The Alienist

CHAPTER 14

By the time Sara reached Washington Square in a hansom, she’d dispatched many of her fears and replaced them with tough determination. Seemingly oblivious of several trivial questions I asked as we charged down the granite slab pavement of Broadway, she sat staring straight ahead, impassively focused on—what? She would not say, and it was impossible to assume with any certainty. My suspicion, however, was that she was preoccupied with that great guiding goal of her life, to prove that a woman could be a capable, effective police officer. Sights such as the one we were moving toward that night would become a regular part of Sara’s professional duties if her career hopes were one day realized—she was quite aware of that. Submission to the sort of faintheartedness that was expected of her sex would therefore have been doubly unbearable and inexcusable, because it would have borne implications far beyond her personal ability to stomach savage bloodshed. And so she gazed at the back of our laboring horse and said barely a word, using every mental power she possessed to ensure that when the time came she would conduct herself as well as any seasoned detective.

All of which stood in some contrast to my own attempts to ease apprehension with idle chatter. By the time we reached Prince Street I’d gotten pretty tired of my own nervous voice; and by Broome I was just about ready to give up all attempts at communication in favor of watching the whores and their marks come out of the concert halls. On one corner a Norwegian sailor, so drunk he was drooling a river of spit down onto the front of his uniform, was being propped up by two dancers while a third slowly and brazenly went through his pockets. It wasn’t an uncommon sort of sight; but on this night it planted a thought in my head.

“Sara,” I said, as we crossed Canal Street and clattered on toward City Hall. “Have you ever been to Shang Draper’s?”

“No,” she answered quickly, her breath condensing in the frigid air. April, as always in New York, had brought precious little respite from the biting cold of March.

It wasn’t much of an opening for conversation, but I took it. “Well, it’s just that the average whore who works a disorderly house knows more ways to shake down a mark than I could probably list—and the children who work in a place like Draper’s, or Paresis Hall, for that matter, are as sharp as any adults. What if our man’s one of those marks? Suppose he was cheated one time too many and now he’s out to settle the score? It was always a theory in the Ripper killings.”

Sara shifted the heavy blanket that covered our laps, still not exactly what I’d call interested. “I suppose it might be possible, John. What makes you think of it now?”

I turned to her. “Those three years, between the Zweigs and our first murder this past January—what if our theory, that there were other bodies and that they’re well hidden, is wrong? What if he didn’t commit any other murders in New York—because he wasn’t here?”

“Wasn’t here?” Sara’s tone became more animated. “You mean, he took a trip? Left town?”

“What if he had to? A sailor, for instance. Half the marks in places like Draper’s or Ellison’s are seamen. It might make sense. If he were a regular customer, he wouldn’t have aroused any suspicion—he might even have known the boys.”

Sara thought it over, then nodded. “It’s not bad, John. It would certainly allow him to come and go without being noticed. Let’s see what the others think when we…” Her speech hitched up a bit, and then she turned back toward the street, anxious again. “When we get there.”

Things grew quiet inside the hansom once more.

Castle Garden sits in the heart of Battery Park, and to get to it we had to travel to the base of Broadway and beyond. That meant a fast trip through the pastiche of architectural styles that made up the publishing and financial districts of Manhattan in those days. On first glance, it was always a bit odd to see structures like the World Building and the dozen-storied National Shoe and Leather Bank looming (or at least, in those days before the Woolworth and Singer towers, they seemed to be looming) over such squat, ornate Victorian monuments as the Old Post Office and the headquarters of the Equitable Life Assurance Society. But the longer one was exposed to the neighborhood, the more one detected a common quality among all these buildings that overrode any stylistic variance: wealth. I had spent much of my childhood in this part of Manhattan (my father ran a moderately sized investment house) and from an early age I’d been struck by the fantastic activity that surrounded the getting and keeping of money. This activity could be alternately seductive and repellant; but by 1896 it was unarguably New York’s strongest reason for being.

I felt this undercurrent of enormous power again that night, even though the district was dark and dormant at two-thirty in the morning; and as we passed the graveyard at Trinity Church—where the father of the American economic system, Alexander Hamilton, lay buried—I found myself smiling bemusedly and thinking: He’s audacious, all right. Whoever our quarry was, and whatever the personal turmoil that was propelling him, he was no longer confining his activities to the less respectable parts of town. He had ventured into this preserve of the wealthy elite and dared to leave a body in Battery Park, within easy sight of the offices of many of the city’s most influential financial elders. Yes, if our man was in fact sane, as Kreizler so passionately believed, then this latest act was not only barbarous but audacious, in that peculiar way that has always produced a mixture of horror and grudging acknowledgment in natives of this city.

