3. Clever; careful; crafty if not intelligent.
Just writing all this down gave him a certain satisfaction. It brought a solution no closer, he knew, but it was a start in bringing order and form to a chaotic enigma. It was the only way he knew to apply logic to solving a crime born of abnormal motives and an irrational mentality.
He was back in his study again, on the morning of March 21st, ruminating about the case.
He was playing with the idea that perhaps the two victims, George T. Puller and Frederick Wolheim, had, at some time in their business careers, employed the same man, and had fired this man, for whatever reasons.
Then, years later, the discharged employee, his resentment turned to homicidal fury, had sought out his two former employers and slashed them to death. A fanciful notion, the Chief acknowledged, but not impossible. In fact, not farfetched at all.
He was still considering this possibility and how it might be checked out when his phone rang. He reached for it absently.
"Edward X. Delaney here," he said.
"Chief, this is Boone," the sergeant said. "I thought you'd like to know… I did what you said: took a Crime Scene Unit man back to the room at the Hotel Pierce where Wolheim was chilled. We took measurements on that armchair where the two black nylon hairs were found."
"And?"
"Chief, it was approximate. I mean, when you sit in that chair, it has a soft seat cushion that depresses. You understand? So it was tough getting an exact measurement from the back of the head to the tailbone."
"Of course."
"Anyway," Boone went on, "we did what we could. Then there was no one in the Lab Services Unit or ME's office who could help. But one of the assistant ME's suggested we call a guy up at the American Museum of Natural History. He's an anthropologist, supposed to be a hotshot on reconstructing skeletons from bone fragments."
"Good," Delaney said, pleased with Boone's thoroughness. "What did he say?"
"I gave him the measurement and he called back within an hour. He said his estimate-and he insisted it was only a guess- was that the person who sat in that chair was about five feet five to five feet seven."
There was silence.
"Chief?" Boone said. "You still there?"
"Yes, sergeant," Delaney said slowly, "I'm still here. Five-five to five-seven? That could be a smallish man or a tallish woman."
"Right," the sergeant said. "But it's something, isn't it, Chief? I mean, it's more than we had before."
"Of course," Edward X. Delaney said, as heartily as he could. He didn't want to say how frail that clue was; the sergeant would know that. "How are you getting along with Slavin?"
"Okay," Boone said, lowering his voice. "So far. He's been making us recheck everything we did before he came aboard. I guess I can understand that; he doesn't want to be responsible for anything that happened before he took command."
"Uh-huh," Delaney said, thinking that Slavin was a fool to waste his men's time in that fashion and to imply doubt of their professional competence.
"Chief, I'd like to ask you a favor…"
"Of course. Anything."
"Could I call you about the investigation?" the sergeant asked, still speaking in a muffled voice. "Every once in a while? To keep you up on what's going on and ask your help on things?"
That would be Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen's suggestion, the Chief knew. "Sergeant, why don't you call Delaney every day or so? You're friends, aren't you? Keep him up on the progress of the investigation. See if he has any ideas."
Which meant that Thorsen didn't entirely trust the expertise of Lieutenant Martin Slavin.
"Call me any time you like, sergeant," Edward X. Delaney said. "I'll be here."
"Thank you, sir," Boone said gratefully.
Delaney hung up. On the dossier headed Perpetrator, he added:
4. Approx. 5-5 to 5-7.
Then he went into the kitchen and made a sandwich of sliced kielbasa and Jewish coleslaw, on sour rye. Since it was a "wet" sandwich, he ate it standing over the sink.
There was one person Edward X. Delaney was eager to talk to-but he wasn't sure the old man was still alive. He had been Detective Sergeant Albert Braun, assigned to the office of the District Attorney of New York County. But he had retired about fifteen years ago and Delaney lost track of him.
Braun had joined the New York Police Department with a law degree at a time when the force was having trouble recruiting qualified high school graduates. During his first five years, he served as a foot patrolman and continued his education with special studies at local universities in criminal law, forensic science and, his particular interest, the psychology of criminal behavior.
During his early years in the Department, he had won the reputation of being a dependable, if unspectacular, street cop. His nickname during this period of service was "Arf," from Little Orphan Annie's dog. That hound wasn't a bulldog, but Albert Braun was-and that's how he got the canine monicker.
Delaney remembered that it was said of Braun that if he was assigned to a stakeout in front of a house, and told, "Watch for a male Caucasian, 5-11, 185 pounds, about fifty-five, grayish hair, wearing a plaid sport jacket," you could come back two years later and Arf would look up and say, "He hasn't shown up yet."
Finally, Albert Braun's background, erudition, and intelligence were recognized. He earned the gold shield of a detective, received rapid promotions, and ended up a sergeant in the Manhattan DA's office where he remained until his retirement.
Long before that, he was recognized as the Department's top expert in the history of crime. He possessed a library of more than 2,000 volumes on criminology, and his knowledge of old cases, weapons, and criminal methodology was encyclopedic.
He had been consulted many times by police departments outside New York City and even by foreign police bureaus and Interpol. In addition, he taught a popular course on investigative techniques to detectives of the NYPD and was a frequent guest lecturer at John Jay College of Criminal Justice.
Delaney remembered that Braun had never married, and lived somewhere in Elmhurst, in Queens. The Chief consulted his personal telephone directory, a small, battered black book that contained numbers so ancient that instead of a three-digit prefix some bore designations such as Murray Hill-3, Beekman-5, and Butterfield-8.
He found Albert Braun's number and dialed. He waited while the phone rang seven times. He was about to hang up when a woman came on the line with a breathless "Yes?"
"Is this the Albert Braun residence?" Delaney asked.
"Yes, it is."
He didn't want to ask anything as crude as, "Is the old man still alive?" He tried, "Is Mr. Braun available?"
"Not at the moment," the woman said. "Who's calling, please?"
"My name is Edward X. Delaney. I'm an old friend of Mr. Braun. I haven't seen or spoken to him in years. I hope he's in good health?"
"Not very," the woman said, her voice lowering. "He fell and broke his hip about three years ago and developed pneumonia from that. Then last year he had a stroke. He's recovering from that, somewhat, but he spends most of his time in bed."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"Well, he's doing as well as can be expected. A man of his age."
"Yes," Delaney said, wanting to ask who she was and what she was doing there. She answered his unspoken question.
"My name is Martha Kaslove. Mrs. Martha Kaslove," she added firmly. "I've been Mr. Braun's housekeeper since he fell."
"Well, I'm glad he's not alone," the Chief said. "I had hoped to talk to him, but under the circumstances I won't bother him. I'd appreciate it if you'd tell him I called. The name is Edward X.-"
"Wait a minute," she said. "You knew him when he was a policeman? Before he retired?"
"Yes, I knew him well."
"Mr. Braun doesn't have many visitors," she said sadly. "None, in fact. He doesn't have any family. Oh, neighbors stop by occasionally, but it's really to visit with me, not him. I think a visit from an old friend would do him the world of good. Would you be willing to…?"
"Of course," Delaney said promptly. "I'll be glad to. I'm in Manhattan. I could be there in half an hour or so."
"Good," she said happily. "Let me ask him, Mr. Laney."
"Delaney," he said. "Edward X. Delaney."
"Hang on just a minute, please," she said.
He hung on for several minutes. Then Mrs. Kaslove came back on the phone.
"He wants to see you," she reported. "He's all excited. He's even putting clothes on and he wants me to shave him."
"Wonderful," the Chief said, smiling at the phone. "Tell him I'm on my way."
