The Alienist

CHAPTER 45

Laszlo had just opened his mouth to reply when the sound of a sharp whistle echoed up from Fortieth Street. Kreizler ran to peer over the street-side fence of the promenade, and I quickly joined him, looking down to see Cyrus and Stevie in the calash.

“I fear that explanations will have to wait, Moore,” Kreizler said, turning toward Beecham again. “Cyrus and Stevie’s arrival means that the opera has been over for at least three quarters of an hour. By now Roosevelt’s suspicions have been thoroughly aroused. He’ll have checked with the others at High Bridge Tower, and when they learn of our disappearance…”

“But what do you plan to do?” I asked.

Kreizler scratched his head and smiled a bit. “I’m not terribly sure. My plans didn’t quite provide for this situation—I wasn’t entirely certain that I’d still be alive, even given our friend McManus.”

That stung me, and I didn’t mind showing it: “Oh,” I huffed, “and I suppose I would have been dead, too!”

“Please, Moore,” Kreizler said, waving his hand impatiently. “There simply isn’t time.”

“But what about Connor?” I demanded, pointing to the former detective’s prostrate form.

“We shall hold Connor for Roosevelt,” Laszlo replied sharply, crossing over to where Beecham sat huddled. “Though he deserves far worse!” Crouching down to stare Beecham in the face, Laszlo drew a deep breath to calm himself, then held a hand in front of our prisoner’s eyes and moved it back and forth. Beecham seemed utterly oblivious.

“The boy has come down from the mountains,” Kreizler mused at length. “Or so it would seem.” I took his point: if the man we’d first encountered on the walls that night had been the evolved version of the cool, sadistic young trapper who’d once roamed the Shawangunks, then the terrified creature now before us was the inheritor of all the terror and self-loathing that Japheth Dury had felt at every other moment of his life. Evidently aware that there was little to fear from the man so long as he was in this mental state, Laszlo took Beecham’s jacket from him and draped it around the man’s huge, bare shoulders. “Listen to me, Japheth Dury,” Kreizler said, in an ominous tone that got Beecham to finally stop swaying and moaning. “You’ve a great deal of blood on your hands. That of your parents, not least of all. Should your crimes become known, your brother, Adam—who is still alive and still attempting to carry on an honest, decent life—will most certainly be privately destroyed and publicly hounded. For that if for no other reason, the part of you that is still human must pay close attention to me.”

Though Beecham’s eyes remained quite glassy, he nodded slowly. “Good,” Laszlo said. “The police will be here soon. They may or may not find you waiting when they arrive, depending on just how honest you are with me. I’m going to ask you just a few questions now to determine your ability, as well as your willingness, to cooperate. Answer these questions truly and we may be able to arrange a less severe fate than that which the people of this city will demand. Do you understand?” Beecham nodded again, and Kreizler produced his ubiquitous little notebook and a pen. “All right, then. The basic facts…”

Laszlo then launched into a fast, condensed, yet calmly worded review of Beecham’s life, beginning with his childhood as Japheth Dury and going into some detail concerning the murder of his parents. As Beecham answered these queries, all the while confirming more and more of the hypotheses that we’d formulated during our investigation, his tone became increasingly weak and helpless, as if in the presence of this man who somehow knew him as well as he knew himself there was no choice other than complete submission. For his part, Kreizler became ever more satisfied by Beecham’s earnest attempts to cooperate with his inquisition, finding in them proof positive that a hidden yet still strong part of the murderer’s mind had indeed craved this moment.

I suppose that I, too, should have been deeply gratified at the results of this initial interview; yet as I watched Beecham answer Laszlo’s questions—his voice growing ever more compliant and even childish, with none of the threatening, arrogant tone he’d used when we were his prisoners—I became powerfully irritated, disturbed at the very core of my spirit. This irritation soon became outrage, as if this man had no right to exhibit any pitiable human qualities in light of all he’d done. Who was this enormous grotesque, I thought, to sit there confessing and sniveling like one of the children he’d slaughtered? Where was all the violence, cruelty, arrogance, and unstoppability that he’d displayed on other nights? As these and similar questions shot through my head, my anger mounted rapidly, until suddenly, unable to contain the feeling any longer, I stood up straight and bellowed:

“Shut up! Shut the hell up, you miserable coward!”

Both Beecham and Laszlo immediately grew silent and looked up at me in shock. Beecham’s facial spasms intensified dramatically as he eyed the Colt in my hand, while Laszlo’s attitude soon changed from one of stunned surprise to chastising comprehension.

