The Alienist

part of him.”

“And would be transmitted through the act of sex,” Marcus added. “So you’re right, Doctor—sex is not something he values or enjoys. It’s the violence that’s his goal.”

“Isn’t it possible that he isn’t even capable of sex?” Sara asked. “Given the kind of background we’re supposing, that is. In one of the treatises you gave us, Doctor, there’s a discussion of sexual stimulation and anxiety reactions—”

“Dr. Peyer, at the University of Zurich,” Kreizler said. “The observations grew out of his larger study of coitus interruptus.”

“That’s right,” Sara continued. “The implications seemed strongest for men who had emerged from difficult home lives. Persistent anxiety could result in a pronounced suppression of the libido, creating impotence.”

“Our boy’s pretty tender on that subject,” Marcus said, going to the note and reading from it. “‘I never fucked him, though I could have.’”

“Indeed,” Kreizler said, writing IMPOTENCE in the center of the board without hesitation. “The effect would only be to magnify his frustration and rage, producing ever more carnage. And that carnage emerges now as our most difficult puzzle. If these multilations are indeed personal rituals, unconnected to any definite religious theme other than dates, then regardless of whether he’s a priest or a plumber it becomes all the more important to understand the details, for they will be specific to him.” Kreizler went over to the note. “This document, I fear, gives us very little help along such lines.” Laszlo rubbed his eyes as he checked his silver watch. “And it’s quite late. I suggest we conclude.”

“Before we do that, Doctor,” Sara said, quietly but firmly, “I’d like to get back to one point concerning the adults in this man’s past.”

Kreizler nodded, with little or no enthusiasm. “The woman involved,” he sighed.

“Yes.” Sara stood up and walked to the chalkboard, pointing to its various divisions. “We’ve theorized that we have a man who, while still a child, was harassed, embarrassed, blamed, and finally beaten. I can’t contest the theory that the beatings were administered by a male hand. But the intimate nature of so many of the other aspects seems to me to suggest very strongly a woman’s rather sinister presence. Listen to his tone throughout the note, which, after all, is addressed to Mrs. Santorelli specifically—it’s defensive, badgered, even whining at moments, and obsessed with scatological and anatomical detail. It’s the voice of a boy who’s been scrutinized and humiliated regularly, who’s been made to feel that he himself is filth, without ever experiencing a place or person of refuge. If his character truly did form in his childhood, Dr. Kreizler, then I must repeat that the mother would be the far more likely culprit, in this regard.”

Kreizler’s face betrayed irritation. “If that were so, Sara, then wouldn’t massive resentment have been bred? And wouldn’t the victims be women, like the Ripper’s?”

“I don’t argue your reasoning with regard to the victims,” Sara answered. “I’m asking for a deeper look in another direction.”

“You seem to think,” Laszlo replied, a bit snappishly, “that I suffer from blinkered vision. I remind you that I do have some experience with these things.”

Sara studied him for a moment, and then quietly asked, “Why do you resist so strongly the notion of a woman’s active involvement in the formation?”

Laszlo suddenly rose, slammed a hand down on his desk, and shouted, “Because her role cannot have been active, damn it!”

Marcus, Lucius, and I froze for a moment, then exchanged uneasy glances. The rather shocking outburst, quite apart from being unwarranted, didn’t even seem to make sense, given Laszlo’s professional opinions. And yet it went on: “Had a woman been actively involved in this man’s life, at any point, we would not even be here—the crimes would never have happened!” Kreizler tried to regain an even keel, but only half-succeeded. “The whole notion is absurd, there is nothing in the literature to suggest it! And so I really must insist, Sara—we shall presume a record of feminine passivity in the formation and proceed to the issue of the mutilations! Tomorrow!”

As has hopefully become clear by now, Sara Howard was not the kind of woman to take such talk from any man, even one she admired and perhaps (in my opinion, at any rate) had still deeper feelings for. Her eyes went very thin at this last shot from Laszlo, and her voice was ice itself when she said:

“Since you appear to have decided this issue long ago, Doctor, it seems pointless to have asked me to research the subject.” I was a little worried that she’d go for the derringer, but she opted for her coat instead. “Perhaps you thought it would be an amusing way to keep me occupied,” she stormed on. “But I’ll tell you right now that I don’t need to be amused, cajoled, or otherwise mollycoddled—by any of you!”

And with that she was out the door. The Isaacsons and I traded more perturbed looks, but there was no need to say anything. We all knew that Sara had been right and Kreizler inexplicably, pigheadedly wrong. As Laszlo sighed and collapsed into his chair, it seemed for an instant that he might realize as much himself; but he did nothing more than ask us all to leave, claiming weariness. Then he fixed his eyes on the letter before him. The rest of us fetched our things and filed out, saying goodnight to Kreizler but receiving no reply.

Had the incident sparked no repercussions, I would hardly mention it here. True, it was the first real moment of discord we’d experienced at Number 808 Broadway, but it was inevitable that there should be a few, and no doubt we all would have gotten over it soon. But this sharp exchange between Kreizler and Sara did have repercussions: illuminating repercussions that not only revealed much that was unknown, even to me, about Kreizler’s past, but also lit our way toward a face-to-face encounter with one of the most disturbing criminals in the recent history of the United States.

CHAPTER 22

We saw very little of Kreizler during the next week or so, and I later learned that he spent nearly all of that time in the city’s jails and a variety of residential neighborhoods, interviewing men who’d been arrested for domestic violence as well as the wives and children who’d suffered at their hands. He came into our headquarters only once or twice, saying next to nothing but collecting notes and data with great, almost desperate determination. He never managed to apologize to Sara; but, even though the few words that passed between them were awkward and stilted, she did find it in herself to forgive his harsh statements, which she attributed to a combination of Kreizler’s increasingly emotional involvement in the case and the nervousness that we’d all begun to feel with the changing of the month. Whatever calendar our killer was using, if he followed his established pattern he would strike again soon. At the time, anticipation of that event did seem a more than adequate explanation for Kreizler’s uncharacteristic behavior; but such anticipation, it turned out, was only part of what was driving my friend so hard.

For our part, Marcus and I decided during those first few days of May to divide the tasks we’d outlined on the night the killer’s note arrived. Marcus canvassed every Catholic church on the Lower East Side (as well as some outside that neighborhood) in an attempt to find anyone who might have noticed Giorgio Santorelli, while I took on the job of learning more about the two priests. After a weekend spent trying to get new details out of the man who owned the building where Ali ibn-Ghazi’s father lived, however, as well as from Mrs. Santorelli and her fellow tenants (Sara once again did the interpreting), it became clear that more money had been spread around to ensure more people’s silence. I was therefore forced to shift my activities to the two church organizations involved. We figured that my status as a reporter for the Times would gain me the easiest and quickest access, in this regard, and I decided to start my inquiries at the top: with visits to the Roman Catholic archbishop of New York, Michael Corrigan, as well as the Episcopal bishop of New York, Henry Codman Potter. Both men lived in very pleasant town houses in the fifties near Madison Avenue, and I figured I could cover both interviews in one day.