The year is 1896, the place, New York City. On a cold March night New York Times reporter John Schuyler Moore is summoned to the East River by his friend and former Harvard classmate Dr. Laszlo Kreizler, a psychologist, or "alienist." On the unfinished Williamsburg Bridge, they view the horribly mutilated body of an adolescent boy, a prostitute from one of Manhattan's infamous brothels. The newly appointed police commissioner, Theodore Roosevelt, in a highly unorthodox move, enlists the two men in the murder investigation, counting on the reserved Kreizler's intellect and Moore's knowledge of New York's vast criminal underworld. They are joined by Sara Howard, a brave and determined woman who works as a secretary in the police department. Laboring in secret (for alienists, and the emerging discipline of psychology, are viewed by the public with skepticism at best), the unlikely team embarks on what is a revolutionary effort in criminology-- amassing a psychological profile of the man they're looking for based on the details of his crimes.
Showing 1-2 of the 2 most recent reviews
1 . Excellent
Posted December 28, 2009 by Jeffrey Latten , AÃ±asco, Puerto RicoWell, I wrote a really detailed review and it dissapeared when I tried to submit it, so I'll be brief: this is an excellent piece of fiction, great characters and rich in detail. If you like it, read Carr's sequel, "The Angel of Darkness"
2 . A very worthwhile read.
Posted February 06, 2008 by scarlett , West Hills, CAWonderful combination of murder mystery and historical fiction. Of particular interest is the early developments of police science and the turn of the century underworld of New York.
Random House Trade Paperbacks
October 23, 2006
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Excerpt from The Alienist by Caleb Carr
January 8th, 1919
Theodore is in the ground.
The words as I write them make as little sense as did the sight of his coffin descending into a patch of sandy soil near Sagamore Hill, the place he loved more than any other on earth. As I stood there this afternoon, in the cold January wind that blew off Long Island Sound, I thought to myself: Of course it's a joke. Of course he'll burst the lid open, blind us all with that ridiculous grin and split our ears with a high-pitched bark of laughter. Then he'll exclaim that there's work to do "action to get!" and we'll all be martialed to the task of protecting some obscure species of newt from the ravages of a predatory industrial giant bent on planting a fetid factory on the little amphibian's breeding ground. I was not alone in such fantasies; everyone at the funeral expected something of the kind, it was plain on their faces. All reports indicate that most of the country and much of the world feel the same way. The notion of Theodore Roosevelt being gone is that unacceptable.
In truth, he'd been fading for longer than anyone wanted to admit, really since his son Quentin was killed in the last days of the Great Butchery. Cecil Spring-Rice once droned, in his best British blend of affection and needling, that Roosevelt was throughout his life "about six"; and Herm Hagedorn noted that after Quentin was shot out of the sky in the summer of 1918 "the boy in Theodore died." I dined with Laszlo Kreizler at Delmonico's tonight, and mentioned Hagedorn's comment to him. For the remaining two courses of my meal I was treated to a long, typically passionate explanation of why Quentin's death was more than simply heartbreaking for Theodore: he had felt profound guilt, too, guilt at having so instilled his philosophy of "the strenuous life" in all his children that they often placed themselves deliberately in harm's way, knowing it would delight their beloved father. Grief was almost unbearable to Theodore, I'd always known that; whenever he had to come to grips with the death of someone close, it seemed he might not survive the struggle. But it wasn't until tonight, while listening to Kreizler, that I understood the extent to which moral uncertainty was also intolerable to the twenty-sixth president, who sometimes seemed to think himself Justice personified.
Kreizler He didn't want to attend the funeral, though Edith Roosevelt would have liked him to. She has always been truly partial to the man she calls "the enigma," the brilliant doctor whose studies of the human mind have disturbed so many people so profoundly over the last forty years. Kreizler wrote Edith a note explaining that he did not much like the idea of a world without Theodore, and, being as he's now sixty-four and has spent his life staring ugly realities full in the face, he thinks he'll just indulge himself and ignore the fact of his friend's passing. Edith told me today that reading Kreizler's note moved her to tears, because she realized that Theodore's boundless affection and enthusiasm which revolted so many cynics and was, I'm obliged to say in the interests of journalistic integrity, sometimes difficult even for friends to tolerate had been strong enough to touch a man whose remove from most of human society seemed to almost everyone else unbridgeable.