“Hope the other guy looks as bad,” he said.
“Never laid a hand on him,” Blank said ruefully, and the man laughed.
Daniel moistened two paper towels under the tap and went into one of the pay toilets. When he had locked the door, he used one wet towel to wipe his face again, then plastered toilet paper onto his scratched, wet cheek. He used the other dampened towel to sponge his coat and suit. He discovered an abrasion on the left knee of his trousers; the cloth had been scraped through and skin showed. He would have to throw away the entire suit, wrap it in brown paper and dump it in a trash basket on his way to work. Chances were a derelict would fish it out before the sanitation men got to the basket. In any event, Blank could tear out the labels and burn them. It wasn’t important.
He tried his left arm again. The elbow joint worked but painfully—no doubt about that. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve. A lovely swelling there, already discolored. But the elbow worked. He adjusted all his clothes and managed his topcoat so that it hung from his shoulders, continental style, both his arms inside, the ax swinging from his belt. He peeled the toilet paper carefully from his face and looked at it. Faintly pinkish. He flushed paper and towels down the drain, tugged his clothing smooth, and opened the toilet door, smiling faintly.
In the mirror over the basin he adjusted his wig and combed it slowly with his right hand.
Another man, a hatless bald-headed man, was drying his hands nearby. He stared at Blank. Daniel turned to stare back.
“Looking at something?” he asked.
The man gestured apologetically. “Your hair,” he said, “it’s a rug. Right?”
“Oh yes.”
“I’ve been thinking,” the man said. “You recommend?”
“Absolutely. No doubt about it. But get the best you can afford. I mean, don’t skimp.”
“It don’t blow off?”
“Not a chance. I never wear a hat. You can swim in it. Even shower in it if you like.”
“You really think so?”
“Definitely,” Blank nodded. “Change your whole life.”
“No kidding?” the man breathed, enthused.
He took a cab back to his apartment house, his coat hanging loosely from his shoulders.
“Hey, Mr. Blank,” the doorman said. “Another guy got killed tonight. Not two blocks from here.”
“Is that right?” Daniel said, and shook his head despairingly. “From now on I’m taking cabs everywhere.”
“That’s the best way, Mr. Blank.”
He drew a hot tub, poured in enough scented bath oil to froth the water and spice the bathroom. He undressed and slid in carefully, leaving the cleaning of the ice ax until later. But, atop the sudsy water, he floated the sweetheart rose. He watched it, immersed to his chin in the steaming tub, soaking his sore elbow. After awhile his erection came up until the flushed head of his penis was above the surface, and the small rose bobbed about it. He had never been so happy in his life. He dreamed.
PART VII
1
“THEY HAD STOPPED AT a wharf painted white, and now Honey Bunch followed her daddy and her mother up this and found herself at the steps of the cunningest bungalow she had ever seen. It was painted white and it had green window boxes and green shutters with little white acorns painted on them. Honey Bunch had never seen a white acorn, but she thought they looked very pretty on the shutters. There was a little sign over the porch of his bungalow and on it were the words ‘Acorn house.’ ”
Captain Edward X. Delaney stopped. At his wife’s request he had been reading aloud from “Honey Bunch: Her First Days in Camp,” but when he glanced up at the hospital bed Barbara seemed asleep, breathing heavily, thin arms and white hands lying limply atop the single blanket. She never got out of bed any more, not even to sit in a wheelchair.
He had arrived in time to help her with the evening meal. She nibbled a muffin, ate a little mashed potatoes, a few string beans, but wouldn’t taste the small steak.
“You’ve got to eat, dear,” he said, as firmly as he could, and she smiled wanly as he took the spoon and held some custard to her lips. She ate almost all the custard, then pushed his hand away, averted her face; he didn’t have the heart to insist.
“What have you been doing, Edward?” she asked weakly
“Oh … you know; trying to keep myself busy.”
“Is there anything new on the case?”
“What case?” he asked, and then was ashamed and dropped his eyes. He did not want to dissemble but it seemed cruel, in her condition, to speak of violent death.
