The Alienist - Caleb Carr [19]
Riis came huffing up behind Steffens, his hulking Danish frame not so lithe as that of the much younger Steffens. “Doctor,” he said, to which Kreizler only nodded. He had a positive dislike for Riis; the Dane’s pioneering work in revealing the evils of tenement life—most notably through his collection of essays and pictures called How the Other Half Lives—did not change the fact that he was a strident moralist and something of a bigot, so far as Kreizler was concerned. And I have to admit, I often saw Laszlo’s point. “Moore,” Riis went on, “Roosevelt has just thrown us out of his office, saying he is expecting the both of you for an important consultation—some very strange game is being played here, I think!”
“Don’t listen to him,” Steffens said with another laugh. “His pride’s bruised. It seems that there’s been another murder which, because of our friend Riis’s personal beliefs, will never make the pages of the Evening Sun—we’ve all been riding him rather shamelessly, I’m afraid!”
“Steffens, by God, if you keep at me—” Riis balled up a healthy Scandinavian hand and waved the fist in Steffens’s direction as he kept breathing hard and jogging along, trying to keep up with the still-rolling carriage. As Cyrus reined the gelding to a halt outside headquarters, Steffens jumped down.
“Come now, Jake, no threats!” he said good-naturedly. “This is all in fun!”
“What in hell are you two talking about?” I said, as Kreizler, trying to ignore the scene, stepped from the carriage.
“Now, don’t play stupid,” Steffens answered. “You’ve seen the body, and so has Dr. Kreizler—we know that much. But unfortunately, since Jake chooses to deny the reality of both boy-whores and the houses in which they work, he can’t report the story!”
Riis huffed again, his big face getting redder. “Steffens, I’ll teach you—”
“And since we know your editors won’t print such seamy stuff, John,” Steffens went on, “I’m afraid that leaves the Post—how about it, Dr. Kreizler? Care to give the details to the only paper in town that’ll print them?”
Kreizler’s mouth curled into a slight smile that was neither gentle nor amused, but somehow deprecating. “The only, Steffens? What about the World, or the Journal?”
“Ah, I should have been more precise—the only respectable paper in town that will print them.”
Kreizler only ran his eyes up and down Steffens’s lanky figure. “Respectable,” he echoed with a shake of his head, and then he was going up the stairs.
“Say what you like, Doctor,” Steffens called after him, still smiling, “but you’ll get a fairer shake from us than from Hearst or Pulitzer!” Kreizler did not acknowledge the comment. “We understand you examined the killer this morning,” Steffens pressed. “Would you at least talk about that?”
Pausing at the door, Kreizler turned. “The man I examined was indeed a killer. But he has nothing to do with the Santorelli boy.”
“Really? Well, you might want to let Detective Sergeant Connor know that. He’s been telling us all morning that Wolff got crazed for blood by shooting the little girl and went out looking for another victim.”
“What?” Genuine alarm was in Kreizler’s face. “No—no, he mustn’t—it is absolutely vital that he not do that!”
Laszlo bolted inside just as Steffens made a final attempt to get him to talk. With his quarry now gone, my colleague from the Evening Post put his free hand to his hip, his smile shrinking just a bit. “You know, John—that man’s attitude doesn’t win him many admirers.”
“It’s not intended to,” I said, starting up the steps. Steffens grabbed my arm.
“Can’t you tell us anything, John? It’s not like Roosevelt to keep Jake and me out of police business—hell, we’re more members of the Board of Commissioners than those fools who sit with him.”
That was true: Roosevelt had often consulted both Riis and Steffens on questions of policy. Nonetheless, I could only shrug. “If I knew anything, I’d tell you, Link. They’ve kept me in the dark, too.”
“But the body, Moore,” Riis chimed in. “We have heard ungodly rumors—surely they are