There wasn’t anything unusual in all this: several of the Doctor’s students had come to the Institute by similar routes. And there hadn’t been any outward signs of trouble with Paulie since his arrival on East Broadway, either. He was a little moody and uncommunicative, sure, but nothing more than that, certainly nothing that hinted he was getting ready to string himself up. Anyway, word of the suicide had made its way through the city government and the parlors of New York society like, if you’ll pardon my being plain, shit through a sewer. The incident was offered by many armchair experts as proof positive that Dr. Kreizler was incompetent and his theories were dangerous. As for the Doctor himself, he’d never lost a kid before; that, combined with the unexpected and unexplained nature of the suicide, tore the hole in his spirit that’d been ripped open by Mary Palmer’s death even wider.

And out that hole had drained much of what had always seemed a bottomless well of energy with which the Doctor’d been able, for so many years, to meet the almost daily attacks of the hostile colleagues, social thinkers, judges, lawyers, and average run-of-the-mill skeptics that he ran into during the operation of his Institute and his work as an expert witness in criminal trials. Not that he ever quit; quitting wasn’t in him. But he lost some of his fire and confidence, a portion of the mental belligerency that’d always kept his enemies at bay. To understand the change, I suppose you’d have had to’ve seen him in action before it took place-as I had, firsthand, some two years earlier. Brother, had I seen it…

The encounter had taken place in Jefferson Market, that imitation of a Bohemian prince’s castle what always struck me as entirely too beautiful to be a police court. Like I’ve said, I’d been mostly on my own since I was three, and fully so since I was eight, having at that time gotten fed up with breaking and entering to support my mother and her various men friends. The final straw’d come when my old lady’s taste ran beyond booze to opium and she started frequenting a den in Chinatown run by a dealer everybody called You Fat (his real Chinese name was unpronounceable, and he never seemed to get the insult contained in the very appropriate nickname). I told her I wasn’t running into a lot of other eight-year-olds what stole to support their mothers’ alcohol and drug cravings-the kind of statement that’s pretty well guaranteed to get a kid a good beating around the head. As she flailed away at me, she screamed that if I was going to be such an ungrateful little wretch I could just fend for myself; I pointed out that I already was, mostly, then left for the last time to take up with a bunch of street arabs in the neighborhood. My mother, meantime, moved in with You Fat, using her body instead of my larceny to secure an endless supply of her drug.

Anyway, my gang and me, we looked out pretty good for each other, huddling together over steam vents on winter nights and making sure we didn’t drown when we cooled down in the city’s rivers during the summer. By the time I was ten I’d made a pretty good name for myself as a banco feeler, pickpocket, and general criminal handyman; and though I wasn’t big, I’d gotten to be fairly expert at defending myself with a short section of lead pipe, which was where I got my nickname, “the Stevepipe.” A lot of kids carried guns or knives, but I found that the cops went easier on you if they didn’t find you armed to the teeth; and God knows I was getting into enough trouble with the law by then for that to be a real consideration.

In fact, my record and my reputation eventually reached the point where I was approached by Crazy Butch, who, like I’ve also mentioned, was in charge of the kids who worked for Monk Eastman’s gang. I’d always liked Monk, with his flashy derbies and his rooms full of cats and birds (or, as he said it, “kits ’n’ boids”); and though Crazy Butch was a little too deserving of his title for my taste, I jumped at the chance to move up in the underworld. Instead of picking pockets on my own, I was soon stripping whole crowds of citizens with my gangmates, along with waylaying delivery vans and lifting whatever we could from stores and warehouses. Sure, I’d get caught sometimes, but generally I’d get released, too; because we were such a big team, it was generally pretty hard for a prosecutor to make a charge stick to just one of us. On top of that, I was only eleven, and I could usually play the innocent orphan when I needed to.

But the judge I got that one day at Jefferson Market, he wasn’t buying any acts or any excuses. The cops’d nailed me for breaking a store dick’s leg over at B. Altman’s joint on Nineteenth Street while me and the gang were picking shoppers’ pockets. I could usually control my trademark weapon better than that-I generally tried to leave a nasty bruise instead of a break-but the store detective had me by the throat and I was that close to choking. So, quick as spit, there I found myself: in the main courtroom at Jefferson Market, getting one hell of a lecture as I sat under the tall turret of the courthouse’s fine clock tower.

The old windbag on the bench called me everything from a nicotine fiend (I’d been smoking since I was five) to a drunkard (which showed how much he knew-I never touched the stuff) to a “congenitally destructive menace,” a phrase which, at the time, meant a whole lot of nothing to me-but which was, it turned out, destined to be the key to my salvation. You see, it happened that a certain crusading mental specialist with a particular interest in children was just outside the courtroom that day, waiting to testify in another case; and when the judge let out with that “congenital” phrase and then went on to sentence me to two years on Randalls Island, I suddenly heard a voice rise from somewhere behind me. I’d never heard anything quite like it-certainly not in a courtroom, anyway. Tinged with a combination of German and Hungarian accents, it rolled with all the thunder and righteousness of an old-time preacher.

“And precisely what,”the voice demanded, “are your honor’s qualifications for coming to so precise a psychological conclusion concerning this boy?”

At that point all eyes, including mine, turned to the back of the courtroom to get a glimpse of what was, for most of them, a familiar sight: the renowned alienist Dr. Laszlo Kreizler, one of the most hated yet respected men in the city, charging in, his long hair and cloak floating behind him and his eyes burning with coal-black fire. I had no way of knowing that one day I’d become accustomed to that sight, too; all I knew then was that he was the damndest person, with the damndest nerve, that I ever saw.

The judge, for his part, put his forehead into his hand wearily for a moment, like the good Lord had just sent a rain of toads down on his little patch of earth in particular. “Dr. Kreizler-” he started.

But the Doctor already had an accusing finger up. “Has an assessment been done? Has one of my esteemed colleagues given you any reason for using such language? Or have you, like most other magistrates in this city, simply decided that you are qualified to speak expertly on such matters?”

“Dr. Kreizler-” the judge tried again.

But with no better luck: “Do you have even the slightest idea of what the symptoms of what you call ‘congenital destructiveness’ are? Do you even know if such a pathology exists’?This insufferable, unqualified, inflammatory rhetoric-”

“Dr. Kreizler!” the judge bellowed, slamming a fist down. “This is my courtroom! You have nothing to do with this case, and I demand-”

“No, sir!” the Doctor shot back. “I demand! You have made me a part of this case-myself and any other self-respecting psychologist who is within earshot of your irresponsible declarations! This boy-” At that he pointed in my direction and, for the first time, actually looked at me-and I’m not sure I’m up to describing all that was in the look: