The Alienist

CHAPTER 10

It is often difficult, I find, for people today to grasp the notion that one family, working through several restaurants, could change the eating habits of an entire country. But such was the achievement of the Delmonicos in the United States of the last century. Before they opened their first small café on William Street in 1823, catering to the business and financial communities of Lower Manhattan, American food could generally be described as things boiled or fried whose purpose was to sustain hard work and hold down alcohol—usually bad alcohol. The Delmonicos, though Swiss, had brought the French method to America, and each generation of their family refined and expanded the experience. Their menu, from the first, contained dozens of dishes both delectable and healthy, all offered at what, considering the preparation that went into them, were reasonable prices. Their wine cellar was as expansive and as excellent as any in Paris. So great was their success that within decades they had two downtown restaurants, and one uptown; and by the time of the Civil War, travelers from all over the country who had eaten at Delmonico’s and taken news of the experience home with them were demanding that the owners of restaurants everywhere give them not only pleasant surroundings, but food that was nutritious and expertly prepared. The craving for first-rate dining became a kind of national fever in the latter decades of the century—and Delmonico’s was responsible.

But fine food and wine were only part of the reason for the Delmonicos’ prosperity: the family’s professed egalitarianism also drew customers in. On any given night at the uptown restaurant on Twenty-sixth Street and Fifth Avenue, one was just as likely to run into Diamond Jim Brady and Lillian Russell as Mrs. Vanderbilt and the other matrons of New York’s high society. Even the likes of Paul Kelly were not turned away. Perhaps more amazing than the fact that anyone could get in was the fact that everyone was forced to wait an equal amount of time for a table—reservations were not taken (save for parties in the private dining rooms), and no favoritism was ever exhibited. The wait was sometimes annoying; but to find yourself on line behind someone like Mrs. Vanderbilt, who would squawk and stamp about “such treatment!” could be very entertaining.

On the particular night of our conference with the Isaacson brothers, Laszlo had taken the precaution of engaging a private room, knowing that our conversation would be deeply upsetting to anyone around us in the main dining room. We approached the block-long restaurant from the Broadway side, where the café was located, then turned left at Twenty-sixth Street and pulled up to the main entrance. Cyrus and Stevie were dismissed for the evening, having had a lot of late nights recently. The rest of us would get cabs home after dinner. We stepped up to the door and then inside, and were immediately greeted by young Charlie Delmonico.

The family’s older generation had almost completely died off by 1896, and Charlie had given up a career on Wall Street to take over the business. He couldn’t have been better suited to the task: suave, dapper, and eternally tactful, he attended to every detail without a look of care ever narrowing his enormous eyes or ruffling a hair of his natty beard.

“Dr. Kreizler,” he said as we approached, taking our hands and smiling delicately. “And Mr. Moore. Always a pleasure, gentlemen, especially when you are together. And Miss Howard as well—it’s been some time since you’ve been in. I’m grateful that you are able to return.” That was Charlie’s way of saying he understood Sara had been through a lot since her father died. “Your other guests, Doctor, have already arrived, and are waiting upstairs.” He kept talking as we checked our outer garments. “I remembered you saying that you found neither olive nor crimson conducive to digestion, so I have placed you in the blue room—will that be satisfactory?”

“Considerate, as ever, Charles,” Kreizler answered. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome to go right up,” Charlie said. “Ranhofer is, as always, ready.”

“Ah-ha!” I said, at the mention of Delmonico’s brilliant chef. “I trust he’s girding himself for our stern judgment?”

Charlie smiled again, that same gentle curve of the mouth. “I believe he has something quite remarkable planned. Come, gentlemen.”

We followed Charlie through the mirrored walls, mahogany furniture, and frescoed ceiling of the main dining room and then up to the private blue room on the second floor. The Isaacson brothers were already seated at a small but elegant table, looking a bit bewildered. Their confusion mounted when they saw Sara, whom they knew from headquarters; but she very cagily sidestepped their questions, saying that someone had to take notes for Commissioner Roosevelt, who was taking a personal interest in the case.

