First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “She’s under heavy sedation,” the nurse whispered, “but she’s coming along just fine. Dr. Bernardi is waiting for you in the Surgeons’ Lounge.”

  He searched for something he could kiss; a naked patch of skin free of tubes, needles, straps, bandages. All he wanted was to make a signal, just a signal. He bent to kiss her hair, but it was wire beneath his lips.

  “I mentioned it,” Bernardi said, inspecting his fingernails. Then he looked up at Delaney accusingly, daring him to deny it. “You’ll remember I mentioned Proteus infection.”

  The Captain sat stolidly, craving sleep like an addict. They were at opposite sides of the card table in the Surgeons’ Lounge. Cards were scattered across the surface, most of them face down but a queen of hearts showing, and a nine of spades.

  “Proteus infection,” Delaney repeated heavily. “How do you know?”

  “That’s what the lab tells us.”

  “And you think your lab is more knowledgeable than you and your associates who diagnosed my wife’s illness as kidney stones?”

  Again the opaque film coated the doctor’s glistening eyes. His body stiffened, and he made a gesture Delaney had never seen him use before: he put the tip of his right forefinger in his right ear with the thumb stuck up in the air, exactly like a man blowing his brains out.

  “Captain,” he purred in his unctuous voice, “I assure you—”

  “All right, all right,” Delaney waved the apology away. “Let’s not waste time. What is Proteus infection?”

  Bernardi brightened, as he always did at an opportunity to display his erudition. Now he made his usual gesture of placing his index fingers together and pressing them against pouting lips.

  “Proteus,” he sang happily. “A Greek sea-god who could change his appearance at will. You should be interested in that, Captain. A million different shapes and disguises at will. That would complicate a policeman’s task, would it not? He!”

  Delaney grunted disgustedly. Bernardi paid no heed.

  “And so the name was given to this particular infection. An infection is not an illness—but we needn’t go into that. Suffice to say that Proteus infection frequently takes on the shape, appearance, form, and symptoms of a dozen other infections and illnesses. Very difficult to diagnose.”

  “Rare?” Delaney asked.

  “Proteus rare?” the doctor said, eyebrows rising. “I would say no. But not too common. The literature is not extensive. That is what I was researching this morning, and why I did not return your calls. I was reading everything I could find on Proteus.”

  “What causes it?” Delaney asked, trying to keep the hatred out of his voice, to be as clinical and unemotional as this macaroni.

  “I told you. Bacillus Proteus. B. Proteus. It exists in all of us. Usually in the intestinal tract. We have all kinds of good and bad little animalcules squiggling around inside us, you know. Sometimes, usually following an abdominal operation, B. Proteus goes on a rampage. Breaks loose. Sometimes in the urinary tract or in a specific organ. Rarely in the blood stream itself. The usual symptoms are high fever, chills, headaches, sometimes nausea. Which are—as I am certain you are aware—the symptoms of a dozen other infections. Proteus also causes certain changes in the blood, difficult to determine definitely. The recommended treatment for this infection is the employment of antibiotics.”

  “You tried that.”

  “True. But I assure you, Captain, I did not go through the entire spectrum. These so-called ‘wonder drugs’ are not all that wonderful. One of them may stifle a particular bacillus. At the same time it encourages the growth of another, more virulent bacillus. The antibiotics are not to be used lightly. In your wife’s case, I believe the Proteus infection was triggered by her hysterectomy. But all the symptoms pointed to kidney stones, and there was nothing in the tests or plates to discourage that diagnosis. When Dr. Spencer got in there, we realized one kidney had to be removed. Had to. You understand?”

  Delaney didn’t answer.

  “We saw there were still pockets of infection, small and scattered, that could not be removed by surgery. Now we must start again, hoping the main source of infection has been eliminated and we can clear up the remaining pockets with antibiotics.”

  “Hoping, doctor?”

  “Yes. Hoping, Captain.”

