"You handled that pretty well," he said. "Spent much time around kids?"

"Some," I answered, without elaborating. I had no desire to reveal how much young Joseph's eyes and smile had reminded me of my own dead brother's at the same age.

As we walked back across town, Marcus and I discussed the new lay of things. Sure now that the man we sought was well acquainted with places like the Golden Rule and Paresis Hall, we tried to identify who other than customers would regularly investigate such haunts. The idea of a reporter or social essayist like Jake Riis-a man out to reveal the evils of the city and perhaps driven to mad extremities by overexposure to vice-occurred to us, but just as quickly we realized that no one had yet made much of a print crusade out of child prost.i.tution, and certainly not out of h.o.m.os.e.xual child prost.i.tution. That left us with missionaries and other church workers, a category that seemed more promising: remembering what Kreizler had said about the connection between religious manias and ma.s.s murder, I wondered if indeed we were dealing with someone determined to be the hand of a wrathful G.o.d on this earth. Kreizler had said he didn't consider a religious motivation likely, but Kreizler could be wrong about that-after all, missionaries and church workers were known to travel frequently by rooftops when doing their tenement work. Marcus and I were ultimately led away from such a hypothesis, however, by what Joseph had told us. The man who had killed Ali ibn-Ghazi had come to the Golden Rule regularly, and his visits had gone unnoticed. Any reforming crusader worth his salt would have worked hard to be the center of attention.

"Whoever or whatever he is," Marcus announced, as we closed back in on Number 808 Broadway, "we know one thing-that he can can come and go unnoticed. He looks completely as if he belongs in those houses." come and go unnoticed. He looks completely as if he belongs in those houses."

"Right," I said. "Which brings us back to customers, which means it could be almost anyone."

"Your theory about an angry customer might still work. Even if he's not a transient, he still might've been fleeced one too many times."

"I'm not so sure. I've seen men who've been robbed by wh.o.r.es. They might beat the living daylights out of one of them, but the kind of mutilation we've seen? He'd have have to be mad." to be mad."

"Then maybe we're back to another one of the Ripper theories," Marcus said. "Maybe his brain's deteriorating from disease-a disease he picked up in a place like Ellison's or the Golden Rule."

"No," I answered, flattening my hands out in front of me and trying to make it all clearer in my mind. "The one constant we've been able to hold on to is that he's not crazy. We can't question that now."

Marcus paused, and then spoke carefully: "John-you've asked yourself, I suppose, what'll happen if some of Kreizler's basic a.s.sumptions are wrong?"

Taking a deep, weary breath I said, "I've asked myself."

"And your answer?"

"If they're wrong, then we'll fail."

"And you're satisfied with that?"

We'd reached the southwest corner of Eleventh Street and Broadway, where trolley cars and carriages were lugging all manner of weekend revelers up- and downtown. Marcus's question hung in the air over this scene for a moment, causing me to feel very detached from the normal rhythms of city life and very uneasy about the immediate future. What, indeed, would all this terrible learning we were doing amount to if our basic a.s.sumptions were wrong?

"It's a dark road, Marcus," I finally said quietly. "But it's the only road we've got."

CHAPTER 19.

There were snow flurries that night, and Easter morning saw the city covered by a light white powder. At nine A.M A.M. the thermometer still had not climbed above forty degrees (it would do so later that day, but just barely and only for a few minutes), and I really was tempted to stay at home and in bed. But Lucius Isaacson had important news for us all, or so he said in a telephone call; and so, with the bells of Grace Church clanging and scores of bonneted wors.h.i.+pers crowding around and through its doors, I trudged back into the headquarters that I'd left only half a dozen hours earlier.

Lucius had spent the previous evening interviewing Ali ibn-Ghazi's father, from whom he had learned almost nothing. The elder Ghazi had been determinedly reticent, especially after Lucius had shown him his badge. Initially, Lucius had thought his uncooperative behavior nothing more than the usual slum dweller's method of dealing with the police; but then Ghazi's landlord had told Lucius, as the latter left the building, that Ghazi had received a visit that afternoon from a small group of men-including two priests. His general description of them had matched that given by Mrs. Santorelli; but the landlord had further noticed that one of the priests wore the distinctive signet ring of the Episcopal Church. This meant that, however improbable it might have seemed, Catholics and Protestants were working together toward some end. The landlord was of no help in determining that end, for he was unable to say what the two priests had spoken to Ghazi about; but immediately after their departure Ghazi had settled a sizable back rent debt, in full and in large notes. Lucius would have given us this news the night before, but after leaving the Syrian ghetto he had made what he thought would be a brief stop at the morgue. Thinking to find out whether Ali's body had been inspected by a coroner, and, if it had, what official judgment had been pa.s.sed on the matter, Lucius had been kept waiting for nearly three hours. He'd finally been informed that Ali's body had already been removed for burial; and the only copy of the coroner's report, which the night officer at the morgue a.s.sured Lucius had been unusually brief, had been dispatched to Mayor Strong's office.

