The Alienist Part 15

Sara studied him for a moment, and then quietly asked, "Why do you resist so strongly the notion of a woman's active involvement in the formation?"

Laszlo suddenly rose, slammed a hand down on his desk, and shouted, "Because her role cannot have been been active, d.a.m.n it!" active, d.a.m.n it!"

Marcus, Lucius, and I froze for a moment, then exchanged uneasy glances. The rather shocking outburst, quite apart from being unwarranted, didn't even seem to make sense, given Laszlo's professional opinions. And yet it went on: "Had a woman been actively actively involved in this man's life, at any point, we would not even be here-the crimes would never have involved in this man's life, at any point, we would not even be here-the crimes would never have happened happened!" Kreizler tried to regain an even keel, but only half-succeeded. "The whole notion is absurd, there is nothing nothing in the literature to suggest it! And so I really must insist, Sara-we shall presume a record of feminine pa.s.sivity in the formation and proceed to the issue of the mutilations! in the literature to suggest it! And so I really must insist, Sara-we shall presume a record of feminine pa.s.sivity in the formation and proceed to the issue of the mutilations! Tomorrow! Tomorrow!"

As has hopefully become clear by now, Sara Howard was not the kind of woman to take such talk from any man, even one she admired and perhaps (in my opinion, at any rate) had still deeper feelings for. Her eyes went very thin at this last shot from Laszlo, and her voice was ice itself when she said: "Since you appear to have decided this issue long ago, Doctor, it seems pointless to have asked me to research the subject." I was a little worried that she'd go for the derringer, but she opted for her coat instead. "Perhaps you thought it would be an amusing way to keep me occupied," she stormed on. "But I'll tell you right now that I don't need to be amused, cajoled, or otherwise mollycoddled-by any of you!"

And with that she was out the door. The Isaacsons and I traded more perturbed looks, but there was no need to say anything. We all knew that Sara had been right and Kreizler inexplicably, pigheadedly wrong. As Laszlo sighed and collapsed into his chair, it seemed for an instant that he might realize as much himself; but he did nothing more than ask us all to leave, claiming weariness. Then he fixed his eyes on the letter before him. The rest of us fetched our things and filed out, saying goodnight to Kreizler but receiving no reply.

Had the incident sparked no repercussions, I would hardly mention it here. True, it was the first real moment of discord we'd experienced at Number 808 Broadway, but it was inevitable that there should be a few, and no doubt we all would have gotten over it soon. But this sharp exchange between Kreizler and Sara did have repercussions: illuminating repercussions that not only revealed much that was unknown, even to me, about Kreizler's past, but also lit our way toward a face-to-face encounter with one of the most disturbing criminals in the recent history of the United States.

CHAPTER 22.

We saw very little of Kreizler during the next week or so, and I later learned that he spent nearly all of that time in the city's jails and a variety of residential neighborhoods, interviewing men who'd been arrested for domestic violence as well as the wives and children who'd suffered at their hands. He came into our headquarters only once or twice, saying next to nothing but collecting notes and data with great, almost desperate determination. He never managed to apologize to Sara; but, even though the few words that pa.s.sed between them were awkward and stilted, she did find it in herself to forgive his harsh statements, which she attributed to a combination of Kreizler's increasingly emotional involvement in the case and the nervousness that we'd all begun to feel with the changing of the month. Whatever calendar our killer was using, if he followed his established pattern he would strike again soon. At the time, antic.i.p.ation of that event did seem a more than adequate explanation for Kreizler's uncharacteristic behavior; but such antic.i.p.ation, it turned out, was only part of what was driving my friend so hard.

For our part, Marcus and I decided during those first few days of May to divide the tasks we'd outlined on the night the killer's note arrived. Marcus canva.s.sed every Catholic church on the Lower East Side (as well as some outside that neighborhood) in an attempt to find anyone who might have noticed Giorgio Santorelli, while I took on the job of learning more about the two priests. After a weekend spent trying to get new details out of the man who owned the building where Ali ibn-Ghazi's father lived, however, as well as from Mrs. Santorelli and her fellow tenants (Sara once again did the interpreting), it became clear that more money had been spread around to ensure more people's silence. I was therefore forced to s.h.i.+ft my activities to the two church organizations involved. We figured that my status as a reporter for the Times Times would gain me the easiest and quickest access, in this regard, and I decided to start my inquiries at the top: with visits to the Roman Catholic archbishop of New York, Michael Corrigan, as well as the Episcopal bishop of New York, Henry Codman Potter. Both men lived in very pleasant town houses in the fifties near Madison Avenue, and I figured I could cover both interviews in one day. would gain me the easiest and quickest access, in this regard, and I decided to start my inquiries at the top: with visits to the Roman Catholic archbishop of New York, Michael Corrigan, as well as the Episcopal bishop of New York, Henry Codman Potter. Both men lived in very pleasant town houses in the fifties near Madison Avenue, and I figured I could cover both interviews in one day.