He made sure he had his reading glasses, notebook, two ballpoint pens, and a sharpened pencil. He pulled on his heavy, navy-blue melton overcoat, double-breasted. He set his hard black homburg squarely atop his big head. Then he went lumbering over to a liquor store on Second Avenue where he bought a bottle of Glenlivet Scotch. He had it gift-wrapped and put in a brown paper bag.
He stopped an empty northbound cab, got in, closed the door. He gave Albert Braun's address in Elmhurst.
The driver turned around to stare at him. "I don't go to Queens," he said.
"Sure you do," Edward X. Delaney said genially. "Or we can go to the Two-five-one Precinct House, just a block away. Or, if you prefer, you can take me downtown to the Hack Bureau and I'll swear out a complaint there."
"Jesus Christ!" the driver said disgustedly and slammed the cab into gear.
They made the trip in silence, which was all right with Delaney. He was rehearsing in his mind the questions he wanted to ask Albert Braun.
It was a pleasant house on a street of lawns and trees. In spring and summer, Delaney thought, it would look like a residential street in a small town, with people mowing the grass, trimming hedges, poking at flower borders. He had almost forgotten there were streets like that in New York.
She must have been watching for him through the front window, for the door opened as he came up the stoop. She filled the doorway: a big, motherly woman with twinkling eyes and flawless complexion.
"Mr. Delaney?" she said in a warm, pleasing voice.
"Yes. You must be Mrs. Kaslove. Happy to meet you."
He took off his homburg. They shook hands. She ushered him into a small entrance hall, took his hat and coat, hung them away in a closet.
"I can't tell you how he's looking forward to your visit," she said. "I haven't seen him so alive and chirpy in months."
"If I had known…"
"Now you must realize he's been a very sick man," she rattled on, "and not be shocked at the way he looks. He's not bedridden, but when he gets up, he uses a wheelchair. He's lost a lot of weight and the left side of his face-you know-from the stroke…"
Delaney nodded.
"An hour," she said definitely. "The doctor said he can sit up an hour at a time. And try not to upset him."
"I won't upset him," the Chief said. He held up his brown paper bag. "Can he have a drink?"
"One weak highball a day," she said firmly. "You'll find glasses in his bathroom. Now I'm going to run out and do some shopping. But I'll be back long before your hour is up."
"Take your time," Delaney said, smiling. "I won't leave until you get back."
"His bedroom is at the head of the stairs," she said, pointing. "On your right. He's waiting for you."
The Chief took a deep breath and climbed the stairs slowly, looking about. It was a cheerful, informal home. Patterned wallpaper. Lots of chintz. Bright curtains. Some good rugs. Everything looked clean and shining.
The man in the bedroom was a bleached skeleton propped up in a motorized wheelchair parked in the middle of the floor. A crocheted Afghan covered his lap and legs and was tucked in at the sides. A fringed paisley shawl was draped about his bony shoulders. He wore a starched white shirt, open at the neck to reveal slack, crepey skin.
His twisted face wrenched in a grimace. Delaney realized that Albert Braun was trying to grin at him. He stepped forward and picked up the man's frail white hand and pressed it gently. It felt like a bunch of grapes, as soft and tender.
"How are you?" he asked, smiling.
"Getting along," Braun said in a wispy voice. "Getting along. How are you, Captain? I thought you'd be in uniform. How are things at the precinct? The usual hysteria, eh?"
Delaney hesitated just a brief instant, then said, "You're right. The usual hysteria. It's good to see you again, Professor."
"Professor," Braun repeated, his face wrenching again. "You're the only cop I ever knew who called me 'Professor.'"
"You are a professor," Delaney said.
"I was," Braun said, "I was. But not really. It was just a courtesy, an honorary title. It meant nothing. Detective Sergeant Albert Braun. That's who I was. That meant something."
The Chief nodded understandingly. He held out the brown paper bag. "A little something to keep you warm."
Braun made a feeble gesture. "You didn't have to do that," he protested. "You better open it for me, Captain. I don't have much strength in my hands these days."
Delaney tore the wrappings away and held the bottle close to the man in the wheelchair.
"Scotch," Braun said, touching the bottle with trembling fingers. "What makes the heart grow fonder. Let's have one now for old times' sake."
"I thought you'd never ask," Delaney said, and left the old man cackling while he went into the bathroom to mix drinks. He poured himself a heavy shot, tossed it down, and stood there, gripping the sink as he felt it hit. He thought he had been prepared, but the sight of Albert Braun had been a shock.
Then he mixed two Scotch highballs in water tumblers, a weak one for the Professor, a dark one for himself. He brought the drinks back into the bedroom. He made certain Braun's thin fingers encircled the glass before he released it.
"Sit down, Captain, sit down," the old man said. "Take that armchair there. I've got the cushions all broke in for you."
Edward X. Delaney sat down gingerly in what seemed to him to be a fragile piece of furniture. He hoisted his glass.
"Good health and a long life," he toasted. "I'll drink to good health," Braun said, "but a long life is for the birds. All your friends die off. I feel like the Last of the Mohicans. Say, whatever happened to Ernie Silverman? Remember him? He was with the…"
Then they were off and running-twenty minutes of reminiscences, mostly gossip about old friends and old enemies. Braun did most of the talking, becoming more garrulous as he touched the watery highball to his pale lips. Delaney didn't see him swallowing, but noted the level of liquid was going down.
Then the old man's glass was empty. He held it out in a hand that had steadied.
"That was just flavored water," he said. "Let's have another with more kick to it."
Delaney hesitated. Braun stared at him, face mangled into a gargoyle's mask.
All his bones seemed to be knobby, pressing out through parchment skin. Feathers of grayish hair skirted his waxen skull. Even his eyes were filmed and distant, gaze dulled and turned inward. Black veins popped in his sunken temples.
"I know what Martha told you," Braun said. "One weak drink a day. Right?"
"Right," Delaney said. Still he hesitated.
"She keeps the booze downstairs," the skeleton complained. "I can't get at it. I'm eighty-four," he added in a querulous tone. "The game is up. You think I should be denied?"
Edward X. Delaney made up his mind. He didn't care to analyze his motives.
"No," he said, "I don't think you should be denied."
He took Braun's glass, went back to the bathroom. He mixed two more Scotch-and-waters, middling strong. He brought them into the bedroom, and Braun's starfish hand plucked the glass from his hand. The old man sampled it.
"That's more like it," he said, leaning back in his wheelchair. He observed Delaney closely. The cast over his eyes had faded. He had the shrewd, calculating look of a smart lawyer.
"You didn't come all the way out here to hold a dying man's hand," he said.
"No. I didn't."
"Old 'Iron Balls,' " Braun said affectionately. "You always did have the rep of using anyone you could to break a case."
"That's right," Delaney agreed. "Anyone, anytime. There is something I wanted to ask you about. A case. It's not mine; a friend's ass is on the line and I promised I'd talk to you."
"What's his name?"
"Abner Boone. Detective Sergeant. You know him?"
"Boone? Boone? I think I had him in one of my classes. Was his father a street cop? Shot down?"
"That's the man."
"Sure, I remember. Nice boy. What's his problem?"
"It looks like a repeat killer. Two so far. Same MO, but no connection between the victims. Stranger homicides. No leads."
"Another Son of Sam?" Braun said excitedly, leaning forward. "What a case that was! Did you work that one, Captain?"
"No," Delaney said shortly, "I never did."
"I was retired then, of course, but I followed it in the papers and on TV every day. Made notes. Collected clippings. I had a crazy idea of writing a book on it some day."