It was impossible to say precisely what the two priests, the coroner, the mayor, or anyone else involved in these activities was up to; but obfuscation and the suppression of facts seemed the very least of it. The feeling that we faced a greater challenge than simply catching our killer-a feeling that had taken seed after Giorgio Santorelli's murder-now began to grow and chafe at each of us.

Spurred on by that sinister irritant, our team a.s.sumed and maintained a quickened pace over the next week or so. Murder sites and disorderly houses were visited and revisited by the Isaacsons, who spent hours trying to discover new clues and days trying to coax new information out of anyone who might have seen or heard anything of importance. But they generally ran up against the same wall of interference that had silenced Ali ibn-Ghazi's father. Marcus, for example, was anxious to put the watchman from Castle Garden to a much more severe test than he'd been able to do on the night of Ali's death-but when he returned to the old fort he was told that the watchman had quit his job and departed from the city, leaving no indication as to his destination. It was safe to a.s.sume, we all agreed, that wherever the man had disappeared to, he had taken with him one of the impressive wads of money that the two unidentified priests were dispensing around town.

Kreizler, Sara, and I, meanwhile, pressed on with the job of fles.h.i.+ng out our imaginary man by using persons apprehended for similar crimes as points of reference. Sadly, there continued to be no shortage of these; if anything, their number only increased as the weather improved. At least one incident, bizarrely enough, was actually inspired by the weather: Kreizler and I investigated the case of one William Scarlet, who was apprehended in his home while attempting to kill his eight-year-old daughter with a hatchet. A police patrolman called to the scene had been Scarlet's next target, and the entire neighborhood of Thirty-second Street and Madison Avenue had been kept awake for hours by the a.s.sailant's crazed ravings. Both the daughter and the patrolman had escaped without serious injury, and when Scarlet was arrested his only explanation was that he'd been driven mad by a powerful thunderstorm that had swept through the city that night. Surprisingly enough, Kreizler could find very little to dispute this. Scarlet actually loved his daughter dearly, and in the past had always shown the utmost respect for the law. Though Laszlo was inclined to view the proceedings as the result of some deeply buried twist in Scarlet's mental development, the possibility that the sound of loud thunder had driven him temporarily insane could not be decisively ruled out. Whatever the case, it was without doubt an example of pa.s.sing violent paroxysm, and thus of little use to us.

On the very next day, Kreizler took Sara along to investigate the case of Nicolo Garolo, an immigrant living on Park Row, who had severely stabbed his sister-in-law and the woman's three-year-old daughter after the little girl allegedly claimed that Garolo was trying to "hurt" her. "Hurt" in this case clearly indicated s.e.xual a.s.sault, to Laszlo, and the fact that all the partic.i.p.ants were immigrants was also intriguing. The familial connection, however, ultimately limited the relevance of the crime to our work, although Garolo's sister-in-law did provide Sara with some interesting material for the construction of her imaginary women.

In addition to all this, there were the papers to go through, twice a day, in order to cull bits of useful information. This was a fairly indirect process, however, being as the New York papers had begun one by one to stop covering the boy-wh.o.r.e murders in the days following the Castle Garden affair. In addition, the citizens' group that was supposed to have been organizing for an information-gathering visit to City Hall never materialized. In short, the brief flicker of interest in the case that had been displayed outside the immigrant ghettos following the ibn-Ghazi murder had been very effectively snuffed out, leaving the daily papers with nothing to offer us but reports of other killings from around the country. These we patiently studied in an effort to gain more elements that could be used in the elaboration of theories.

It was not uplifting work; for while New York might have been America's leading center of violent crime, particularly of those varieties directed toward children, the rest of the United States was doing its part to keep national statistics high. There was, for example, the vagabond in Indiana (once interned in an asylum but recently released as sane) who killed the children of a woman who had hired him to do menial work; or the thirteen-year-old girl in Was.h.i.+ngton whose throat had been cut in Rock Creek Park for absolutely no reason that anyone could divine; and the reverend in Salt Lake City who murdered as many as seven girls and burned their remains in a furnace. We studied all these cases and many more-indeed, every day presented us with at least one incident or criminal to hold up against our developing portrait for comparison. Without doubt, most of these examples involved behavior of a paroxysmal nature: either alcohol- or drug-induced rages, which would pa.s.s with the return of sobriety, or temporary brain malfunctions (such as certain rare types of epileptic seizure), which would go into remission on their own. Occasionally, however, there was a case involving careful premeditation, and when the a.s.sessments of the mental examiners in such instances were published, or when reports on the trials of the culprits appeared, they sometimes provided small grains of genuine insight.