  The two men stared at each other.

  “She’s dying, isn’t she, doctor?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “No. You wouldn’t.”

  He dragged to his feet, stumbled from the room.

  Now I am the killer, Bacillus Proteus. I am in my wife’s kidneys. I am …

  He went back to the precinct house in hard afternoon sunlight. He thought he would be with her. He did not think he ought or should be with her, but that he would. He knew he could not attend her, for as long as it took, and still function efficiently as Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department. On his old portable he typed out a letter to Deputy Inspector Ivar Thorsen, Patrol Division, asking immediate retirement. He filled out the “Request for Retirement” form and told Thorsen, in a personal note, that the request was due to his wife’s illness. He asked his old friend to expedite the retirement papers. He sealed, stamped the envelope, walked down to the corner postbox and mailed it. Then he returned to his home and rolled onto his bed without undressing.

  He slept for perhaps three minutes or eight hours. The brilliant ringing of the bedside phone brought him instantly awake.

  “Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

  “Edward, this is Ferguson. Did you talk to Bernardi?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Edward.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The antibiotics might work. The main source of the infection is gone.”

  “I know.”

  “Edward, I woke you up.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I thought you might want to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “The Lombard homicide. It wasn’t a hammer.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know. The skull penetration was about three to four inches deep. It was like a tapered cone. The outside hole, the entrance, was about an inch in diameter. Then it tapered down to a sharp point. Like a spike. Do you want a copy of my report?”

  “No. I’ve retired.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not my concern. I filed my retirement papers.”

  “Oh, Jesus. Edward, you can’t. It’s your life.”

  “I know.”

  Delaney hung up. Then he lay awake.

  3

  THREE DAYS LATER CAPTAIN Delaney received the telephone call he had been expecting: the assistant to Deputy Inspector Thorsen asked if he could meet with Thorsen that afternoon at four o’clock. Delaney went downtown via subway, wearing his uniform.

  “Go right in, Captain,” Thorsen’s pretty secretary said when he gave his name. “They’re expecting you.”

  Wondering who “they” might be, Delaney knocked once and pushed open the heavy oak door to Thorsen’s office. The two men seated in leather club chairs rose to their feet, and the Deputy Inspector came forward smiling.

  Ivar Thorsen was Delaney’s “rabbi” in the Department. The term was current police slang for a superior officer or high official in city government who liked an officer personally, took an interest in his career, and generally guided and eased his advancement in rank. When a “rabbi” moved upward in the hierarchy, sooner or later his protégé moved upward also.

  Deputy Inspector Ivar Thorsen, a man in his late 50s, was called “The Admiral” by his subordinates, and it was easy to see why. Of relatively short stature, his body was slender and stringy, but all muscle and tendon; he bounced as he walked. His skin was fair and unblemished, features classically Nordic but without softness. His pale blue eyes could be distressingly piercing. The white hair seemed never combed but rigorously brushed until it hugged tightly the shape of his hea
d from a leftside part that showed pink scalp.

  He shook Delaney’s hand, then turned to the other man in the room.

  “Edward, I think you know Inspector Johnson.”

  “I surely do. Good to see you, inspector.”

  “Likewise, Edward,” the grinning black Buddha said. He extended a huge hand. “How you been?”

  “Can’t complain. Well … I can, but no one will listen.”

  “I know, I know,” the big man chuckled, and his heavy belly moved up and down. “Wish we could get together more often, but they keep me chained to those damned computers, and I don’t get uptown as often as I’d like.”

  “I read your analysis of arrest and conviction percentages.”

  “You did?” Johnson exclaimed with genuine pleasure. “You must be the only cop in town who did.”

  “Wait a minute, Ben,” Thorsen protested. “I read it.”

  “The hell,” the black scoffed. “You started it maybe, and read the last paragraph.”

  “I swear I read every word.”

  “I give you five-to-one you didn’t—and I can ask questions to prove it.”