“What is it, Edward?” she asked, guessing.
“There’s been another one,” he said in a low voice. “A detective. One of Broughton’s decoys.”
“Married?”
“Yes. Three small children.”
Her eyes closed slowly, her face took on a waxen hue. It was then she asked him to read aloud to her from one of the “Honey Bunch” books he had brought her. He took it up gladly, eager to change the subject, opened the book at random and began reading aloud in a resolute, expressive voice.
But now, after only two pages, she seemed to be sleeping. He put the book aside, pulled on his overcoat, took his hat, started to step quietly from the room. But she called, “Edward,” and when he turned, her eyes were open, she was holding a hand out to him. He returned immediately to her bedside, pulled up a chair, sat holding her hot, dry fingers.
“That makes three,” she said.
“Yes,” he nodded miserably. “Three.”
“All men,” she said vaguely. “Why all men? It would be so much easier to kill women. Or children. Wouldn’t it, Edward? Not as dangerous for the killer.”
He stared at her, the import of what she was saying growing in his mind. It could be nothing, of course. But it could be something. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek softly.
“You’re a wonder, you are,” he whispered. “What would I ever do without you?”
Back in his study, a rye highball in his big fist, he forgot about the chicken pie Mary had left on the kitchen table, and thought only of the significance of what his wife had suggested.
It certainly wasn’t unusual for a psychopathic killer to be uninterested in or fearful of sex before killing (or even impotent) and then, during or after the murder, to become an uncontrollable satyr. There had been many such cases, but all, to his knowledge, involved women or children as victims.
But now the three victims were men, and Lombard and Kope had been big, muscular men, well able to defend themselves, given half a chance. Still, so far the killer had selected only men, slaying with an ice ax. As Barbara had said, it was a dangerous way to kill—dangerous for the assassin. How much easier to strike down a woman or use a gun against a man. But he had not. Only men. With an ax. Did that mean anything?
It might, Delaney nodded, it just might. Of course, if the next victim was a woman, the theory would be shot to hell, but just consider it a moment. The killer, a male, had killed three other men, risking. Playing amateur psychologist, Delaney considered the sexual symbolism of the weapon used: a pointed ice ax, an ax with a rigid spike. Was that so farfetched? An ice ax with a drooping spike! Even more farfetched?
He took his “Expert File” from the bottom drawer of his desk and found the card he wanted: “PSYCHIATRIST-CRIMINOLOGIST. Dr. Otto Morgenthau.” There were short additional notes in Delaney’s handwriting on the card, recalling the two cases in which Dr. Morgenthau had assisted the Department. One involved a rapist, the other a bomber. Delaney called the number listed: The doctor’s office on Fifth Avenue in the 60s, not in the 251st Precinct.
A feminine voice: “Dr. Morgenthau’s office.”
“Could I speak to Dr. Morgenthau, please? This is Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department.”
“I’m sorry, Captain, the doctor is unavailable at the moment.”
That meant Morgenthau had a patient.
“Could he call me back?” Delaney asked.
“I’ll try, sir. May I have your number?”
He gave it to her, hung up, then went into the kitchen. He tried some of the chicken pie; it was good but he really wasn’t hungry. He covered the remainder carefully with plastic wrap and put it into the refrigerator. He mixed another rye highball and sat hunched in the swivel chair behind his study desk, sipping his drink, staring blankly at the telephone. When it rang, half an hour later, he let it ring three times before he picked it up.
“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”
“And here is Dr. Otto Morgenthau. How are you, Captain?”
“Well, thank you, doctor. And you?”
“Weary. What is it, Captain?”
“I’d like to see you, sir.”
“You, Captain? Personally? Or Department business?”
“Department.”
“Well, what is it?”
“It’s difficult to explain over the phone, doctor. I was wondering—”
“Impossible,” Morgenthau interrupted sharply. “I have patients until ten o’clock tonight. And then I must—”
“The three men who were axed to death on the east side,” Delaney interrupted in his turn. “You must have read about it.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Yes,” Dr. Morgenthau said slowly, “I have read about it. Interesting. The work of one man?”