“He is?” Marcus Isaacson answered, the dark eyes to either side of the pronounced nose going wide with apprehension. “This isn’t—well, this isn’t some sort of test, is it? I know that everyone in the department is up for review, but—well, a case that’s three years old, it doesn’t really seem fair to judge us…”

“Not that we don’t appreciate that the case is still open,” Lucius said hurriedly, mopping a few beads of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief as waiters arrived with platters of oysters and glasses of sherry and bitters.

“Calm yourselves, Detective Sergeants,” Kreizler said. “This is no review. You are here precisely because you are known to be unassociated with those elements of the force that have brought on the current controversies.” At that, both Isaacsons let out considerable amounts of air and attacked the sherry. “You were not,” Kreizler continued, “particular favorites of Inspector Byrnes, I understand?”

The two brothers eyed each other, and Lucius nodded to Marcus, who spoke: “No, sir. Byrnes believed in methods that were—well, outdated, let’s say. My brother—that is, Detective Sergeant Isaacson—and I have both studied abroad, which made the inspector extremely suspicious. That, and our—background.”

Kreizler nodded; it was no secret how the department’s old guard felt about Jews. “Well, then, gentlemen,” Laszlo said. “Suppose you tell us what you were able to discover today.”

After arguing for a moment about who would report first, the Isaacsons decided it would be Lucius:

“As you know, Doctor, there is a limited amount one can tell from bodies that are in such an advanced state of decomposition. Still, I believe we uncovered a few facts that slipped by the coroner and the investigating detectives. To begin with, the cause of death—excuse me, Miss Howard, but aren’t you going to take notes?”

She smiled at him. “Mentally. I’ll transfer them to paper later.”

This answer did nothing for Lucius, who eyed Sara nervously before going on: “Yes, uh—the cause of death.” The waiters reappeared to remove our oyster trays and substitute some green turtle soup au clair. Lucius wiped his broad brow again and took a taste while the waiters opened a bottle of amontillado. “Mmm—delicious!” he decided, the food easing his mind. “But as I was saying—the police and coroner’s reports indicated that death was caused by the throat wounds. Severing of the common carotid arteries, et cetera. It’s the obvious interpretation, if you’ve got a body with a cut throat. But I noticed almost immediately that there was extensive damage to the laryngeal structures, especially the hyoid bone, which in both cases was fractured. That, of course, indicates strangulation.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would the murderer cut their throats if he’d already strangled them?”

“Blood lust,” Marcus answered, very matter-of-factly, as he ate his soup.

“Yes, blood lust,” Lucius agreed. “He was probably concerned with keeping his clothes clean, so that he wouldn’t attract any attention during his escape. But he needed to see the blood—or maybe smell it. Some murderers have said it’s the smell rather than the sight that satisfies them.”

Fortunately, I’d already finished my soup, as this last comment didn’t do wonders for my stomach. I looked over to Sara, who was absorbing it all with great poise. Kreizler was studying Lucius with immense fascination.

“So,” Laszlo said, “you hypothesize strangulation. Excellent. What else?”

“There’s the business about the eyes,” Lucius answered, leaning back so that his soup bowl could be removed by the waiters. “I had some trouble with the reports on that one.” We were now presented with aiguillettes of bass done in a creamy Mornay sauce—quite tasty. The amontillado was exchanged for Hochheimer.

“Excuse me, Doctor,” Marcus said quietly. “But I did want to say—remarkable food. I’ve never had anything quite like it.”

“I’m delighted, Detective Sergeant,” Kreizler answered. “There is much more to come. Now, then—as to the eyes?”

“Right,” Lucius said. “The police report made some mention of birds or rats having gotten at the eyes. And the coroner was apparently willing to stand by that, which is fairly extraordinary. Even if the bodies had been out in the open rather than in an enclosed water tower, why would scavengers feed only on the eyes? What puzzled me most, though, about such a theory was that the knife marks were quite distinct.”

Kreizler, Sara, and I all stopped in mid-chew and looked at each other. “Knife marks?” Kreizler said quietly. “There was no mention of knife marks in any of the reports.”

“Yes, I know!” Lucius said jovially. The conversation, though gruesome, seemed to be relaxing him; the wine didn’t hurt, either. “It really was strange. But there they were—some very narrow grooves on the malar bone and supraorbital ridge, along with some additional cuts on the sphenoid.”