“All right, Moore,” he said, not asking for an explanation. “Go and wait inside with the boy, then.”

“And leave you with him?” I said, my voice still trembling with anger and passion. “Are you insane? Look at him, Kreizler—this is him, this is the man who’s responsible for all the blood we’ve seen! And you sit here letting him convince you that he’s some kind of—”

“John!” Kreizler said, stopping me. “All right. Go and wait for me inside.”

I looked past Kreizler at Beecham. “Well? What are you trying to convince him of?” I leaned down, keeping the Colt pointed at Beecham’s head. “Figure you can still get out of it, don’t you?”

“Damn it, Moore!” Kreizler said, grabbing my wrist but unable to make me move the gun away. “Stop!”

I drew closer to Beecham’s spasming face. “My friend thinks that if you aren’t afraid to die it’s proof that you’re crazy,” I seethed. With Laszlo still trying to disarm me, I shoved the barrel of the revolver up against Beecham’s throat. “Are you afraid to die—are you? To die, like the boys you—”

“Moore!” Kreizler shouted again.

But I was far past listening. Struggling to get my thumb on the hammer of the Colt, I pulled it back in a jerk, causing Beecham to let out a desperate little cry and then pull back from me like a trapped animal. “No,” I seethed at him. “No, you’re not crazy—you are afraid to die!”

With stunning suddenness, the air all around us was consumed by a gunshot. A resonant, slapping sort of impact sounded from somewhere just under my hand, and then Beecham rocked backward in a jerk, revealing a crimson-black hole in the left side of his chest that wheezed with the sound of escaping air. Fixing his small, straining eyes on me Beecham let his manacled hands fall and then slumped over, his jacket falling from his shoulders as he did.

I’ve killed him, I thought clearly. There was neither joy nor guilt in the realization, just a simple acknowledgment of fact—but then, after Beecham had crumpled to the stone pathway, my gaze fell on the hammer of my Colt: it was still cocked. Before I could get my confused brain to make any sense of this sight, Laszlo had jumped over to Beecham and made a cursory examination of the bullet wound. Shaking his head as the unpleasant sound of gushing air and blood continued to come out of Beecham’s chest, Laszlo made a fist and looked up furiously. His glare, however, was directed past me; and following it, I turned around slowly.

Connor had somehow slipped his bonds, and was standing in the center of the promenade. His back was bent with dizziness and pain, and he was clutching his bleeding side with his left hand as he held a small, crude twin-barreled pistol with the other. A twisted smile came into his bleeding mouth, and then he staggered forward a step or two.

“It ends tonight,” he said, holding the gun higher and pointing it at us. “Drop it, Moore.”

I complied, slowly and carefully; but just as the Colt touched the pathway another gunshot cut through the air—this one from farther off—and then Connor jerked forward as if he’d been struck hard in the back. He fell on his face with a small grunt, revealing a hole in his jacket out of which blood began to pump immediately. The powder smoke from the shot Connor had fired at Beecham had not even cleared when a new figure stepped forward on the dark promenade and became visible in the moonlight.

It was Sara, pearl-gripped revolver in hand. She stared down at Connor for an instant without betraying any emotion, then looked up at Kreizler and me.

“I thought of this place just after we’d gotten into position at High Bridge Tower,” she said tightly, as the Isaacsons appeared in the darkness behind her. “When Theodore said you’d left the opera, I knew…”

I let out an enormous breath. “And thank God you did,” I said, wiping my brow with my hand and then picking up the Colt.

Laszlo stayed in a crouch by Beecham, but looked up at Sara. “And where is the commissioner?”

“Out searching,” Sara said. “We didn’t tell him.”

Laszlo nodded. “Thank you, Sara. You had little reason for such consideration.”

Sara’s expression remained impassive. “You’re right.”

Beecham suddenly let out with a bloody, choking cough, and Kreizler got an arm under his neck, bringing the large head up. “Detective Sergeant?” Laszlo said, at which Lucius rushed over to assist him.

Taking a quick look at Beecham’s chest, Lucius shook his head definitively. “It’s no good, Doctor.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Kreizler snapped. “I just need—rub his hands, will you? Moore, get those blasted manacles off. I just need a few minutes.” As I freed the dying man’s hands Laszlo reached into his pocket, brought out a small vial of ammonia salts, and wafted them under Beecham’s nose. Lucius began to slap and rub at Beecham’s palms, while Laszlo’s aspect became steadily more concerned and his movements steadily more agitated, until they reached a level of near desperation. “Japheth,” he began to murmur, softly but pleadingly. “Japheth Dury, can you hear me?”

