The street was blocked off with sawhorses: raw yellow wood with “New York Police Department” stencilled on the sides. Below the barricades were oil lanterns, black globes with smoking wicks. They looked like 19th century anarchists’ bombs.
The patrolman on duty saluted and pulled one sawhorse aside to let Delaney through. The Captain walked slowly down the center of the street, toward the river. He knew this block well; three years previously he had led a team of officers and Technical Patrol Force specialists in the liberation of a big townhouse that had been taken over by a gang of thugs and was being systematically looted. The house was near the middle of the block. A few lights were on; in one apartment the tenants were standing at the window, staring down into the street.
Delaney paused to survey the silent scene ahead of him. Understanding what was happening, he removed his cap, made the sign of the cross, bowed his head.
There were a dozen vehicles drawn up in a rough semicircle: squad cars, ambulance, searchlight truck, laboratory van, three unmarked sedans, a black limousine. Thirty men were standing motionless, uncovered heads down.
This city block had been equipped with the new street lights that cast an orange, shadowless glow. It filled doorways, alleys, corners like a thin liquid, and if there were no shadows, there was no brightness either, but a kind of strident light without warmth.
Into this brassy haze a morning mist seeped gently and collected in tears on hoods and roofs of cars and on black asphalt. It damped the hair and faces of the silent watchers. It fell as a shroud on the bundle crumpled on the sidewalk. The kneeling priest completed extreme unction and rose from his knees. The waiting men replaced their hats; there was a subdued murmur of voices.
Delaney stared at this night lithograph, then walked forward slowly. He came into a hard white beam from the searchlight truck; men turned to look at him. Lieutenant Dorfman came hurrying up, face twisted.
“It’s Lombard, Captain,” he gasped. “Frank Lombard, the Brooklyn councilman. You know-the one who’s always talking about ‘crime on the streets’ and writing the newspapers what a lousy job the police are doing.”
Delaney nodded. He looked around at the assembled men: patrolmen, precinct and Homicide North detectives, laboratory specialists, an inspector from the Detective Division. And a deputy commissioner with one of the Mayor’s personal aides.
Now there was another figure kneeling alongside the corpse. Captain Delaney recognized the massive bulk of Dr. Sanford Ferguson. Despite the harsh glare of the searchlights, the Police Surgeon was using a penlight to examine the skull of the dead man. He stood away a moment while photographers placed a ruler near the corpse and took more flash photos. Then he kneeled again on the wet sidewalk. Delaney walked over to stand next to him. Ferguson looked up.
“Hullo, Edward,” he smiled. “Wondering where you were. Take a look at this.”
Before kneeling, Delaney stared down a moment at the victim. It was not difficult to visualize what had happened. The man had been struck down from behind. The back of his skull appeared crushed; thick black hair was bloodied and matted. He had fallen forward, sprawling heavily. As he fell, the left femur had snapped; the leg was now flung out at an awkward angle. He had fallen with such force that the splintered end of the bone had thrust out through his trouser leg.
As he fell, presumably his face smacked the sidewalk, for blood had flowed from a mashed nose, perhaps from a crushed mouth and facial abrasions. The pool of blood, not yet congealed, bloomed from his head in a small puddle, down into a plot of cracked earth about a scrawny plane tree at the curb.
Delaney kneeled carefully, avoiding a leather wallet lying alongside the body. The Captain turned to squint into the searchlight glare.
“The wallet dusted?” he called to men he couldn’t see. “No sir,” someone called back. “Not yet.”
Delaney looked down at the wallet.
“Alligator,” he said. “They won’t get much from that.” He took a ballpoint pen from the inside pocket of his uniform jacket and gently prized open the wallet, touching only one edge. Dr. Ferguson put the beam of his penlight on it. They both saw the thick sheaf of green bills.
Delaney let the wallet fall closed, then turned back to the body. Ferguson put his light on the skull. Three men in civilian clothes came up to kneel around the corpse. The five bent over closely, heads almost touching.
“Club?” one of the detectives asked. “A pipe maybe?”
“I don’t think so,” Ferguson said, without looking up. “There’s no crushing or depression. That’s blood and matting you see. But there’s a penetration. Like a puncture. A hole about an inch in diameter. It looks round. I could put my finger in it.”
“Hammer?” Delaney asked.
Ferguson sat back on his heels. “A hammer? Yes, it could be. Depends on how deep the penetration goes.”
“What about time, doc?” one of the other detectives asked. “Looks to be within three hours tops. No, call it two hours. Around midnight. Just a guess.”
