The Alienist - Caleb Carr [39]
“We were relatively lucky,” Lucius added. “Our sister’s name is Cordelia.”
“You see,” Marcus continued, “they were learning English by studying Shakespeare. When I was born they’d just started, with Julius Caesar. A year later, they were still on it, and my brother came. But by the time our sister arrived, two years after that, they were making progress, and had gotten to King Lear—”
“I’ve no doubt, gentlemen,” Kreizler finished for him, ever more concerned and treating them fully to the arched eyebrows and the predatory gaze. “Interesting though that may be, what I had intended to ask was how you arrived at your areas of specialization, and what led you to the police force.”
Lucius sighed, looking up. “Nobody wants to hear how we got our names, Marcus,” he mumbled. “I’ve told you that.”
Marcus’s face went a little red with anger and then he addressed Kreizler with deliberate seriousness, sensing the meeting wasn’t going well. “Well, you see, Doctor, it was our parents again, though I do understand that it may not be a particularly interesting explanation. My mother wanted me to be a lawyer, and my brother—the detective sergeant here—he was supposed to be a doctor. It didn’t work out. We’d started reading Wilkie Collins when we were boys, and had pretty well decided by the time we went to college that we wanted to be detectives.”
“Law and medical training were useful, at first,” Lucius continued, “but then we moved on and did some work for the Pinkertons. It wasn’t until Commissioner Roosevelt took over the department that we actually got a chance to join the police. I suppose you’ve heard that his hiring practices are a bit…unorthodox.”
I knew what he was referring to, and later explained it to Laszlo. Besides investigating nearly every officer and detective in the Police Department, and thus prompting many to resign, Roosevelt had made a point of hiring unlikely new recruits, in an effort to break the hold that the clique headed by Thomas Byrnes and such precinct heads as “Clubber” Williams and “Big Bill” Devery had on the force. Theodore was especially fond of bringing in Jews, whom he considered exceptionally honest and brave, referring to them as “Maccabean warriors for justice.” The Isaacson brothers were apparently representative of this effort, though “warriors” was not the first word that came to mind on meeting them.
“I take it,” Lucius ventured hopefully, wanting to get off the subject of their backgrounds, “that you want some help with this exhumation?” He indicated the two tables.
Kreizler studied him. “How did you know it’s an exhumation?”
“The smell, Doctor. It’s very distinct. And the positions of the bodies indicate a formal burial, not a random interment.”
Kreizler liked that, and brightened a bit. “Yes, Detective Sergeant, you have presumed correctly.” He moved over and whipped the sheets off the tables, at which point the stench was complemented by the rather disturbing sight of two small skeletons, one draped in a decaying black suit and the other in an equally decrepit white dress. Some bones were still connected, but many had come free of one another, and there were bits of hair and nails, along with spatterings of dirt, all over them. I tightened up and tried not to look away: this sort of thing was going to be my fate for a while, and I figured that I’d better get used to it. But the grisly grimaces of the two skulls spoke eloquently of the unnatural way in which the two children had died, and it was hard to continue examining them.
The Isaacson brothers’ faces displayed nothing but fascination as they approached the tables and listened to Laszlo: “Brother and sister, Benjamin and Sofia Zweig. Murdered. Their bodies found—”
“In a water tower,” Marcus said. “Three years ago. The case is still officially open.”
This, too, pleased Kreizler. “Over here,” he continued, indicating a small white table in the corner that was piled with clippings and documents, “you’ll find all the information concerning the case that I’ve been able