Our hansom released us at Bowling Green, and we crossed over to enter Battery Park. Kreizler’s calash stood at the curb on Battery Place, with Stevie Taggert aboard and huddled in a large blanket.

“Stevie,” I said. “Keeping an eye out for the precinct boys?”

He nodded and shivered. “And staying away from that,” he said, nodding toward the interior of the park. “It’s a awful business, Mr. Moore.”

Inside the park, a very few arc lights directed us along a straight path toward the prodigious stone walls of Castle Garden. Formerly a heavily armed fort called Castle Clinton, the structure had been built to guard New York during the War of 1812, after which it was turned over to the city and converted into a covered pavilion that saw years of use as an opera house. In 1855 it was transformed again, into New York’s immigration station; and before Ellis Island usurped that role in 1892, no fewer than seven million transplanted souls had passed through the old stone fort in Battery Park. City officials had recently been casting around for some new use to make of the thing, and had decided on housing the New York Aquarium inside its round walls. That remodeling was now under way, and the telltale signs of construction greeted Sara and me even before we could clearly make out the fort’s walls against the night sky.

Under those walls we found Marcus Isaacson and Cyrus Montrose standing over a man who wore a long greatcoat and had a wide-brimmed hat clutched tightly in his hands. There was a badge pinned to the man’s coat, but at the moment he looked anything but authoritative: He was seated on a pile of cut boards, holding his pale face over a bucket and breathing hard. Marcus was trying to ask him some questions, but the fellow was clearly in some kind of shock. We approached, and both Cyrus and Marcus nodded our way.

“The watchman?” I asked.

“Yes,” Marcus answered. His voice was energized but tightly controlled. “He found the body at about one o’clock, on the roof. Apparently he makes his rounds every hour or so.” Marcus leaned over the man. “Mr. Miller? I’m going back upstairs. Take your time, come back up when you’re ready. But under no circumstances are you to leave. All right?” The man looked up, his dark, grizzled features full of horror, and nodded blankly. Then he quickly bent over the bucket again, though he didn’t retch. Marcus turned to Cyrus. “Make sure he stays put, will you, Cyrus? We need a lot more answers than we’ve gotten.”

“All right, Detective Sergeant,” Cyrus answered, and then Marcus, Sara, and I went through the mammoth black gates of Castle Garden.

“The man’s a wreck,” Marcus said, jerking his head back toward the watchman. “All I’ve gotten out of him is a passionately sworn statement that at twelve-fifteen the body was not where it is now, and that these front doors were bolted. The rear doors were chained, I’ve checked them—no sign of tampering with the locks. I’m afraid it’s all very reminiscent of the Paresis Hall situation, John. No way in or out, but someone managed it all the same.”

The renovation of the interior walls of Castle Garden was only half-finished. On the floor space between all the lathing, plaster, and paint sat a series of huge glass water tanks, some under construction, some finished but unfilled, and some already housing their designated occupants: various species of exotic fish, whose wide eyes and skittish movements seemed all too appropriate, given what had occurred in their new home that night. Flashes of silver and brilliantly colored scales caught the light of a few dim worklamps that were on, increasing the eerie impression that the fish were a terrified audience searching for a way out of this place of death and back to those deep, dark regions where men and their brutal ways were unknown.

We climbed an old staircase in one wall of the fort, eventually emerging above the shell that had been built over the old ramparts to cover the formerly open central yard. A decagonal turret with two windows in each face stood at the center of the roof, which offered a commanding view of New York harbor and Bartholdi’s still-new statue of Lady Liberty out on Bedloe’s Island.

Near the edge of the roof closest to the waterfront were Roosevelt, Kreizler, and Lucius Isaacson. Next to them stood a large, boxy camera on a wooden tripod, and lying in front of the camera, bathed in the light of another worklamp, was the cause of our coming together. The blood was visible even from a distance.

Lucius’s attention was fixed on the body, but Kreizler and Roosevelt were facing away and talking very heatedly. When Kreizler saw us emerge from the staircase he came directly over, Roosevelt following behind and shaking his head. Marcus moved to the camera as Laszlo addressed Sara and me.

“Based on the condition of the body,” Kreizler said, “there would seem to be little doubt. It’s our man’s work.”

