, we’d reasoned, could have engaged in such behavior for a period of years without some one of them revealing it. During the initial phase of the investigation the only catch to this theory had been the question of how one man on his own could have negotiated the walls and rooftops of the various disorderly houses and murder sites; Marcus, however, had taken care of that problem. Thus, while the use of the pronoun “I” in the letter was not conclusive in and of itself, it seemed, when taken in conjunction with these other facts, definitive evidence that a solitary man was at work.

We all nodded assent to this reasoning, and Kreizler went on: “Now, then—to the salutation. Why ‘My dear Mrs. Santorelli’?”

“Could be habit of form,” Marcus answered. “It would be consistent with his schooling.”

“‘My dear’?” Sara queried. “Wouldn’t schoolchildren learn just ‘dear’?”

“Sara’s right,” said Lucius. “It’s overly affectionate and informal. He knows his letter is going to devastate the woman, and he’s enjoying it. He’s playing with her, sadistically.”

“Agreed,” Kreizler said, underlining the word SADISM, which was already written on the right-hand side of the board.