Even Kreizler's servants were contributing to the quest for a solution, either through example or direct partic.i.p.ation. I have already described my own speculations concerning Mary Palmer and the possible parallel between her case and ours. Those thoughts were duly weighed and their salient aspects recorded on the big chalkboard, although Mary herself was never consulted about them, as Laszlo continued to insist that she be told as little as possible about the case. Cyrus, on the other hand, had managed to get hold of much of the reading material that Kreizler had a.s.signed to the rest of us, and he devoured it eagerly. He made no comments during meetings save when asked, but at those moments he often proved quite insightful. At one midnight conference, for instance, when we were speculating on the mental and physical condition of our murderer immediately after he'd committed his crimes, we suddenly came hard up against the fact that none of us had ever taken the life of another human being. We all knew, of course, that there was someone in the room who had, but none of us felt much like asking Cyrus for an experienced opinion-none of us, that is, except Kreizler, who had no trouble posing the question in simple, straightforward language. Cyrus answered in much the same way, confirming that after his act of violence he would have been capable of neither elaborate planning nor extensive physical exertion; but we were all surprised when he punctuated this statement with some interesting thoughts on Cesare Lombroso, the Italian sometimes supposed to be the father of modern criminology.

Lombroso had postulated the existence of a criminal "type" of human being (in essence a throwback to early, savage man), but Cyrus stated that he found such a theory implausible, given the wide range of motivations and behaviors he'd recently learned could be involved in criminal actions-including his own. Interestingly enough, Dr. H. H. Holmes, the ma.s.s murderer who was waiting to be hanged in Philadelphia, had stated during the course of his trial that he believed himself to be representative of Lombroso's criminal type. Mental, moral, and physical degeneracy had accounted for his actions, Holmes claimed, and so his legal responsibility should of course be considered as diminished. The argument had gotten him nowhere in court; and after discussing his and other cases, we concluded that our killer's work could no more be ascribed to evolutionary retrogression than could Holmes's. In both subjects, the intellectual capacity demonstrated was simply too significant.

And then there was the day that young Stevie Taggert drove me down to meet the Isaacsons under the Brooklyn Bridge. Stevie had been continuing to run "errands" for me on a regular basis, and the process of keeping this activity hidden from Kreizler had forged something of a bond between us, one that permitted straightforward communication. At any rate, we received word one morning that two young girls playing under the Rose Street arch of the Brooklyn Bridge had come upon an abandoned wagon, the freight compartment of which contained a human skull, arm, and hand. Although the crime didn't resemble our killer's work in terms of style, the fact that the wagon had been left under a bridge recalled our man's penchant for water and the structures near it, so we thought it worthwhile to take a look. The body parts, however, proved to be those of an adult, as well as utterly unidentifiable. And, since Marcus found no fingerprints on the wagon that matched those of our murderer, he and Lucius released the gruesome discovery into the care of the city's chief coroner. In order to avoid questions, I departed in the calash before the men from the morgue arrived; and as we made our way back uptown, Stevie put a question to me: "Mr. Moore, sir-about the man you're looking for. I heard Dr. Kreizler say the other day that none of the dead boys had been-well, you know, sir, 'a.s.saulted.' Is that right?"

"Yes, that's been true so far, Stevie. Why?"

"It's just that it makes me wonder, sir. Does that mean he ain't a f.a.g?"

I sat up at the frankness of the query-sometimes you had to work very hard to remember that Stevie was only twelve. "No, that doesn't mean that he's not a-a f.a.g, Stevie. But the fact that his victims do the work they do doesn't mean that he is is one, either." one, either."

"You figure maybe he just hates f.a.gs?"

"That may have something to do with it."

We fought our way through the traffic on Houston Street, Stevie struggling with his emerging line of reasoning and seemingly oblivious to the wh.o.r.es, drug fiends, peddlers, and beggars that swarmed around us. "What I'm thinking, Mr. Moore, is that maybe he is is a f.a.g, and maybe he a f.a.g, and maybe he hates hates f.a.gs, too. Kinda like that guard who gimme such a hard time out on Randalls Island." f.a.gs, too. Kinda like that guard who gimme such a hard time out on Randalls Island."

"I'm afraid I don't get you," I said.

"Well, you know, in court, when I was up for cracking that guy's skull, they tried to make me out for crazy, saying the guy had a wife and kids and all, so how could he be a f.a.g? And in the Refuge House, if he caught two boys going at each other like that, brother, would he lay into 'em. But all the same, I wasn't the first kid he tried it with. No, sir. So I figure maybe that's why he had such a mean disposition-he never really knew, deep down, just what he was. Know what I mean, Mr. Moore?"

Remarkably enough, I did know what he meant. We'd had many long discussions at our headquarters concerning the s.e.xual proclivities of our killer, and we would have many more before our work was done; yet Stevie had come close to crystallizing all our conclusions in that one statement.