“A roundsman from the Twenty-seventh Precinct was first on the scene,” Theodore added. “He says he can remember seeing the boy regularly at the Golden Rule, though he doesn’t recall any name.” (The Golden Rule Pleasure Club was a disorderly house on West Fourth Street that specialized in boy-whores.)

Kreizler put his hands on Sara’s shoulders. “It’s not an easy sight, Sara.”

She nodded. “I didn’t expect it to be.”

Laszlo studied her reactions carefully. “I’d like you to assist the detective sergeant with his postmortem—he’s aware of your training as a nurse. It won’t be long before the precinct investigators arrive, and there’s much for each of us to do before then.”

Sara nodded again, breathed once deeply, and moved toward Lucius and the body. Kreizler began to speak to me, but I put him off for a moment and trailed a few steps behind Sara as she moved toward the glowing hemisphere of electric light in the corner of the rooftop.

The body was that of an olive-skinned boy, with delicate Semitic features and thick black hair on the right side of his head. On the left side, a large section of scalp had been torn away, revealing the slick surface of the skull. Other than that, the mutilations seemed to be identical to those that had marked Giorgio Santorelli (except that the injuries to the buttocks had not been repeated): the eyes were missing, the genitals had been cut off and stuffed in the mouth, the torso was crisscrossed by deep lacerations, the wrists were bound, and the right hand had been severed and apparently removed from the scene. As Kreizler had said, there seemed little doubt about who was responsible. It was all as distinctive as a signature. That same terrible sense of pathos that I’d felt on the Williamsburg Bridge anchor—prompted not only by the age of the victim but as well by the cruel way in which the body was trussed and pushed to the ground—returned to steal my breath and rattle what seemed every bone in my body.

I watched Sara carefully without moving closer, ready to assist if she should be overcome, but not wishing her to think that I expected her to be. Her eyes, as they took in the sight, went wide and her head shook, quickly and quite visibly. She clasped her hands together tightly, took another deep breath, and then stood by Lucius.

“Detective Sergeant?” she said. “Dr. Kreizler says I’m to assist you.”

Lucius looked up, impressed at Sara’s composure, and then wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Yes. Thank you, Miss Howard. We’ll begin with the injury to the scalp…”

I headed back to Kreizler and Roosevelt. “That’s one gutsy girl,” I said with a shake of my head, but neither of them acknowledged the remark.

Kreizler slapped a newspaper on my chest and spoke bitterly. “Your friend Steffens has written quite an article for the morning edition of the Post, John. How, how could anyone be so stupid?”

“There’s no excuse,” Roosevelt said glumly. “I can only think that Steffens considered the story fair game, so long as he didn’t reveal your involvement in the case, Doctor. But I’ll have him in my office first thing this morning and, by thunder, I’ll make the situation clear to him!”

Prominently displayed on the Post’s front page was an article announcing that the Zweig killings and the Santorelli murder were now believed by “high police officials” to be the work of the same man. The article made less out of the apparently unusual nature of the killer than out of the fact that the link to the Zweigs demonstrated that the “ghoulish fiend” was not drawn exclusively to child prostitutes: It was now clear, Steffens declared in his best rabble-rousing style, that “no children are safe.” There were other sensational details, as well: Santorelli, it was stated, had been “assaulted” before his death (in fact, Kreizler had found no evidence of sexual violation), and in some quarters of the city the murders were being talked of as the work of a supernatural creature—though “the infamous Ellison and his cohorts” made “far more promising suspects.”

I folded the paper and tapped it slowly against my leg. “This is very bad.”

“Bad,” Kreizler said, controlling his anger, “but done. And we must try to undo it. Moore, is there any chance that you can persuade your editors to run a piece in the Times denouncing all this as speculation?”

“It’s possible,” I answered. “But it would tip them off to my involvement in the investigation. And they’d probably have someone dig deeper once they knew that much—the connection to the Zweigs is going to make a lot of people a lot more interested in this.”

“Yes, if we attempt to counteract this, I suspect we’ll only make things worse,” Theodore pronounced. “Steffens must be told to keep quiet, and we must hope that the article is ignored.”

“How can it be?!” Laszlo erupted. “Even if every other person in this city fails to pay attention, there is one who will see it—and I fear, I truly fear, his reaction!”

“And do you imagine that I don’t, Doctor?” Theodore countered. “I knew the press would interfere eventually—that’s why I urged you to hurry your efforts. You can hardly expect to go for weeks without someone mentioning the matter!”