"Not so crazy," Delaney said. "Now this thing that Boone caught is-"
"Fascinating case," Albert Braun said slowly. His head was beginning to droop forward on the skinny stem of his neck. "Fascinating. I remember the last lecture I gave at John Jay was on that case. Multiple random homicides. The motives…" His loose dentures clacked.
"Yes, yes," Delaney said hurriedly, wondering if he was losing the man. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about-the motives. And also, has there ever been a female killer like Son of Sam? A woman who commits several random homicides?"
"A woman?" the old man said, raising his head with an effort. "It's all in my lecture."
"Yes," Delaney said, "but could you tell me now? Do you remember if there was ever a case like Son of Sam when a woman was the perp?"
"Martha Beck," Braun said, trying to recall. "A woman in Pennsylvania-what was her name? I forget. But she was a babysitter and knew the victims. All kids. A woman at a Chicago fair, around the turn of the century, I think. I'd have to look it up. She ran a boardinghouse. Killed her boarders. Greed, again." His face tried to make a grin. "Ground them up into sausages."
"But stranger homicides," Delaney insisted. "Any woman involved in a series of killings of strangers?"
"It's all in my last lecture," Albert Braun said sadly. "Two days later I fell. The steps weren't even slippery. I just tripped. That's how it ends, Captain; you trip."
He held out his empty glass. Delaney took it to the bathroom, mixed fresh highballs. When he brought the drinks back to the bedroom, he heard the outside door slam downstairs.
Braun's head had fallen forward, sharp chin on shrunken chest.
"Professor?" the Chief said.
The head came up slowly.
"Yes?"
"Here's your drink."
The boiled fingers clamped around.
"That lecture of yours," Delaney said. "Your last lecture. Was it written out? Typed?"
The head bobbed.
"Would you have a copy of it? I'd like to read it."
Albert Braun roused, looking at the Chief with eyes that had a spark, burning.
"Lots of copies," he said. "In the study. Watch this…"
He pushed the controls in a metal box fixed to the arm of his wheelchair. He began to move slowly toward the doorway. Delaney stood hastily, hovered close. But Braun maneuvered his chair skillfully through the doorway, turned down the hallway. The Chief moved nearby, ready to grab the old man if he toppled.
But he didn't. He steered expertly into the doorway of a darkened room and stopped his chair.
"Switch on your right," he said in a faint voice.
Delaney fumbled, found the wall plate. Light blazed. It was a long cavern of a room, a study-den-library. Rough, unpainted pine bookshelves rose to the ceiling. Bound volumes, some in ancient leather covers. Paperbacks. Magazines. Stapled and photocopied academic papers. One shelf of photographs in folders.
There was a ramshackle desk, swivel chair, file cabinet, type-writer on a separate table. A desk lamp. A wilted philodendron.
The room had been dusted; it was not squalid. But it had the deserted look of a chamber long unused. The desktop was blank; the air had a stale odor. It was a deserted room, dying.
Albert Braun looked around.
"I'm leaving all my books and files to the John Jay library," he said. "It's in my will."
"Good," Delaney said.
"The lectures are over there in the lefthand corner. Third shelf up. In manila folders."
Delaney went searching. He found the most recent folder, opened it. At least a dozen copies of a lecture entitled: "Multiple Random Homicides; History and Motives."
"May I take a copy?" he asked.
No answer.
"Professor," he said sharply.
Braun's spurt of energy seemed to have depleted him. He raised his head with difficulty.
"May I take a copy?" Delaney repeated.
"Take all you want," Braun said in a peevish voice. "Take everything. What difference does it make?"
The Chief took one copy of Detective Sergeant Albert Braun's last lecture. He folded it lengthwise, tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.
"We'll get you back to your bedroom now," he said.
But there in the doorway, looming, was big, motherly Mrs. Martha Kaslove. She looked down with horror at the lolling Albert Braun and snatched the glass from his nerveless fingers. Then she looked furiously at Edward X. Delaney.
"What did you do to him?" she demanded.
He said nothing.
"You got him drunk," she accused. "You may have killed him! You get out of here and never, never come back. Don't try to call; I'll hang up on you. And if I see you lurking around, I'll call the cops and have you put away, you disgusting man."
He waited until she had wheeled Albert Braun back to his bedroom. Then Delaney turned off the lights in the study, went downstairs, and found his hat and coat. He called a taxi from the living room phone.
He went outside and stood on the sidewalk, waiting for the cab. He looked around at the pleasant, peaceful street, so free of traffic that kids were skateboarding down the middle of the pavement. Nice homes. Private lives.
He was back in Manhattan shortly after 3:30 p.m. In the kitchen, taped to the refrigerator door-she knew how to communicate with him-was a note from Monica. She had gone to a symposium and would return no later than 5:30. He was to put the chicken and potatoes in the oven at precisely 4:00.
He welcomed the chore. He didn't want to think of what he had done. He was not ashamed of how he had used a dying man, but he didn't want to dwell on it.
There were six chicken legs. He cut them into pieces, drumsticks and thighs, rinsed and dried them. Then he rubbed them with olive oil, sprinkled on toasted onion flakes, and dusted them with garlic and parsley salt. He put the twelve pieces (the thighs skin side down) in a disposable aluminum foil baking pan.
He washed and dried the four Idaho potatoes. He rubbed them with vegetable oil and wrapped them in aluminum foil. Monica and he could never eat four baked potatoes, but the two left over would be kept refrigerated, sliced another day, and fried with butter, chopped onions, and lots of paprika. Good home-fries.
He set the oven for 350° and put in chicken and potatoes. He searched in the fridge for salad stuff and found a nice head of romaine. He snapped it into single long leaves, washed them, wrapped them in a paper towel. Then he put them back into the refrigerator to chill. He and Monica liked to eat romaine leaf by leaf, dipped into a spicy sauce.
He made the sauce, a tingly mixture of mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, Tabasco, salt, pepper, garlic powder, and parsley flakes. He whipped up a bowl of the stuff and left it to meld.
He was not a good cook; he knew that. He smoked too much and drank too much; his palate was dulled. That was why he overspiced everything. Monica complained that when he cooked, sweat broke out on her scalp.
He had accomplished all his tasks in his heavy, vested sharkskin suit, a canvas kitchen apron knotted about his waist. Finished, he untied the apron, took an opened can of Ballantine ale, and went into his study.
He settled down, took a sip of the ale, donned his reading glasses. He began to read Detective Sergeant Albert Braun's last lecture. He read it twice. Between readings, he went into the kitchen to turn the chicken, sprinkling on more toasted onion flakes and garlic and parsley salt. And he opened another ale.
Multiple Random Homicides
History and Motives by Albert Braun, Det. Sgt., NYPD, Ret.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen…
"The homicide detective, in establishing the guilt or innocence of a suspect must concern himself-as we have previously discussed-with means, opportunity, and motive. The criminal may choose his weapon and select his opportunity. His motive cannot be manipulated; he is its creature. And it is usually motive by which his crime succeeds or fails.
"What are we to make of the motive of New York's current multiple murderer-an individual described in headlines as 'The.44 Caliber Killer' or 'Son of Sam'? The former title refers to the handgun used to kill six and wound seven-to date. The latter is a self-awarded nickname used by the killer in taunting notes to the police and press and, by extension, to all of us.
"The detective's mind at work: He calls himself 'Son of Sam.' Invert to Samson, who lost his potency when his long hair was shorn. Then we learn the victims had long hair. A connection here? A clue? No, I do not believe so. Too tenuous. But it illustrates how every possibility, no matter how farfetched, must be explored in attempting to establish the criminal's motive or plural motives.