“Who found him?”
“A cabby spotted him first but thought he was a drunk and didn’t stop. The cabby caught up with one of your precinct squads on York Avenue, Captain, and they came back.”
“Who were they?”
“McCabe and Mowery.”
“Did they move the body or the wallet?”
“McCabe says they didn’t touch the body. He says the wallet was lying open, face up, with ID card and credit cards showing in plastic pockets. That’s how they knew it was Lombard.”
“Who closed the wallet?”
“Mowery did that.”
“Why?”
“He says it was beginning to drizzle, and they were afraid it might rain harder and ruin any latent prints on the plastic windows in the wallet. He says they could see it was a rough leather wallet and chances are there’d be a better chance of prints on the plastic than on the leather. So they closed the wallet, using a pencil. He says they didn’t touch it. McCabe backs him up. McCabe says the wallet is within a quarter-inch at most from where they found it.”
“When did the cabby stop them on York Avenue and tell them there was someone lying here?”
“About an hour ago. Closer to fifty minutes maybe.”
“Doctor,” Delaney asked, “can we roll him over now?”
“You got your pictures?” a detective roared into the darkness.
“We need the front,” the reply came back.
“Careful of that leg,” Ferguson said. “One of you hold it together while we roll him over.”
Five pairs of hands took hold of the corpse gently and turned it face up. The five kneeling men drew back as two photographers came up for long shots and closeups of the victim. Then the circle closed again.
“No front wounds that I can see,” Ferguson reported, his little flashlight beam zigzagging down the dead body. “The broken leg and facial injuries are from the fall. At least the abraded skin indicates that. I’ll know better when I get him downtown. It was the skull penetration that did it.”
“Dead before he hit the ground?”
“Could be if that puncture is deep enough. He’s a-he was a heavy man. Maybe two twenty-five. He fell heavily.” He felt the dead man’s arms, shoulders, legs. “Solid. Not too much fat. Good muscle layer. He could have put up a fight. If he had a chance.”
They were silent, staring down at the body. He had not been a handsome man, but his features were rugged and not unpleasant: strong jaw, full lips, a meaty nose (now crushed), thick black brows and walrus mustache. The teeth still unbroken were big, white, square-little tombstones. Blank eyes stared at the weeping sky.
Delaney leaned forward suddenly and pressed his face close to the dead man’s. Dr. Ferguson grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back.
“What the hell are you doing, Edward?” he cried. “Kissing the poor bastard?”
“Smell him,” Delaney said. “Smell the mustache. Garlic, wine, and something else.”
Ferguson leaned forward cautiously, and sniffed at the thick mustache.
“Anise,” he said. “Wine, garlic, and anise.”
“That’s an Italian dinner,” one of the detectives said. “Maybe he stiffed the waiter and the guy followed him down here and offed him.”
No one laughed.
“He is Italian,” someone said. “His name isn’t Lombard, it’s Lombardo. He dropped the ‘o’ when he went into politics. His district in Brooklyn is mostly Jewish.”
They looked up. It was Lieutenant Rizzo from the 251st. “How do you know, lieutenant?”
“He’s-was my wife’s cousin. He was at our wedding. His mother lives around here somewhere. I called my wife. She’s calling relatives, trying to find out the mother’s address. My wife says Lombard came over from Brooklyn occasionally to have dinner with his mother. She’s supposed to be a good cook.”
The five men climbed shakily to their feet and brushed their damp knees. Dr. Ferguson signaled toward the ambulance, and two men came forward lugging a canvas body bag. A man came from the laboratory van with a plastic bag and a small pair of tongs to retrieve the wallet.
“Edward,” Ferguson said, “I forgot to ask. How is your wife getting along?”
“She was operated on tonight. Or rather yesterday afternoon.”
“And…?”
“They had to take out one of her kidneys.”
Ferguson was silent a moment, then…“Infected?”
“That’s what Spencer told me. Bernardi observed the operation but I can’t get hold of him.”
“The prick. As soon as I get to a phone I’ll try to find out what the hell is going on. Where can I reach you.”
“The precinct house probably. We’ll have to re-shuffle schedules and figure out how many uniformed men we can spare for door-to-door questioning. They’re taking our detectives away.”
“I heard. Edward, I’ll call if I learn anything. If I don’t call, it means I haven’t been able to reach Spencer or Bernardi.” Delaney nodded. Dr. Ferguson climbed into the back of the ambulance, and it went whining away. Lt. Dorfman was moving toward him, but the deputy commissioner came out of the darkness and clamped a hand on Delaney’s elbow. The Captain didn’t like to be touched; he tugged his arm gently away.
