The Alienist - Caleb Carr [74]
We climbed an old staircase in one wall of the fort, eventually emerging above the shell that had been built over the old ramparts to cover the formerly open central yard. A decagonal turret with two windows in each face stood at the center of the roof, which offered a commanding view of New York harbor and Bartholdi’s still-new statue of Lady Liberty out on Bedloe’s Island.
Near the edge of the roof closest to the waterfront were Roosevelt, Kreizler, and Lucius Isaacson. Next to them stood a large, boxy camera on a wooden tripod, and lying in front of the camera, bathed in the light of another worklamp, was the cause of our coming together. The blood was visible even from a distance.
Lucius’s attention was fixed on the body, but Kreizler and Roosevelt were facing away and talking very heatedly. When Kreizler saw us emerge from the staircase he came directly over, Roosevelt following behind and shaking his head. Marcus moved to the camera as Laszlo addressed Sara and me.
“Based on the condition of the body,” Kreizler said, “there would seem to be little doubt. It’s our man’s work.”
“A roundsman from the Twenty-seventh Precinct was first on the scene,” Theodore added. “He says he can remember seeing the boy regularly at the Golden Rule, though he doesn’t recall any name.” (The Golden Rule Pleasure Club was a disorderly house on West Fourth Street that specialized in boy-whores.)
Kreizler put his hands on Sara’s shoulders. “It’s not an easy sight, Sara.”
She nodded. “I didn’t expect it to be.”
Laszlo studied her reactions carefully. “I’d like you to assist the detective sergeant with his postmortem—he’s aware of your training as a nurse. It won’t be long before the precinct investigators arrive, and there’s much for each of us to do before then.”
Sara nodded again, breathed once deeply, and moved toward Lucius and the body. Kreizler began to speak to me, but I put him off for a moment and trailed a few steps behind Sara as she moved toward the glowing hemisphere of electric light in the corner of the rooftop.
The body was that of an olive-skinned boy, with delicate Semitic features and thick black hair on the right side of his head. On the left side, a large section of scalp had been torn away, revealing the slick surface of the skull. Other than that, the mutilations seemed to be identical to those that had marked Giorgio Santorelli (except that the injuries to the buttocks had not been repeated): the eyes were missing, the genitals had been cut off and stuffed in the mouth, the torso was crisscrossed by deep lacerations, the wrists were bound, and the right hand had been severed and apparently removed from the scene. As Kreizler had said, there seemed little doubt about who was responsible. It was all as distinctive as a signature. That same terrible sense of pathos that I’d felt on the Williamsburg Bridge anchor—prompted not only by the age of the victim but as well by the cruel way in which the body was trussed and pushed to the ground—returned to steal my breath and rattle what seemed every bone in my body.
I watched Sara carefully without moving closer, ready to assist if she should be overcome, but not wishing her to think that I expected her to be. Her eyes, as they took in the sight, went wide and her head shook, quickly and quite visibly. She clasped her hands together tightly, took another deep breath, and then stood by Lucius.
“Detective Sergeant?” she said. “Dr. Kreizler says I’m to assist you.”
Lucius looked up, impressed at Sara’s composure, and then wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Yes. Thank you, Miss Howard. We’ll begin with the injury to the scalp…”
I headed back to Kreizler and Roosevelt. “That’s one gutsy girl,” I said with a shake of my head, but neither of them acknowledged the remark.
Kreizler slapped a newspaper on my chest and spoke bitterly. “Your friend Steffens has written quite an article for the morning edition of the Post, John. How, how could anyone be so stupid?”
“There’s no excuse,” Roosevelt said