rose out of various buildings on the grounds and completed the image of a very dreary factory, one whose principal product, by that point in its history, was human misery. Convicts shared cells originally designed for individual prisoners, and the little maintenance work that was done in the place was not enough to counteract the powerful forces of decrepitude: the sights and smells of decay were everywhere. Even before we passed through the main gate, Kreizler and I could hear the monotonous sound of marching feet echoing out of the yard, and while this unhappy tramp was no longer punctuated by the crack of the cat—lashing had been outlawed in 1847—the ominous wooden clubs worn by the guards left no doubt about the primary method of maintaining discipline in the place.
The guard Lasky, an enormous, ill-shaved man of appropriately black temperament, eventually appeared, and after following him through the stone pathways and patchy grass borders of the yard we entered the main cell block. In one corner near the door several prisoners wearing iron and wood yokes that held their arms up and away from their bodies were being angrily berated by a group of guards, whose dark uniforms were no more tidy than our man Lasky’s and whose dispositions seemed, if anything, worse. As we entered the cell block proper, a sudden shout of pain shook Kreizler and me: inside one of the little four-by-eight-foot chambers more guards were going at one prisoner with a “hummingbird,” an electrical device that administered painful shocks. Both Kreizler and I had seen all this before, but familiarity did not breed acceptance. As we kept moving, I glanced at Laszlo once and saw my own reaction reflected in his face: given such a penal system, the high rate of recidivism in our society was really no mystery at all.
Jesse Pomeroy was being held all the way at the other end of the block, making it necessary for us to walk past dozens more cells full of faces that displayed an enormous range of emotions, from the deepest anguish and sorrow to the most sullen rage. As the rule of silence was enforced at all times we heard no distinct human voices, only an occasional whisper; and the echo of our own steps throughout the cell block, combined with the unceasing scrutiny of the prisoners, soon became almost maddening. When we reached the end of the building we entered a small, dank hallway that led into a tiny room with no real windows, just small chinks in the stone walls near the ceiling. Jesse Pomeroy was sitting in a strange sort of wooden stall inside this room. The stall had water pipes coming out of its top, but its interior was, so far as I could tell, bone dry. After a few seconds of puzzling with it, I realized what the thing was: an infamous “ice water bath,” in which particularly ill-behaved prisoners had formerly been doused with pressurized freezing water. The treatment had resulted in so many deaths from shock that it had been outlawed decades earlier. Apparently, though, no one had ever bothered to dismantle the contraption; no doubt the guards still found even the threat of such torment effective.
Pomeroy was wearing a heavy set of shackles on his wrists, and an iron “collar cap” rested on his shoulders and surrounded his head. This latter device, a grotesque punishment for particularly unruly prisoners, was a two- foot-high barred cage, and its weight, equal to that of the prisoner’s head, offered unending discomfort that drove many victims to the verge of madness. Despite both the shackles and the collar cap, however, Jesse had a book in his hand and was quietly reading. When he looked up at us I took careful note of the pocked skin of his face, the ugly disfigurement of his upper lip (which was barely covered by a stringy, weak mustache), and finally his milky, repulsive left eye. It was quite apparent why we’d come.
“Well!” he said quietly, getting to his feet. Even though Jesse was in his thirties and wearing the tall cage around his head, he was short enough to be able to stand inside the old stall. A smile came onto his ugly mouth, one that displayed the peculiar blend of suspicion, surprise, and satisfaction common to convicts who receive unexpected visitors. “Dr. Kreizler, if I’m not very much mistaken.”
Kreizler managed a smile that seemed quite genuine. “Jesse. It’s been a long time, I’m surprised you remember me.”
“Oh, I remember you, all right,” Pomeroy answered, in a boyish tone that was nonetheless laced with threat. “I remember all of you.” He studied Laszlo for another second, then turned suddenly to me. “But I’ve never seen
“No,” Kreizler said, before I could answer. “You haven’t.” Laszlo turned to our guide, who was looking very put-upon. “All right, Lasky. You can wait outside.” Kreizler handed him a large wad of money.
Lasky’s face achieved something like a pleased look, though he only said “Yes, sir,” before turning to Pomeroy. “You watch yourself, Jesse. Bad as you’ve had it today, it could still get worse.”
Pomeroy didn’t acknowledge that statement, but kept on watching Kreizler as Lasky departed. “Pretty hard to get an education in this place,” Jesse said, after the door had closed. “But I’m trying. I figure maybe that’s where I went wrong—no education. I taught myself Spanish, you know.” He continued to sound very much like the young man he’d been twenty years ago.
Laszlo nodded. “Admirable. I see you’re wearing a collar cap.”
Jesse laughed. “Ahh—they
“I gather, then, that you’ve grown tired of skinning rats alive,” Kreizler said. “When I was here several years ago, I heard that you’d been asking other prisoners to catch them for you.”
Still another chuckle, this one almost embarrassed. “Rats. They do squirm and squeal. Bite you pretty good, too, if you’re not careful.” He displayed several small but nasty scars on his hands.
Kreizler nodded. “As angry as you were twenty years ago, eh, Jesse?”
“I wasn’t angry twenty years ago,” Pomeroy answered, without losing his grin. “I was
“Call it a reassessment,” Kreizler answered cagily. “I sometimes like to drop in on old cases, to measure their progress. And since I had business in the prison, anyway—”
For the first time Pomeroy’s voice became deadly serious. “Don’t play games with me, Doc. Even with these cuffs on I could have your eyes out before Lasky gets through that door.”
Kreizler’s face lit up a bit at that, but his tone remained cool. “I suppose you’d consider that another demonstration of your insanity?”
Jesse chuckled. “Wouldn’t you?”
“I didn’t twenty years ago,” Kreizler answered with a shrug. “You mutilated the eyes of both the children you killed, as well as those of several you tortured. But I saw no madness in it—it was quite understandable, actually.”
“Oh?” Pomeroy turned playful again. “How’s that?”
Kreizler paused a moment, then leaned forward. “I’ve yet to see a man driven truly insane by simple envy, Jesse.”
Pomeroy’s expression went blank, and he shot a hand toward his face so quickly that it banged against the bars of the collar cap painfully. Tightening both hands into fists he seemed on the verge of springing up, and I got ready for trouble; but then he just laughed it off. “Let me tell you something, Doc—if you paid for that education of yours, you got took. You figger just because I got a bum eye I’d go around fixing people with two good ones? Not likely. Look at me—I’m a
I turned quickly to Kreizler, and could see that he hadn’t been ready for such a remark. But he’d long ago learned to control his reactions to anything a subject might say, and he only blinked once or twice without taking his eyes from Pomeroy. Jesse, however, was able to read into those blinks, and he sat back with a satisfied grin.
“Yeah, you’re smart, all right,” he chuckled.
“Then the mutilation of the eyes meant nothing,” Kreizler said; and looking back I can see that he was maneuvering carefully. “Simply random acts of violence.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, Doc.” Pomeroy’s voice took on a warning edge again. “We been through that, a long time ago. All I’m saying is I didn’t have a sane reason to do it.”
Kreizler cocked his head judiciously. “Perhaps. But, since you’re unwilling to state what reason you did have, the argument is pointless.” Laszlo got up. “And, as I’ve a train to catch back to New York—”