“Delaney?”
“Yes sir.”
“My name’s Broughton. B-r-o-u-g-h-t-o-n. I guess we never met.”
They had, but Delaney didn’t mention it. The two officers shook hands. Broughton, a thick, shapeless man, motioned Delaney toward the black limousine. He opened the back door, waved Delaney in, climbed in beside him.
“Go get a coffee, Jack,” he commanded the uniformed driver.
Then they were alone. Broughton offered a cigar but Delaney shook his head. The deputy lighted up furiously, the end of the cigar flaring, the car filling with harsh smoke.
“It’s a piece of shit,” he said angrily. “Why the hell can’t we get Havana cigars? We’re defeating Communism by smoking horse shit? What kind of insanity is that?”
He sat back, staring out the window at the sidewalk where someone had chalked an outline around the corpse before it was removed.
“A lot of flak on this one, Captain,” Broughton said loudly. “A lot of flak. The Commissioner cancelled a speech in Kansas City-Kansas City, for Chrissakes-and is flying back. You probably saw the Mayor’s aide. His Honor is on our ass already. And don’t think the fucking governor won’t get in the act. You know this Lombard-the guy who got hisself killed?”
“I read his statements in the newspapers and I saw him on television.”
“Yeah, he got the publicity. So you know what we’re up against. ‘Crime in the streets…no law and order…hoodlums and muggers running wild…shake up the police department…the Commissioner should resign…’ You know. The shithead was running for Mayor. Now he’s knocked off, and if we don’t pull someone in, it proves he was right. You understand how serious this is, Captain.”
“I consider every homicide serious.”
“Well…yeah…sure. But the politics involved. You understand that?”
“Yes sir.”
“All right. That’s one thing. Now the other thing…This killing couldn’t have happened at a worst time. You get the Commissioner’s memo about precinct detectives?”
“Memorandum four six seven dash B dated eight October; subject: Detective division, reorganization of? Yes sir, I received it.”
Broughton laughed shortly. “I heard about you, Delaney. Yeah, that’s the memo.” He belched suddenly, a ripe, liquid sound. He didn’t excuse himself, but scratched in his crotch. “All right, we’re pulling all the detectives out of the precinct houses. You’re next on the list. You got the notification?”
“Yes.”
“Starts on Monday. All detectives will be organized in special units-homicide-, burglary and larceny, truck thefts, hotel thefts, and so on. Uniformed officers will make the first investigation of a crime. You’re going to give your cops a crash course on what to look for. It’s all spelled out in a manual you’ll be getting. The investigating officers file a report. If it’s a major theft, say, involving more than $1,500 in money or goods, the detective unit takes over. If it’s a minor crime, say b-and-e or a mugging, the patrolman does what he can or reports it unsolvable. We tried it out in two test precincts, and we think it’s going to work. What do you think?”
“I don’t like it,” Delaney said promptly. “It takes detectives out of the precincts and out of the neighborhoods. Sometimes they make their best busts just by knowing the neighborhood-who’s missing, new hoods who have shown up, who’s been flashing a roll. And of course they all have their neighborhood informers. Now, as I understand it, one specialized detective unit might be covering as many as four or five precincts. I like the idea of uniformed men getting experience in investigation work. They’ll like that. They’ll be functioning like detectives-which is what most of them thought police work was all about, instead of taking old people to hospitals and settling family squabbles. But while they’re investigating and making out that preliminary report, they’re off the beat, and I’ll have less men on patrol and visible. I don’t like that.”
Broughton pried a fingertip roughly into one nostril, dug out some matter, rolled it into a ball between thumb and forefinger. He opened the car window and flicked it outside.
“Well, you’re going to have to live with it,” he said coldly. “At least for a year until we get some numbers and see what’s happening to our solution rates. But now this son of a bitch Lombard gets hit right in the middle of the change-over. So we have Homicide North still in existence, the new homicide unit covering your precinct, and you still got your precinct detectives. Jesus Christ, all those guys will be walking up each other’s heels, covering the same ground-and whose responsibility is it? It’s going to be as fucked up as a Chinese fire drill It is already. You got any ideas how to straighten it out?”
Delaney looked up in surprise. The final question had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that even though he had wondered about the reason for this private talk, he wasn’t prepared for the demand.
