The Alienist

“And I’d love to answer them sometime,” Sara said amiably. “But I’m afraid we need to talk to your father for a few minutes—”

“I can’t imagine why, Sara,” Theodore boomed, as he emerged from his study and into the hallway. “You’ll find that the children are the real authorities in this house. You’d be better off talking to them.”

At the sound of their father’s voice the other Roosevelt children we’d encountered reappeared and mobbed him, each shouting out the events of his or her day in an effort to gain his counsel and approval. Sara and I watched this scene along with Edith, who simply shook her head and sighed, unable to quite comprehend (as was anyone acquainted with the family) the miracle of her husband’s relationship to his children.

“Well,” Edith finally said to us quietly, still watching her family, “you’d better have pressing business indeed, if you intend to break the power of that lobby.” Then she turned our way, comprehension evident in her glittering, rather exotic eyes. “Although I understand that all your business, these days, is pressing.” I nodded once, and then Edith clapped her hands loudly. “All right, my terrible tribe! Now that you’ve almost certainly woken Archie from his nap, what about washing up for dinner?” (Archie, at two, was the baby of the family; young Quentin, whose death in 1918 would have such a catastrophic effect on Theodore’s emotional and physical health, had not yet been born in 1896.) “And no guests that aren’t human tonight,” Edith went on. “I mean that, Ted. Pompey will be perfectly happy in the kitchen.”

Ted grinned. “Patsy won’t be, though.”

Reluctantly but without loud protest the children dispersed, while Sara and I followed Theodore into his book-lined study. Works in progress covered several desks and tables in this ample room, along with a plethora of open reference volumes and large maps. Theodore cleared off two chairs near one particularly large and cluttered desk by the window, and then we all sat down. No longer in the children’s presence, Roosevelt seemed to take on a subdued air, one that struck me as odd, given events at headquarters in recent days: Mayor Strong had asked one of Theodore’s chief enemies on the Board of Commissioners to resign, and though the man had refused to go without a fight, there was a general feeling that Roosevelt was gaining the upper hand in the struggle. I congratulated him on this, but he just waved me off and put a fist to his hip.

“I’m not at all sure how much it will amount to, John, in the end,” he said gloomily. “There are times when I feel that the job we have undertaken is not one that can be addressed at the metropolitan level alone. Corruption in this city is like the mythical beast, only instead of seven heads it springs a thousand for every one that is cut off. I don’t know that this administration has the power to effect truly meaningful change.” Such wasn’t the kind of mood that Roosevelt would tolerate for long, however. He picked up a book, slammed it down on his desk, and then looked at us through his pince-nez engagingly. “However, that’s none of your affair. Tell me—what news?”

It didn’t prove quite so easy to get our news out, however; and once Sara and I finally had, Theodore slowly sank into his chair and leaned back, as though his melancholy mood had just been validated.

“I’ve been worried about what Kreizler’s reaction to this outrage would be,” he said quietly. “But I confess I didn’t think that he’d abandon the effort.”

At that point I decided to tell Theodore the entire story of Kreizler’s and Mary Palmer’s relationship in an attempt to make him understand just how crushing an effect Mary’s death had had on Laszlo. Remembering that Theodore had also endured the tragic and early loss of someone very dear to him—his first wife—I expected him to react with sympathy, which he did; but a crease of doubt nonetheless remained lodged in his forehead.

“And you’re saying that you wish to go on without him?” he asked. “You believe you can see it through?”

“We know enough,” Sara answered quickly. “That is, we will know enough, by the time the killer strikes again.”

Theodore looked surprised. “And when will that be?”

“Eighteen days,” Sara answered. “The twenty-first of June.”

Folding his hands behind his head, Roosevelt began to rock back and forth slowly as he studied Sara. Then he turned to me. “It’s not just grief that’s caused him to withdraw, is it?”