"In researching the murky drives of the wholesale killer, the detective goes to the past history of similar crimes, and finds literature on the topic disturbingly scant. Rape, robbery, even art forgery have been thoroughly studied, analyzed, charted, computerized, dissected, skinned, and hung up to dry.
"But where are the psychologists, criminologists, sociologists, and amateur aficionados of murder most foul when it comes to resolving the motives of those who kill, and kill again, and again, and again…?
"Good reason for this, I think. Cases of mass homicide are too uncommon to reveal a sure pattern. Each massacre is different, each slaughter unique. Where is the link between Jack the Ripper, Charles Manson, Unruh, the Black Dahlia, Speck, the Boston Strangler, Panzram, William Heirens ('Stop me before I kill again!'), Zodiac (never caught, that one), the rifleman in the Texas tower, the Los Angeles 'Trash Bag' butchers, the homosexual killers in Houston, the executioner of the California itinerant workers? What do all these monsters have in common? '"They were all quite mad,' you say. An observation of blinding brilliance rivaled only by John F. Kennedy's, 'Life is unfair.' "No, the puzzling denominator is that they are all male. Where are the ladies in this pantheon of horror? Victims frequently, killers never. Oh, there was Martha Beck, true, but she 'worked' with a male paramour and slaughtered from corruptive greed. Shoddy stuff.
"We are not here concerned with greed as a motive for multiple homicide. Nor shall we muse on familial tensions which erupt in the butchery of an entire Nebraska family or Kentucky clan, including in-laws and, oddly enough, usually the family dog.
"What concerns us this evening is a series of isolated murders, frequently over a lengthy period of time, the victims unrelated and strangers to the slayer. Let us also eliminate political and military terrorism. What remains of motive? It is not enough to intone, 'Paranoiac schizophrenic,' and let it go at that. It may satisfy a psychologist, but should not satisfy the homicide detective since labels are of no use to him in solving the case.
"What, then, should the detective look for? What possible motives for random slayings may exist that will help him apprehend the perpetrator?
"Pay attention here; watch your footing. We are in a steamy place of reaching vines, barbed creepers, roots beneath and swamp around. Beasts howl. Motives intertwine and interact. Words fail, and the sun is blocked. Poor psychologists. Poor sociologists. No patterns, no paths. But shivery shadows-plenty of those.
"First, maniacal lust. Oh yes. This staple of penny dreadfuls did exist, does exist and, if current statistics on rape are correct, seems likely to increase tomorrow. It might-and that was the first of many 'mights' you will hear from me tonight-it might account for the barbarities of Jack the Ripper, the Boston Strangler, the Black Dahlia, Heirens, Speck, and others whose names, fortunately, escape me. I have a good memory for old lags, con men, outlaws and safecrackers. When it comes to recalling mass killers, my mind fuzzes over. It is, I think, an unconscious protective mechanism. The horror is too bright; it shines a light in corners better left in gloom.
"Sexual frenzy: passion becomes violence through hatred, impotence, a groaning realization of the emptiness of sex without love. Water results; blood is wanted. Then blood is needed, and the throat-choked slayer seeks the ultimate orgasm. And aware- oh yes, aware!-and weeping for himself-never for his victim; his own anguish fills him-he scrawls in lipstick on the bathroom mirror, 'Stop me before I kill again!' As if anyone could rein his demented desire or want to. Leave that to the hangman's noose. It is stated that capital punishment does not deter. It will deter him.
"Second, revenge. It might serve for Jack the Ripper, the Boston Strangler, Unruh, the killer of those California farmhands, the homosexual executioner in Houston-ah, it might serve for the whole scurvy lot, including the latest addition, Son of Sam.
"Revenge, as a motive, I interpret as hatred of a type of individual or a class of individuals who, in the killer's sick mind, are deserving of death. All women, all blacks, all homosexuals, the poor, the mighty, or attractive young girls with long brown hair.
"When the New York Police Department compared ballistics reports and came to the stunned conclusion that it was up against a repeat killer, one of the first theories advanced involved the long hair of the victims. It was suggested that the murderer, having been spurned or humiliated by a girl with flowing tresses, vowed vengeance and is intent on killing her over and over again.
"More recent reports demolish this hypothesis. Males have been shot (one was killed), and not all the female victims had brown, shoulder-length hair. One was blonde; others had short coiffures.
"But still, revenge as a motive has validity. It has been proposed that Jack the Ripper executed and mutilated prostitutes because one had infected him with a venereal disease. A neat theory. Just as elegant, I believe, is my own belief: that he was the type of man who compulsively sought the company of whores (there are such men) and killed to eradicate his own weakness, eliminate his shame.
"I told you we are in a jungle here, and nowhere does the sun shine through. We are poking around the dark, secret niches of the human heart, and our medical chart resembles antique maps with the dread legends: 'Terra incognita' and 'Here be dragons.' "Third, rejection. Closely allied to revenge, but rejection not by individual or class but by society, the world, life itself. 'I didn't ask to be born,' the killer whines, and the only answer can be, 'Who did?' Is Son of Sam of this rejected brotherhood?
"There was once a mass killer named Panzram. He was an intelligent man, a thinking man, but a bum, a drifter, scorned, abused, and betrayed. He rejected, scorned, and abused in turn. And he slew, so many that it seemed he wanted to kill not people but life itself. Wipe out all humanity, then all things that pulse, and leave only a cinder whirling dead through freezing space.
"That was total rejection: rejection of the killer by society, and of society by the killer. Has no one ever turned his back on you, or you to him? We are dealing here not with another planet's language that no one speaks on ours. The vocabulary is in us all, but we dast not give it tongue.
"The flip side of rejection, real or fancied, is the need to assert: 'I do exist. I am I. A person of consequence. You must pay attention. And to make certain you do, I shall kill a baker's dozen of those lumps who look through me on the street. Then you will recognize who I am.' Is that what Unruh was thinking as he strolled along the New Jersey street, shooting passersby, drivers of cars, pausing to reload, stopping in stores to pot a few more? '"I am I. World, take notice!' First, rejection; then, need to prove existence. Murder becomes a mirror.
"Finally, punk rock, punk fashion, punk souls. Not 'Small is better than big,' but 'Nothing is better than something.' So, what's new? Surely there were a few wild-eyed Neanderthals rushing about the caves, screaming, 'Down with up!' "We can afford a low-kilowatt smile at combat boots worn with gold lame bikinis, at the splintered dissonance of punk rock, at the touching fervor with which punkists assault the establishment. We can smile, oh yes, knowing how quickly their music, fashions, language, and personal habits will be preempted, smoothed, glossed, gussied-up, and sold tomorrow via 30-second commercials at highly inflated prices.
"But there are a few punk souls whose nihilism is so intense, who are so etched by negativism and riddled by despair, that they will never be preempted. Never! Anarchy was not invented yesterday; the demons of Dostoevski have been with us always. To the man who believes 'Nothing is evil,' it is but one midget step to 'Everything is good.' "The nihilist may murder to prove himself superior to the tribal taboo (the human tribe): 'Thou shalt not kill.' Or he may slay to prove to his victims the fallacy and ephemerality of their faith. In either case, the killer is acting as an evangelist of anarchy. It is not enough that he not believe; he must convert-at the muzzle of a revolver or the point of a knife.
"Because the hell of punk souls is this: if one other person in the world believes, he is doomed. And so the spiritual anarchist will kill before he will acknowledge that he has spent his life in thin sneers while other, more ignorant and less cynical men have affirmed, and accepted the attendant pain with stoicism and resolve.
"The acrid stink of nihilism followed Charles Manson and his merry band on all their creepy-crawlies. And a charred whiff of spiritual anarchy rises from the notes and deeds of Son of Sam. But I do not believe this his sole goad. Two or more motives are interacting here.
