The Alienist - Caleb Carr [77]
Kreizler considered that for a moment. “How many men would be capable of it, Detective Sergeant?”
Lucius shrugged. “We’ve got several options as I see it. A doctor, of course, or at least someone with more than cursory medical training. A skilled butcher, possibly—or perhaps a very practiced hunter. Someone accustomed to making full use of a carcass, who would know not only how to dress the principal meat sections but the secondary sources of food, as well—the eyes, innards, feet, and the rest.”
“But if he’s so careful,” Theodore asked, “why commit these atrocities in the open? Why not go to a more hidden place?”
“The display,” Kreizler answered, walking back to us. “The thought that he’s in a publicly accessible spot seems to mean a great deal to him.”
I said, “The desire to be caught?”
Kreizler nodded. “So it would appear. Dueling with the desire to escape.” He turned to look out over the harbor. “And there are other aspects that these sites have in common…”
Just then we got a loud shout from Marcus telling us to pull him up. On Theodore’s count we gave out with several long, laborious heaves, bringing Marcus quickly back to the rooftop. To Kreizler’s questions about what he’d found, Marcus replied that he didn’t wish to speculate until he was fairly certain of his theory; he then moved off to make a few notes, as Lucius called out:
“Dr. Kreizler? I’d like you to look at this.”
Kreizler went immediately over to the body, but Theodore and I moved with more trepidation—there was only so much of it the untrained eye could take. Even Sara, who had started out so bravely, was now averting her eyes whenever possible, the prolonged exposure apparently exacting quite an emotional toll.
“When you examined Giorgio Santorelli, Doctor,” Lucius said, as he removed the short length of twine that bound the dead boy’s wrists, “do you remember finding any abrasions or lacerations in this area?” He held up the victim’s left hand, indicating its base.
“No,” Kreizler answered simply. “Other than the severing of the right hand there was nothing appreciable.”
“And no lacerations or bruising of the forearm?” Lucius inquired.
“None.”
“Yes. It would support what we’ve already hypothesized.” Lucius let the dead arm drop, then mopped his brow. “That’s fairly coarse twine,” he continued, pointing first at the bit of cord on the rooftop, and then at the boy’s wrist again. “Even during a brief struggle it should have left significant marks.”
Sara looked from the twine to Lucius. “Then—there was no struggle?” And in the way she said it there was real sadness, sadness that reverberated heavily in my chest—for the implication was obvious. Lucius went on to state it:
“It’s my suspicion that the boy allowed himself to be tied, and that even during strangulation, he made very little attempt to fight against the murderer. He may not have been fully aware of what was happening. You see, if there’d been an attack and actual resistance, we’d also find cuts or at least bruises on the forearms, made when the boy tried to fend the assault off. But again, there’s nothing. So…” Lucius glanced up at us. “I’d say the boy knew the killer. They may even have engaged in this kind of binding on other occasions. For…sexual purposes, in all likelihood.”
Theodore sucked air sharply. “Good lord…”
Watching Sara’s face again, I saw a glint in the corners of her eyes: welling tears that she blinked away quickly.
“That last part’s just a theory, of course,” Lucius added. “But I feel very confident in saying the boy knew him.”
Kreizler nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing and his voice going soft: “Knew him—and trusted him.”
Lucius finally stood and turned away from the body. “Yes,” he said, switching the worklamp