Potter came first. Although New York's Episcopals only numbered in the tens of thousands in those days, some of those tens of thousands were among the wealthiest of the city's families; and the parish reflected that fact in its luxuriously appointed churches and chapels, its extensive real estate holdings, and its heavy involvement in city affairs. Bishop Potter-often referred to as New York's "first citizen"-personally preferred the quaint villages and churches of his upstate parishes to the bustle, noise, and dirt of New York; but he knew where the Church made its money, and he did his part to expand the flock in the city. All of which is to say that Potter was a man with big things on his mind; and although I waited in his very luxurious sitting room for longer than it would've taken him to say ma.s.s, when he finally did appear he found that he could spare me only some ten minutes of his time.

I asked if he was aware that a man dressed as a priest and wearing a signet ring that bore the large red and smaller white crosses of the Episcopal Church had been going around to people who had information concerning the recent child murders and paying them large sums of money to keep quiet. If the question shocked Potter, he didn't show it: cool as a cuc.u.mber he told me that the man was undoubtedly an impostor or a lunatic or both-the Episcopal Church had no interest in interfering with any police business, certainly not a murder case. Then I inquired as to whether a signet ring like the one that had been spotted would be a particularly easy item to get hold of. He shrugged and sat back comfortably, the flesh of his neck falling down over his stiff white and black collar, and said that he had no idea how easy it would be to lay hands on such a thing. He supposed any capable jeweler could manufacture one. Obviously, I wasn't going to get anywhere with the man; but just for the h.e.l.l of it I decided to ask if he was aware of Paul Kelly's partially realized threat to stir up trouble among the immigrant communities over the issue of the murders. Potter said he was barely aware of Mr. Kelly at all, much less of any threats he might have made; being as the Episcopal Church had very few members among what Potter called the "recently arrived citizens of the city," little attention would have been paid to such matters by either himself or his subordinates. Potter concluded by suggesting that I visit Archbishop Corrigan, who had much more contact with such groups and neighborhoods. I told him that Corrigan's residence was my next stop, and was on my way.

I'll admit that I'd been in a suspicious mood even before I encountered Potter; but his very un un-churchmanlike lack of interest only made me more so. Where was any sense of concern for the victims of the crimes? Where was the pledge that if there was anything he could do, I had only to ask? Where was the head-shaking wish that the fiendish murderer be captured, and the fervent pressing of the flesh on that wish?

All these, I soon learned, were at Archbishop Corrigan's residence, behind the almost-completed magnificence of the new St. Patrick's Cathedral on Fifth Avenue between Fiftieth and Fifty-first streets. The new St. Pat's was unarguable evidence that the architect James Renwick had only been warming up when he'd designed our downtown neighbor, Grace Church. The enormous spires, archways, stained gla.s.s windows, and bra.s.s doors of St. Patrick's were on a scale, and had been executed with a speed, unheard-of even in New York. And, in good Catholic tradition, all the considerable work had been paid for not by the kind of cra.s.s business ventures that lined the coffers of the Episcopal Church, but by subscriptions from the faithful-including wave after wave of Irish, Italian, and other Catholic immigrants, whose numbers were rapidly swelling the power of a religion which, in the first days of the republic, had been frowned on by nearly all the populace.

Archbishop Corrigan was far more animated and engaging than Potter had been; a man who lives by subscriptions, I reasoned as I met him, has little choice but to be. He took me on a short tour of the cathedral, and outlined all the work that was still to be done: the Stations of the Cross needed to be installed, the Ladies' Chapel was as yet unbuilt, the chimes had to be paid for, and the spires required crowning. I began to think that he was going to ask me for a contribution; but I soon discovered that all this was just a buildup to a visit to the Catholic Orphan Society, where I was to be shown that the Church had another side. The Society was located across Fifty-first Street, in a four-story building with a pleasant front yard and plenty of well-behaved children wandering about. Corrigan took me there, he said, because he wanted me to understand the depth of the Church's commitment to lost and abandoned children in New York; they were avowedly just as important to him as the great cathedral in whose shadow the Orphan Society stood.