They were virtually the same words Kreizler had used to Theodore and me in describing Giorgio Santorelli’s body.

“At first glance,” Lucius continued, “one might’ve been led to believe that the various cuts were unconnected, indications of separate jabs of a blade. But they seemed to me to bear a relation to each other, so I tried an experiment. There’s a fairly good cutlery store in the neighborhood of your Institute, Doctor, which also sells hunting knives. I went there and bought the kind of blade I thought was probably used, in three different lengths—nine-inch, ten-inch, and eleven.” He fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket. “The largest proved the best fit.”

At that he dropped a gleaming knife of what seemed gigantic proportions onto the center of the table. Its handle was made of deer antler, the hilt was brass, and the steel of the blade was engraved with a picture of a stag in some brush.

“The Arkansas toothpick,” Marcus said. “It’s unclear whether Jim Bowie or his brother originally designed the thing, back in the early thirties, but we do know that most of them are now manufactured by one of the Sheffield firms, in England, for export to our western states. It can be used for hunting, but it’s basically a fighting knife. For hand-to-hand combat.”

“Could it be used,” I said, again remembering Giorgio Santorelli, “as a—well, as a carving and chopping instrument? I mean, would it be heavy enough, and hold a fine edge?”

“Absolutely,” Marcus answered. “The edge depends on the quality of the steel, and in a knife this size, especially if it’s manufactured in Sheffield, you tend to get high-quality, hard steel.” He caught himself, and looked at me with the same suspicious puzzlement he had shown that afternoon. “Why do you ask?”

“It looks expensive,” Sara said, deliberately changing the subject. “Is it?”

“Sure,” Marcus said. “Durable, though. One of these would last you years.”

Kreizler was staring at the knife: this, his gaze seemed to say, is what he uses.

“The marks on the sphenoid,” Lucius resumed, “were created at the same time that the cutting edge dug into the malar bone and the supraorbital ridge. It’s perfectly natural, since he was working in such a small area—the eye socket of a child’s skull—with such a large instrument. Still, for all that, it was probably a skillful job. The damage could have been much greater. Now…” He took a large sip of wine. “If you want to know what he was doing, or why, there we can only speculate. Possibly he was selling body parts to anatomists and medical colleges. Although he would probably have taken more than just the eyes, in that case. It’s somewhat confusing.”

None of us could say anything to that. We stared at the knife, myself at least afraid to touch it, as the waiters appeared again with plates of saddle of lamb à la Colbert and bottles of Château Lagrange.

“Admirable,” Kreizler said. He finally looked up at Lucius, whose fat face was starting to turn red with the wine. “A truly splendid job, Detective Sergeant.”

“Oh, that’s not all of it,” Lucius answered, digging into his lamb.

“Eat slowly,” Marcus whispered. “Remember your stomach.”

Lucius paid no heed. “That’s not all,” he repeated. “There were some very interesting fractures of the frontal and parietal bones, at the top of the skull. But I’ll let my brother—I’ll let Detective Sergeant Isaacson explain those.” Lucius looked up at us with a grin. “I’m enjoying my food too much to talk anymore.”

Marcus watched him, shaking his head. “You’re going to be sick tomorrow,” he mumbled. “And you’re going to blame me—but I warned you.”

“Detective Sergeant?” Kreizler said, leaning back with a glass of Lagrange. “You will have to possess some remarkable information indeed, if you hope to outdo your—colleague, here.”

“Well, it is interesting,” Marcus answered, “and it may well tell us something substantive. The fracture lines that my brother found were inflicted from above—from directly above. Now, in an assault, which this obviously was, you’d expect angles of attack, either from similarity of height or difficulty of approach due to the struggle. The nature of the wounds indicates, however, that not only did the assailant have complete physical control over his victims, but he was also tall enough to strike directly downward very forcefully with a blunt instrument of some kind—possibly even his fists, though we doubt that.”