There really wasn't one of us whose brain wasn't working overtime to come up with ideas and theories that would propel our investigation forward; but, as might be expected, no one was working harder than Kreizler. In fact, his exertions grew so continuous, and at times so excessive, that I began to worry about his physical and nervous health. After one twenty-four-hour period when he stayed at his desk with a stack of almanacs and a large sheet of paper bearing the four dates of the recent murders (January 1st, February 2nd, March 3rd, and April 3rd), trying to unlock the mystery of when our man chose to kill, Laszlo's face became so pale and haggard that I ordered Cyrus to remove him to his home for some rest. I remembered Sara's statement that Kreizler seemed to have some sort of personal stake in the work we were doing; and though I wanted to ask her for elaboration, I feared that such a conversation would only revive my tendency to speculate about their personal relations.h.i.+p, which was neither any of my business nor conducive to productive work on the case.

But a discussion became inevitable one morning, when Kreizler-fresh from a long night at his Inst.i.tute, where there'd been trouble concerning a new student and her parents-set off without a break to do a mental competency a.s.sessment of a man who'd dismembered his wife on a homemade altar. Laszlo had lately been gathering evidence to support the theory that our murders were being conducted as bizarre rituals, during which the killer-much like a Mohammedan whirling dervish-used extreme yet fairly formalized physical action to bring about psychic relief. Kreizler based this idea on several facts: the boys were all strangled before they were mutilated, thus giving the killer complete control over the scene as he played it out; furthermore, the mutilations followed an extremely consistent pattern, centering on the removal of the eyes; and finally, every killing had occurred near water, and on a structure whose function arose from that same water. Other murderers were known to have viewed their grim deeds as personal rites, and Kreizler believed that if he could talk to enough of them he'd begin to understand how to read any messages that might be contained in the mutilations themselves. Such work, however, was especially hard on the nerves, even for an experienced alienist like Kreizler; add to this his general state of overworked exhaustion, and you produced a formula for trouble.

On the morning in question, Sara and I-just coming into Number 808 Broadway as Kreizler went out-happened to be watching as Laszlo tried to enter his calash and very nearly fainted. He shook the spell off with ammonia salts and a laugh, but Cyrus told us that this time it had been two days since he'd had anything like real sleep.

"He'll kill himself if he doesn't slow down," Sara said, as the calash rolled off and we got into the elevator. "He's trying to make up for the lack of clues and facts with effort. As if he can force an answer to this thing."

"He's always been that way," I replied, shaking my head. "Even when we were boys, he was always at at something, and always so deadly serious. It was somewhat amusing, in those days." something, and always so deadly serious. It was somewhat amusing, in those days."

"Well, he's not a child now, and he ought to learn to take care of himself." That was Sara's tough side talking; it was a different tone that came through when she asked, with what seemed affected casualness and without looking at me, "Have there never been any women in his life, John?"

"There was his sister," I answered, knowing that it wasn't what she was driving at. "They used to be very close, but she's married now. To an Englishman, a baronet or some such."

With what I thought was effort, Sara remained dispa.s.sionate. "But no women-romantically, I mean?"

"Oh. Yes, well, there was Frances Blake. He met her at Harvard and for a couple of years it looked as though they might get married. I never saw it, myself-for my money she was something of a shrew. He seemed to find her charming, though."

Sara's most mischievous smile, that tiny curl of her upper lip, appeared. "Perhaps she reminded him of someone."

"She reminded me me of a shrew. Look, Sara, what do you mean when you say Kreizler seems as though he's got some personal stake in this thing? Personal how?" of a shrew. Look, Sara, what do you mean when you say Kreizler seems as though he's got some personal stake in this thing? Personal how?"

"I'm not quite sure, John," she answered, as we walked into our headquarters and found the Isaacsons engaged in a vehement squabble over some evidential details. "But I can say this-" Sara lowered her voice, indicating that she didn't wish to pursue the conversation in front of any of the others. "It's more than just his reputation, and more than just scientific curiosity. It's something old and deep. He's a very deep man, your friend Dr. Kreizler."

With that Sara drifted off to the kitchen to make herself some tea, and I was dragged into the Isaacsons' argument.

Thus did we pa.s.s most of April, with the weather warming up, small pieces of information slowly but steadily falling into place, and questions about each other opening wider without being openly addressed. There would be time to explore such matters later, I kept telling myself-for now the work was what mattered, the job at hand, on which depended who knew how many lives. Focus was the key-focus and preparation, readiness to meet whatever could be hatched from the mind of the man we sought. I took this att.i.tude confidently, feeling, after viewing two of his victims, that I'd seen the worst he had to offer.

But an incident that occurred at the end of the month presented my teammates and me with a new kind of horror, one born not of blood but of words-one that, in its own way, was as terrible as anything we'd yet encountered.