Theodore put his hands to his hips, and Kreizler turned away, unable to say anything in reply. After a few moments Laszlo spoke again, more calmly, this time. “You’re right, Commissioner. Instead of arguing we should be making use of the opportunity we have now. But for God’s sake, Roosevelt—if you must share official business with Riis and Steffens, make this an exception.”

“There’s no need to worry on that account, Doctor,” Roosevelt answered, in a conciliatory tone. “This isn’t the first time Steffens has annoyed me with his speculations—but it will be the last.”

Kreizler shook his head in disgust once more, then shrugged. “Well, then. To work.”

We joined the Isaacsons and Sara. Marcus was busy taking detailed photographs of the body as Lucius continued his postmortem, calling out the injuries in a flurry of medical and anatomical jargon, his voice steady and full of purpose. Indeed, it was remarkable how little either detective displayed those quirks of behavior that were usually a cause of laughter or consternation in observers: they moved around the rooftop in a flurry of cerebral inspiration, locking onto apparently insignificant details like trained dogs and taking charge of business as if they, not Roosevelt or Kreizler, were directing the investigation. As their efforts continued, all of us, even Theodore, lent them every possible assistance, taking notes, holding pieces of equipment and lights, and generally making sure that there was no need for either of them to break their concentration even for a moment.

Once he had finished photographing the body, Marcus left Lucius and Sara to complete their grim work and began to “dust” the rooftop for fingerprints, using the small vials of aluminum and carbon powders that he’d shown us at Delmonico’s. Roosevelt, Kreizler, and I, meanwhile, went to work finding surfaces that might be smooth and hard enough to “hold” such prints: door handles, windows, even an apparently new ceramic chimney that ran along the side of the decagonal tower just a few feet from where the body lay. This last site was the one that bore fruit, primarily because, Marcus told us, the watchman had rather lazily allowed the fire downstairs to go out hours earlier. By a particularly clean section of the glazed ceramic, at about the point where a man of the height Marcus and Lucius had posited for our killer would have rested his hand were he leaning against the chimney for support, Marcus put his face close and grew agitated. He told Theodore and me to hold up a small tarpaulin that would block the wind that blew in off the harbor. Then he spread the carbon powder on the chimney with a delicate camel’s hair brush and produced, one can only say magically, a set of smudgelike prints. Their position was exactly consistent with the hypothetical lean of the killer.

Taking the photograph of Sofia Zweig’s bloodstained thumb from his coat pocket, Marcus held it up against the chimney. Laszlo moved close and watched the whole process carefully. Marcus’s dark eyes went very wide as he studied the prints, and they were positively afire when he turned to Kreizler and said, in a notably controlled voice, “It looks like a match.” At that, he and Kreizler went for the big camera, while Theodore and I continued to hold the tarp. Marcus took several close shots of the prints, the burst of the flash powder illuminating the whole roof area but quickly dissipating in the blackness out over the harbor.

Next Marcus had us inspect the ledges of the roof for, as he put it, “Any signs of disturbance or activity—even the smallest chips, cracks, or holes in its masonry.” Now, a building that faces New York harbor is going to have a lot of chips, cracks, and holes in its masonry; but we dutifully set about the task, Roosevelt, Kreizler, and myself each shouting when we located something that seemed to conform to our vague instructions. Marcus, whose attention was focused on a sturdy railing that surmounted the front of the roof, ran over to inspect each of these finds. Most of the sightings proved false; but on the very back of the roof, in the darkest, most hidden corner of the structure, Roosevelt found some marks that Marcus evidently thought bore immense potential.

His next request was rather odd: having taken a rope and tied one end around his waist, he wrapped the bulk of the coil around a section of the roof’s front railing and then handed it to Roosevelt and me. We were instructed to let the rope out as Marcus descended along the rear wall of the fort. When we asked the purpose behind this, Marcus only said that he was working on a theory about the killer’s method of reaching apparently inaccessible spots. So great was the detective sergeant’s fixation on his work, along with our own desire not to distract him, that we asked for no further explanation.

As we lowered him down the wall, Marcus occasionally made noises of discovery and satisfaction, then told us to lower him further. Roosevelt and I would then grunt and struggle again with the rope. In the midst of all this, I took the opportunity to acquaint Kreizler (who, with his bad arm, had elected not to assist us) with the thoughts concerning the occupation and habits of our killer that had occurred to me on the way downtown. His reaction was thoughtful, though mixed:

“You may have something with the notion of his being a regular customer at the houses where these boys work, Moore. But as for the man’s being a transient of some kind…” Laszlo strolled over to watch Lucius Isaacson work. “Consider what he’s done—deposited six bodies, six that we know of, in increasingly public places.”

