The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [21]
On the waterfront near the pier was a fairly large group of people, and as we got closer I could see that a lot of them were cops, some detectives and some in uniform. There were a few sailors and longshoremen, too, and, strangely, a few young boys dressed in nothing but soaking wet pants what had been cut off at the knees. They had large sheets of canvas wrapped around their shoulders and were shivering and jumping up and down, half from the chill of the river water they’d apparently been swimming in and half from excitement. A few torches and one longshoreman’s electrical lamp lit the scene, but there was no sign as yet of the Detective Sergeants Isaacson. Which meant nothing, of course—they could easily have been at the bottom of the Hudson in diving helmets, searching for clues that the average New York detective would’ve considered useless.
Once we reached the waterfront, Cyrus pulled some money out of his billfold, stuffed it into the cabbie’s shaking hand, and said only, “Stay here,” a command that the man was in no condition to disobey. Just to make sure he didn’t bolt, though, I kept his hat and license on my head as we started to make our way through the crowd.
I let Cyrus do the talking to the cops, given that whatever little respect most New York City cops had for blacks, they had even less for me. I’d already spotted one or two officers that I’d crossed paths with during the years I’d been known as “the Stevepipe” and had been, I’ll admit, justifiably infamous around Mulberry Street. When Cyrus inquired after the Isaacsons, he was what you might call reluctantly directed toward whatever business was taking place at the center of the crowd, to a cry of “Nigger to see the Jew boys!” We shoved our way forward.
I hadn’t seen the detective sergeants in a few months, but it would’ve been impossible to imagine them in a more typical setting. On the concrete embankment of the waterfront, they were hunched over a wide piece of bright red oilcloth. The tall, handsome Marcus, with his full head of curly dark hair and big, noble nose, had a tape measure and some steel gauging instruments out, and he was busily recording the dimensions of some still unrecognizable object underneath him. His younger brother Lucius, shorter and stouter, with thinning hair what in spots revealed an always-sweating scalp, was poking around with what looked like the kind of medical instruments Dr. Kreizler kept in his examination room. They were being watched over by a captain I recognized—Hogan was his name, and he was shaking his head the way all the old guard did when faced with the work of the Isaacsons.
“There ain’t enough of it to make any sense of,” Captain Hogan said with a laugh. “We’ll be better off dragging the river to see if we can’t find something that might tell us a little more—like, for instance, maybe a head.” The cops around him joined in the laughter. “That thing ought to go straight to the morgue—though I don’t know what even the morgue boys’d do with it.”
“There are a lot of important clues in what we have here,” Marcus answered without turning, his voice deep and confident. “We can at least get an idea of how it was done.”
“And transferring it from the scene will only result in the usual damage to additional evidence,” Lucius tacked on, his voice quick and agitated. “So if you’ll just be good enough to keep these people back and let us finish, Captain Hogan, there’ll be time enough for you to make your delivery to the charnel house.”
Hogan laughed again and turned away. “You Jew boys. Always thinkin’. Okay, folks, step back, now, let’s let the experts do their job.”
As Hogan glanced our way, I pulled the top hat down over my eyes in the continuing hope of not being recognized, while Cyrus approached him. “Sir,” he said, with far more respect than I knew he felt, “I have a very important personal