“Can you give me twenty-four hours to think it over? Maybe I can come up with something.”
“No good,” Broughton said impatiently. Right now I got to go out to the airport to pick up the Commissioner, and I got to have some suggestions on how to straighten out this mess. He’ll want action. The Mayor and every councilman will be leaning on him. And if he don’t produce, it’s probably his ass. And if it’s his ass, it’s my ass too. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“You agree that right now it’s screwed up as far as organization goes?”
“Yes.”
“Christ, you’re a regular chatterbox, ain’t you?” Broughton farted audibly and squirmed his buttocks on the car seat. “I been hearing how smart you are, Captain. Okay, here’s your chance; give me a for-instance right now.”
Delaney looked at him with distaste, recognizing the man’s crude energy but angered by his bullying, disgusted by his personal habits, sensing a personality that reeked of the jungle.
“Try a temporary horizontal organization,” he said tonelessly. “The Department, just like the army and most business corporations, is organized vertically. Responsibility and authority are vested in the man at the top, Orders come down the chain of command. Each division, precinct, unit, or whatever, has a definite assignment. But sometimes problems come up that can’t be solved by this type of organization. It’s usually a problem of limited duration that might never occur again. The Lombard homicide comes right in the middle of the reorganization of the detective division. All right, do what the army and most corporations do when they’re faced with a unique situation that doesn’t require a permanent organization. Set up a temporary task force. Call it ‘Operation Lombard,’ if you like. Appoint an overall commander. Give him full responsibility and authority to draw on any unit for personnel and equipment he needs. Detectives, patrolmen, specialists-anyone who’ll help him do the job The men are detached on a temporary basis. The whole operation r temporary. When and if Lombard’s killer is found, the task force is disbanded, and the men go back to their regular units.”
A light came into Broughton’s muddy eyes. He laughed with glee and rubbed his palms together between his knees.
“They weren’t kidding; you’re a smart son of a bitch, Delaney. I like it. And I think the Commissioner will like it. A special task force: ‘Operation Lombard.’ It’ll show we’re doing something-right? That should satisfy the Mayor and the newspapers. How long do you think it’ll take to break the Lombard thing?”
Delaney looked at him in astonishment.
“How would I know? How would anyone know? Maybe someone’s confessing right now. Maybe it’ll never be solved.”
“Jesus, don’t say that.”
“Did you ever read solution statistics on homicides? If they’re not solved within the first forty-eight hours, the solution probability drops off steeply and continues to plunge as time passes. After a month or two, solution probability is practically nil.”
Broughton nodded glumly, got out of the car, spat his cold cigar into the gutter. Delaney got out too and stood there as the uniformed driver came running up. Broughton got in the front seat alongside the driver. As the limousine pulled away, the Captain saluted gravely, but it was not returned.
Delaney stood a moment, inspecting the street. The first contingent of uniformed patrolmen from his precinct came straggling up in twos and threes, to gather about the chalked outline on the sidewalk. The Captain moved over to listen to a sergeant giving them orders.
“Everyone got a flashlight?” he asked. “Okay, we spread out from here. We move slowly. Got that? slowly. We check every garbage can-” There was a groan from the massed men. “There was a pickup on this street yesterday afternoon so most of the cans should be empty. But even if they’re full, spill them out. Every can has got to be searched. After you’re through, try to kick most of the shit back in. We’re calling for another sanitation pickup today, and the cans will be clawed through again when they’re spilled into the garbage truck. Also, every area and alley, and put your light in every sewer and catch basin. This is a preliminary search. By tomorrow we’ll have some sewer and street men here to take off the manhole covers and gratings and probe the sludge. Now, what we’re looking for is anything that looks like a weapon. It could be a gun or a knife. But especially look for a club, a piece of pipe, an iron rod, a hammer, or maybe a rock with blood and matted hair on it. Anything with blood on it. And that includes a hat, clothing, a handkerchief, maybe a rag. If you’re not sure, call me. Don’t pass up anything. We do this block first. Then we cross York to the next block. Then we come back and do one block south and one block north. Got it? All right, get moving.”
Delaney watched the searchlights spread out from where the dark blood still glistened in the morning mist, He knew it had to be done, but he didn’t envy the men their task. It was possible they might find something. Possible. They would, he knew, also find gut-wrenching garbage, vomit, a dead cat, and perhaps the bloody body of an aborted baby.
By morning there would be more men doing the same thing, and more, and more. The search would spread farther and farther until it covered all his precinct and, finally, most of Manhattan.
