Read The Interpretation Of Murder Online
Authors: Jed Rubenfeld
Carl Jung stood straight and tall in
the doorway to Freud's suite. He was fully, formally dressed. Nothing in his
demeanor suggested a man who had just been playing with sticks and stones on
the floor of his hotel room.
Freud, in vest and shirtsleeves,
begged his guest to make himself comfortable. His instinct told him this
interview was decisive. Jung decidedly did not look right. Freud gave no
credence to Brill's accusations, but he began to agree that Jung might be
spinning out of his - Freud's - orbit.
Jung was, Freud knew, more
intelligent and creative than any of his other followers - the first one with
the potential to break new ground. But Jung undoubtedly had a father complex.
When, in one of his earliest letters, Jung begged Freud for a photograph of
himself, saying he would 'cherish' it, Freud was flattered. But when he
explicitly asked Freud to regard him not as an equal but as a son, Freud became
concerned. He told himself then he would have to take special care.
It occurred to Freud that, as far as
he knew, Jung did
not have any other male friends.
Rather, Jung surrounded himself with women, many women - too many. That was the
other difficulty. Given Hall's communication, Freud no longer could avoid a
conversation with Jung about the girl who had written claiming to be Jung's
patient and mistress. Freud had seen the unconscionable letter Jung sent to the
girl's mother. On top of all this, there was Ferenczi's report on the state of
Jung's hotel room.
The one point on which Freud had no
qualms was Jung's belief in the fundamental tenets of psychoanalysis. In their
private letters and in hours of private talk, Freud had tested, prodded,
probed. There could be no doubt: Jung fully believed in. the sexual aetiology.
And he had come to his conviction in the best of all possible ways, overcoming
his own skepticism after seeing Freud's hypotheses confirmed again and again in
clinical practice.
'We have always spoken freely to each
other,' said Freud. 'Can we now?'
'I should like nothing more,' said
Jung. 'Especially now that I have freed myself from your paternal authority.'
Freud tried not to appear taken
aback. 'Good, good. Coffee?'
'No, thank you. Yes. It happened
yesterday, when you chose to keep hidden the truth of your Count Thun dream in
order to preserve your authority. You see the paradox. You feared losing your
authority; as a result, you lost it. You cared more for authority than truth;
with me, there can be no authority other than truth. But it is better this way.
Your cause will only prosper from my independence.
Indeed, it already is prospering. I
have solved the problem of incest!'
Out of this rush of words, Freud
fastened on two. 'My cause?'
'What?'
'You said, "your cause",'
Freud repeated.
'I did not.'
'You did. It is the second time.'
'Well, it
is
yours - is it
not? - yours
and
mine. It will be infinitely stronger now. Didn't you
hear me? I have solved the incest problem.'
'What do you mean, "solved"
it?' said Freud. 'What problem?'
'We know the grown son does not
actually covet his mother sexually, with her varicose veins and sagging
breasts. That is obvious to anyone. Nor does the infant son, who has no inkling
of penetration. Why then does the adult's neurosis revolve so frequently around
the Oedipal complex, as your cases and my own confirm? The answer came to me in
a dream last night. The adult conflict
reactivates the infantile material.
The neurotic's suppressed libido is forced back into its infantile channels -
just as you have always said! - where it finds the mother, who was once of such
special value to him. The libido fastens onto her, without the mother ever
having actually been desired.'
These remarks caused a curious
physical reaction in Sigmund Freud. He suffered a rush of blood to the arteries
surrounding his cerebral cortex, which he experienced as a heaviness in his
skull. He swallowed and said, 'You are denying the Oedipal complex?'
'Not at all. How could I? I invented
the term.'
'The term
complex
is yours,'
said Freud. 'You are retaining the complex but denying the
Oedipal.'
'No!' cried Jung. 'I am preserving
all your fundamental insights. Neurotics do have an Oedipal complex. Their
neurosis causes them to believe that they sexually coveted their mother.'
'You are saying there are no actual
incestuous wishes. Not among the healthy.'
'Not even among the neurotic! It is
marvelous. The neurotic develops a mother complex because his libido is forced
into its infantile channels. Thus the neurotic gives himself a delusive reason
to castigate himself. He feels guilty over a wish he never had.'
'I see. What then has caused his
neurosis?' asked Freud.
'His present conflict. Whatever
desire the neurotic is not admitting to. Whatever life task he can't bring
himself to face.'
'Ah, the present conflict,' said
Freud. His head was no longer heavy. Instead, a peculiar lightness had come to
him. 'So there is no reason to delve into the patient's sexual past. Or,
indeed, his childhood at all.'
'Exactly,' said Jung. 'I have never
thought so. From a purely clinical perspective, the present conflict is what
must be uncovered and worked through. The reactivated sexual material from
childhood can be excavated, but it is a lure, a trap. It is the patient's
effort to flee from his neurosis. I am writing it all up now. You will see how
many more adherents psychoanalysis will gain by reducing the role of sexuality.'
'Oh, eliminate it altogether - then
we shall do even better,' said Freud. 'May I ask you a question? If incest is
not actually desired, why is it taboo?'
'Taboo?'
'Yes,' said Freud. 'Why would there
be an incest prohibition in every human society that has ever existed, if no
one has ever wished it?'
