The Alienist - Caleb Carr [152]
“Downstairs, Dr. Boas,” came a reply. “They’re installing the Blackfoot exhibit.”
“Ah.” Boas returned to his desk. “Good. That exhibit’s already late getting in place. You’ll have to talk to him down there. Don’t be deceived by his youth, Kreizler. He’s come a long way in just a few years, and seen a great deal.” Boas’s tone softened as he came around to Laszlo and extended his hand again. “Much like some other distinguished experts I’ve known.”
The two men smiled at each other briefly, but Boas’s face went straight with suspicion once more as he shook my hand and then showed us out of his office.
After trotting quickly downstairs, we passed back through the hall that contained the large canoe, then asked a guard for directions. He indicated another exhibition room, the door of which was locked. Kreizler rapped on it a few times, but there was no response. We could hear banging and voices within, and then a series of wild, rather chilling whoops and cries such as one might indeed have heard on the western frontier.
“Good God,” I said, “they’re not going to put live Indians on display, are they?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Moore.” Kreizler pounded on the door again, and finally it opened.
Facing us was a curly-haired young man of about twenty-five with a small mustache, a cherub’s face, and dancing blue eyes. He wore a vest and tie, and a very professional pipe was sticking out of his mouth; but on his head was an enormous and rather frightening war bonnet, composed of what I assumed were eagle’s feathers.
“Yes?” the young man said, with a very engaging grin. “Can I help you?”
“Dr. Wissler?” Kreizler said.
“Clark Wissler, that’s right.” The man suddenly realized he was wearing the war bonnet. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said, removing it. “We’re installing an exhibit, and I’m particularly concerned about this piece. You’re—”
“My name is Laszlo Kreizler, and this is—”
“Doctor Kreizler?” Wissler said hopefully, opening the door further.
“That’s right. And this—”
“This is a real pleasure, is what this is!” Wissler held out his hand and shook Kreizler’s energetically. “An honor! I believe I’ve read everything you’ve written, Doctor—although you really ought to write more. Psychology needs more work like yours!”
As we entered the large room, which was in near-total disarray, Wissler went on in this vein, pausing only briefly to shake my hand. It seemed that he, too, had originally trained in psychology before moving on to anthropology; and even in his current work, he focused on the psychological aspects of different cultures’ value systems, as expressed through their mythologies, artwork, social structures, and the like. This was a fortunate circumstance, for after we drew away from a group of workmen and into a deserted corner of the large room to tell Wissler in confidence of our work, he expressed even stronger concern than had Boas about the potential effects of tying such abominable acts as our killer’s to any Indian culture. When Kreizler gave him the same assurances he’d given Boas, however, Wissler’s unbridled admiration for Laszlo allowed trust to flourish. The fellow reacted to our thorough description of the mutilations involved in the murders with quick and penetrating analysis, of a kind I’ve rarely heard from one so young.
“Yes, I can see why you’ve come to us,” he said. Still carrying the war bonnet, he looked around for a place to lay it, but saw only construction rubble. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but—” He slipped the bonnet back on his head. “I really must keep this clean until the display is ready. So—the mutilations you’re describing, or at least some of them, do bear a resemblance to acts that have been committed on the bodies of dead enemies by various tribes on the Great Plains—most notably the Dakota, or Sioux. There are important differences, however.”
“And we shall get to those,” Kreizler said. “But what of the similarities—why are such things done? And are they done only