Now he watched carefully as the men started their search. Then, suddenly, he realized his weariness had dropped away, or perhaps he was so exhausted he was numb. He clasped his hands behind his back and strolled down to the river fence. There he turned, faced toward York Avenue, and began to consider how the murder might have happened.
Lombard’s body had been found on the sidewalk almost half-way between the river and York Avenue. If indeed he had dinner with his mother, it was reasonable to assume she lived between the river and the point where the victim was found. Lombard had fallen forward toward York. Had he, about midnight, been walking toward a bus line, a subway station, or perhaps his parked car for the trip home to Brooklyn?
Pacing slowly, Delaney inspected the buildings between the river and the spot where the body was found. They were all converted brownstones and townhouses. Fronts of the town-houses were flush; there were no areas where a killer might lurk, although it was conceivable he might have been in a lobby, ostensibly inspecting bells, his back turned to passers-by. Delaney doubted that. Too much chance of being spotted by a tenant.
But the entrances to the converted brownstones were three or four steps down from the sidewalk. There were high bushes and boxes of ivy, still green, that offered some concealment for a crouching assassin. Delaney could not believe it. No killer, even if trained and wearing crepe-soled shoes, could leap from concealment, charge up three or four steps, and rush his victim from behind without making some noise. And Lombard would have turned to face his attacker, perhaps throw up an arm to protect himself, or make some movement to escape. Yet apparently he was struck down suddenly and without warning.
Barely moving, Delaney stared at the building fronts across the street. It was possible, he acknowledged, that the killer had waited in an outside lobby until Lombard passed on his way to York Avenue, had then come out on the sidewalk and followed him. But again, Lombard would surely have heard him or sensed his presence. And on this block at midnight, would a man as aware of street crime as Lombard allow a man to stalk him? The councilman could have run toward the traffic on York Avenue, or even dashed across the street to seek refuge in the big townhouse lobby with the doorman.
All this theorizing, of course, assumed that Lombard was a marked target, that the killer had followed him or at least been aware that he would be on this particular street at this particular time. But the suddenness and complete success of the attack were the points that interested Delaney at the moment. He retraced his steps to the river fence, turned around, and began again a slow walk toward York.
“What’s Iron Balls up to, sarge?” a uniformed patrolman asked. He was stationed at the chalked outline on the sidewalk to shoo away the curious.
The sergeant stared across the street at the slowly pacing Captain.
“Why, he’s looking for clues,” he explained blandly. “He’s sure to find a cancelled French postage stamp, or a lefthand glove with the little finger missing, or maybe a single turkey feather. Then he’ll solve the murder and make deputy inspector. What the fuck do you think he’s doing?”
The patrolman didn’t know, and the sergeant didn’t either.
Another possibility, Delaney was thinking, was that the killer was walking along with Lombard, the two were friends. But could the killer pull out a weapon, get behind his victim, and strike him directly from the rear without Lombard turning in alarm, dodging, or trying to ward off the blow?
The sticking point was still the suddenness of the attack and the fact that Lombard, a big, muscular man, had apparently offered no resistance, had allowed the killer to come up on him from behind.
Delaney stopped a moment and reflected; he was racing ahead too fast. Perhaps the killer didn’t approach from the rear. Perhaps he came directly toward Lombard from York Avenue. If he was well-dressed, walking swiftly like a resident of the block anxious to get home at midnight, chances are Lombard would have inspected him as he approached. And if the man looked all right, Lombard might have moved aside slightly to let him pass.
The weapon, of course, would have to be concealed. But if it was a pipe or a hammer, there were a number of ways that could be done-in a folded newspaper, under a coat carried on the arm, even in a trick package. Then, the instant after passing Lombard, the victim’s attention now on the area in front of him, the killer could bare his weapon, whirl, crush Lombard’s skull. All in an instant. Lombard would have no warning. He would topple forward, already dead. The assassin would return his weapon to its cover, and retrace his steps to York Avenue or even continue on to his own apartment, if he was a resident of the block, or to the apartment of a friend, or to a car parked for a convenient getaway.
Delaney ran through it again. The more he inspected it, the stronger it looked. It felt right. It assumed the killer approaching Lombard was a stranger to him. But if he was well-dressed, “legitimate” looking, and apparently hurrying home, it was doubtful if Lombard or anyone else would cross the street to escape attack. The Captain discarded the notion that after the murder the killer went on to his own apartment or that of a friend; he would surely guess that every resident of the block would be questioned and his whereabouts checked at the time of the slaying. No, the killer either went back toward York or escaped in a car parked nearby.