  “I’ll take that bet.”

  “Misdemeanor,” Delaney said promptly. “I can place you both under arrest. Gambling laws.”

  “Not so,” Johnson shook his great head. “The courts have held a private wager between two gentlemen cannot be prosecuted under anti-gambling statutes. See Harbiner v. the City of New York.”

  “See Plessy v. Novick,” Delaney retorted. “The court held a private unpaid wager between two persons cannot be a matter for judicial decision only because the wager itself was illegal.”

  “Come on,” Thorsen groaned. “I didn’t ask you here to argue law. Sit down.” He waved them to the club chairs, then took the upholstered swivel chair behind his glass-topped desk. He flicked on his intercom. “Alice, please hold all incoming calls except emergency.”

  Inspector Johnson turned toward Delaney and regarded him curiously.

  “What did you think of my report, Edward?”

  “The numbers were a shock, inspector. And the—”

  “You know, Edward, if you called me Ben I really don’t think I’d have you up for insolence and insubordination.”

  “All right, Ben. Well … the numbers were a shock, your analysis was brilliant, but I can’t agree with your conclusion.”

  “What can’t you agree with?”

  “Suppose only five percent of felony arrests eventually produce convictions. From that you argue that we—the men on the beat—should make fewer arrests but better ones—arrests that will stand up in court. But aren’t you disregarding the deterrent effect of mass arrests, even if we know the evidence will never stand up? The suspect may never be convicted, but after he goes through booking, a time in jail until he can raise bail—if he can—and the expense of a lawyer for his day in court, maybe he’ll think twice before he strays again.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Johnson rumbled. “I was aware of the deterrent angle when I wrote the report. As a matter of fact, I agree with it. But if I had come out recommending more arrests—whether or not they stood up in court—if I had recommended dragnet operations on prostitutes, drifters, homosexuals, gamblers—you know what would have happened? Some radical in the Department would have leaked that report to the press, and every civil liberties group would be down on our necks, and we’d be ‘fascist pigs’ all over again.”

  “You mean you tailored your convictions for the sake of public relations?”

  “That’s right,” Johnson agreed blandly.

  “Are public relations that important?”

  “Got to be. For the Department. Your world is your own Precinct. My world is the Commissioner’s office and, by extension, the Mayor’s.”

  Delaney stared at the big black. Inspector Benjamin Johnson was on the Commissioner’s staff, in charge of statistics and production analysis. He was an enormous man, a former All-American guard from Rutgers. He had gone to fat, but the result wasn’t unpleasant; he still carried himself well, and his bulk gave him added dignity. His smile was appealing, almost childlike—a perfect disguise for what Delaney knew was a hard, complex, perceptive intelligence. A black didn’t attain Johnson’s rank and reputation by virtue of a hearty laugh and a mouthful of splendid teeth.

  “Please,” Thorsen raised a palm. “The two of you get together some night and fight it out over a beefsteak or soul food.”

  “Steak for me,” Johnson said.

  “I’ll take the soul food,” Delaney smiled.

  “Let’s get on with it,” Thorsen said in his no-nonsense way. “First of all, Edward, how is Barbara feeling?”

  Delaney came back to realities. He enjoyed “police talk” and could sit up all night arguing crime and punishment. But only with other cops. Civilians simply didn’t know. Or perhaps it was like atheists arguing with priests. They were talking about different things, or in different languages. The atheist argued reason; the priest argued faith. In this case, the policeman was the atheist, the civilian the priest. Both were right and both were wrong.

  “Barbara is not so good,” he said steadily. “She hasn’t snapped back from the operation the way she should—or at least the way I hoped she would. They’ve started her on antibiotics. The first didn’t do a thing. They’re trying another. They’ll go on trying.”

  “I was sorry to hear your wife was ill, Edward,” Johnson said quietly. “What exactly is it?”