All of which was fine-except that I suddenly realized I hadn't asked asked him anything yet. This very pleasant, welcoming, deep-feeling fellow him anything yet. This very pleasant, welcoming, deep-feeling fellow knew knew why I was there, a fact that became especially apparent after I started putting the same questions I'd asked Potter to him. Corrigan answered as if he'd been carefully rehea.r.s.ed: Oh, yes, it was a terrible shame about those murdered boys; horrible; he couldn't imagine why anyone purporting to be a Catholic priest would be interfering (though he didn't seem very shocked by the suggestion); certainly, he would make inquiries, but he could a.s.sure me...On and on. I finally spared him any further effort by pleading a pressing engagement downtown, then caught a hansom on Fifth Avenue and headed in that direction. why I was there, a fact that became especially apparent after I started putting the same questions I'd asked Potter to him. Corrigan answered as if he'd been carefully rehea.r.s.ed: Oh, yes, it was a terrible shame about those murdered boys; horrible; he couldn't imagine why anyone purporting to be a Catholic priest would be interfering (though he didn't seem very shocked by the suggestion); certainly, he would make inquiries, but he could a.s.sure me...On and on. I finally spared him any further effort by pleading a pressing engagement downtown, then caught a hansom on Fifth Avenue and headed in that direction.

I was now sure that in recent days I hadn't developed what Dr. Krafft-Ebing called "paranoia": we were faced with some sort of a conspiracy, a deliberate effort to conceal the facts of these murders. And what reason could these distinguished gentlemen have for such an effort, I thought with mounting excitement, other than to protect themselves from scandal-the kind of scandal that would have arisen if the murderer were revealed to be one of their own?

Marcus agreed with my reasoning; and over the next couple of days we began playing devil's advocate in an effort to find flaws in the theory of a renegade priest. Nothing we could come up with, however, ruled out the core hypothesis. Perhaps it was unlikely, for example, that a priest would be an accomplished mountaineer, but it was not impossible; and as for his remark about a "Red Injun," that could have grown out of missionary experience in the West. The hunting skills might have presented a problem, insofar as Lucius had already postulated that the man had spent a lifetime lifetime hunting-but our imagined priest could easily have developed the expertise in childhood. Priests, after all, are not born such. They have parents, families, and pasts like everyone else. And hunting-but our imagined priest could easily have developed the expertise in childhood. Priests, after all, are not born such. They have parents, families, and pasts like everyone else. And that, that, finally, meant that all of Kreizler's psychological speculations could be made to fit Marcus's and my picture as well as any other. finally, meant that all of Kreizler's psychological speculations could be made to fit Marcus's and my picture as well as any other.

During the rest of the week Marcus and I looked for more details to support our work. A priest who possessed the kind of intimate knowledge of rooftops that our killer displayed would almost certainly be a.s.sociated with mission work, we reasoned, and we therefore investigated those Catholic and Episcopal agencies that dealt with the poor. Much resistance was encountered, during this pursuit, and little hard information was gleaned. But our enthusiasm was not dampened; in fact, by Friday we were feeling so confident about our theory that we decided to explain it to Sara and Lucius. They expressed some appreciation for our efforts, but also insisted on highlighting little inconsistencies that Marcus and I had played down. What about the theory of a military background, Lucius asked, which accounted for our man's ability to plot violence carefully and execute it coolly when danger was all around? Where would a priest have developed such a capacity? Perhaps, we answered, he had served as a chaplain in some part of the Army of the West. That would give us not only the military experience, but the Indian and frontier connections, as well. Lucius replied that he was not aware that chaplains were trained for combat; and anyway, Sara added, if our man had served many years on the frontier, and we already knew he was no older than thirty-one, then when had he found the time to become so intimately familiar with New York City? In childhood, we answered. If that were true, Sara continued, then we would have to accept that he did indeed come from a wealthy family, in order to explain his mountaineering and sporting expertise. All right, we said-so he was wealthy. Then there was the fact that Catholics and Protestants were working together: Wouldn't either group, Sara asked, be just as happy if the other had a murderous priest on its hands? We couldn't answer that one with anything more effective than a claim that Sara and Lucius were merely jealous of our work. They got a bit incensed at that, declaring that they were only following procedure by peppering us with objections and inconsistencies, and just to make sure we got the point, they went right on doing so.

Kreizler appeared at about five o'clock, but did not partic.i.p.ate in the debate; instead, he pulled me rather urgently aside and told me that I was to accompany him immediately to the Grand Central Depot. The fact that I hadn't had much contact with Laszlo for a number of days hadn't kept me from worrying about him, and this sudden, secretive announcement that we were going to board a train didn't ease my mind. I asked him if I needed to pack a bag, but he said no, that we were only taking a brief ride on the Hudson River Line for the purpose of conducting an interview at an inst.i.tution that was not far upstate. He'd decided to schedule the meeting for the evening, he said, because most of the inst.i.tution's senior staff would be gone, and we could come and go fairly unnoticed. That was all the detail he was prepared to provide, a fact that struck me at the time as very mysterious; knowing what I do now, however, it makes perfect sense, for had he told me exactly where we were bound and who we were scheduled to meet, I almost certainly would have refused to go.

