The Alienist - Caleb Carr [250]
Laszlo then launched into a fast, condensed, yet calmly worded review of Beecham’s life, beginning with his childhood as Japheth Dury and going into some detail concerning the murder of his parents. As Beecham answered these queries, all the while confirming more and more of the hypotheses that we’d formulated during our investigation, his tone became increasingly weak and helpless, as if in the presence of this man who somehow knew him as well as he knew himself there was no choice other than complete submission. For his part, Kreizler became ever more satisfied by Beecham’s earnest attempts to cooperate with his inquisition, finding in them proof positive that a hidden yet still strong part of the murderer’s mind had indeed craved this moment.
I suppose that I, too, should have been deeply gratified at the results of this initial interview; yet as I watched Beecham answer Laszlo’s questions—his voice growing ever more compliant and even childish, with none of the threatening, arrogant tone he’d used when we were his prisoners—I became powerfully irritated, disturbed at the very core of my spirit. This irritation soon became outrage, as if this man had no right to exhibit any pitiable human qualities in light of all he’d done. Who was this enormous grotesque, I thought, to sit there confessing and sniveling like one of the children he’d slaughtered? Where was all the violence, cruelty, arrogance, and unstoppability that he’d displayed on other nights? As these and similar questions shot through my head, my anger mounted rapidly, until suddenly, unable to contain the feeling any longer, I stood up straight and bellowed:
“Shut up! Shut the hell up, you miserable coward!”
Both Beecham and Laszlo immediately grew silent and looked up at me in shock. Beecham’s facial spasms intensified dramatically as he eyed the Colt in my hand, while Laszlo’s attitude soon changed from one of stunned surprise to chastising comprehension.
“All right, Moore,” he said, not asking for an explanation. “Go and wait inside with the boy, then.”
“And leave you with him?” I said, my voice still trembling with anger and passion. “Are you insane? Look at him, Kreizler—this is him, this is the man who’s responsible for all the blood we’ve seen! And you sit here letting him convince you that he’s some kind of—”
“John!” Kreizler said, stopping me. “All right. Go and wait for me inside.”
I looked past Kreizler at Beecham. “Well? What are you trying to convince him of?” I leaned down, keeping the Colt pointed at Beecham’s head. “Figure you can still get out of it, don’t you?”
“Damn it, Moore!” Kreizler said, grabbing my wrist but unable to make me move the gun away. “Stop!”
I drew closer to Beecham’s spasming face. “My friend thinks that if you aren’t afraid to die it’s proof that you’re crazy,” I seethed. With Laszlo still trying to disarm me, I shoved the barrel of the revolver up against Beecham’s throat. “Are you afraid to die—are you? To die, like the boys you—”
“Moore!” Kreizler shouted again.
But I was far past listening. Struggling to get my thumb on the hammer of the Colt, I pulled it back in a jerk, causing Beecham to let out a desperate little cry and then pull back from me like a trapped animal. “No,” I seethed at him. “No, you’re not crazy—you are afraid to die!”
With stunning suddenness, the air all around us was consumed by a gunshot. A resonant, slapping sort of impact sounded from somewhere just under my hand, and then Beecham rocked backward in a jerk, revealing a crimson-black hole in