Part 14 (1/2)

”Well,” Lucius went on, no more comfortably, ”what about the focus on the-b.u.t.tocks?”

”Ah, yes,” Kreizler answered. ”Part of the original story, do we think? Or a twist of our man's invention?”

”Uhhh-” I droned, having thought of something but, like Lucius, unsure of how to phrase it in front of a woman. ”The, uh-the-references, not only to dirt, but to-fecal matter-”

”The word he uses is 's.h.i.+t,' 's.h.i.+t,' ” Sara said bluntly, and everyone in the room, including Kreizler, seemed to spring a few inches off the floor for a second or two. ”Honestly, gentlemen,” Sara commented with some disdain. ”If I'd known you were all so modest I'd have stuck to secretarial work.” ” Sara said bluntly, and everyone in the room, including Kreizler, seemed to spring a few inches off the floor for a second or two. ”Honestly, gentlemen,” Sara commented with some disdain. ”If I'd known you were all so modest I'd have stuck to secretarial work.”

”Who's modest?” I demanded-not one of my stronger retorts.

Sara frowned at me. ”You, John Schuyler Moore. I happen to know that you have, on occasion, paid members of the female s.e.x to spend intimate moments with you-I suppose John Schuyler Moore. I happen to know that you have, on occasion, paid members of the female s.e.x to spend intimate moments with you-I suppose they they were strangers to that kind of language?” were strangers to that kind of language?”

”No,” I protested, aware that my face was a bright red beacon. ”But they weren't-weren't-”

”Weren't?” Sara asked sternly.

”Weren't-well, ladies!”

At that Sara stood up, put one hand to a hip, and with the other produced her derringer from some nether region of her dress. ”I would like to warn you all right now,” she said tightly, ”that the next man who uses the word 'lady,' in that context and in my presence, will be s.h.i.+tting s.h.i.+tting from a new and artificially manufactured hole in his gut.” She put the gun away and sat back down. from a new and artificially manufactured hole in his gut.” She put the gun away and sat back down.

The room was as quiet as the grave for half a minute, and then Kreizler spoke softly: ”I believe you were discussing the references to s.h.i.+t, Moore?”

I gave Sara a rather injured and indignant glance-which she thoroughly ignored, the wretch-and then resumed my thought: ”They seem connected-all the scatological references and the preoccupation with that part of the anato-” I could feel Sara's eyes burning a hole in the side of my head. ”And the preoccupation with the a.s.s, a.s.s,” I finished, as defiantly as I could manage.

”Indeed they do,” Kreizler said. ”Connected metaphorically as well as anatomically. It's puzzling-and there's not a great deal of literature on such subjects. Meyer has speculated on the possible causes and implications of nocturnal urinary incontinence, and anyone who works with children finds the occasional subject who is abnormally fixated on feces. Most alienists and psychologists, however, consider this a form of mysophobia-the morbid fear of dirt and contamination, which our man certainly seems to have.” Kreizler chalked the word MYSOPHOBIA MYSOPHOBIA up in the center of the board, but then stood away from it, looking dissatisfied. ”There seems, however, more to it than just that...” up in the center of the board, but then stood away from it, looking dissatisfied. ”There seems, however, more to it than just that...”

”Doctor,” Sara said, ”I've got to urge you again to broaden your concepts of the mother and father in this case. I know your experience with children past a certain age is as extensive as anyone's, but have you ever been closely involved with the care of an infant?”

”Only as a physician,” Kreizler answered. ”And then rarely. Why, Sara?”

”It's not a time of childhood that men figure greatly in, as a rule. Do any of you know men who have played a large part in raising children younger than, say, three or four?” We all shook our heads. I suspect that even if one of us had had known such a man he would have denied it, just to keep the derringer out of sight. Sara turned back to Laszlo. ”And when you find children with an abnormal fixation on defecation, Doctor, what form does it generally take?” known such a man he would have denied it, just to keep the derringer out of sight. Sara turned back to Laszlo. ”And when you find children with an abnormal fixation on defecation, Doctor, what form does it generally take?”

”Either an excessive urge or morbid reluctance. Generally.”

”Urge or reluctance to what?”

”To go to the toilet.”

”And how have they learned to go to the toilet?” Sara asked, keeping right after Kreizler.

”They've been taught.”

”By men, generally?”

Kreizler had to pause, at that. The line of questioning had seemed obscure at first, but now we could all see where Sara was going: if our killer's rather obsessive concern with feces, b.u.t.tocks, and the more generalized ”dirt” (no subjects were, after all, mentioned more in the note) had been implanted in childhood, it was likely that contact with a woman or women-mother, nurse, governess, or what have you-had been involved in the process.

”I see,” Kreizler finally said. ”I take it, then, that you have yourself observed the process, Sara?”

”Occasionally,” she replied. ”And I've heard stories. A girl does. It's always a.s.sumed that you'll need the knowledge. The whole affair can be surprisingly difficult-embarra.s.sing, frustrating, sometimes even violent. I wouldn't bring it up, except that the references are so insistent. Doesn't it suggest something out of the ordinary?”