CHAPTER 20.

On a particularly pleasant Thursday evening, I was sitting at my desk reading a story in the Times Times about one Henry B. Bastian of Rock Island, Illinois, who several days earlier had killed three boys who worked on his farm, cut up their bodies, and fed the pieces to his hogs. (The citizens of the town had been unable to think of a cause for the dastardly crime; and when local law enforcement officers had closed in to arrest Bastian, he killed himself, thus eliminating any chance that the world would ever discover or study his motives.) Sara was putting in an increasingly rare appearance at Mulberry Street, and Marcus Isaacson was there, too. He frequently visited headquarters at off-hours, in order to rummage undisturbed through the anthropometry files: Marcus still held out hope that our killer might have a prior criminal record. Lucius and Kreizler, meanwhile, were wrapping up a long afternoon at the Ward's Island Lunatic Asylum, where they had been studying the phenomena of secondary personalities and brain hemisphere dysfunction, in order to determine if either pathology might characterize our killer. about one Henry B. Bastian of Rock Island, Illinois, who several days earlier had killed three boys who worked on his farm, cut up their bodies, and fed the pieces to his hogs. (The citizens of the town had been unable to think of a cause for the dastardly crime; and when local law enforcement officers had closed in to arrest Bastian, he killed himself, thus eliminating any chance that the world would ever discover or study his motives.) Sara was putting in an increasingly rare appearance at Mulberry Street, and Marcus Isaacson was there, too. He frequently visited headquarters at off-hours, in order to rummage undisturbed through the anthropometry files: Marcus still held out hope that our killer might have a prior criminal record. Lucius and Kreizler, meanwhile, were wrapping up a long afternoon at the Ward's Island Lunatic Asylum, where they had been studying the phenomena of secondary personalities and brain hemisphere dysfunction, in order to determine if either pathology might characterize our killer.

Kreizler considered such possibilities remote, to say the very least, essentially because patients afflicted with dual consciousnesses (arising from either psychic or physical trauma) did not generally exhibit the capacity for extensive planning that our killer had shown. But Laszlo was determined to chase down even the most improbable theories. Then, too, he genuinely liked such outings with Lucius, which allowed him to trade bits of his unique medical knowledge for invaluable lessons in criminal science. Thus when Kreizler telephoned at about six o'clock to say that he and the detective sergeant had finished their research, I was not entirely surprised to hear more vigor in Laszlo's voice than had been the case in recent days; and I replied with equal energy when he suggested that we meet for a drink at Brubacher's Wine Garden on Union Square, where we could compare notes on the day's activities.

I spent another half an hour on the evening papers, then wrote a note for Sara and Marcus, telling them to come along to Brubacher's and join us. After pinning the note to the front door, I s.n.a.t.c.hed a walking stick out of the Marchese Carcano's elegant ceramic stand and headed out into the warm evening, as merrily, I'll wager, as any man who's spent the day immersed in blood, mutilation, and murder has ever done.

The mood on Broadway was a festive one, the stores being open late for Thursday evening shopping. It was not yet dusk, but McCreery's was apparently still on its winter lighting schedule: the windows were bright beacons, offering what seemed certain customer satisfaction to the pa.s.sing throngs. Evening services had concluded at Grace Church, but there were still a few wors.h.i.+pers gathered outside, their light dress a testament to spring's long-awaited but irreversible arrival. With a rap of my stick against the pavement I turned north, ready to spend at least a few minutes back among the world of the living, and on my way to one of the best places to do so.

