The Alienist - Caleb Carr [206]
Neither Sara nor I could offer any answer to the question. For several minutes the three of us just sat in silence; and then, from outside, we heard Alice shout vehemently:
“I don’t care if he is a Strix varia varia, Theodore Roosevelt, Junior! He’s not going to eat my snake!”
That brought quiet laughter from those of us in the study, and got us back to the business at hand.
“So,” Theodore said, with another pound of another book on his desk. “The investigation. Tell me this—now that we have a name and an approximate description, why not make it a standard manhunt and let my men turn the city upside down?”
“And do what when they find him?” Sara replied. “Make an arrest? With what evidence?”
“He’s been a lot smarter than that,” I agreed. “We’ve got no witnesses, and no evidence that would be admissible in court. Speculations, fingerprints, an unsigned note—”
“Which shows at least several signs of deceptive script,” Sara threw in.
“And God knows what he’ll do if he’s captured and then released,” I went on. “No, the Isaacsons have said from the beginning that this is going to have to be a flagrante delicto case—we’ll have to catch him at it.”
Theodore accepted all this with several slow nods. “Well,” he eventually said, “I fear that presents us with a new set of challenges. Kreizler’s departure from the investigation, you may be surprised to learn, won’t make things any easier for me. Mayor Strong has learned of the rigor with which I’ve been searching for Connor, and why. He views that search as another way in which this department might be connected to Kreizler, and has asked that I not jeopardize my position by letting my personal relationship with the doctor make me overly aggressive. He’s also heard rumors that the Isaacson brothers are pursuing an independent investigation of the boy-whore murders, and he’s ordered me not only to stop them, if the rumors are true, but to proceed with great caution regarding the case generally. You probably haven’t heard about the trouble last night.”
“Last night?” I said.
Roosevelt nodded. “There was some sort of a gathering in the Eleventh Ward, supposedly to protest the handling of the murders. The organizers were a group of Germans, and they claimed it was a political event—but there was enough whiskey in evidence to float a small ship.”
“Kelly?” Sara asked.
“Perhaps,” Roosevelt answered. “What’s certain is that they were on their way to getting well out of hand before they were broken up. The political implications of this case are growing more serious every day—and Mayor Strong has, I fear, reached that deplorable