Beecham’s eyelids fluttered for an instant and then opened, the dulling orbs beneath them rolling helplessly about in his head. Finally he fixed them on the face that was very close to his own. He wasn’t spasming, now, and his expression was that of a terrified child who looks to a stranger for help that he somehow knows he isn’t going to get.

“I—” he gasped, coughing up a little more blood. “I’m—going to die…”

“Listen to me, Japheth,” Laszlo said, wiping blood from the man’s mouth and face as he continued to cradle the head. “You must listen to me—what did you see, Japheth? What did you see when you looked at the children? What made you kill them?”

Beecham’s head began to shake from side to side quickly, and then a shudder went through his body. He turned his terrified gaze to the heavens and opened his jaw wider, revealing the big teeth, which were now coated with blood.

“Japheth!” Laszlo repeated, sensing that the man was slipping away. “What did you see?”

As his head continued to shake, Beecham’s eyes shifted back to Laszlo’s pleading face. “I—have never known—” he gasped, the tone both apologetic and pleading. “I—have never—known! I—didn’t—they—”

The shaking in his face spread throughout his body for an instant, and then he grabbed Laszlo by the shirt. Face still full of mortal fear, John Beecham spasmed one final time, spat some blood mixed with vomit out one side of his mouth, and grew still. His head rolled away from Kreizler, the eyes finally losing their expression of terror.

“Japheth!” Kreizler said once more; but he knew it was too late. Lucius reached up and closed Beecham’s eyes, at which Kreizler finally lowered the dead man’s head back down to the cold stone beneath it.

No one spoke for a minute or two, and then there was a sound: another whistle from below. I stood up, moved to the outer promenade fence, and looked down to Cyrus and Stevie, who were pointing toward the West Side urgently. I waved to them in acknowledgment and then went to Kreizler.

“Laszlo,” I said carefully, “offhand I’d say Roosevelt’s on his way. You’d better get ready to explain—”

“No.” Though Kreizler did not lift his head, his voice was firm. “I won’t be here.” When he finally sat up straight and looked around, I could see that his eyes were red and moist. He looked from me to Sara, then at Marcus, and finally to Lucius, nodding as he did. “You have all given me your help and your friendship—perhaps more of each than I’ve been entitled to. But I must ask that you continue to do so for just a little while longer.” Standing up, Kreizler spoke to Lucius and Marcus. “Detective Sergeants? I’ll need your assistance in removing Beecham’s body. You say Roosevelt’s coming by way of Fortieth Street, John?”

“I’d say so,” I answered, “based on the way those two are carrying on down there.”

“Very well, then,” Kreizler went on. “When he arrives, Cyrus will direct him up here. The detective sergeants and I will take the body out through the Fifth Avenue gate”—Laszlo walked to the street-side fence and issued a command by waving one hand—“where Stevie will be waiting.” He stepped over to Sara and took her by the shoulders. “I wouldn’t blame you if you refused to be any part of this, Sara.”

She looked for a moment as if she were about to erupt with a spiteful indictment—but then she simply shrugged and put her pistol away in a fold of her dress. “You haven’t been honest with us about this part of it, Doctor,” she said. Her hard look softened. “But if it hadn’t been for you we never would have had the chance in the first place. I’m prepared to call it even.”

Laszlo pulled her close and embraced her. “Thank you for that,” he murmured, and then stepped back. “Now, then—in the control house you will find a rather terrified boy wrapped in a fairly decent cloak of mine. Go to him, would you, and see to it that Roosevelt asks him no questions before we’ve had time to get downtown.”

“Downtown?” I said, as Sara moved toward the control house doorway. “Wait a minute, Kreizler—”

“There’s no time, John,” Laszlo said, moving toward Marcus and speaking to both him and Lucius. “Detective Sergeants? The commissioner is your superior, and I will understand if—”

“You don’t have to ask, Doctor,” Lucius answered before Laszlo could finish. “I think I know what you’ve got in mind. I’ll be curious to see how it turns out.”

“You shall see for yourself,” Kreizler answered. “I intend that you shall assist me.” He turned to the taller Isaacson. “Marcus? If you wish to exempt yourself, I shall more than understand.”