"Papa" Brubacher, a truly gemutlich gemutlich restaurateur who was always glad to see a regular customer, had a.s.sembled one of the best wine and beer cellars in New York, and the terrace of his establishment, across the street from the east side of Union Square, was an ideal place from which to watch people stroll in the park as the sun descended beyond the western terminus of Fourteenth Street. Such, however, were not the princ.i.p.al reasons why sporting gentlemen like myself frequented the place. When streetcars had first made their appearance on Broadway, some unknown conductor had gotten it into his head that if the snakelike bends that the tracks made around Union Square weren't taken at full speed the car would lose its cable. The other conductors on the line had bought into this never-proven theory, and before long the stretch of Broadway along the park had been dubbed "Dead Man's Curve," because of the frequency with which unsuspecting pedestrians and carriage riders lost life or limb to the hurtling streetcars. Brubacher's terrace provided a commanding view of all this action; and throughout warm afternoons and evenings it was customary, when one of the engines of injury was heard or seen approaching, for bets to be laid among the wine garden's customers as to the likelihood of an accident occurring. These bets could, on occasion, be sizable, and the guilt that the winners felt when a collision did take place never managed to drive the game out of existence. Indeed, the frequency of accidents, and thus the volume of gaming, had risen to such proportions that Brubacher's had earned the sobriquet "Monument House," and was now a required stop for any visitor to New York who aspired to the t.i.tle of gamesman. restaurateur who was always glad to see a regular customer, had a.s.sembled one of the best wine and beer cellars in New York, and the terrace of his establishment, across the street from the east side of Union Square, was an ideal place from which to watch people stroll in the park as the sun descended beyond the western terminus of Fourteenth Street. Such, however, were not the princ.i.p.al reasons why sporting gentlemen like myself frequented the place. When streetcars had first made their appearance on Broadway, some unknown conductor had gotten it into his head that if the snakelike bends that the tracks made around Union Square weren't taken at full speed the car would lose its cable. The other conductors on the line had bought into this never-proven theory, and before long the stretch of Broadway along the park had been dubbed "Dead Man's Curve," because of the frequency with which unsuspecting pedestrians and carriage riders lost life or limb to the hurtling streetcars. Brubacher's terrace provided a commanding view of all this action; and throughout warm afternoons and evenings it was customary, when one of the engines of injury was heard or seen approaching, for bets to be laid among the wine garden's customers as to the likelihood of an accident occurring. These bets could, on occasion, be sizable, and the guilt that the winners felt when a collision did take place never managed to drive the game out of existence. Indeed, the frequency of accidents, and thus the volume of gaming, had risen to such proportions that Brubacher's had earned the sobriquet "Monument House," and was now a required stop for any visitor to New York who aspired to the t.i.tle of gamesman.

As I crossed Fourteenth Street to the small curbed island east of Union Square that was home to Henry K. Brown's splendid equestrian statue of General Was.h.i.+ngton, I began to hear the usual shouts-"Twenty bucks the old lady doesn't make it!"; "The guy's only got one leg, he doesn't have a prayer!"-emanating from Papa Brubacher's. The call of the game sped my steps, and when I arrived I jumped the ivy-laden iron railing that ringed the terrace and nestled in with a couple of old pals of mine. After ordering a liter of smooth, dark Wurzburger that had a head as thick as whipped cream, I rose just long enough to embrace old Brubacher, then finally began to lay bets with a fury.

By the time Kreizler and Lucius Isaacson showed up, at just past seven, my friends and I had witnessed two near-misses on nannies with perambulators and one brush of a streetcar against a very expensive landau. An intense debate as to whether this latter contact const.i.tuted a collision ensued, one that I was just as glad to get away from by retreating to a relatively remote corner of the terrace with Lucius and Kreizler, who ordered a bottle of Didesheimer. The debate that I found them them engaged in, however, steeped as it was in references to brain parts and functions, proved no more entertaining. The distant sound of an approaching streetcar at last signaled a new round of betting, and I had just wagered the full contents of my billfold on the agility of a fruit peddler when I looked up to find myself face-to-face with Marcus and Sara. engaged in, however, steeped as it was in references to brain parts and functions, proved no more entertaining. The distant sound of an approaching streetcar at last signaled a new round of betting, and I had just wagered the full contents of my billfold on the agility of a fruit peddler when I looked up to find myself face-to-face with Marcus and Sara.

I was going to suggest that they get in on the action, as the fruit peddler's pushcart was particularly heavy-laden and the encounter looked to be an exciting even-money affair; but when I paused long enough to study their respective faces and att.i.tudes-Marcus's wild-eyed and agitated, Sara's pallid and stunned-I realized that something extraordinary had occurred, and put my money away.

"What in h.e.l.l's happened to you two?" I said, setting my beer stein on a table. "Sara, are you all right?"

She nodded rather weakly, and Marcus began to scan the terrace fervently, while fidgeting with his hands uncontrollably. "A telephone," he said. "John, where's a telephone?"

"Just inside the door, there. Tell Brubacher you're a friend of mine, he'll let you-"

But Marcus was already shooting away from me into the restaurant, while Kreizler and Lucius, who had broken off their conversation, stood and watched in confusion.

"Detective Sergeant," Kreizler said, as Marcus pa.s.sed. "Has there been some-"

"Excuse me, Doctor," Marcus said. "I've got to-Sara has something you ought to see." Marcus took two steps inside the open terrace doorway and grabbed the telephone, putting the little conical receiver to his ear and clicking the armrest rapidly. Brubacher looked on in surprise, but at a nod from me he let Marcus continue. "Operator? h.e.l.lo, operator?" Marcus began to stamp his right foot hard. "Operator! I need to get a line through to Toronto. Yes, that's right, Canada."

"Canada?" Lucius echoed, his own eyes going wide. "Oh, G.o.d-Alexander Macleod! Then that means-" Lucius glanced at Sara, looking as if he suddenly understood what she'd been through, and then joined his brother at the 'phone. I guided Sara over to Kreizler's table, and then she very slowly drew an envelope out of her bag.