I shook my head. “No. He’s full of doubts about his own judgment and abilities. I never really understood before how much he’s tortured by that—self-doubt. It’s hidden most of the time, but it goes back…”

“Yes,” Roosevelt said, nodding and rocking. “His father.” Sara and I glanced at each other quickly, both of us shaking our heads to indicate that we had not divulged the story. Theodore smiled gently. “You remember my bout with Kreizler in the Hemenway Gymnasium, Moore? And the night we had afterwards? At one point he and I were rearguing the question of free will—quite congenially, mind you—and he asked me when I’d learned to box. I told him how my dear father had built me a small gym when I was a boy and taught me that vigorous exercise represented my best chance of overcoming illness and asthma. Kreizler asked if, as an experiment, I thought I could force myself to live a sedate life—to which I replied that everything I’d ever learned and held dear required me to be a man of action. I didn’t realize it right away, but I’d proved his point. Then, out of curiosity, I asked him about his own father, whom I’d often heard mention of in New York. His aspect changed—drastically. I’ll never forget it. He glanced away, and for the first time he seemed afraid to look me in the face—and then he grabbed at that bad arm of his. There was something so instinctive in the way he did it, at the merest mention of his father’s name, that I began to suspect the truth. Needless to say, I was utterly aghast at the thought of what his life had been like. And yet I was fascinated, too—fascinated by how different that life had been from my own. How does the world look, I often found myself wondering, to a young man whose father is his enemy?”

Neither Sara nor I could offer any answer to the question. For several minutes the three of us just sat in silence; and then, from outside, we heard Alice shout vehemently:

“I don’t care if he is a Strix varia varia, Theodore Roosevelt, Junior! He’s not going to eat my snake!”

That brought quiet laughter from those of us in the study, and got us back to the business at hand.

“So,” Theodore said, with another pound of another book on his desk. “The investigation. Tell me this—now that we have a name and an approximate description, why not make it a standard manhunt and let my men turn the city upside down?”

“And do what when they find him?” Sara replied. “Make an arrest? With what evidence?”

“He’s been a lot smarter than that,” I agreed. “We’ve got no witnesses, and no evidence that would be admissible in court. Speculations, fingerprints, an unsigned note—”

“Which shows at least several signs of deceptive script,” Sara threw in.

“And God knows what he’ll do if he’s captured and then released,” I went on. “No, the Isaacsons have said from the beginning that this is going to have to be a flagrante delicto case—we’ll have to catch him at it.”

Theodore accepted all this with several slow nods. “Well,” he eventually said, “I fear that presents us with a new set of challenges. Kreizler’s departure from the investigation, you may be surprised to learn, won’t make things any easier for me. Mayor Strong has learned of the rigor with which I’ve been searching for Connor, and why. He views that search as another way in which this department might be connected to Kreizler, and has asked that I not jeopardize my position by letting my personal relationship with the doctor make me overly aggressive. He’s also heard rumors that the Isaacson brothers are pursuing an independent investigation of the boy-whore murders, and he’s ordered me not only to stop them, if the rumors are true, but to proceed with great caution regarding the case generally. You probably haven’t heard about the trouble last night.”

“Last night?” I said.

Roosevelt nodded. “There was some sort of a gathering in the Eleventh Ward, supposedly to protest the handling of the murders. The organizers were a group of Germans, and they claimed it was a political event—but there was enough whiskey in evidence to float a small ship.”

“Kelly?” Sara asked.

“Perhaps,” Roosevelt answered. “What’s certain is that they were on their way to getting well out of hand before they were broken up. The political implications of this case are growing more serious every day—and Mayor Strong has, I fear, reached that deplorable state where concern over the consequences of action leads to paralysis. He wants no precipitate steps taken in this matter.” Theodore paused to give Sara a small, only half-serious frown. “He’s also heard rumors, Sara, that you’ve been working with the Isaacsons—and as you know, there are many who will protest vehemently if they find out that a woman is actively involved in a murder investigation.”

“Then I’ll redouble my efforts,” Sara answered with a coy smile, “to conceal that involvement.”

“Hmm, yes,” Theodore noised dubiously. He studied us for a few seconds more, then nodded. “Here’s what