We allowed Marcus a few moments to eat; but when succulent Maryland terrapin arrived to replace the lamb, from which Lucius had to be almost forcefully separated, we urged him to go on:

“Let me see. I’ll try to make this as accessible as I can—if we take the respective heights of the two children, and then add the aspects of the skull fractures that I’ve just described to the equation, we can start to speculate about the height of the attacker.” He turned to Lucius. “What did we guess, roughly six-foot-two?” Lucius nodded and Marcus continued. “I don’t know how much any of you know about anthropometry—the Bertillon system of identification and classification—”

“Oh, are you trained in it?” Sara said. “I’ve been anxious to meet someone who is.”

Marcus looked surprised. “You know Bertillon’s work, Miss Howard?”

As Sara nodded eagerly, Kreizler cut in: “I must confess ignorance, Detective Sergeant. I’ve heard the name, but little more.”

And so, while disposing of the terrapin we also reviewed the achievements of Alphonse Bertillon, a misanthropic, pedantic Frenchman who had revolutionized the science of criminal identification during the eighties. As a lowly clerk assigned the task of going through the files that the Paris police department kept on known criminals, Bertillon had discovered that if one took fourteen measurements of any human body—not only height, but foot, hand, nose, and ear size, and so on—the odds were over 286 million to one that any two people would share the same results. Despite enormous resistance from his superiors, Bertillon had begun to record the body-part sizes of known criminals and then to categorize his results, training a staff of assistant measurers and photographers in the process; and when he used the information thus collected to solve several infamous cases that had stumped the Paris detectives, he became an international celebrity.

Bertillon’s system had been adopted quickly throughout Europe, later in London, and only recently in New York. Throughout his tenure as head of the Division of Detectives, Thomas Byrnes had rejected anthropometry, with its exact measurements and careful photographs, as too intellectually demanding for most of his men—undoubtedly an accurate assumption. Then, too, Byrnes had created the Rogues’ Gallery, a room full of photographs of most known criminals in the United States: he was jealous of his creation, and considered it sufficient for the purposes of identification. Finally, Byrnes had established his own principles of detection and would not have them overthrown by any Frenchman. But with Byrnes’s departure from the force, anthropometry had picked up more advocates, one of whom was evidently sitting at our table that night.

“The main shortcoming of Bertillon’s system,” Marcus said, “besides the fact that it depends on skilled measurers, is that it can only match a suspected or convicted criminal to his record and aliases.” Having eaten a small bowl of sorbet Elsinore, Marcus started to take a cigarette from his pocket, evidently thinking that the meal was over. He was very pleasantly surprised when a plate of canvasback duck, prepared with hominy and a currant gelée, was placed before him, along with a glass of splendid Chambertin.

“Excuse my asking, Doctor,” Lucius said in continuing confusion, “but…is there actually a conclusion to this meal, or do we just work our way into breakfast?”

“So long as you are full of useful information, Detective Sergeants, the food will continue coming.”

“Well, then…” Marcus took a big bite of duck, closing his eyes in appreciation. “We’d better stay interesting. Now, as I was about to say, the Bertillon system offers no physical evidence of criminal commission. It can’t put a man at the scene of the crime. But it can help us shorten the list of known criminals who may be responsible. We’re betting that the man who killed the Zweig children was somewhere in the neighborhood of six-foot-two. That’ll produce relatively few candidates, even from the files of the New York police. It’s an advantageous starting point. And the better news is that, with so many cities now adopting the system, we can make our check nationwide—even to Europe, if we want to.”

“And if the man has no prior criminal record?” Kreizler asked.

“Then, as I say,” Marcus answered with a shrug, “we’re out of luck.” Kreizler looked disappointed at this, and Marcus—eyeing, it seemed to me, his plate, and wondering if the food would really stop coming when we reached a dead end—cleared his throat. “That is, Doctor, out of luck so far as official departmental methods go. However, I’m a student of some other techniques that might prove useful in that eventuality.”

Lucius looked worried. “Marcus,” he mumbled. “I’m still not sure, it’s not accepted, yet—”

Marcus answered quietly but quickly: “Not in court. But it would still make sense in an investigation. We discussed this.”

“Gentlemen?” Kreizler said. “Will you share your secret?”