"This arrived at the Santorellis' flat yesterday," she said, in a dry, pained voice. "Mrs. Santorelli brought it to Police Headquarters this morning. She couldn't read it and was asking for help. No one would give her any, but she refused to go home. Eventually I found her sitting out by the front steps. I translated it. At least, I translated most of it." She shoved the note into Laszlo's hand and her head dropped lower. "She didn't want to keep it, and since there's nothing anyone at headquarters can do with it, Theodore asked me to bring it along and see what you make of it, Doctor."

Lucius came back over to join us, and he and I watched anxiously as Kreizler opened the envelope. When Laszlo had glanced over its contents he drew in breath quickly though quietly, and nodded his head. "So," he noised, in a voice that seemed to say he'd been expecting something like this. Then we all sat down, and without any introduction Kreizler read the following in a very quiet voice (I have preserved the author's original spelling in this transcription): .

My dear Mrs. Santorelli, My dear Mrs. Santorelli,I don't know as it is you what is the source of the vile LIES I read in the newspapers, or if the police are behind it and the reporters are part of their scheme, but as I figger it might be you I take this occashun to straten you out:In some parts of this world such as where dirty immigrants like yourself come from it is often found that human flesh is eaten regular, as other food is so scarce and people would starve without it. I have personally read this and know it to be true. Of course it is usuly children what is eaten as they are tenderest and best tasting, especially the a.s.s of a small child.Then these people that eat it come here to America and s.h.i.+t their little children s.h.i.+t all around, which is dirty, dirtier than a Red Injun.On February 18 I seen your boy parading himself, with ashes and paint on his face. I decided to wait, and saw him several times before one night I took him away from THAT PLACE. Saucy boy, I already knew I must eat him. So we went straight to the bridge and I trussed him and did him quick. I collected his eyes and took his a.s.s and it fed me for a week, roasted with onions and carrots.But I never f.u.c.ked him, though I could have and he would have liked me to. He died unsoiled by me, and the papers ought to say so.

"There is no closing and no signature," Kreizler finished, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. "Understandably." He sat back and stared at the note on the table.

"Good Christ," I breathed, falling a few steps back and then into a chair.

"It's him, all right," Lucius said, picking up the note and scanning it. "That business about the-the b.u.t.tocks, that was never reported in any of the papers." He put the letter down and returned to Marcus, who was still bellowing the name Alexander Macleod into the telephone.

Staring blankly, Sara began to feel into the air behind her for a chair, at which Laszlo s.n.a.t.c.hed one and slipped it under her. "I couldn't translate the entire thing for the poor woman," Sara said, her voice still almost inaudible. "But I did give her the gist of it."

"You did well, Sara," Kreizler said rea.s.suringly, crouching by her, and being careful that he wasn't overheard by anyone else on the terrace. "If the killer is aware of her, it's best that she be aware of him, and of what he's thinking. But she hardly needs the details." Returning to his chair, Laszlo tapped one finger on the note. "Well, it appears that opportunity has placed a treasure trove into our hands. I suggest we make use of it."

"Make use use of it?" I said, still in some shock. "Laszlo, how can you-" of it?" I said, still in some shock. "Laszlo, how can you-"

Laszlo ignored me, and turned to Lucius. "Detective Sergeant? May I ask who your brother is attempting to contact?"

"Alexander Macleod," Lucius answered. "The best handwriting man in North America. Marcus studied with him."

"Excellent," Kreizler said. "The ideal place to begin. From such an a.n.a.lysis we can proceed into a more generalized discussion."

"Wait a minute." I stood up, trying both to keep my voice down and to prevent all the horror and revulsion I felt at the note from rus.h.i.+ng out; nevertheless, I was somewhat astounded by their att.i.tude. "We have just found out that this-this person person not only killed that boy but not only killed that boy but ate ate him, or at least part of him. Now what exactly do you expect to find out from some G.o.dd.a.m.ned handwriting expert?" him, or at least part of him. Now what exactly do you expect to find out from some G.o.dd.a.m.ned handwriting expert?"

Sara looked up, forcing herself to get a grip on it all. "No. No, they're right, John. I know it's horrible, but give yourself a minute to think."

"Indeed, Moore," Kreizler added. "The nightmare may have deepened for us, but imagine how much more it has done so for the man we seek. This note shows that his desperation has reached a new height. He may, in fact, be entering a terminal phase of self-destructive emotions-"

"What? Excuse me, Kreizler, but what what?" My heart was continuing to beat fast, and my voice trembled as I strained to keep it at a whisper. "You're still going to insist that he's sane, that he wants us to catch him? He's eating eating his victims, for G.o.d's sake!" his victims, for G.o.d's sake!"

"We don't know that," Marcus said, quietly but firmly, as he leaned out the terrace doorway and covered the telephone's mouthpiece with two fingers.

