Anatomy of Evil by Will Thomas Page A

manic episodes and had been upset at being incarcerated and by the arrival of a new member of the family who cried and required constant attention.
    The constable who recorded the incident described him as extremely thin, though the family seemed well-off by East End standards. He was also what the constable called “malodorous.” I pitied the family that had to deal with an adult sibling with little hygiene and subject to maniacal episodes, who had to be locked in at night. I suspected Kosminski was off in his own world most of the time.
    “Why do you suppose,” I asked Barker, interrupting his reading, “that they didn’t leave this chap in the asylum? I mean, he did prove to be a danger and they seem wealthy enough by Whitechapel standards to keep him there.”
    “You’re thinking like a Western European, not an Eastern one,” the Guv replied. “The only law they’ve seen is the Cossacks who kick in their doors in the middle of the night and seize a family member who is never heard from again. It is very difficult for them to trust authorities. Besides, in their culture, one takes care of one’s own family, especially incapable members like Aaron Kosminski. To put him in an asylum would be considered a betrayal. The fact that Kosminski’s family put him away even temporarily is proof that they have been influenced by Western culture.”
    “I don’t think much of any of these suspects,” I said. “The first one, Ostrog, seems a little more promising than the other two.”
    “Allow me to make my own decisions,” Barker said.
    He was sitting back with the files in front of him, tapping on his lower teeth with a pencil and reading the other two files. He looked miles away.
    “Let’s take a walk,” he said, when he was finished.
    He stood and left the room. I glanced down at the table. He hadn’t touched his tea or the shortbread. He really was starting to act like an inspector. I shook my head and hurried out the door after him.
    Once out the door, he turned east toward the Embankment and began to walk with his chin sunk on his breast and his hands behind him. When he reached Northumberland Street, he turned again and began heading north.
    “Do you not trust PC Kirkwood?” I asked.
    “It is best to discuss theories outside of the Yard as much as possible. You were correct about the three suspects. There was a reason why the files were there. Ostrog has probably left the country; Schloski is probably romancing a barmaid; and Kosminski was safely locked inside for the night under the scrutiny of his brothers. That being said, we must investigate each one, and not get in the habit of relying on others whom we neither know nor trust.”
    “‘Trust, but be careful in whom,’” I quoted, which was his family motto and used to appear in his advertisements in the Times.
    “Precisely.”
    “We have three different types of suspects,” I went on. “We’ve got a mental imbecile, a doctor who has gone homicidally mad, and an intelligent medical man with brutish tendencies.”
    “That is a good analysis,” Barker said.
    “Thank you, sir. But why is it good, exactly?”
    “Because the killer himself must be one of the three types. Either he is an imbecile who doesn’t understand what he is doing, or a man who is slowly losing a battle to insanity, or he is completely sane, but calloused toward women.”
    “I thought you said none of these men was the killer,” I said.
    “I’m not talking about individuals, lad. I’m talking about types.”
    “Is it possible for a sane man to commit murder?” I asked.
    “I would think it likely that most murders are done by sane people. They have merely convinced themselves that a person or persons must die. Then they plan how to go about it. It is morally evil, but they are legally sane.”
    “So, which is he?” I asked.
    “There you go again, lad, trying to put a label on him. Let it develop in the course of the investigation. One should not force these