  “It’s called Proteus infection. In her case it’s an infection of the urinary tract. But the doctors wouldn’t tell me a damned thing about how really ill she is and what her chances are.”

  “I know,” Johnson nodded sympathetically. “The thing I hate most about doctors is when I go to one with a pain in my gut and explain exactly what the symptoms are, and the doctor says, ‘That doesn’t worry me.’ Then I say, ‘I know, goddamn it, it’s my pain; why should it worry you’?”

  Delaney smiled wanly, knowing Johnson was trying to cheer him up.

  “I hate to hear about illnesses I never heard of before,” Thorsen said. “There are so many things that can go wrong with the human body, it’s a wonder any of us get through this life alive.” Then, realizing what he had said and seeing the others’ sad smiles, he added. “That’s right—we don’t, do we? Well, Edward, I have your application for retirement here. First of all let me confess, I haven’t done a thing with it yet. It’s perfectly in order. You have every right to retire if you wish. But we wanted to talk to you first. Ben, you want to take it from here?”

  “No.” Johnson shook his massive head. “You carry the ball.”

  “Edward, this concerns the Lombard homicide in your precinct. I know you know the man’s reputation and the publicity he got and how important it is to the Department to come up with a quick solution and arrest. And, of course, it came in the middle of the reorganization of the Detective Division. Did you get the memo on the special task force Operation Lombard headed by Deputy Commissioner Broughton?”

  Delaney paused before answering, wondering how much he should say. But Broughton was a slob—and what could the man do to him since he was retiring?

  “Yes, I know,” he nodded. “As a matter of fact, I suggested Operation Lombard to Broughton the morning of the murder. We had a private talk in his car.”

  Thorsen turned his head swiftly to look at Johnson. The two men stared at one another a moment. Then the inspector slammed a heavy palm down onto the arm of his leather chair.

  “I told you,” he said angrily. “I told you that stupid, racist son of a bitch didn’t have the brains to come up with that idea himself. So it was you, Edward?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, don’t expect a thank-you from brother Broughton. That bastard is strictly ‘Hurray for me, fuck you.’ He’s flying mighty high right now.”

  “That’s why we asked you here today, Edward,” Thorsen said softly. “Broughton is flying high, and we’d like to bring hi
m down.”

  Delaney looked from man to man, realizing he was getting involved in something he had vowed to avoid: the cliques and cabals that flourished in the upper echelons of the Department—and in all levels of government, and in the military, and in corporations, and in every human organization that had more than two members.

  “Who is ‘we’?” he asked cautiously.

  “Inspector Johnson and myself, of course. And about ten or a dozen others, all of superior rank to us, who don’t, for obvious reasons, want their names used at this time.”

  “What ranks?”

  “Up to Commissioner.”

  “What are you trying to do?”

  “First of all, we don’t like Broughton. We believe he’s a disgrace—hell, he’s a catastrophe!—to the Department. He’s amassing power, building a machine. This Operation Lombard is just another step up for him. If he can solve the murder.”

  “What motivates Broughton?” Delaney asked. “Ambition? What does he want? Commissioner? Mayor?”

  Delaney looked at him, ready to laugh if Johnson was smiling. But he was not.

  “Ben’s not kidding, Edward. It’s not impossible. Broughton is a relatively young man. He has an ego and hunger for power you wouldn’t believe. Theodore Roosevelt went from the Commissioner’s office to the White House. Why not Broughton? But even if he never gets to be President, or governor, or mayor, or even commissioner, we still want him out.”

  “Fascist bastard,” Johnson grumbled.

  “So …?” Delaney said.

  “We have a plan. Will you listen to it?”

  “I’ll listen.”

  “I’m not even going to talk about discretion and all this being in strict confidence, etcetera. I know you too well for that. Edward, even if you retired today, you couldn’t spend every waking hour with your wife. She’s going to be in the hospital for the foreseeable future, isn’t she?”