It's less than an hour by train from the middle of Manhattan to the small town on the Hudson River named by an early Dutch trader for the Chinese city of Tsing-sing; but for visitors and prisoners alike, the trip to Sing Sing is usually divorced from real time, seeming at once the shortest and longest journey imaginable. Situated hard by the water and offering a commanding view of the Tappan Zee bluffs opposite, Sing Sing Prison (originally known as "Mount Pleasant") was opened in 1827 amid claims that it embodied the most advanced ideas in penology. And indeed, in those days when prisons were, in effect, small factories where inmates manufactured everything from combs to furniture to cut stone, prisoners did seem in many ways better-off (or at least better occupied) than they were seventy years later. True, they were beaten and tormented mercilessly in those early decades of the century, but so had they always been, and so are they still; and work, most will tell you, was preferable to "penitence," a largely idle state in which there is little to do save brood over the acts that have brought one to such a terrible place-that and plan schemes of revenge against those responsible. But prison manufacture died with the advent of organized labor, which would not tolerate wages being driven down by cheap convict workers; and for this reason more than any other, Sing Sing had degenerated, by 1896, into a horribly pointless place, where prisoners still wore their striped costumes, still obeyed the rule of silence, and still marched in lockstep, even though the jobs they'd once marched to had all but vanished.

Forbidding as the prospect of a visit to such a brutal, hopeless place was, it was overshadowed by the real apprehension I experienced when Kreizler finally told me whom we were going to see.

"I was a fool not to think of it myself," Laszlo said, as our train clacked along next to the Hudson, giving us a lovely view of sunset beyond the lush, bulging hills to the west. "Of course, it's been twenty years. But it never seemed likely, at that time, that I'd forget the fellow. I should have made the connection as soon as I saw the bodies."

"Laszlo," I said sternly, though I was pleased that he was finally becoming talkative. "Perhaps, now that you've impressed me into this miserable service, you'd care to dispense with all the mystery. Who are we going to see?"

"And I'm even more surprised that you didn't think of it, Moore," he answered, obviously a bit pleased with my discomfort. "After all, he was always one of your favorite characters."

"Who was?" was?"

The black eyes fixed themselves unwaveringly on mine. "Jesse Pomeroy."

At the mention of the name we both sat in silent apprehension, as if it alone might bring horror and mayhem into our near-empty train car; and when we spoke again, to review the case, it was in hushed tones. For while there'd been murderers more prolific than Jesse Pomeroy in our lifetimes, none was ever quite so unsettling. In 1872, Pomeroy had enticed a series of small children to remote spots near the small suburban village where he lived, then stripped and bound them and tortured them with knives and whips. He'd eventually been caught and locked up; but his behavior during incarceration was so exemplary that when his mother-long since abandoned by her husband-made an emotional appeal for parole just sixteen months after Jesse's sentence began, it was granted. Almost immediately after the release a new and even more horrifying crime occurred near the Pomeroy home: a four-year-old boy was found dead on a beach, his throat cut and the rest of his body terribly mutilated. Jesse was suspected, but evidence was lacking; several weeks later, however, the body of a missing ten-year-old girl was discovered in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Pomeroy house. The girl had also been tortured and mutilated. Jesse was arrested, and in the weeks that followed, every unsolved case in the vicinity that involved a missing child was reopened. None of them was ever tied directly to Pomeroy, but the case against him for the murder of the little girl was solid. Jesse's lawyers quite understandably decided to plead insanity for their client. The attempt, however, was doomed from the start. Pomeroy was originally condemned to hang, but the sentence was commuted to life in solitary confinement because of the villain's age: Jesse Pomeroy, you see, had been but twelve years old at the start of his terrible career; and when he was shut away forever in a lonely prison cell-one that he still inhabits as I write these words-he was only fourteen.

Kreizler had crossed paths with what the press took to calling "the boy-fiend" soon after Pomeroy's lawyers entered the plea of not guilty by reason of insanity in the summer of 1874. At the time, such pleas were judged, as they are today, according to the "M'Naghten Rule," named after an unfortunate Englishman who, in 1843, fell under the delusion that Prime Minister Robert Peel wanted to kill him. M'Naghten had tried to circ.u.mvent this fate by himself killing Peel; and though he failed to achieve that object, he did manage to murder the prime minister's secretary. He was subsequently acquitted, however, when his lawyers successfully argued that he did not understand the nature or wrongness of his act. In such manner were the floodgates of insanity opened onto the courtrooms of the world; and thirty years later, Jesse Pomeroy's defenders hired a battery of mental experts to a.s.sess their client and, hopefully, p.r.o.nounce him as mad as M'Naghten. One of these experts was a very young Dr. Laszlo Kreizler, who, along with several other alienists, found Pomeroy quite sane. The judge in the case ultimately agreed with this group, but he took special pains to say that he had found Dr. Kreizler's particular explanation of the boy-fiend's behavior arcane and quite possibly obscene.

