The Alienist

occupied the remaining floor space. Whatever the cause, upon entering those rooms one felt very much like one had stepped out of fashionable Manhattan and into some corner of the globe that those of us who knew no better would immediately have labeled savage.

Kreizler and I found Boas in a cluttered office in one of the museum’s turrets overlooking Seventy-seventh Street. He was a small man, with a large, roundish nose, an ample mustache, and thinning hair. In his brown eyes was that same fire of the crusader that marked Kreizler’s gaze; and the two men shook hands with a warmth and vigor that is only shared by truly kindred spirits. Boas was in a somewhat harassed state: he was preparing a massive expedition to the Pacific Northwest, to be paid for by the financier Morris K. Jesup. Kreizler and I therefore had to state our case quickly. I was somewhat shocked by the complete candor with which Kreizler revealed our work; and the story gave Boas a shock of his own, to judge by the way he stood up, looked sternly at the two of us, and then firmly closed the door to his office.

“Kreizler,” he said, in an accented voice that was as definitive as Laszlo’s, if slightly gentler, “do you have any idea of what you’re exposing yourself to? Should this become known, and should you fail—the risk is atrocious!” Boas threw his arms up and went for a small cigar.

“Yes, yes, I know, Franz,” Kreizler answered, “but what would you have me do? These are children, after all, however outcast and unfortunate, and the killings will go on. Besides—there are enormous possibilities, should we not fail.”

“I can understand a journalist getting involved,” Boas railed on, nodding at me as he lit his cigar. “But your work, Kreizler, is important. You are already distrusted by the public as well as by many of your colleagues—should this go badly you will be utterly ridiculed and dismissed by them!”

“As always you are not listening to me,” Kreizler answered indulgently. “You might assume that I’ve been over such considerations many times in my own mind. And the fact of the matter is that Mr. Moore and I are pressed for time, as are you. Therefore, I must ask bluntly—can you help us or not?”

Boas puffed away and scrutinized us both carefully, shaking his head. “You want information on the Plains tribes?” Laszlo nodded. “All right. But one thing is strengt verboten—” Boas pointed a finger at Kreizler. “I will not have you saying that the tribal customs of such people are responsible for the behavior of a murderer in this city.”

Laszlo sighed. “Franz, please—”

“Oh, about you I have little doubt. But I know nothing of these people you are working with.” Boas eyed me again, more than a little suspiciously. “We already have enough trouble changing the public view of the Indians. So you must pledge that to me, Laszlo.”

“I pledge it for my colleagues as well as for myself.”

Boas grunted once disdainfully. “Colleagues. I’m certain.” He began shuffling papers on his desk in annoyance. “My own knowledge of the tribes in question is insufficient. But I have just hired a young man who will be able to help you.” Rising and crossing to the door quickly, Boas pulled it open and shouted at a secretary: “Miss Jenkins! Where is Dr. Wissler, please?”

“Downstairs, Dr. Boas,” came a reply. “They’re installing the Blackfoot exhibit.”

“Ah.” Boas returned to his desk. “Good. That exhibit’s already late getting in place. You’ll have to talk to him down there. Don’t be deceived by his youth, Kreizler. He’s come a long way in just a few years, and seen a great deal.” Boas’s tone softened as he came around to Laszlo and extended his hand again. “Much like some other distinguished experts I’ve known.”

The two men smiled at each other briefly, but Boas’s face went straight with suspicion once more as he shook my hand and then showed us out of his office.

After trotting quickly downstairs, we passed back through the hall that contained the large canoe, then asked a guard for directions. He indicated another exhibition room, the door of which was locked. Kreizler rapped on it a few times, but there was no response. We could hear banging and voices within, and then a series of wild, rather chilling whoops and cries such as one might indeed have heard on the western frontier.

“Good God,” I said, “they’re not going to put live Indians on display, are they?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Moore.” Kreizler pounded on the door again, and finally it opened.

Facing us was a curly-haired young man of about twenty-five with a small mustache, a cherub’s face, and dancing blue eyes. He wore a vest and tie, and a very professional pipe was sticking out of his mouth; but on his head was an enormous and rather frightening war bonnet, composed of what I assumed were eagle’s feathers.

“Yes?” the young man said, with a very engaging grin. “Can I help you?”

“Dr. Wissler?” Kreizler said.

“Clark Wissler, that’s right.” The man suddenly realized he was wearing the war bonnet. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said, removing it. “We’re installing an exhibit, and I’m particularly concerned about this piece. You’re —”

“My name is Laszlo Kreizler, and this is—”

“Doctor Kreizler?” Wissler said hopefully, opening the door further.

“That’s right. And this—”

“This is a real pleasure, is what this is!” Wissler held out his hand and shook Kreizler’s energetically. “An honor! I believe I’ve read everything you’ve written, Doctor—although you really ought to write more. Psychology needs more work like yours!”

As we entered the large room, which was in near-total disarray, Wissler went on in this vein, pausing only briefly to shake my hand. It seemed that he, too, had originally trained in psychology before moving on to anthropology; and even in his current work, he focused on the psychological aspects of different cultures’ value systems, as expressed through their mythologies, artwork, social structures, and the like. This was a fortunate circumstance, for after we drew away from a group of workmen and into a deserted corner of the large room to tell Wissler in confidence of our work, he expressed even stronger concern than had Boas about the potential effects of tying such abominable acts as our killer’s to any Indian culture. When Kreizler gave him the same assurances he’d given Boas, however, Wissler’s unbridled admiration for Laszlo allowed trust to flourish. The fellow reacted to our thorough description of the mutilations involved in the murders with quick and penetrating analysis, of a kind I’ve rarely heard from one so young.

“Yes, I can see why you’ve come to us,” he said. Still carrying the war bonnet, he looked around for a place to lay it, but saw only construction rubble. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but—” He slipped the bonnet back on his head. “I really must keep this clean until the display is ready. So—the mutilations you’re describing, or at least some of them, do bear a resemblance to acts that have been committed on the bodies of dead enemies by various tribes on the Great Plains—most notably the Dakota, or Sioux. There are important differences, however.”

“And we shall get to those,” Kreizler said. “But what of the similarities—why are such things done? And are they done only to dead bodies?”

“Generally,” Wissler answered. “Despite what you may have read, the Sioux don’t show a marked propensity for torture. There are some mutilation rituals, certainly, that involve the living—a man who can prove that his wife has been unfaithful, for example, can cut her nose off to mark her as an adulteress—but such behavior is very strictly regulated. No, most of the terrible things you’ll come across happen to enemies of the tribe who are already dead.”

“And why to them?”

Wissler relit his pipe, being careful to keep the match away from the eagle’s feathers. “The Sioux have a very complex set of myths concerning death and the spirit world. We’re still collecting data and examples and trying to comprehend the entire fabric of their beliefs. But basically, each man’s nagi, or spirit, is gravely affected not only by the way in which the man dies, but by what happens to his body immediately after death. You see, the nagi, before embarking on its long journey to the spirit land, lingers near the body, for a time—preparing for the trip, as it were. The nagi is allowed to take whatever useful implements the man possessed in life, in order to help him on the journey, and to enrich his afterlife. But the nagi also assumes whatever form the body was in at the time of death. Now, if a warrior killed an enemy he admired, he wouldn’t necessarily mutilate his body, because, according to another part of the myth, that dead enemy must serve the warrior in the spirit land—and who wants a mutilated servant? But if the warrior truly hated his enemy, and didn’t want him to enjoy all the pleasures of the spirit land, then he might do some of the things you’re talking about. Castration, for instance—because male spirits can