The Alienist

“Laszlo,” I said quietly. “Come on. Get in the cab.” I tugged at him a few more times without achieving anything, and then he finally spoke, in a hoarse monotone:

“I will not leave her.”

I nodded. “All right. Then let’s just stand in the doorway here, you’re getting soaked.”

His eyes alone moved as he glanced at his clothes; then he nodded once, and stumbled with me into the minimal shelter of the doorway. We stood there for quite some time until, finally, he spoke in the same lifeless voice:

“Did you know—my father—”

I looked at him, my own heart ready to burst at the pain that was in his face, and then nodded. “Yes. I knew him, Laszlo.”

Kreizler shook his head in a stiff jerk. “No. Do you know what my—father always said to me, when I was—a boy?”

“No. What?”

“That—” The voice was still scraping terribly, as if it were a labor to produce it, but the words began to come faster: “That I didn’t know as much as I thought I did. That I thought I knew how people should behave, that I thought I was a better person than he was. But one day—one day, he said, I would know that I wasn’t. Until then, I’d be nothing more than an—impostor…”

Once again, I couldn’t find a way to tell Laszlo how fully I understood, in light of Sara’s discovery, what he was saying; so I simply put a hand to his uninjured shoulder as he began to straighten his clothes absentmindedly. “I have—made arrangements. The mortician will be here soon. Then I’ve got to get home. Stevie and Cyrus…”

“Sara’s looking after them.”

His voice became suddenly strong, even somewhat violent: “I’ve got to look after them, John!” He shook a fist before him. “I’ve got to. I brought these people into my house. I was responsible for their safety. Look at them now—look! Two near dead, and one—one…” He gasped and looked at the iron door, as if he could see right through it to the rusted metal table on which now lay the girl who had embodied his hope of a new life.

Gripping him tighter, I said, “Theodore’s out looking—”

“I’m no longer interested in what the commissioner of police is doing,” Kreizler answered, quickly and sharply. “Nor in the activities of anyone else in that department.” He paused, and then, wincing as he moved his right arm, took my hand from his shoulder and looked away from me. “It’s over, John. This wretched, bloody business, this…investigation. Over.”

I was at something of a loss for words. He seemed perfectly serious. “Kreizler,” I finally said, “give yourself a couple of days before you—”

“Before I what?” he answered quickly. “Before I get one of you killed, too?”

“You’re not responsible for—”

“Don’t tell me I’m not responsible for it!” he raged. “Who, then, if not me? It’s my own vanity, just as Comstock said. I’ve been in a blind fury, trying to prove my precious points, oblivious of any danger it might pose. And what have they wanted? Comstock? Connor? Byrnes, those men on the train? They’ve wanted to stop me. But I thought that what I was doing was too important for me to take any note—I thought I knew better! We’ve been hunting a killer, John, but the killer isn’t the real danger— I am!” He hissed suddenly and clenched his teeth. “Well, I’ve seen enough. If I’m the danger then I shall remove myself. Let this man keep killing. It’s what they want. He’s a part of their order, their precious social order—without such creatures they’ve no scapegoats for their own wretched brutality! Who am I to interfere?”

“Kreizler,” I said, ever more worried, for there was no question now that he meant what he was saying. “Listen to yourself, you’re going against everything—”

“No!” he answered. “I’m going along! I’ll go back to my Institute and my dead, empty house, and forget this case. I’ll see to it that Stevie and Cyrus heal and never again face unknown attackers because of my vain schemes. And this bloody society that they’ve built for themselves can go down the path they have planned for it, and rot!”

I stood back a couple of steps, knowing in some part of myself that it was useless to argue with him, but stung by his attitude nonetheless. “All right, then. If self-pity’s going to be your solution—”

He swung at me hard with his left arm, but missed badly. “Damn you, Moore!” he seethed, breathing in short, quick contractions. “Damn you and damn them!” He grabbed the iron door and drew it open, then paused to get his breathing under control. Eyes again wide with horror, he stared into the dark, miserable hallway before him. “And damn me, too,” he added quietly. The heaving in his chest finally began to subside. “I’m going to wait inside. I would appreciate it if you’d go. I’ll arrange to have my things removed from Number 808. I—I’m sorry, John.” He entered the morgue, the iron door swinging shut with a crash as he went.

I stood there for a moment, my sodden clothes now starting to cling to my body and limbs. I looked up at the square, feelingless brick buildings around me, and then at the sky. More clouds were being blown in by the westerly wind, which was only picking up pace. In a sudden movement I reached down, tore a bit of grass and earth from the ground beneath me, and then threw it at the black door.

“Damn you all, then!” I shouted, holding up my muddy fist; but there was no relief in the exclamation. I let the hand fall slowly, then wiped rainwater from my face and stumbled back to my cab.

CHAPTER 37

Not wanting to see or talk to anyone after I left the morgue, I ordered my cabbie to take me to Number 808 Broadway. The building was fairly deserted, and when I stumbled into our headquarters the only sound I could hear was the blast of rain against the ring of Gothic windows around me. I collapsed onto the Marchese Carcano’s divan and stared at the large, note-covered chalkboard, my spirits sinking ever lower. Grief and hopelessness were finally and mercifully overwhelmed by exhaustion, and I fell asleep for most of the dark, gloomy day. But at about five o’clock I shot up to the sound of loud knocking at the front door. Staggering over and opening the thing, I found myself facing a dripping Western Union boy who had a sodden envelope in his hand. I took the message from him and peeled it apart, my lips moving rather idiotically as I read it:

CAPTAIN MILLER, FORT YATES, CONFIRMS CPL JOHN BEECHAM HAD FACIAL SPASM. CARRIED SIMILAR KNIFE. KNOWN TO CLIMB MOUNTAINS WHEN OFF DUTY. ADVISE.

As I finished reading the wire for a third time, I became aware that the delivery boy was saying something, and I looked up blankly. “What’s that?”

“Reply, sir,” the boy said impatiently. “Do you want to send a reply?”

“Oh.” I thought about it for a moment, trying to decide what the best course would be in light of the morning’s developments. “Oh…yes.”

“You’ll have to write it down on something dry,” the boy said. “My forms are soaked.”

I walked over to my desk, pulled out a slip of paper, and scribbled a short note: RETURN BY FASTEST TRAIN. EARLIEST OPPORTUNITY. The delivery boy read the thing and gave me a price for its transmission, to which I pulled some money out of my pocket and handed it to him uncounted. The boy’s attitude immediately improved, from which I divined that I’d given him a sizable tip, and then he was back in the elevator and on his way.

There seemed little point in the Isaacsons staying in North Dakota if our investigation was about to come to an abrupt conclusion. Indeed, if Kreizler was serious about dealing himself out of the game there seemed little point in any of us doing anything except cashing in our chips and heading back to our ordinary walks of life. Whatever understanding Sara, the Isaacsons, and I had of our killer was due to Laszlo’s tutelage, and as I looked out over rainswept Broadway, where furtive shoppers were doing their best to avoid rushing carriages and delivery wagons as they tried to get in out of the downpour, I could imagine no way in which we could succeed without his continued