Such a statement was not surprising, given Laszlo's heavy emphasis on Pomeroy's family life. But it was another part of Kreizler's twenty-year-old investigation, I suddenly realized as we neared Sing Sing, that was of particular significance with regard to our present purposes: Pomeroy had been born with a harelip, and during infancy had contracted a fever that left his face pockmarked and one of his eyes, even more portentously, ulcerated and lifeless. Even at the time it hadn't seemed coincidental that Pomeroy had taken special care to mutilate the eyes of his victims during his vicious outings; but at the time of his trial he'd always refused to discuss that aspect of his behavior and thus prevented any solid conclusions from being drawn.

"I don't understand, Kreizler," I said, as our train lurched to a stop at the Sing Sing station. "You say you didn't make the connection between Pomeroy and our case-so why are we here?"

"You can thank Adolf Meyer," Kreizler answered, as we stepped to the station platform and were approached by an old man in a moth-eaten cap who had a rig for hire. "I was on the telephone with him for several hours today."

"Dr. Meyer?" I asked. "How much did you tell him?"

"Everything," Kreizler answered simply. "My trust in Meyer is absolute. Even though, in certain matters, he believes I'm off course. He quite agrees with Sara, for instance, about the role of a woman in the childhood formation of our killer. In fact, that was what brought Pomeroy to mind, along with the eyes."

"The role of a woman?" We had gotten into the old man's rig and were rolling away from the station toward the prison. "Kreizler, what do you mean?"

"Never mind, John," he answered, looking out for the prison walls as the light around us began to diminish rapidly. "You'll find out soon enough, and there are things you need to know before we go inside. First of all, the warden agreed to this visit only after I offered a fairly sizable bribe, and he will not greet us personally when we arrive. Only one other man, a guard called Lasky, knows who we are and what our purpose is. He will take the money and then guide us in and out, hopefully unnoticed. Say as little as possible, and nothing to Pomeroy."

"Why not to Pomeroy? He's not an official of the prison."

"True," Laszlo answered, as the monotonous edifice of Sing Sing's thousand-cell main block appeared just ahead of us. "But although I believe Jesse can help us with the question of the mutilations, he's entirely too perverse to do so if he knows what we're up to. So, for a variety of reasons, make no mention of your name or our work at any point. I hardly need remind you"-Kreizler lowered his voice as we reached the prison's front gate-"how very many dangers inhabit this place."

CHAPTER 23.

Sing Sing's main block ran parallel to the Hudson, with several out-buildings, shops, and the two-hundred-cell women's jail running perpendicular to it and toward the riverfront. A series of tall chimneys rose out of various buildings on the grounds and completed the image of a very dreary factory, one whose princ.i.p.al product, by that point in its history, was human misery. Convicts shared cells originally designed for individual prisoners, and the little maintenance work that was done in the place was not enough to counteract the powerful forces of decrepitude: the sights and smells of decay were everywhere. Even before we pa.s.sed through the main gate, Kreizler and I could hear the monotonous sound of marching feet echoing out of the yard, and while this unhappy tramp was no longer punctuated by the crack of the cat-las.h.i.+ng had been outlawed in 1847-the ominous wooden clubs worn by the guards left no doubt about the primary method of maintaining discipline in the place.

The guard Lasky, an enormous, ill-shaved man of appropriately black temperament, eventually appeared, and after following him through the stone pathways and patchy gra.s.s borders of the yard we entered the main cell block. In one corner near the door several prisoners wearing iron and wood yokes that held their arms up and away from their bodies were being angrily berated by a group of guards, whose dark uniforms were no more tidy than our man Lasky's and whose dispositions seemed, if anything, worse. As we entered the cell block proper, a sudden shout of pain shook Kreizler and me: inside one of the little four-by-eight-foot chambers more guards were going at one prisoner with a "hummingbird," an electrical device that administered painful shocks. Both Kreizler and I had seen all this before, but familiarity did not breed acceptance. As we kept moving, I glanced at Laszlo once and saw my own reaction reflected in his face: given such a penal system, the high rate of recidivism in our society was really no mystery at all.

Jesse Pomeroy was being held all the way at the other end of the block, making it necessary for us to walk past dozens more cells full of faces that displayed an enormous range of emotions, from the deepest anguish and sorrow to the most sullen rage. As the rule of silence was enforced at all times we heard no distinct human voices, only an occasional whisper; and the echo of our own steps throughout the cell block, combined with the unceasing scrutiny of the prisoners, soon became almost maddening. When we reached the end of the building we entered a small, dank hallway that led into a tiny room with no real windows, just small c.h.i.n.ks in the stone walls near the ceiling. Jesse Pomeroy was sitting in a strange sort of wooden stall inside this room. The stall had water pipes coming out of its top, but its interior was, so far as I could tell, bone dry. After a few seconds of puzzling with it, I realized what the thing was: an infamous "ice water bath," in which particularly ill-behaved prisoners had formerly been doused with pressurized freezing water. The treatment had resulted in so many deaths from shock that it had been outlawed decades earlier. Apparently, though, no one had ever bothered to dismantle the contraption; no doubt the guards still found even the threat of such torment effective.