“Yes, sir. Everything points to it.”
“What do you have?”
“Bits and pieces. I hoped you could fill in some of the gaps.”
Dr. Morgenthau sighed. “I suppose it must be immediately?”
“If possible, sir.”
“Be here promptly at ten o’clock. Then I will give you fifteen minutes. No more.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be there. Thank you, doctor.”
Delaney arrived five minutes early. The morose, matronly nurse was pulling on an ugly cloth coat, fastened in front with wooden toggles.
“Captain Delaney?”
“Yes.”
“Please to doublelock the door after I leave,” she said. “Doctor will call you when he is ready.”
Delaney nodded, and after she marched out, he obediently turned the latch, then sat down in a straight chair, his hat hooked over one knee, and waited patiently, staring at nothing.
When the doctor finally appeared from his consulting room, Delaney rose to his feet, shocked at the man’s appearance. The last time the Captain had seen him, Morgenthau was somewhat corpulent but robust, alert, with erect posture, healthy skin tone, clear and active eyes. But now Delaney was confronted by a wheyfaced man shrunken within clothing that seemed three sizes too large in all dimensions. The eyes were dull and hooded, the hair thinning and uncombed. There was a tremor to the hands and, Delaney noted, fingernails were dirty and untrimmed.
They sat in the consulting room, Morgenthau slumped behind his desk, Delaney in an armchair at one side.
“I’ll be as brief as possible, doctor,” he began. “I know how busy—”
“Just a moment,” Morgenthau muttered, gripping the edge of the desk to pull himself upright. “Sorry to interrupt you, Captain, but I have just remembered a phone call I must make at once. A disturbed patient. I shall only be a few minutes. You wait here.”
He hurried out, not to the reception room but to an inner office. Delaney caught a quick glimpse of white medical cabinets, a stainless steel sink. Morgenthau was gone almost ten minutes. When he returned, his walk was swift and steady, his eyes wide and shiny. He was rubbing his palms together, smiling.
“Well now,” he said genially, “what have we got, Captain?”
Not pills, Delaney thought; the reaction was too swift for pills. Probably an amphetamine injection. Whatever it was, it had worked wonders for Dr. Otto Morgenthau; he was relaxed, assured, listened closely, and when he lighted a cigar his hands were unhurried and steady.
Delaney went through it all: the deaths of the three victims, the ice ax, what he had learned about mountaineers, the way he believed the crimes were committed, the missing identification—everything he felt Morgenthau needed to know, omitting the fact, naturally, that he, Delaney, was not on active duty and was not in charge of the official investigation.
“And that’s about all we’ve got, doctor.”
“No possible link between the three men?”
“No, sir. Nothing we’ve been able to discover.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“What you were able to provide us before—a psychiatric profile of the criminal. They were of great help, doctor.”
“Oh yes,” Morgenthau nodded. “Rape and bombing. But they are sufficiently popular pastimes so that there is a large history available, many similar cases. So it is possible to analyze and detect a pattern. You understand? Make a fairly reasonable guess as to motivation, modus operandi, perhaps even physical appearance and habits. But in this case—impossible. Now we are dealing with multiple murder. It is, fortunately for all of us, a relatively rare activity. I am now eliminating political assassination which, I would guess, does not apply here.”
“No, sir. I don’t believe it does.”
“So … the literature on the subject is not extensive. I tried my hand at a short monograph but I do not believe you read it.”
“No, doctor, I didn’t.”
“No wonder,” Morgenthau giggled. “It was published in an obscure German psychiatric journal. So then, I cannot, regretfully, provide you with a psychiatric profile of the mass murderer.”
“Well, listen,” Delaney said desperately, “can you give me anything? About motivation, I mean. Even general stuff might help. For instance, do you think this killer is insane?”