Laszlo c.o.c.ked his head. ”Perhaps. I'm afraid I can't consider such observations conclusive, however.”

”Won't you at least consider the possibility that a woman-perhaps the mother, though not necessarily-has played a darker role than you've yet allowed?”

”I hope that I am not deaf to any any possibilities,” Kreizler said, turning to the board but writing nothing. ”However, I fear we have strayed too far into the realm of the barely plausible.” possibilities,” Kreizler said, turning to the board but writing nothing. ”However, I fear we have strayed too far into the realm of the barely plausible.”

Sara sat back, again disappointed at the result of her attempts to make Kreizler see another dimension in the imaginary tale of our killer. And I must confess, I was somewhat confused myself; after all, it had been Kreizler who had asked Sara to come up with such theories, knowing that none of us could. To dismiss her thoughts in such a manner seemed arbitrary at best, especially when those thoughts sounded (to the semitrained ear, at any rate) as well reasoned as his own hypotheses.

”The resentment of immigrants is repeated in the third paragraph,” Kreizler said, plowing on. ”And then there is the reference to a 'Red Injun.' Other than another attempt to make us think him an ignoramus, what do we make of it?”

”The whole phrase seems important,” Lucius answered. ”'Dirtier than a Red Injun.' He was looking for a superlative, and that's what he came up with.”

Marcus pondered the question: ”If we a.s.sume that the immigrant resentment is family-based, then he himself isn't an Indian. But he must've had some kind of contact with them.”

”Why?” Kreizler asked. ”Race hatred doesn't require familiarity.”

”No, but the two usually do accompany each other,” Marcus insisted. ”And look at the phrase itself-it's fairly casual, as if he naturally a.s.sociates filth with Indians and a.s.sumes everyone else does, too.”

I nodded, seeing his point. ”That'd be out west. You don't usually hear that kind of talk in the East-it's not that we're more enlightened, by any means, but too few people share the point of reference. What I mean is, if he'd said 'dirtier than a n.i.g.g.e.r,' you might guess the South, right?”

”Or Mulberry Street,” Lucius suggested quietly.

”True,” I acknowledged. ”I'm not saying the att.i.tude's confined. After all, this could just be somebody who's read too many Wild West stories-”

”Or someone with excessive imagination,” Sara added.

”But,” I went on, ”it might work as a general indication.”

”Well, it's the obvious implication,” Kreizler sighed, piquing me a bit. ”But someone somewhere said that we must never overlook the obvious. What about it, Marcus-does the idea of a frontier upbringing appeal?”

Marcus thought it over. ”It has attractions. First of all, it explains the knife, which is a frontier weapon. It also gives us the hunting, recreational and otherwise, without the need for a wealthy background. And while there's plenty of terrain for mountaineering in the west, it's concentrated in specific areas, which might help. There are whole communities of German and Swiss immigrants out there, too.”

”Then we shall mark it as a favored possibility,” Kreizler said, doing so on the board, ”though we can go no farther for the time being. That takes us to the next paragraph, at which point our man finally gets down to specifics.” Kreizler picked up the note again, and then began to rub the back of his neck slowly. ”On February eighteenth he spots the Santorelli boy. Having spent more time than I'd care to admit going over calendars and almanacs, I can tell you right away that February eighteenth was Ash Wednesday this year.”

”He mentions ashes on the face,” Lucius added. ”That would mean that the boy went to church.”

”The Santorellis are Catholic,” Marcus added. ”There aren't many churches near Paresis Hall, Catholic or otherwise, but we could try checking a broader area. It's possible someone will remember seeing Giorgio. He would have been fairly distinctive, especially in a church setting.”

”And it's always possible that the killer got his first glimpse of him near the church,” I said. ”Or even in it. If we get lucky, someone may have witnessed the meeting.”

”You two seem to have planned your weekend quite thoroughly,” Kreizler answered, at which Marcus and I, realizing that we'd proposed long days of footwork, frowned at each other. ”Although,” Laszlo went on, ”the use of the word 'parading' makes me doubt that they met very near a house of wors.h.i.+p-particularly one in which Giorgio had just attended services.”

”It does suggest that the boy was hawking his wares,” I said.

”It suggests many things.” Laszlo thought for a moment, sounding the word: ”'Parading...' It might fit with your idea that the man suffers from a disability or deformity of some kind, Moore. There's a trace of envy in the word, as if he himself is excluded from such behavior.”

”I don't quite see that,” Sara answered. ”It sounds more-disdainful, to me. That could simply be due to Giorgio's occupation, of course, but I don't think so. There's no pity or sympathy in the tone, only harshness. And a certain sense of familiarity, as with the lying.”

”Right,” I said. ”It's that lecturing tone you'd get from a schoolmaster who knows just what you're up to because he was a boy once himself.”