"Precisely," Kreizler declared, standing and coming round to me as Marcus began to talk into the 'phone again. "He may or may not be eating parts of his victims, John. What he most certainly is doing is telling telling us that he is eating them, knowing that such a statement can only shock us and cause us to work all the harder to find him. That is a sane action. Remember all we've learned: if he were mad he'd kill, cook the flesh, eat it, and G.o.d knows what else, without ever telling anyone-at least, not anyone he knew would go directly to the authorities with the information." Kreizler gripped my arms hard. "Just think what he's given us-not only handwriting but information, a vast amount of information to be interpreted!" us that he is eating them, knowing that such a statement can only shock us and cause us to work all the harder to find him. That is a sane action. Remember all we've learned: if he were mad he'd kill, cook the flesh, eat it, and G.o.d knows what else, without ever telling anyone-at least, not anyone he knew would go directly to the authorities with the information." Kreizler gripped my arms hard. "Just think what he's given us-not only handwriting but information, a vast amount of information to be interpreted!"

Just then Marcus yelled "Alexander!" again, but with more satisfaction this time. He smiled as he went on. "Yes, it's Marcus Isaacson, in New York. I have a rather urgent matter, and I just need to clear up one or two details..." At that Marcus lowered his voice and leaned into a corner by the doorway, his brother staying with him and straining to listen.

Marcus's telephone conversation lasted another fifteen minutes. In the meantime the note sat on the table, as gruesome and unapproachable in its own way as had been the dead bodies that the killer had left lying all over Manhattan. Indeed, in one respect it was even more frightening: for the killer, despite the ghoulish reality of his work, had thus far been little more than an imaginary patchwork of traits so far as we were concerned. But to hear his particular and bona fide voice changed everything at a shot. No longer could he be anyone anyone out there- out there-he was was him, him, the only person whose mind could plan these acts, the only person capable of speaking these words. Looking around at the shouting bettors on the terrace and then out at the pa.s.sersby on the street, I suddenly felt that I'd be much more likely now to know him if I met him. It was a new and haunting sensation, one that I had difficulty absorbing; yet even as I grappled with it, I could already sense that Kreizler was right. Whatever terrible and troubling thoughts dominated the murderer, this note could not be dismissed as a series of mad ravings-it was undeniably coherent, though just how coherent I was only on the verge of learning. the only person whose mind could plan these acts, the only person capable of speaking these words. Looking around at the shouting bettors on the terrace and then out at the pa.s.sersby on the street, I suddenly felt that I'd be much more likely now to know him if I met him. It was a new and haunting sensation, one that I had difficulty absorbing; yet even as I grappled with it, I could already sense that Kreizler was right. Whatever terrible and troubling thoughts dominated the murderer, this note could not be dismissed as a series of mad ravings-it was undeniably coherent, though just how coherent I was only on the verge of learning.

As soon as Marcus returned from the 'phone he picked up the letter, sat at the table, and studied the thing intensely for some five minutes. Then he began to make affirmative little humming noises, at which we all drew around him expectantly. Kreizler produced a notepad and a pen, ready to write down anything of value. The calls of the bettors continued to burst out every few minutes, and I shouted over to ask them to keep it down. It was a request that, ordinarily, would have produced howls of outrage and derision; but my voice must have betrayed some of the urgency of the moment, for my friends did comply. Then, in the dwindling light of that beautifully balmy spring evening, Marcus began to expound, quickly but clearly.

"There are two general areas involved in the study of handwriting," he said, his voice dry with excitement. "First, there's doc.u.ment examination, in the traditional legal sense-meaning strictly scientific a.n.a.lysis with a view toward comparison and establis.h.i.+ng authors.h.i.+p; and second, a group of techniques that are more-well, speculative. speculative. This second group isn't considered scientific, by most people, and it doesn't carry much weight in court. But we've found it very useful in several investigations." Marcus glanced at Lucius, who nodded without speaking. "So-let's start with the basics." This second group isn't considered scientific, by most people, and it doesn't carry much weight in court. But we've found it very useful in several investigations." Marcus glanced at Lucius, who nodded without speaking. "So-let's start with the basics."

Marcus paused long enough to order a tall gla.s.s of Pilsener to keep his throat from drying up, then continued: "The man-and the attack of the pen in this case is undoubtedly masculine-who wrote this note had at least several years of schooling that entailed penmans.h.i.+p. This schooling occurred in the United States, no more recently than fifteen years ago." I could not help a befuddled look, to which Marcus explained, "There are clear signs that he was trained, hard and regularly, in the Palmer system of penmans.h.i.+p. Now, the Palmer system was introduced in 1880, and was quickly taken up by schools all over the country. It remained what you might call dominant until just last year, when it began to be replaced in the East and in some big western cities by the Zaner-Blosser method. a.s.suming that our killer's primary education ended at no later than age fifteen, he can't now be any older than thirty-one."