“It does,” Theodore said with a small roar as we let out more rope, “suggest a man familiar with the city.”

“Intimately familiar,” Lucius threw in, having heard our comments. “There’s no sense of haste about these injuries. The cuts aren’t jagged or ripped. So he probably wasn’t in any particular hurry. My guess would be that, in this and every other case, he’s known exactly how long he has to do his work. He probably selects his sites accordingly. That would match our previous assumption that he’s a capable planner. And the work with the eyes, again, reveals a very careful, steady hand—as well as a fair knowledge of anatomy.”

Kreizler considered that for a moment. “How many men would be capable of it, Detective Sergeant?”

Lucius shrugged. “We’ve got several options as I see it. A doctor, of course, or at least someone with more than cursory medical training. A skilled butcher, possibly—or perhaps a very practiced hunter. Someone accustomed to making full use of a carcass, who would know not only how to dress the principal meat sections but the secondary sources of food, as well—the eyes, innards, feet, and the rest.”

“But if he’s so careful,” Theodore asked, “why commit these atrocities in the open? Why not go to a more hidden place?”

“The display,” Kreizler answered, walking back to us. “The thought that he’s in a publicly accessible spot seems to mean a great deal to him.”

I said, “The desire to be caught?”

Kreizler nodded. “So it would appear. Dueling with the desire to escape.” He turned to look out over the harbor. “And there are other aspects that these sites have in common…”

Just then we got a loud shout from Marcus telling us to pull him up. On Theodore’s count we gave out with several long, laborious heaves, bringing Marcus quickly back to the rooftop. To Kreizler’s questions about what he’d found, Marcus replied that he didn’t wish to speculate until he was fairly certain of his theory; he then moved off to make a few notes, as Lucius called out:

“Dr. Kreizler? I’d like you to look at this.”

Kreizler went immediately over to the body, but Theodore and I moved with more trepidation—there was only so much of it the untrained eye could take. Even Sara, who had started out so bravely, was now averting her eyes whenever possible, the prolonged exposure apparently exacting quite an emotional toll.

“When you examined Giorgio Santorelli, Doctor,” Lucius said, as he removed the short length of twine that bound the dead boy’s wrists, “do you remember finding any abrasions or lacerations in this area?” He held up the victim’s left hand, indicating its base.

“No,” Kreizler answered simply. “Other than the severing of the right hand there was nothing appreciable.”

“And no lacerations or bruising of the forearm?” Lucius inquired.

“None.”

“Yes. It would support what we’ve already hypothesized.” Lucius let the dead arm drop, then mopped his brow. “That’s fairly coarse twine,” he continued, pointing first at the bit of cord on the rooftop, and then at the boy’s wrist again. “Even during a brief struggle it should have left significant marks.”

Sara looked from the twine to Lucius. “Then—there was no struggle?” And in the way she said it there was real sadness, sadness that reverberated heavily in my chest—for the implication was obvious. Lucius went on to state it:

“It’s my suspicion that the boy allowed himself to be tied, and that even during strangulation, he made very little attempt to fight against the murderer. He may not have been fully aware of what was happening. You see, if there’d been an attack and actual resistance, we’d also find cuts or at least bruises on the forearms, made when the boy tried to fend the assault off. But again, there’s nothing. So…” Lucius glanced up at us. “I’d say the boy knew the killer. They may even have engaged in this kind of binding on other occasions. For…sexual purposes, in all likelihood.”

Theodore sucked air sharply. “Good lord…”

Watching Sara’s face again, I saw a glint in the corners of her eyes: welling tears that she blinked away quickly.

“That last part’s just a theory, of course,” Lucius added. “But I feel very confident in saying the boy knew him.”

Kreizler nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing and his voice going soft: “Knew him—and trusted him.”

Lucius finally stood and turned away from the body. “Yes,” he said, switching the worklamp off.

At that, Sara got to her feet in a sudden movement and rushed to the edge of the roof farthest from where we were standing. The rest of us glanced at each other questioningly, and then I went after her. Approaching slowly, I saw that she was looking out at Lady Liberty, and I confess to some surprise at not finding her heaving with sobs. Instead her body was quite still, even rigid. Without turning she said:

“Please don’t come any closer, John.” Her tone, far from hysterical, was icily even. “I’d rather not have any men around me. Just for a moment.”