Pomeroy was wearing a heavy set of shackles on his wrists, and an iron "collar cap" rested on his shoulders and surrounded his head. This latter device, a grotesque punishment for particularly unruly prisoners, was a two-foot-high barred cage, and its weight, equal to that of the prisoner's head, offered unending discomfort that drove many victims to the verge of madness. Despite both the shackles and the collar cap, however, Jesse had a book in his hand and was quietly reading. When he looked up at us I took careful note of the pocked skin of his face, the ugly disfigurement of his upper lip (which was barely covered by a stringy, weak mustache), and finally his milky, repulsive left eye. It was quite apparent why we'd come.

"Well!" he said quietly, getting to his feet. Even though Jesse was in his thirties and wearing the tall cage around his head, he was short enough to be able to stand inside the old stall. A smile came onto his ugly mouth, one that displayed the peculiar blend of suspicion, surprise, and satisfaction common to convicts who receive unexpected visitors. "Dr. Kreizler, if I'm not very much mistaken."

Kreizler managed a smile that seemed quite genuine. "Jesse. It's been a long time, I'm surprised you remember me."

"Oh, I remember you, all right," Pomeroy answered, in a boyish tone that was nonetheless laced with threat. "I remember all of you." He studied Laszlo for another second, then turned suddenly to me. "But I've never seen you you before." before."

"No," Kreizler said, before I could answer. "You haven't." Laszlo turned to our guide, who was looking very put-upon. "All right, Lasky. You can wait outside." Kreizler handed him a large wad of money.

Lasky's face achieved something like a pleased look, though he only said "Yes, sir," before turning to Pomeroy. "You watch yourself, Jesse. Bad as you've had it today, it could still get worse."

Pomeroy didn't acknowledge that statement, but kept on watching Kreizler as Lasky departed. "Pretty hard to get an education in this place," Jesse said, after the door had closed. "But I'm trying. I figure maybe that's where I went wrong-no education. I taught myself Spanish, you know." He continued to sound very much like the young man he'd been twenty years ago.

Laszlo nodded. "Admirable. I see you're wearing a collar cap."

Jesse laughed. "Ahh-they claim claim I burned a guy's face with a cigarette while he was sleeping. They say I stayed up all night, making an arm out of wire just so's I could reach him with the b.u.t.t through the bars. But I ask you-" He turned my way, the milky eye floating aimlessly in his head. "Does that sound like me?" A small laugh escaped him, pleased and mischievous-again just like a young boy's. I burned a guy's face with a cigarette while he was sleeping. They say I stayed up all night, making an arm out of wire just so's I could reach him with the b.u.t.t through the bars. But I ask you-" He turned my way, the milky eye floating aimlessly in his head. "Does that sound like me?" A small laugh escaped him, pleased and mischievous-again just like a young boy's.

"I gather, then, that you've grown tired of skinning rats alive," Kreizler said. "When I was here several years ago, I heard that you'd been asking other prisoners to catch them for you."

Still another chuckle, this one almost embarra.s.sed. "Rats. They do squirm and squeal. Bite you pretty good, too, if you're not careful." He displayed several small but nasty scars on his hands.

Kreizler nodded. "As angry as you were twenty years ago, eh, Jesse?"

"I wasn't angry twenty years ago," Pomeroy answered, without losing his grin. "I was crazy. crazy. You people were just too stupid to figure that out, is all. What the h.e.l.l are you doing here, anyway, Doc?" You people were just too stupid to figure that out, is all. What the h.e.l.l are you doing here, anyway, Doc?"

"Call it a rea.s.sessment," Kreizler answered cagily. "I sometimes like to drop in on old cases, to measure their progress. And since I had business in the prison, anyway-"

For the first time Pomeroy's voice became deadly serious. "Don't play games with me, Doc. Even with these cuffs on I could have your eyes out before Lasky gets through that door."

Kreizler's face lit up a bit at that, but his tone remained cool. "I suppose you'd consider that another demonstration of your insanity?"

Jesse chuckled. "Wouldn't you?"

"I didn't twenty years ago," Kreizler answered with a shrug. "You mutilated the eyes of both the children you killed, as well as those of several you tortured. But I saw no madness in it-it was quite understandable, actually."

"Oh?" Pomeroy turned playful again. "How's that?"

Kreizler paused a moment, then leaned forward. "I've yet to see a man driven truly insane by simple envy, Jesse."