Marcus weighed Kreizler’s words for a moment. “It’s really the only riddle left to solve, isn’t it, Doctor?” he asked.

Kreizler nodded. “Perhaps the most important.”

Marcus took a moment more, then gave a nod of his own. “All right. What’s a little departmental insubordination against the interests of science?”

Laszlo clasped his shoulder. “Good man.” Returning to Beecham’s body, Kreizler grabbed one of the dead arms. “All right, then—let’s proceed, and quickly.”

Marcus got hold of Beecham’s feet, and Lucius draped some of the dead man’s clothes over the torso before taking hold of the remaining limb. Then they lifted the body, Kreizler wincing in some pain as he did, and started down the promenade toward Fifth Avenue.

The prospect of being left up on those walls with no one but two unconscious thugs and Connor’s body to keep me company put new life into my movements and my mouth. “Wait a minute,” I said, following the others. “Wait just a goddamned minute! Kreizler! I know what you’re up to! But you can’t leave me here and expect me to—”

“No time, John!” Kreizler answered, as he and the laboring Isaacsons picked up speed. “I’ll need six hours or so—all will become clear then!”

“But I—”

“You are a true stalwart, Moore!” Kreizler called.

At that I stopped, watching them fade into the deep blue of the promenade and then vanish into the blackness of the Fifth Avenue staircase. “Stalwart,” I mumbled, kicking at the ground and turning back around. “Stalwarts don’t get left behind to explain this kind of mess—”

I ceased my little monologue when I heard a commotion inside the control house: Sara’s voice, followed by Theodore’s. They exchanged a few heated words, and then Roosevelt burst out onto the promenade, followed by Sara and several men in uniform.

“So!” Theodore boomed when he caught sight of me. He began to approach, holding up a thick, accusatory finger. “This is my payment for entering into an agreement with what I mistakenly took to be gentlemen! By thunder, I ought to—”

He stopped suddenly when he saw the two bound thugs and the one corpse. Glancing from the ground to me twice in bewilderment, Theodore directed his finger downward. “Is that Connor?”

I nodded and approached, quickly putting my anger with Kreizler aside and then feigning great anxiety. “Yes, and you’re just in time, Roosevelt. We came here looking for Beecham—”

Righteous indignation came back into Theodore for a moment. “Yes, I know,” he bellowed, “and if a pair of my best men hadn’t followed Kreizler’s servants—”

“But Beecham never showed,” I went on. “It was a trap, set by Connor. He was out to—to kill Stevie, actually.”

“Stevie?” Roosevelt echoed incredulously. “Kreizler’s boy?”

I looked at him with deep earnestness. “Roosevelt, Stevie was the only witness to Connor’s murder of Mary Palmer.”

Theodore’s face opened up with comprehension, his eyes going wide behind the spectacles. “Ah!” he noised, now pointing his finger upward. “Of course!” The brow wrinkled again. “But what happened?”

“Fortunately, Commissioner,” Sara said, having correctly perceived that my powers of invention were weakening, “the detective sergeants and I arrived in time.” She indicated the body with more confidence and certainty than I knew she felt. “That’s a bullet of mine you’ll find in Connor’s back.”

“Yours, Sara?” Theodore said incredulously. “But I don’t understand.”

“Neither did we,” Sara said, “until you brought us wind of what John and the doctor were up to. Although by the time we figured out where they were likely to be, you’d already left High Bridge Tower. But if I were you, Commissioner, I’d get back up there—the rest of your detectives are still on watch, and the killer hasn’t struck yet.”

“Yes,” Theodore said, considering it all. “Yes, I suppose you’re right about—” He suddenly stood up straight, smelling the ruse. “Just a moment. I see what we have here. If all that’s true, then kindly tell me this—who is that boy in there?” He pointed his finger at the control house.

“Honestly, Roosevelt,” I insisted, “you’d better—”

“And where are the rest of them—Kreizler and the Isaacsons?”

“Commissioner,” Sara said, “I can tell you—”

“Oh, yes,” Roosevelt answered, waving us off. “I can see what sort of thing’s happening here. Conspiracy, is it? That’ll be fine! I’m delighted to oblige! Sergeant!” One of the men in uniform snapped to and approached. “Have one of your men take charge of that boy in there—and then place both of these people under arrest! I want them taken to Mulberry Street immediately!” Before Sara and I could say anything in response, Theodore brought the finger around once more and wagged it in our faces. “I’m going to give you two a very unpleasant reminder of just who’s in charge of the Police Department in this city!”