The Alienist - Caleb Carr [108]
“But—watching us? Why?”
“Vanity, perhaps,” Laszlo answered. “Desperation, as well.”
I was dumbfounded. “You say you’ve suspected all along?”
Kreizler nodded as we began to follow the others. “Since we found that bloodstained rag in the calash on the very first day. The torn page that was wrapped up in it was—”
“Was an article of yours,” I said quickly. “Or so I guessed.”
“Yes,” Laszlo answered. “The killer must have been observing the bridge anchor at the time I was called to the scene. I suspect that the page was his way of acknowledging me, somehow. And mocking me, too.”
“But how can you be sure it was definitely the killer who left it?” I asked, looking for a way to avoid the harrowing conclusion that we had been, at least intermittently, under the scrutiny of a murderer.
“The rag,” Kreizler explained. “Though bloodied and soiled, the material bore a striking resemblance to that of the Santorelli boy’s chemise—which, if you recall, was missing a sleeve.”
Ahead of us, Sara had begun to look over her shoulder inquisitively, prompting Laszlo to pick up his pace. “Remember, Moore,” he said. “Not a word to the rest of them.”
Kreizler rushed up to Sara, leaving me to steal one more very nervous glance at the dark expanse of Union Square Park across Fourth Avenue.
The stakes, as they say, were rising.
CHAPTER 21
* * *
First of all,” Kreizler announced, as we came into our headquarters that night and began to settle ourselves at our desks, “I think we can finally dispense with one lingering uncertainty.” At the top right-hand corner of the chalkboard, under the ASPECTS OF THE CRIMES heading, sat the word ALONE, with a question mark after it—a question mark that Laszlo now removed. We were already relatively certain that our killer had no accomplices: no pair or team of confederates, we’d reasoned, could have engaged in such behavior for a period of years without some one of them revealing it. During the initial phase of the investigation the only catch to this theory had been the question of how one man on his own could have negotiated the walls and rooftops of the various disorderly houses and murder sites; Marcus, however, had taken care of that problem. Thus, while the use of the pronoun “I” in the letter was not conclusive in and of itself, it seemed, when taken in conjunction with these other facts, definitive evidence that a solitary man was at work.
We all nodded assent to this reasoning, and Kreizler went on: “Now, then—to the salutation. Why ‘My dear Mrs. Santorelli’?”
“Could be habit of form,” Marcus answered. “It would be consistent with his schooling.”
“‘My dear’?” Sara queried. “Wouldn’t schoolchildren learn just ‘dear’?”
“Sara’s right,” said Lucius. “It’s overly affectionate and informal. He knows his letter is going to devastate the woman, and he’s enjoying it. He’s playing with her, sadistically.”
“Agreed,” Kreizler said, underlining the word SADISM, which was already written on the right-hand side of the board.
“And I’d like to point out, Doctor,” Lucius added with conviction, “that this further demonstrates the nature of his hunting.” (Lucius had lately become firmly convinced that our killer’s apparent anatomical knowledge arose from his being an accomplished hunter, because of the stalking nature of many of his activities.) “We’ve already dealt with the blood-lust aspect—but the toying confirms something else, something beyond even blood-crazed hunting. It’s a sporting mentality.”
Laszlo weighed it.