"And that is the thought I wish to leave with you tonight. The motives of mass killers are rarely simple and rarely single. We are not earthworms. We are infinitely complex, infinitely chimerical organisms. In the case of multiple random killings, it is the task of the homicide detective to pick his way through this maze of motives and isolate those strands that will, hopefully, enable him to apprehend the murderer.
"Any questions?"
There was nothing wrong with the dinner. The chicken was crisp and tasty. The baked potatoes, with dabs of sweet butter and a bit of freshly ground pepper, were light and fluffy. The sauce for the romaine leaves was not too spicy. And there was a chilled jug of California chablis on the table.
But the meal was spoiled by Monica's mood. She was silent, morose. She picked at her food or sat motionless for long moments, fork poised over her food.
"What's wrong?" Delaney asked.
"Nothing," she said.
They cleaned the table, sat silently over coffee and small anise biscuits.
"What's wrong?" he asked again.
"Nothing," she said, but he saw tears welling in her eyes. He groaned, rose, bent over her. He put a meaty arm about her shoulders.
"Monica, what is it?"
"This afternoon," she sniffled. "It was a symposium on child abuse."
"Jesus Christ!" he said. He pulled his chair around next to hers. He sat holding her hand.
"Edward, it was so awful," she said. "I thought I was prepared, but I wasn't." "I know."
"They had a color film of what had been done to those kids. I wanted to die."
"I know, I know."
She looked at him through brimming eyes.
"I don't know how you could have endured seeing things like that for thirty years."
"I never got used to it," he said. "Never. Why do you think Abner Boone cracked up and started drinking?"
She was shocked. "Was that it?"
"Part of it. Most of it. Seeing what people are capable of. What they do to other people-and to children."
"Do you suppose he told Rebecca? Why he started drinking?"
"I don't know. Probably not. He's ashamed of it."
"Ashamed!" she burst out. "Of feeling horror and revulsion and sympathy for the victims?"
"Cops aren't supposed to feel those things," he said grimly. "Not if it interferes with doing your job."
"I think I need a brandy," she said.
After the brandy, and after they had cleaned up the kitchen, they both went into the study. Monica sat behind the desk. The lefthand stack of drawers was hers, where she kept her stationery, correspondence, notepaper, appointment books, etc. She began to write letters to the children: Eddie, Jr., Liza, Mary, and Sylvia.
When she was finished, Delaney would append short notes in his hand. Usually things like: "Hope you are well. Weather here cold but clear. How is it there?" The children called these notes "Father's weather reports." It was a family joke.
While Monica wrote out her long, discursive letters at the desk, Edward X. Delaney sat opposite her in the old club chair. He slowly sipped another brandy and read, for the third time, the last lecture of Albert Braun, Det. Sgt., NYPD, Ret.
What Braun had to say about motives came as no surprise. During thirty years in the Department, most of them as a detective, Delaney had worked cases in which all those motives were involved, singly or coexistent.
The problem, he decided, was one that Braun had recognized when he had made a brief reference to labels satisfying the criminologist or psychologist, but being of little value to the investigating detective.
An analogy might be made to a man confronting a wild beast in the woods. An animal that threatens him with bared fangs and raised claws.
In his laboratory, the biologist, the scientist, would be interested only in classifying the beast: family, genus, species. Its external appearance, bone structure, internal organs. Feeding and mating habits. From what previous animal forms it had evolved.
To the man in the forest, menaced, all this would be extraneous if not meaningless. All he knew was the fear, the danger, the threat.
The homicide detective was the man in the woods. The criminologist, psychologist, or sociologist was the man in the laboratory. The lab man was interested in causes. The man in the arena was interested in events.
That was one point Delaney found not sufficiently emphasized in Braun's lecture. The other disappointment was lack of any speculation on why women were conspicuously missing from the rolls of multiple killers.
Braun had made a passing reference to Martha Beck and other females who had killed many from greed. But a deep analysis of why random murderers were invariably male was missing. And since Braun's lecture had been delivered, the additional cases of the Yorkshire Ripper and the Chicago homosexual butcher had claimed headlines. Both murderers were men.
Delaney let the pages of the lecture fall into his lap. He took off his reading glasses, massaged the bridge of his nose. He rubbed his eyes wearily.
"Another brandy?" he asked his wife.
She shook her head, without looking up. He regarded her intently. In the soft light of the desk lamp, she seemed tender and womanly. Her smooth skin glowed. The light burnished her hair; there was a radiance, almost a halo.
She wrote busily, tongue poking out one cheek. She smiled as she wrote; something humorous had occurred to her, or perhaps she was just thinking of the children. She seemed to Edward X. Delaney, at that moment, to be a perfect portrait of the female presence as he conceived it. "Monica," he said. She looked up inquiringly.
"May I ask you a question about that child abuse symposium? I won't if it bothers you."
"No," she said, "I'm all right now. What do you want to know?" "Did they give you any statistics, national statistics, on the incidence of child abuse cases and whether they've been increasing or decreasing?"
"They had all the numbers," she said, nodding. "It's been increasing in the last ten years, but the speaker said that's probably because more doctors and hospitals are becoming aware of the problem and are reporting cases to the authorities. Before, they took the parents' word that the child had been injured in an accident."
"That's probably true," he agreed. "Did they have any statistics that analyzed the abusers by sex? Did more men than women abuse children, or was it the other way around?"
She thought a moment.
"I don't recall any statistics about that," she said. "There were a lot of cases where both parents were involved. Even when only one of them was the, uh, active aggressor, the other usually condoned it or just kept silent."
"Uh-huh," he said. "But when just one parent or relative was the aggressor, would it more likely be a man or a woman?"
She looked at him, trying to puzzle out what he was getting at.
"Edward, I told you, there were no statistics on that."
"But if you had to guess, what would you guess?"
She was troubled.
"Probably women," she admitted finally. Then she added hastily, "But only because women have more pressures and more frustrations. I mean, they're locked up all day with a bunch of squalling kids, a house to clean, meals to prepare. While the husband has escaped all that in his office or factory. Or maybe he's just sitting in the neighborhood tavern, swilling beer."
"Sure," Delaney said. "But it's your guess that at least half of all child abusers are women-and possibly a larger proportion than half?"
She stared at him, suddenly wary.
"Why are you asking these questions?" she demanded.
"Just curious," he said.
On the morning of March 24th, Delaney walked out to buy his copy of The New York Times and pick up some fresh croissants at a French bakery on Second Avenue. By the time he got back, Monica had the kitchen table set with glasses of chilled grapefruit juice, ajar of honey, a big pot of black coffee.
They made their breakfasts, settled back. He gave her the Business Day section, began leafing through the Metropolitan Report.
"Damn it," she said.
He looked up. "What's wrong?"
"Bonds are down again. Maybe we should do a swap."
"What's a swap?"
"The paper-value of our tax-exempts are down. We sell them and take the capital tax loss. We put the money back into tax-exempts with higher yields. We can write the loss off against gains in our equities. If we do it right, our annual income from the new tax-exempts should be about equal to what we're getting now. Maybe even more."
He was bewildered. "Whatever you say," he told her. "Oh God, look at this…"
He showed her the article headlined: killer sought in two homicides.
"That's Abner's case," he said. "The hotel killings. The newspapers will be all over it now. The hysteria begins."
"It had to happen sooner or later," she said. "Didn't it? It was only a question of time."
"I suppose," he said.
But when he took the newspaper and a second cup of coffee into the study, the first thing he did was look up the phone number of Thomas Handry in his private telephone directory. Handry was a reporter who had provided valuable assistance to Delaney during Operation Lombard.
