The Wolf in the Cassock and White Collar

In the vast, bloodstained annals of American crime, we are conditioned to expect our monsters to look their part. We search for them in the dark, suffocating corners of the metropolis, lurking in the gaslit alleys of the old Five Points, loitering beneath the rattling iron trestles of the Bowery, or hiding in the squalor of tarpaper shacks along the wind-scourged riverbanks. In the collective imagination of the public, the killer is a creature of obvious and brutal appetites: a man with scarred