Pomeroy's expression went blank, and he shot a hand toward his face so quickly that it banged against the bars of the collar cap painfully. Tightening both hands into fists he seemed on the verge of springing up, and I got ready for trouble; but then he just laughed it off. "Let me tell you something, Doc-if you paid for that education of yours, you got took. You figger just because I got a b.u.m eye I'd go around fixing people with two good ones? Not likely. Look at me-I'm a catalogue catalogue of Mother Nature's mistakes. How come I never cut anybody's mouth up, or carved the skin off their faces?" It was Jesse's turn to lean closer. "And if it's just envy, Doc, how come you ain't out chopping off people's arms?" of Mother Nature's mistakes. How come I never cut anybody's mouth up, or carved the skin off their faces?" It was Jesse's turn to lean closer. "And if it's just envy, Doc, how come you ain't out chopping off people's arms?"

I turned quickly to Kreizler, and could see that he hadn't been ready for such a remark. But he'd long ago learned to control his reactions to anything a subject might say, and he only blinked once or twice without taking his eyes from Pomeroy. Jesse, however, was able to read into those blinks, and he sat back with a satisfied grin.

"Yeah, you're smart, all right," he chuckled.

"Then the mutilation of the eyes meant nothing," Kreizler said; and looking back I can see that he was maneuvering carefully. "Simply random acts of violence."

"Don't put words in my mouth, Doc." Pomeroy's voice took on a warning edge again. "We been through that, a long time ago. All I'm saying is I didn't have a sane reason to do it."

Kreizler c.o.c.ked his head judiciously. "Perhaps. But, since you're unwilling to state what reason you did have, the argument is pointless." Laszlo got up. "And, as I've a train to catch back to New York-"

"Sit down." The violence embodied in the command was almost palpable; but Kreizler nonetheless made a pointed show of being unimpressed. Pomeroy grew uneasy at that. "I'll only tell you this once," Jesse went on urgently. "I was crazy then, but I ain't crazy anymore-which means that, when I think back to it now, I can see everything pretty clear. There wasn't any sane reason for me to do what I did to them kids. I just-it was just more than I could stand, that's all, and I had to stop it." The violence embodied in the command was almost palpable; but Kreizler nonetheless made a pointed show of being unimpressed. Pomeroy grew uneasy at that. "I'll only tell you this once," Jesse went on urgently. "I was crazy then, but I ain't crazy anymore-which means that, when I think back to it now, I can see everything pretty clear. There wasn't any sane reason for me to do what I did to them kids. I just-it was just more than I could stand, that's all, and I had to stop it."

Laszlo knew that he was close. As a further inducement he sat back down, and then spoke very softly. "Had to stop what, Jesse?"

Pomeroy looked up at the small c.h.i.n.k in the top of the blank stone wall, through which a few stars were now visible. "The staring," he mumbled, in an altogether new and detached tone of voice. "The watching. All the time, the watching. That had to stop." He turned our way again, and it seemed to me there were tears in his good eye; his mouth, however, had curled into a smile again. "You know, I used to go to the menagerie-in town? This was when I was real small. And it used to occur to me that everything those animals did, people were watching them. Just staring at them, with those dumb, blank faces, bug-eyed and hang-jawed-especially the kids, because they were too stupid to know any better. And those G.o.dd.a.m.ned animals would look back, and you could see they was mad, G.o.d d.a.m.n me, ferocious was the word, all right. All they wanted was to rip those people apart, just to get them to knock it off. Pacing back and forth, back and forth, thinking that if they could get out for just one minute they'd show 'em what you get when you never leave a thing alone. Well, I might not've been in a cage, Doc, but those dumb d.a.m.ned eyes was everywhere around me, all the same, ever since I could remember. Staring, watching, all the time, everywhere. You tell me, Doc, you tell me if that ain't enough to drive somebody crazy. And when I got big enough, and I'd see one of those dumb little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds standing there, licking a piece of candy with his eyes popping out of his head-well, Doc, the fact is, I wasn't wasn't in no cage back then, so there wasn't nothing to stop me from doing what needed to be done." in no cage back then, so there wasn't nothing to stop me from doing what needed to be done."

Pomeroy made no move after he'd stopped talking, but sat stone still and waited for a reaction from Kreizler.

"You say it was always that way, Jesse," Laszlo said. "For as long as you can remember? With everyone you knew?"

"Everyone but my dad," Pomeroy answered, with a humorless, almost pitiable laugh. "He must've got so tired of looking at me he ran off. Not that I know-I don't remember him at all. But it's what I figured, based on how my mama used to act."

Again, Kreizler's face danced with antic.i.p.ation for the briefest of instants. "And how was that?"