The phone was picked up after the first ring. The voice was terse, harried…
"Handry."
"Edward X. Delaney here."
A pause, then: "Chief! How the hell are you?"
"Very well, thank you. And you?"
They chatted a few minutes, then Delaney asked:
"Still writing poetry?"
"My God," the reporter said, "you never forget a thing, do you?"
"Nothing important."
"No, I've given up on the poetry. I was lousy and I knew it. Now I want to be a foreign correspondent. Who knows, next week I may want to be a fireman or a cop or an astronaut."
Delaney laughed. "I don't think so."
"Chief, it's nice talking to you after all these years, but I've got the strangest feeling that you didn't call just to say hello. You want something?"
"Yes," Delaney said. "There was an article on page three of the Metropolitan Report this morning. About two hotel murders."
"And?"
"No byline. I just wondered who wrote it."
"Uh-huh. In this case three guys provided information for the story, including me. Three bylines would have been too much of a good thing for a short piece like that. So they just left it off. That's all you wanted to know?"
"Not exactly."
"I didn't think so. What else?"
"Who made the connection? Between the two killings? They were a month apart, and there are four or five homicides every day in New York."
"Chief, you're not the only detective. Give us credit for a little intelligence. We studied the crimes and noted the similarities in the MOs."
"Bullshit," Delaney said. "You got a tip."
Handry laughed. "Remember," he said, "you told me, I didn't tell you."
"Phone or mail?" Delaney asked.
"Hey, wait a minute," the reporter said. "This is more than idle curiosity. What's your interest in this?"
Delaney hesitated. Then: "A friend of mine is on the case. He needs all the help he can get."
"So why isn't he calling?"
"Fuck it," Delaney said angrily. "If you won't-"
"Hey, hold it," Handry said. "I didn't say I wouldn't. But what do I get out of it?"
"An inside track," Delaney said, "that you didn't have before. It may be something and it may add up to zilch."
Silence a moment.
"All right," the reporter said, "I'll gamble. Harvey Gardner took the call. About a week ago. We've been checking it out ever since."
"Did you talk to Gardner about it?"
"Of course. The call came in about five-thirty in the evening. Very short. The caller wouldn't give any name or address."
"Man or woman?"
"Hard to tell. Gardner said it sounded like someone trying to disguise their voice, speaking in a low growl."
"So it could be a man or a woman?"
"Could be. Another thing… Gardner says the caller said, 'The same person did both of them.' Not, 'It's the same killer' or 'The same guy did both of them,' but 'The same person did both of them.' What do you think?"
"I think maybe you wouldn't make a bad cop after all. Thanks, Handry."
"I expect a little quid pro quo on this, Chief."
"You'll get it," Delaney promised. "Oh, one more thing…"
"There had to be," Handry said, sighing.
"I may need some research done. I'll pay, of course. Do you know a good researcher?"
"Sure," Thomas Handry said. "Me."
"You? Nah. This is dull, statistical stuff."
"I'll bet," the reporter said. "Listen, I've got the best sources in the world right here. Just give me a chance. You won't have to pay."
"I'll think about it," Delaney said. "Nice talking to you."
"Keep in touch," Handry said.
The Chief hung up and sat a moment, staring at the phone. "The same person did both of them." The reporter was right; there was a false note there in the use of the word "person."
It would have to be the killer who called in the tip, or a close confederate of the killer. It seemed odd that either would say, "The same person…" That was a prissy way of putting it. Why didn't they say "guy" or "man" or "killer"?
He sighed, wondering why he had called Handry, why he was becoming so involved in this thing. He was a private citizen now; it wasn't his responsibility. Still…
There were a lot of motives involved, he decided. He wanted to help Abner Boone. His retirement was increasingly boring; he needed a little excitement in his life. There was the challenge of a killer on the loose. And even a private citizen owed an obligation to society, and especially to his community.
There was one other factor, Delaney acknowledged. He was getting long in the tooth. Why deny it? When he died, thirty years of professional experience would die with him. Albert Braun would leave his books and lectures to instruct detectives in the future. Edward X. Delaney would leave nothing.
So it seemed logical and sensible to put that experience to good use while he was still around. A sort of legacy while he was alive. A living will.
Detective Sergeant Abner Boone called on the morning of March 26th. He asked if he could stop by for a few moments, and Delaney said sure, come ahead; Monica was at a feminist meeting where she was serving as chairperson for a general discussion of government-financed day-care centers.
The two men had talked almost every day on the phone. Boone had nothing new to report on the killer who was now being called the "Hotel Ripper" in newspapers and on TV.
Boone did say that Lieutenant Martin Slavin was convinced that the murderer was not a prostitute, since nothing had been stolen. Most of the efforts of the cops under his command were directed to rousting homosexuals, the S amp;M joints in the Village, and known transvestites.
"Well," Delaney said, sighing, "he's going by the percentages. I can't fault him for that. Almost every random killer of strangers has been male."
"Sure," Boone said, "I know that. But now the Mayor's office has the gays yelling, plus the hotel associations, plus the tourist people. It's heating up."
But when Sergeant Abner Boone appeared on the morning of March 26th, he was the one who was heated up.
"Look at this," he said furiously scaling a flyer onto Delaney's desk. "Slavin insisted on sending one of these to the head of security in every midtown hotel."
Delaney donned his glasses, read the notice slowly. Then he looked up at Boone.
"The stupid son of a bitch," he said softly.
"Right!" the sergeant said, stalking back and forth. "I pleaded with him. Leave out that business about the black nylon wig, I said. There's no way, no way, we'll be able to keep that out of the papers if every hotel in midtown Manhattan knows about it. So it gets in the papers, and the killer changes his wig-am I right? Blond or red or whatever. Meanwhile, all our guys are looking for someone in a black wig. It just makes me sick!"
"Take it easy, sergeant," Delaney said. "The damage has been done; nothing you can do about it. Did you make your objections to Slavin in the presence of witnesses?"
"I sure did," Boone said wrathfully. "I made certain of that."
"Good," Delaney said. "Then it's his ass, not yours. Getting many false confessions?"
"Plenty," the sergeant said. "Every whacko in the city. Another reason I wanted to keep that black nylon wig a secret. It made it easy to knock down the fake confessions. Now we've got nothing up our sleeve. What an asshole thing for Slavin to do!"
"Forget it," Delaney advised. "Let him hang himself. You're clean."
"I guess so," Boone said, sighing. "I don't know what to tell our decoys now. Look for anyone in any color wig, five-five to five-seven. That's not much to go on."
"No," Delaney said, "it's not."
"We checked out that suggestion you gave me. You know-both victims employing the same disgruntled guy and firing him. We're still working on it, but it doesn't look good."
"It's got to be done," Delaney said stubbornly.
"Sure. I know. And I appreciate the lead. We're grabbing at anything. Anything. Also, I remembered what you said about the time between killings becoming shorter and shorter. So I-"
"Usually," Delaney reminded him. "I said usually."
"Right. Well, it was about a month between the Puller and Wolheim murders. If there's a third, God forbid, I figure that going by what you say-what you suggest, it may be around April third. That would be three weeks after the Wolheim kill. So I'm alerting-everyone for that week."
"Won't do any harm," Edward X. Delaney said.
"If there is another one," Boone said, "I'll give you a call. You promised to come over-remember?"
"I remember."
But April 3rd came and went, with no report of another hotel homicide. Delaney was troubled. Not because events had proved him wrong; that had happened before. But he was nagged that this case wasn't following any known pattern. There was no handle on it. It was totally different.
