The Alienist - Caleb Carr [154]
“The western tribes haven’t had contact with a very flattering cross section of white society, Mr. Moore,” Wissler agreed. “And then there are miscommunications that back up those original impressions. When the Sioux leader Sitting Bull was dining with some white men several years back, for example, he was served pork—which he, never having seen such meat, but having heard the story of the Donner party, immediately assumed was white human flesh. That’s the unfortunate way in which cultures get to know each other, generally.”
“What of the other differences?” Kreizler asked.
“Well, there’s the stuffing of the genitals into the mouth—that’s gratuitous, in a way that wouldn’t make sense to the Sioux. You’ve emasculated the man’s spirit already. Stuffing the genitals into his mouth isn’t going to serve any practical purpose. But most of all, there’s the fact that these victims are children. Kids.”
“Now, wait a minute,” I said. “Indian tribes have massacred children, we know that.”
“True,” Wissler agreed. “But they wouldn’t commit this kind of ritual mutilation against them. At least, no self-respecting Sioux would. These mutilations are carried out against enemies that they want to make sure never find the spirit land, or can’t enjoy it when they get there. To do this to a child—well, it would be admitting that you considered the child a threat. An equal. It’d be cowardly, and the Sioux are very touchy about cowardice.”
“Let me ask you this, Dr. Wissler,” Kreizler said, having glanced over his notes. “Would the behavior we’ve described to you be consistent with someone who had witnessed Indian mutilations but was too ignorant of their cultural meaning to interpret them as anything more than savagery? And who, in imitating them, might think that more savagery will make his actions look more like an Indian’s?”
Wissler weighed the idea and nodded, knocking burnt tobacco from his pipe. “Yes. Yes, that’d be about how I’d see it, Dr. Kreizler.”
And then Laszlo got that look in his eyes, the one that said we had to get out, get into a cab, and get back to our headquarters. He pled pressing business to Wissler, who very much wanted to talk further, and promised to return for another visit soon. Then he bolted for the door, leaving me to apologize more fully for the abrupt departure—which, not surprisingly, Wissler didn’t seem to mind at all. Scientists’ minds may jump around like amorous toads, but they do seem to accept such behavior in one another.
By the time I caught up to Kreizler on the street, he’d already flagged down a hansom and gotten into it. Thinking there was a good chance he’d leave me behind if I didn’t hurry, I dashed to the curb and leapt in, closing the doors on our legs.
“Number 808 Broadway, driver!” Laszlo shouted, and then he began to wave his fist. “Do you see, Moore? Do you see? He’s been out there, our man, he’s witnessed it! He defines such behavior as horrible and dirty—‘dirty as a Red Indian’—yet he also considers himself full of filth. He combats those feelings with anger and violence—but when he kills, he only sinks further down, down to a level he despises even more, down to the lowest, most animal behavior he can imagine—modeled on that of Indians, but, in his mind, even more Indian than an Indian.”
“He’s been on the frontier, then,” was what it all meant to me.
“He must have been,” Laszlo answered. “Either as a child or as a soldier—hopefully we can clear that up through our Washington inquiries. I tell you, John, we may have blundered last night, but today we’re closer!”
CHAPTER 29
* * *
Closer we may have been, but we were not, sadly, as close as Laszlo hoped. Sara and Lucius, we learned on returning to our headquarters, had been unable to get anywhere with the War Department, despite Theodore’s contacts. All information relating to soldiers hospitalized or dismissed from service for reasons of mental distress was confidential and could not