'Because - because - many things are
taboo that are not actually desired.'
'Name one.'
'Well, many things. There is a long
list,' said Jung.
'Name one.'
'So - for example, the prehistoric
animal cults, the totems, they - ah -' Jung was unable to finish his sentence.
'May I ask you one thing more?' said
Freud. 'You say this insight came to you through the interpretation of a dream.
I wonder what the dream was. Perhaps another interpretation is possible?'
'I did not say through the
interpretation of a dream,' Jung replied. 'I said
in
a dream. Indeed, I
was not quite asleep.'
'I don't understand,' said Freud.
'You know the voices one hears at night,
just prior to sleep. I have trained myself to attend to them. One of them
speaks to me with ancient wisdom. I have seen him. He is an old man, an
Egyptian Gnostic - a chimera, really - called Philemon. It was he who revealed
the secret to me.'
Freud did not answer.
'I am not cowed by your hints of
incredulity,' said Jung. 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Herr
Professor, than are dreamt in your psychology.'
'I daresay. But to be led by a voice,
Jung?'
'Perhaps I am giving you the wrong
impression,' Jung replied. 'I do not accept Philemon's word without reasons. He
made his case through an exegesis of the primitive mother cults. I assure you,
I did not believe it at first. I put several objections, each of which he was
able to answer.'
'You converse with him?'
'Obviously you are unhappy with my
theoretical innovation.'
'I am concerned about its source,'
said Freud.
'No. You are concerned about your
theories, your sexual theories,' said Jung, his indignation visibly rising. 'So
you change the subject and try to bait me into a conversation about the
supernatural. I won't be baited. I have objective reasons.'
'Given to you by a spirit?'
'Just because you have never
experienced such phenomena does not mean they don't exist.'
'I grant that,' said Freud, 'but
there must be evidence, Jung.'
'I have seen him, I tell you!' Jung
cried. 'Why is that not evidence? He wept describing to me how the pharaohs
scratched their fathers' names from the monumental stelae a fact I did not even
know but which I later confirmed. Who are you to say what is evidence and what
is not? You assume your conclusion: he does not exist; therefore what I see and
what I hear does not count as evidence.'
'What
you
hear. It is not evidence,
Carl, if only one person can hear it.'
A strange sound began to emanate from
behind the sofa on which Freud sat: a creaking or groaning, as if there were
something in the wall trying to get out. 'What is that?' asked Freud.
'I don't know,' said Jung.
The creaking grew louder until it
filled the room. When it reached what sounded like a breaking point, it gave
way to a splintering crack, like a clap of thunder.
'What on earth?' said Freud.
'I know that sound,' said Jung. A
triumphant gleam came to his eyes. 'I have heard that sound before.
There
is your evidence! That was a catalytic exteriorization.'
'A what?'
'A flux within the psyche manifesting
itself through an external object,' explained Jung. 'I caused that sound!'
'Oh, come, Jung,' said Freud. 'I
think it may have been a gunshot.'
'You are mistaken. And to prove it, I
will cause it again this instant!'
The moment Jung uttered this
remarkable pronouncement, the groan began anew. In just the same fashion, it
rose to an unbearable peak and then erupted with a tremendous report.
'What do you say now?' asked Jung.
Freud said nothing. He had fainted
and was slipping off the sofa.
Detective Littlemore, hustling up
from the Canal Street docks, put it all together. It was the first murder he
had ever uncovered. Mr Hugel was going to be in heaven.
It wasn't Harry Thaw at all; it was
George Banwell, from beginning to end. It was Banwell who killed Miss Riverford
and stole her body from the morgue. Littlemore imagined Banwell driving to the
river's edge, dragging the dead body out onto the pier, and descending the
elevator down to the caisson. Banwell would have had the key to unlock the
elevator door. The caisson was the perfect place to dispose of a corpse.
But Banwell would have assumed he was
alone in the caisson. How stunned he must have been to discover Malley. How
could Banwell have explained coming down in the middle of the night with a dead
body in tow? He couldn't have explained it, so he had to kill him.
The blockage in Window Five, and
Banwell's reaction to it, sealed the proof. He wouldn't want anybody
discovering what had jammed up Window Five, would he?
The detective saw it all as he raced breathlessly
along Canal Street - all except for the big black and red car, a Stanley
Steamer, slowly trading him half a block behind. In his mind's eye, as he
crossed the street, Littlemore saw his promotion to lieutenant; he saw the
mayor himself decorating him; he saw Betty admiring his new uniform; but he
didn't see the Steamer's sudden lurch forward. He didn't see the vehicle
swerving slightly in order to hit him dead on, and of course he couldn't see
himself tumbling through the air, his legs taken out by the car's fender.
The body lay sprawled out on Canal
Street as the car sped away down Second Avenue. Among the horrified onlookers,
a number shouted imprecations at the fleeing hit- and-run driver. One called
him a murderer. A patrolman happened to be on the corner. He rushed to the
fallen Littlemore, who had enough strength to whisper something in the
officer's ear. The patrolman frowned, then nodded. It took ten minutes, but a
horse-drawn ambulance finally appeared. They did not bother with a hospital;
rather, they took the detective's body directly to the morgue.