Lucius gulped his Chambertin nervously. “It’s still theoretical, Doctor, and is not accepted anywhere in the world as legal evidence, but…” He looked to Marcus, seemingly worried that his brother had cost him dessert. “Oh, all right. Go ahead.”

Marcus spoke confidentially. “It’s called dactyloscopy.”

“Oh,” I said. “You mean fingerprinting.”

“Yes,” Marcus replied, “that’s the colloquial term.”

“But—” Sara broke in. “I mean no offense, Detective Sergeant, but dactyloscopy has been rejected by every police department in the world. Its scientific basis hasn’t even been proven, and no actual case has ever been solved by using it.”

“I take no offense at that, Miss Howard,” Marcus answered. “And I hope you won’t take any when I say that you’re mistaken. The scientific basis has been proven, and several cases have been solved using the technique—though not in a part of the world that you’re likely to have heard much about.”

“Moore,” Kreizler interrupted, his voice snapping a bit, “I’m beginning to understand how you must often feel—once again, gentlemen and lady, I’m lost.”

Sara started to explain the subject to Laszlo, but after that last little quip of his I had to jump in and take over. Dactyloscopy, or fingerprinting (I explained in what I hoped was a very condescending voice), had been argued for decades as a method of identifying all human beings, criminals included. The scientific premise was that fingerprints do not change throughout a person’s lifetime—but there were a great many anthropologists and physicians who didn’t yet accept that fact, despite overwhelming supporting evidence and occasional practical demonstrations. In Argentina, for example—a place that, as Marcus Isaacson said, not many people in America or Europe thought much about (or of )—fingerprinting had gotten its first practical test when a provincial police officer in Buenos Aires named Vucetich used the method to solve a murder case that involved the brutal bludgeoning of two small children.

“And so,” Kreizler said, as our waiters appeared yet again, bearing petits aspics de foie gras, “I take it there is a general shift away from Bertillon’s system.”

“Not yet,” Marcus answered. “It’s an ongoing fight. Even though the reliability of prints has been demonstrated, there’s a great deal of resistance.”

“The important thing to remember,” Sara added—and how very satisfying, to see her now lecturing Kreizler!—“is that fingerprints can show who has been in a given place. It’s ideal for our—” She caught herself, and calmed. “It has great potential.”

“And how are the prints taken?” Kreizler asked.

“There are three basic methods,” Marcus answered. “First, obviously, are visible prints—a hand that’s been dipped in paint, blood, ink, anything like that, and has then touched something else. Then there are plastic prints, left when someone touches putty, clay, wet plaster, and so on. Last, and the most difficult, are latent prints. If you pick up that glass in front of you, Doctor, your fingers will leave a residue of perspiration and body oil in the pattern of your fingerprint. If I suspect that you might have done so”—Marcus removed two small vials from his pockets, one containing a gray-white powder and one a black substance of similar consistency—“I will dust with either aluminum powder”—he held up the gray-white vial—“or with finely ground carbon”—he held up the black. “The choice depends on the color of the background object. White shows up against dark objects, black against light; either would be suitable for your glass. The powders are absorbed by the oils and perspiration, leaving a perfect image of your print.”

“Remarkable,” Kreizler said. “But if it is now scientifically accepted that a human being’s fingerprints never vary, how can this not be admitted as legal evidence in court?”

“Change isn’t something most people enjoy, even if it’s progressive change.” Marcus put the vials down on the table and smiled. “But I’m sure you’re aware of that, Dr. Kreizler.”

Kreizler nodded once in acknowledgment of this comment, then pushed his plate away and sat back again. “Grateful as I am for all of your instructive words,” he said, “I get the feeling, Detective Sergeant, that they have some more specific purpose.”

Marcus turned to Lucius yet again, but his brother only shrugged in resignation. With that, Marcus pulled something flat from the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Chances are,” he said, “no coroner would notice or care if they happened on something like this today, much less three years ago.” He dropped the sheet—actually a photograph—on the table in front of us, and our three heads went close together to view it. It was a detail of something, several white objects—bones, I soon determined, but I couldn’t be more specific.

“Fingers?” Sara wondered aloud.

“Fingers,” Kreizler answered.