Dr. Morgenthau shook his head angrily. “Sane. Insane. Those are legal terms. They have absolutely no meaning in the world of mental health. Well, I will try … My limited research leads me to believe mass murderers are generally one of three very broad, indefinite types, But I warn you, motivations frequently overlap. With multiple killers, we are dealing with individuals; as I told you, there are no definitive patterns I can discern. Well, then … the three main types … One: biological. Those cases in which mass murder is triggered by a physical defect, although the killer may have been psychologically predisposed. As an example, that rifleman up in the Texas tower who killed—how many people? I understand he had a brain tumor and had been trained as a skilled marksman and killer in the military service. Two: psychological. Here the environment in general is not at fault, but the specific pressures—usually familial or sexual—on the individual are of such an extreme nature that killing, over and over again, is the only release. Bluebeard might be such a case, or Jack the Ripper, or that young man in New Jersey—what was his name?”
“Unruh.”
“Yes, Unruh. And then the third cause: sociological. This might be when the killer, in a different environment, might live out his days without violence. But his surroundings are so oppressive that his only recourse is fighting back, by killing, against a world he never made, a world that grinds him down to something less than human. This sociological motivation involves not only the residents of ghettoes, the brutalized minorities. There was a case a few years ago—again in New Jersey, I believe—where a ‘solid citizen,’ a middle-aged, middle-class gentleman who worked for a bank or insurance company—something like that—and passed the collection—”
The fifteen minutes Dr. Morgenthau had allotted Delaney had long since passed. But the doctor kept talking, as Delaney knew he would. It was hard to stop a man riding his hobby.
“—and passed the collection plate at his church every Sunday,” Morgenthau was saying. “And then one day this fine, mild, upstanding citizen kills his wife, children, and his mother. Mark that—his mother! And then he takes off.”
“I remember that case,” Delaney nodded.
“Have they caught him yet?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, anyway, Captain, in the investigati
on, according to newspaper reports, it was discovered this pillar of the community was living in a much larger house than he could afford; it was heavily mortgaged and he was deeply in debt: insurance, cars, clothes, furniture, his children’s education—all the social pressures to consider. A sociological motivation here, obviously, but as I told you, mass killers do not fit into neat classifications. What of the man’s personality, background, childhood, his crimes considered as a part of the nation’s or the world’s social history? Charles Manson, for instance. What I am trying to prove to you is that despite these three quite loose classifications, each case of mass murder is specific and different from the others. Men who kill children and the man who killed all those nurses in Chicago and Panzram all seem to have had a similar childhood: physical abuse and body contact at an early age. Sexual pleasure at an infantile level. And yet, of the three I just mentioned, one kills children, one kills young women, and one kills young boys—or buggers them. So where is the pattern? Well, there is a superficial one perhaps. Most mass murders tend to be quiet, conservative, neat. They attract no attention until their rampage. Often they wear the same suit or the same cut and color suit for days on end.”
Delaney had been taking notes furiously in his pocket notebook. Now he looked up, eyes gleaming.
“That’s interesting, doctor. But Manson wasn’t like that.”
“Exactly!” Morgenthau cried triumphantly. “That’s just what I’ve been telling you: in this field it is dangerous to generalize. Here is something else interesting … Wertham says mass murderers are not passionless; they only appear to be so. But—and this is what is significant—he says that when their orgy of killing is finished, they once again become apparently passionless and are able to describe their most blood-curdling acts in chilling detail, without regret and without remorse. You know, Captain, my field has its own jargon, just as yours does. And the—the—what do you call it?—the lingo changes frequently, just like slang. Five or ten years ago we spoke of ‘CPI’s.’ These were ‘Constitutional Psychopathic Inferiors.’ Apparently normal, functioning effectively in society, the CPI’s feel no guilt, apparently are born without conscience, have no remorse, and cannot understand what the fuss is all about when the law objects to them holding a child’s hand over a gas flame, throwing a puppy out of a ten-story window, or giving apples studded with razor blades and broken glass to a Halloween trick-or-treat visitor. Most mass murders are CPI’s, I would guess. Was that lecture of any help to you, Captain?”
First Deadly Sin Page 40