Delaney returned to the fence blocking off East River Drive, crossed the street, and started down the sidewalk where the body had been found, heading in the direction the victim had been walking.
Now I am Frank Lombard, soon to be dead. I have just had dinner with my mother, I have come out of her apartment house at midnight, I am in a hurry to get home to Brooklyn. I walk quickly, and I look about constantly. I even look down into the bush-surrounded entrances to the brownstones. I am acutely aware of the incidence of street assaults, and I make certain no one is lurking, waiting to bash me on the head or mug me.
I look up ahead. There is a man coming toward me from York Avenue. In the shadowless glare of the new street lights I can see that the man is well-dressed, carrying a coat over his arm. He too is hurrying, anxious to get home. I can understand that. As he approaches, our eyes lock. We both nod and smile reassuringly. “It’s all right,” the smile says. “We’re both well-dressed. We look okay. We’re not muggers.” I draw aside a little to give the man room to pass. The next instant I am dead.
Delaney stopped at the chalked outline on the sidewalk. It began to seem real to him. It explained why Lombard apparently made no move to defend himself, didn’t have time to make a move. The Captain walked slowly down to York Avenue. He turned, started back toward the river.
Now I am the killer, carrying a coat across my arm. Under the coat, hidden, I am grasping the handle of a hammer. I am walking quickly, with purposeful strides. Ahead of me, in the orange glare, I see the man I am to kill. I walk toward him briskly. As I come up, I nod, smile, and move to pass him. Now he is looking straight ahead. I pass, lift the hammer free, whirl, raise it high and strike. He goes down, sprawling forward. I cover the hammer again, walk quickly back to York Avenue again and escape.
Captain Delaney paused again at the chalked diagram. Yes, it could have happened that way. If the killer had nerve and resolution-and luck, of course. Always luck. No one looking out a window. No one else on the street at that hour. No cab suddenly coming down from York, its headlights picking him up the instant he struck. But assuming the killer’s luck, it all-ah, Jesus! The wallet! He had forgotten that damned wallet completely!
The wallet was the folding type, the kind a man customarily carries in a hip pocket. Indeed, Delaney had noted it had acquired a slight curve, taking its shape from the buttock. He carried the same type of wallet himself, and it began to curve after several months of use.
Lombard had been wearing a three-quarter “car coat” fastened in front with wooden toggles. In back, the coat and suit jacket beneath it had been pulled up high enough to expose his hip pockets. Now why had the killer paused long enough to frisk his victim for his wallet and then leave it open beside the body, even though it was stuffed with money? Every moment he tarried, every second, the killer was in deadly peril. Yet he took the time to search the corpse and remove the wallet. And then he left it open beside the body.
Why didn’t he take the money-or the entire wallet? Not because he was frightened away by someone’s appearance at a window or on the street. A man with nerve enough to approach his victim from the front would have nerve enough to take his loot, even if emperiled. A man can run just as fast with a wallet as without it. No, he just didn’t want the money. What did he want? To check the identification of his victim-or did he take something from the wallet, something they didn’t know about yet?
Delaney went back to York Avenue, turned, started back, and ran through it again.
Now I am the killer, carrying a coat across my arm. Under the coat…
Delaney knew as well as any man in the Department what the chances were of solving this particular homicide. He knew that in 1971 New York City had more murders than American combat deaths in Vietnam during the same period. In New York, almost five victims a day were shot, knifed, strangled, bludgeoned, set on fire or thrown from roofs. In such a horrific bloodbath, what was one more?
But if that became the general attitude, the accepted attitude, society’s attitude-“What’s one more?”-then the murder of Frank Lombard was an incident of no significance. When plague strikes, who cares enough to mourn a single soul?
When Captain Edward X. Delaney explained to the newspaperman why he had become a cop, he said what he thought: that he believed there was an eternal harmony in the universe, in all things animate and inanimate, and that crime was a dissonance in the chiming of the spheres. That is what Delaney thought.
But now, playing his victim-killer game in the first raw attempt to understand what had happened and to begin a possible solution of this crime, he was sadly aware that he had a deeper motive, more felt than thought. He had never spoken of it to anyone, not even Barbara, although he suspected she guessed.
It was perhaps due to his Catholic nurture that he sought to set the world aright. He wanted to be God’s surrogate on earth. It was, he knew, a shameful want. He recognized the sin. It was pride.