"That was like-this!" In a flash Jesse was up and holding his caged head just a couple of feet away from Laszlo's face. I got to my feet, but Jesse made no further move forward. "Tell your bodyguard he can set down, Doc," he said, his good eye locked on Kreizler. "I'm just giving you a demonstration. Always like this, was how it seemed to me. Every minute, watching me, what for I couldn't tell you. For my own good, she used to say, but she didn't act like it." The collar cap was weighing heavy on Jesse's outstretched neck, and he finally turned away. "Yeah, she sure took an interest in this old face of mine." The dead laugh came back. "Never wanted to kiss it, though, I can tell you!" Something seemed to strike him, and he paused quietly, again looking up at the c.h.i.n.k in the wall. "That first boy I went after, I made him kiss it. He didn't want to, but after I-well. He did it."

Laszlo waited a few seconds before asking: "And the man whose face you burned today?"

Jesse spat at the floor through the bars of the collar cap. "That idiot-the same d.a.m.ned thing! Just couldn't keep his eyes to himself, I musta told him twenty G.o.dd.a.m.ned times to-" Catching himself, Pomeroy suddenly spun on Kreizler, with real fear in his face; then the fear quickly vanished, and that lethal smile came back. "Whup. Looks like I shot it to h.e.l.l, didn't I? Fine piece of work, Doc."

Laszlo stood up. "It was none of my doing, Jesse."

"Yeah," Pomeroy laughed. "Maybe you're right. As long as I live, I'll never know how you get me to talking that way. If I had a hat, I'd tip it. But, since I don't-"

In one fast move Pomeroy bent over, grabbed a gleaming object out of one of his boots, and held it out toward us menacingly. Tightening his body he stood on his toes, ready to spring forward. I backed up instinctively against the wall behind me, and Kreizler did likewise, though more slowly. As a series of wet chortles came out of Pomeroy's mouth, I looked closer to see that his weapon was a long shard of thick gla.s.s, wrapped at one end with a bloodstained rag.

CHAPTER 24.

More swiftly than most men could have managed it even without being shackled, Pomeroy kicked the stool he'd been sitting on across the room and jammed it under the k.n.o.b of the door, preventing entry from the hall outside.

"Don't worry," he said, still grinning. "I got no desire to cut you two up-I just want to have a little fun with that big idiot outside!" He turned away from us, laughed again, and called out: "Hey, Lasky! You ready to lose your job? When the warden sees what I done to these boys, he won't let you guard the s.h.i.+thouse!"

Lasky cursed in reply and began pounding on the door. Pomeroy kept the shard of gla.s.s leveled in the general direction of our throats but made no more threatening move, just laughed harder and harder as the guard's rage mounted. It wasn't long before the door began to loosen on its hinges, and soon after that the stool fell away from the k.n.o.b. In a noisy burst Lasky hurtled into the room, the door cras.h.i.+ng to the floor as he did. After struggling to his feet he saw first that Kreizler and I were all right and next that Pomeroy was armed. Grabbing the wooden stool from where it lay, Lasky went after Jesse, who made only a halfhearted attempt to resist.

Throughout this encounter Kreizler displayed no apparent fear for our safety, but kept shaking his head slowly as if he knew exactly what was happening. Lasky soon had the shard of gla.s.s out of Pomeroy's hands, after which he began to pummel the prisoner mercilessly with his fat fists. The fact that he couldn't get at Jesse's face seemed only to outrage him further, and the shots that he landed to the prisoner's body became all the more savage. Yet even as Pomeroy cried out in pain, he continued to laugh-a wild kind of laughter, full of abandon and even, in some awful way, delight. I was utterly mystified and paralyzed; but Kreizler, after several minutes of this display, stepped forward and began to pull at Lasky's shoulders.

"Stop it!" he shouted to the guard. "Lasky, for G.o.d's sake, stop, you fool!" He kept yanking and tugging, but the huge Lasky was oblivious to his efforts. "Lasky! Stop, man, don't you see, you're doing what he wants! He's enjoying it! He's enjoying it!"

The guard continued to pound away, and finally Kreizler, himself consumed by what seemed a sort of desperation, used the full weight of his body to shove Lasky away from Pomeroy. Surprised and enraged, Lasky got to his feet and took a hefty swing at Kreizler's head, which Laszlo easily eluded. Seeing that the guard intended to keep coming after him, Kreizler balled his right hand into a fist and gave Lasky several quick shots that were vividly reminiscent of his very creditable stand against Roosevelt almost twenty years earlier. As Lasky reeled and fell back, Kreizler caught his breath and stood over him.

"It's got to stop, Lasky!" he declared, in a voice so pa.s.sionate that it made me rush over and stand between him and the prostrate guard, in order to prevent my friend from continuing his attack. Pomeroy lay on the floor, writhing in agony, trying to clutch his ribs with his shackled hands and still laughing grotesquely. Kreizler turned to him, breathing hard, and softly repeated: "It's got to stop."