The Alienist - Caleb Carr [180]
Dury’s thin eyes went even thinner. “The case was none of their affair.”
“True. But my editors are concerned with the fact that so many noteworthy cases are never pursued or solved by law enforcement agencies throughout the state of New York. We’ve decided to review several and see what’s happened in the years since their occurrence. I wonder if you’d mind just going over the basic facts of your parents’ death with us?”
All the features of Dury’s face seemed to shift and resettle in a kind of wave, as if a shudder of pain had rippled through him quickly. When he spoke again, the tone of distrust had vanished from his voice, to be replaced only by resignation and sorrow. “Who could have any interest now? It’s been more than fifteen years.”
I attempted sympathy, as well as moral indignation: “Does time justify the lack of a solution, Mr. Dury? And you are not alone, remember—others have seen murderous acts go unsolved and unavenged, and they’d like to know why.”
Dury weighed the matter for another moment, then shook his head. “That’s their business. I’ve got no desire to talk about it.”
He began to move away; knowing New Englanders as well as I did, however, I’d anticipated this reaction. “There would, of course,” I announced calmly, “be a fee.”
That got him: he paused, turned, and eyed me again. “Fee?”
I gave him a friendly smile. “A consulting fee,” I said. “Nothing excessive, mind you—say, one hundred dollars?”
Aware that such a sum would, in fact, mean a great deal to a man in his straits, I was not surprised to see Dury’s almond eyes jump. “One hundred dollars?” he echoed in quiet disbelief. “For talking?”
“That’s right, sir,” I answered, producing the sum from my billfold.
Thinking it all over just a bit more, Dury finally took the money. Then he turned to his horse, swatted its rump, and sent it off to graze on a few patches of grass that grew near the edge of the yard. “We’ll talk in the barn,” he said. “I’ve got work to do, and I can’t ignore it for the sake of”—he took heavy steps away from us through the sea of manure—“ghost stories.”
Kreizler and I followed, much relieved at the apparent success of the bribe. Concern returned, however, when Dury spun round at the barn door.
“Just a minute,” he said. “You say this man’s a doctor? What’s his interest?”
“I make a study of criminal behavior, Mr. Dury,” Laszlo answered smoothly, “as well as of police methods. Mr. Moore has asked me to provide expert advice for his article.”
Dury accepted that, though it seemed that he didn’t much like Kreizler’s accent. “You’re German,” he said. “Or maybe Swiss.”
“My father was German,” Kreizler answered. “But I was raised in this country.”
Dury seemed ill satisfied by Kreizler’s explanation, and silently walked on into the barn.
Inside that creaky structure the stench of manure grew stronger, softened only by the sweet aroma of hay, a store of which was visible in the loft above us. The bare plank walls of the building had once been whitewashed, but most of the paint had fallen away to reveal roughly grained wood. A chicken coop was visible through one four-foot doorway, the gurgles and clucks of its occupants floating out toward us. Harnesses, scythes, shovels, picks, mauls, and buckets were everywhere, hanging from the walls and the low roof or lying on the earthen floor. Dury went directly over to a very old manure spreader, the axle of which was propped up on a pile of rocks. Taking up a mallet and slamming away at the wheel that faced us, our host eventually forced it from its mount. Dury then hissed in disgust and began to fuss with the end of the axle.
“All right,” he said, grabbing a bucket of heavy grease and never looking our way. “Ask your questions.”
Kreizler nodded to me, indicating that it might be best if I took the lead in the questioning. “We’ve read the newspaper accounts that appeared at the time,” I said. “I wonder if you might tell us—”
“Newspaper accounts!” Dury grunted. “I suppose you’ve also read, then, that the fools