“Specifically,” Marcus said, “the fingers of Sofia Zweig’s left hand. Note the nail on the tip of the thumb, the one you can see fully.” He took a magnifying lens from his pocket and handed it to us, then sat back to nibble foie gras.

“It seems,” Kreizler mused as Sara picked up the lens, “bruised. At least, there is discoloration of some kind.”

Marcus looked at Sara. “Miss Howard?”

She put the lens before her face, and brought the photograph closer. Her eyes struggled to focus, and then went wide in discovery. “I see…”

“See what?” I said, squirming like a four-year-old.

As Laszlo looked over Sara’s shoulder, his expression became even more astounded and impressed than hers. “Good lord, you don’t mean—”

“What, what, what?” I said, and Sara finally handed me the glass and the picture. I followed instructions and examined the nail at the tip of the thumb. Without the glass it looked, as Kreizler had said, discolored: Magnified, it clearly bore the mark of what I knew to be a fingerprint, left in some kind of dark substance. I was dumb with surprise.

“It’s a very lucky chance,” Marcus said. “Though partial, it’s sufficient for identification. Somehow, it managed to survive both the coroner and the mortician. The substance is blood, by the way. Probably the girl’s own, or her brother’s. The print, however, is too large to be either of theirs. The coffin has preserved the stain extremely well—and now we have a permanent record of it.”

Kreizler looked up, as close to beaming as he was likely to get. “My dear Detective Sergeant, this is almost as impressive as it is unexpected!”

Marcus looked away, smiling self-consciously, as Lucius piped up in the same worried tone. “Please remember, Doctor, that it has no legal or forensic significance. It’s a clue, and could be used for investigative purposes, nothing else.”

“And nothing else, Detective Sergeant, is needed. Except, possibly”—Laszlo clapped his hands twice and the waiters reappeared—“dessert. Which you gentlemen have thoroughly earned.” The waiters took away our last dinner dishes and returned with Alliance pears: steeped in wine, deep-fried, powdered with sugar, and smothered in apricot sauce. I thought Lucius would have an attack when he saw them. Kreizler kept his eyes on the two brothers. “This is truly commendable work. But I’m afraid, gentlemen, that you have undertaken it under slightly…false premises. For which I apologize.”

We then explained our activities fully to the Isaacsons, as we consumed the pears and some delicious petits fours that followed. Nothing was left out of our account: the condition of Giorgio Santorelli’s body, the troubles with Flynn and Connor, our meeting with Roosevelt, and Sara’s conversation with Mrs. Santorelli were all discussed in detail. Nor did any of us try to sugarcoat the issue—the person we were hunting, Kreizler said, might be unconsciously urging us to find him, but his conscious thoughts were fixed on violence, and if we got too close that violence might easily spill over onto us. The warning did give Marcus and Lucius some little pause, as did the thought that our business would be undertaken in secret and disavowed by all city officials if discovered. But both men’s overarching reaction to the prospect was excitement. Any good detective would have felt the same, for it was the chance of a lifetime: to try new techniques, to operate outside the stifling pressures of departmental bureaucracy, and to make one’s name if the affair were concluded successfully.

And, I must confess, after the meal we’d just eaten and the wine that had accompanied it, such a conclusion seemed somewhat inevitable. Whatever reservations Kreizler, Sara, and I had had about the Isaacsons’ peculiar personal behavior, their work far outweighed such considerations: in the space of a day, we’d been given a general idea of our murderer’s physical stature and weapon of choice, as well as a permanent image of one physical attribute that might ultimately prove his undoing. Add to all this the fruit of Sara’s initiative—an initial impression of what the killer’s victims had in common—and success seemed, to a man in my drunken state, well within our grasp.

Yet it also seemed to me that my own part in this stage of the work had been too minor. I had made no inauguratory contribution, except to escort Sara earlier that day; and as we fairly well carried Lucius Isaacson to a cab, the clock in Del’s having long since tolled two, I combed my rather fuzzy mind for a way to right that situation. What I came up with was equally fuzzy: after getting Sara and Kreizler a hansom and saying good night to them (he would drop her off at Gramercy Park), I turned south and made for Paresis Hall.