But wasn't that exactly what Albert Braun had said in his last lecture? "Cases of mass homicide are too uncommon to reveal a sure pattern. Each massacre different, each slaughter unique."
Early on the morning of April 10th, about 7:30, Delaney was awake but still abed, loath to crawl out of his warm cocoon of blankets. The phone shrilled. Monica awoke, turned suddenly in bed to stare at him.
"Edward X. Delaney here," he said.
"Chief, it's Boone. There's been another. Hotel Coolidge. Can you come over?"
"Yes," Delaney said.
He got out of bed, began to strip off his pajamas.
"Who was that?" Monica asked.
"Boone. There's been another one."
"Oh God," she said.
Delaney came off the elevator on the 14th floor and looked to the left. Nothing. He looked to the right. A uniformed black cop was planted in the middle of the corridor. He was swinging a nightstick from its leather thong. Beyond him, far down the long hallway, Abner Boone and a few other men were clustered about a doorway.
"I'd like to see Sergeant Boone," Delaney told the cop. "He's expecting me."
"Yeah?" the officer said, giving Delaney the once-over. He turned and yelled down the corridor, "Hey, sarge!" When Boone turned to look, the cop hooked a thumb at Delaney. The sergeant nodded and made a beckoning motion. The cop moved aside. "Be my guest," he said.
Delaney looked at him. The man had a modified Afro, a neat black mustache. His uniform fit like it had been custom-made by an Italian tailor.
"Do you know Jason T. Jason?" he asked.
"Jason Two?" the officer said, with a splay of white teeth. "Sure, I know that big mother. He a friend of yours?"
Delaney nodded. "If you happen to see him, I'd appreciate it if you'd give him my best. The name is Delaney. Edward X. Delaney."
"I'll remember," the cop said, staring at him curiously.
The Chief walked down the hallway. Boone came forward to meet him.
"Sorry I'm late," Delaney said. "I couldn't get a cab."
"I'm glad you're late," the sergeant said. "You missed a mob scene. Reporters, TV crews, a guy from the Mayor's office, the DA's sergeant, Deputy Commissioner Thorsen, Chief Bradley, Inspector Jack Turrell-you know him?-Lieutenant Slavin, and so on and so on. We had everyone here but the Secretary of State."
"You didn't let them inside?"
"You kidding? Of course not. Besides, none of them wanted to look at a stiff so early in the morning. Spoil their breakfast. They just wanted to get their pictures taken at the scene of the crime and make a statement that might get on the evening news."
"Did you tell Slavin I was coming over?"
"No, sir, but I mentioned it to Thorsen. He said, 'Good.' So if Slavin comes back and gives us any flak, I'll tell him to take it up with Thorsen. We'll pull rank on him."
"Fine," Delaney said, smiling.
He looked around the corridor. There were two ambulance men with a folding, wheeled stretcher and body bag, waiting to take the corpse away. There were two newspaper photographers, laden with equipment. The four men were sitting on the hallway floor, playing cards.
The Chief looked inside the opened door. The usual hotel room. There were two men in there. One was vacuuming the rug. The other was dusting the bedside radio for prints.
"The Crime Scene Unit," Boone explained. "They'll be finished soon. The guy with the vacuum cleaner is Lou Gorki. The tall guy with glasses is Tommy Callahan. The same team that worked the Puller and Wolheim kills. They're sore."
"Sore?"
"Their professional pride is hurt because they haven't come up with anything solid. They want this guy so bad they can taste it. This time they rigged up that little canister vacuum cleaner with clear plastic bags. They vacuumed the bathroom, took the bag out and labeled it. Did the same thing to the bed. Then the furniture. Now Lou's doing the rug."
"Good idea," Delaney said. "What have you got on the victim?"
Sergeant Abner Boone took out his notebook, began to flip pages…
"Like Puller and Wolheim," he said. "With some differences. The clunk is Jerome Ashley, male Caucasian, thirty-nine, and-"
"Wait a minute," Delaney said. "He's thirty-nine? You're sure?"
Boone nodded. "Got it off his driver's license. Why?"
"I was hoping there might be a pattern-overweight men in their late fifties."
"Not this guy. He's thirty-nine, skinny as a rail, and tops six-one, at least. He's from Little Rock, Arkansas, and works for a fast-food chain. He came to town for a national sales meeting."
"Held where?"
"Right here at the Coolidge. He had an early breakfast date with a couple of pals. When he didn't show up and they got no answer on the phone, they came looking. They had a porter open the door and found him."
"No sign of forced entry?" "None. Look for yourself."
"Sergeant, if you say there's no sign, then there's no sign. A struggle?"
"Doesn't look like it. But some things are different from Puller and Wolheim. He wasn't naked in bed. He had taken off his suit jacket, but that's all. He's on the floor, alongside the bed. His glasses fell off. His drink spilled. The way I figure it, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, relaxed, having a drink. The killer comes up behind him, maybe pulls his head back, slices his throat. He falls forward onto the floor. That's what it looks like. There's blood on the wall near the bed."
"Stab wounds in the genitals?"
"Plenty of those. Right through his pants. The guy's a mess."
The Crime Scene Unit men moved toward the door carrying their kit bags, cameras, the vacuum cleaner.
"He's all yours," Callahan said to Boone. "Lots of luck."
"Lou Gorki, Tommy Callahan," the sergeant said, introducing them. "This is Edward X. Delaney."
"Chief!" Gorki said, thrusting out his hand. "This is great! I was with you on Operation Lombard, with Lieutenant Jeri Fernandez."
Delaney looked at him closely, shaking his hand.
"Sure you were," he said. "You were in that Con Ed van, digging the street hole."
"Oh, that fucking hole!" Gorki said, laughing, happy that Delaney remembered him. "I thought we'd be down to China before that perp broke."
"See anything of Fernandez lately?" Delaney asked.
"He fell into something sweet," Gorki said. "He's up in Spanish Harlem, doing community relations."
"Who did he pay?" Delaney said, and they all laughed. The Chief turned to Callahan. "What have we got here?" he asked.
The two CSU men knew better than to question why he was present. He was Boone's responsibility.
"Bupkes is what we've got," Callahan said. "Nothing really hot. The usual collections of latents and smears. We even dusted the stiff for prints. It's a new, very iffy technique. Might work on a strangulation. We came up with nit."
"Any black nylon hairs?" Boone said. "Or any other color?"
"Didn't see any," Callahan said. "But they may turn up in the vacuum bags."
"One interesting thing," Gorki said. "Not earth-shaking, but interesting. Want to take a look?"
The two technicians led the way to the corpse alongside the bed. It was uncovered, lying on its side. But the upper torso was twisted, face turned upward. The throat slash gaped like a giant mouth, toothed with dangling veins, arteries, ganglia, muscle, stuff. Unbroken spectacles and water tumbler lay nearby.
To the Chief, the tableau had the frozen, murky look of a 19th century still life in an ornate frame. One of those dark, heavily varnished paintings that showed dead ducks and hares, bloody and limp, fruit on the table, and a bottle and half-filled glass of wine. A brass title plate affixed to the frame: after the hunt.
He surveyed the scene. It appeared to him that the murder had happened the way Boone had described it: the killer had come up behind the victim and slashed. A dead man had then fallen from the edge of the bed.
He bent to examine darkened stains in the rug.
"You don't have to be careful," Callahan said. "We got samples of blood from the stiff, the rug, the wall."
"Chances are it's all his," Gorki said disgustedly.
"What's this stain?" Delaney asked. He got down on his hands and knees, sniffed at a brownish crust on the shag rug.