I stood awkwardly still. “I’m—sorry, Sara. I only wanted to help. You’ve seen a lot tonight.”

She let out a bitter little chuckle. “Yes. But there’s nothing you can do to help.” She paused, but I didn’t leave. “And to think,” she continued at length, “that we actually thought it might have been a woman…”

“Thought?” I said. “So far as I know, we still haven’t ruled it out.”

“Perhaps the rest of you haven’t. I don’t suppose you could be expected to. You’re working at a disadvantage, in that area.”

I turned when I felt a presence at my side and found Kreizler carefully moving closer. He indicated silence to me as Sara spoke on:

“But I can tell you, John—that’s a man’s work, back there. Any woman who would have killed the boy wouldn’t have…” She groped for words. “All that stabbing, binding, and poking…I’ll never understand it. But there’s no mistaking it, once you’ve…had the experience.” She chuckled once grimly. “And it always seems to begin with trust…” There was another very awkward pause, during which Kreizler touched my arm and with a movement of his head told me to return to the other side of the roof. “Just leave me for a few minutes, John,” Sara finally finished. “I’ll be fine.”

Kreizler and I moved away quietly, and when we were out of Sara’s hearing Laszlo murmured, “She’s right, of course. I’ve never come across any feminine mania—puerperal or otherwise—that could compare to this. Though it probably would have taken me a ridiculously long time to realize it. We must find more ways to take advantage of Sara’s perspective, John.” He glanced around quickly. “But first we must get out of here.”

While Sara remained at the edge of the roof, the rest of us set to work gathering up the Isaacsons’ equipment and removing all traces of our presence, primarily the little splotches of aluminum and carbon powder that dotted the area. As we did so, Marcus initiated a conversation concerning the fact that half of the six murders we now felt confident assigning to our killer had occurred on rooftops: a significant fact, for rooftops in the New York of 1896 were secondary but nonetheless well-worn routes of urban travel, lofty counterparts to the sidewalks below that were full of their own distinctive types of traffic. Particularly in the tenement slums, a broad but definable range of people sometimes did a full day’s business without ever descending to the street—not only creditors seeking payment, but settlement and church workers, salesmen, visiting nurses, and others. Rents in the tenements were generally scaled in proportion to the amount of exertion required to reach a given flat, and thus the most unfortunate residents occupied the top floors of buildings. Those who had business with these poorest of the poor, rather than braving the steep and often dangerous staircases repeatedly, would simply move from one high floor to another by way of the rooftops. True, we still didn’t know just how our man was getting to those rooftops; but it was clear that once there he made his way around with great skill. The possibility that he had once held, or currently did hold, one of those roof-traveling jobs was therefore worth exploring.

“Whatever his occupation,” Theodore announced, coiling the rope we’d used to lower Marcus down the wall, “it would take a cool mind to plan this kind of violence so precisely and then carry it out so thoroughly, when he knows that the possibility of apprehension is never very far off.”

“Yes,” Kreizler answered. “It almost suggests a martial spirit, doesn’t it, Roosevelt?”

“What’s that?” Theodore turned to Kreizler with an almost injured look. “Martial? That was not my meaning, Doctor—not my meaning at all! I would be loath indeed to call this the work of a soldier.”

Laszlo smiled a bit, devilishly aware that Theodore (who was still years away from his exploits on San Juan Hill) viewed the military arts with the same boyish reverence he had since childhood. “Perhaps,” Kreizler needled further. “But a cool head for carefully planned violence? Isn’t that what we endeavor to instill in soldiers?” Theodore cleared his throat loudly and stomped away from Kreizler, whose smile only broadened. “Make a note of it, Detective Sergeant Isaacson,” Laszlo called out. “A military background of some kind is definitely indicated!”

Theodore spun around once more, eyes wide; but he only managed to bellow “By thunder, sir!” before Cyrus burst out of the staircase, as alarmed as I could remember ever having seen him.

“Doctor!” he shouted. “I think we’d better get moving!” Cyrus raised one of his big arms to point north, and all our eyes followed the indication.

At the edges of Battery Park, near the several points of entry, crowds were gathering: not the kind of well-dressed, politely behaved throngs that occupied the area during the day, but milling pockets of shabbily dressed men and women on whom the mark of poverty was plain even from a distance. Some carried torches and several were accompanied by children, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying this unusual early morning foray. As yet there were no overt signs of threat, but it had all the makings of a mob.