"Whiskey," he said. "Smells like bourbon."
"Right," Gorki said admiringly. "That's what we thought. Where his drink spilled…"
Delaney looked up at Boone.
"I've got thirty men going through the hotel right now," the sergeant said. "It's brutal. People are checking in and out. Mostly out. Nobody knows a thing. The bartenders and waitresses in the cocktail lounges don't come on till five tonight. Then we'll ask them about bourbon drinkers."
"Here's what we wanted to show you," Gorki said. "You'll have to get down close to see it. This lousy shag rug fucked us up, but we got shots of everything that shows."
The other three men got down on their hands and knees. The four of them clustered around a spot on the rug where Gorki was pointing.
"See that?" he said. "A footprint. Not distinct, but good enough. The shag breaks it up. Tommy and I figure the perp stood over the stiff to shove the knife in his balls. He stepped in the guy's blood and didn't realize it. Then he went toward the bathroom. The footprints get fainter as he moved, more blood coming off his feet onto the rug."
On their hands and knees, the four of them moved awkwardly toward the bathroom, bending far over, faces close to the rug. They followed the spoor.
"See how the prints are getting fainter?" Callahan said. "But still, enough to get a rough measurement. The foot is about eight-and-a-half to nine inches long."
"Shit," Delaney said. "That could be a man or a woman."
They looked at him in surprise.
"Well… yeah," Gorki said. "But we're looking for a guy- right?"
Delaney didn't answer. He bent low again over the stained rug. He could just barely make out the imprint of a heel, the outside of the foot, a cluster of toes. A bare foot.
"The size of the footprint isn't so important," Callahan said. "It's the distance between prints. The stride. Get it? We measured the distance between footprints. That gives us the length of the killer's step. The Lab Services guys have a chart that shows average height based on length of stride. So we'll be able to double-check that professor up at the museum to see if the perp really is five-five to five-seven."
"Nice," Delaney said. "Very nice. Any stains on the tiles in the bathroom?"
"Nothing usable," Gorki said, "but we took some shots just in case. Nothing in the sink, tub, or toilet drains."
The four men were still kneeling on the rug, their heads raised to talk to each other, when they became conscious of someone looming over them.
"What the fuck's going on here?" an angry voice demanded.
The four men lumbered to their feet. They brushed off their knees. The Chief stared at the man glowering at him. Lieutenant Martin Slavin looked like a bookkeeper who had flunked the CPA exam.
"Delaney!" he said explosively. "What the hell are you doing here? You got no right to be here."
"That's right," Delaney said levelly. He started for the door. "So I'll be on my way."
"Wait a sec," Slavin said, putting out a hand. His voice was high-pitched, strained, almost whiny. "Wait just one goddamned sec. Now that you're here… What did you find out?"
Delaney stared at him.
Slavin was a cramped little man with nervous eyes and a profile as sharp as a hatchet. Bony shoulders pushed out his ill-fitting uniform jacket. His cap was too big for his narrow skull; it practically rested on his ears.
Appearances are deceiving? Bullshit, Edward X. Delaney thought. In Slavin's case, appearances were an accurate tipoff to the man's character and personality.
"I didn't find out anything," Delaney said. "Nothing these men can't tell you."
"You'll have our report tomorrow, lieutenant," Lou Gorki said sweetly.
"Maybe later than that," Tommy Callahan put in. "Lab Services have a lot of tests to run."
Slavin glared at them, back and forth. Then he turned his wrath on Delaney again.
"You got no right to be here," he repeated furiously. "This is my case. You're no better than a fucking civilian."
"Deputy Commissioner Thorsen gave his okay," Sergeant Boone said quietly.
The four men looked at the lieutenant with expressionless eyes.
"We'll see about that!" Slavin almost screamed. "We'll goddamned well see about that!"
He turned, rushed from the room.
"He'll never have hemorrhoids," Lou Gorki remarked. "He's such a perfect asshole."
Sergeant Boone walked Delaney slowly back to the elevators.
"I'll let you know what the lab men come up with," he said. "If you think of anything we've missed, please let me know. I'd appreciate it."
"Of course," Delaney said, wondering if he should tell Boone about the phoned tip to the Times and deciding against it. Handry had admitted that in confidence. "Sergeant, I hope I didn't get you in any trouble with Slavin."
"With a rabbi like Thorsen?" Boone said, grinning. "I'll survive."
"Sure you will," Edward X. Delaney said.
He decided to walk home. Over to Sixth Avenue, through Central Park, out at 72nd Street, and up Fifth Avenue. A nice stroll. He stopped in the hotel lobby to buy a Montecristo.
A soft morning in early April. A warming sun burning through a pearly haze. In the park, a few patches of dirty snow melting in the shadows. The smell of green earth thawing, ready to burst. Everything was coming alive.
He strode along sturdily, topcoat open and flapping against his legs. Hard homburg set squarely. Cigar clenched in his teeth. Joggers passed him. Cyclists whizzed by. Traffic whirled around the winding roads. He savored it all-and thought of Jerome Ashley and his giant mouth.
It was smart, Delaney figured, for a detective to go by the percentages. Every cop in the world did it, whether he was aware of it or not. If you had three suspects in a burglary, and one of them was an ex-con, you leaned on the lag, even if you knew shit-all about recidivist percentages.
"It just makes common fucking sense," an old cop had remarked to Delaney.
So it did, so it did. But the percentages, the numbers, the patterns, experience-all were useful up to a point. Then you caught something new, something different, and you were flying blind; no instruments to guide you. What was it the early pilots had said? You fly by the seat of your pants.
Edward X. Delaney wasn't ready yet to jettison percentages. If he was handling the Hotel Ripper case, he'd probably be doing exactly what Slavin was doing right now: looking for a male killer and rounding up every homosexual with a rap sheet.
But there were things that didn't fit and couldn't be ignored just because they belonged to no known pattern.
Delaney stopped at a Third Avenue deli, bought a few things, carried his purchases home. Monica was absent at one of her meetings or lectures or symposiums or colloquies. He was happy she was active in something that interested her. He was just as happy he had the house to himself.
He had bought black bread, the square kind from the frozen food section. A quarter-pound of smoked sable, because sturgeon was too expensive. A bunch of scallions. He made two sandwiches carefully: sable plus scallion greens plus a few drops of fresh lemon juice.
He carried the sandwiches and a cold bottle of Heineken into the study. He sat down behind his desk, put on his reading glasses. As he ate and drank, he made out a dossier on the third victim, Jerome Ashley, trying to remember everything Sergeant Boone had told him and everything he himself had observed.
Finished with sandwiches and beer, he read over the completed dossier, checking to see if he had omitted anything. Then he looked up the number of the Hotel Coolidge and called.
He told the operator that he was trying to locate Sergeant Abner Boone, who was in the hotel investigating the crime on the 14th floor. He asked her to try to find Boone and have him call back. He left his name and number.
He started comparing the dossiers of the three victims, still hoping to spot a common denominator, a connection. They were men from out of town, staying in Manhattan hotels: that was all he could find.
The phone rang about fifteen minutes later.
"Chief, it's Boone. You called me?"
"On the backs of the stiff's hands," Delaney said. "Scars."
"I saw them, Chief. The assistant ME said they looked like burn scars. Maybe a month or so old. Mean anything?"
"Probably not, but you can never tell. Was he married?"
"Yes. No children."
"His wife should know how he got those scars. Can you check it out?"
"Will do."
After Boone hung up, Edward X. Delaney started a fresh sheet of paper, listing the things that bothered him, that just didn't fit:
1. A short-bladed knife, probably a jackknife.