She smiled in return. “Yes. How many names?”
“I estimate about a third of the number of the Outside Life list; maybe less. And you’ll probably find duplications. If you do, don’t make out a separate card, just note on the Outside Life card that the individual is also on this list. Okay?”
“Yes. What happens now?”
“To your typed list, you mean? You keep one carbon. Just stick it away somewhere as insurance. I’ll keep the other carbon. The original will go to friends in the Department. They’ll check the names with city, state, and federal files to see if anyone listed has a criminal record.”
“A record?”
“Sure. Been charged, been convicted of any crime. Been sentenced. Fined, on probation, or time in jail.”
She was disturbed; he could see it.
“Will this help find the man who killed my husband?”
“Yes,” he said decisively, paused a moment, staring at her, then asked, “What’s bothering you?”
“It seems so—so unfair,” she said faintly.
He became suddenly aware of her as a woman: the solid, warm body beneath the black dress, the strong arms and legs, the steady look of purpose. She was not a beautiful woman, not as delicate as Barbara nor as fine. But there was a peasant sensuality to her; her smell was deep and disturbing.
“What’s unfair?” he asked quietly.
“Hounding men who have made one mistake. You do it all the time I suppose.”
“Yes,” he nodded, “we do it all the time. You know what the recidivist rate is, Mrs. Gilbert? Of all the men present in prison, about eighty percent have been behind bars at least once before.”
“It still seems—”
“Percentages, Mrs. Gilbert: We’ve got to use them. We know that if a man rapes, robs, or kills once, the chances are he’ll rape, rob, or kill again. We can’t deny that. We didn’t create that situation, but we’d be fools to overlook it.”
“But doesn’t police surveillance, the constant hounding of men with records, contribute to—”
“No,” he shook his great head angrily. “If an ex-con wants to go straight, really wants to, he will. I’m not going to tell you there have never been frames of ex-cons. Of course there have. But generally, when a man repeats, he wants to go back behind bars. Did you know that? There’s never been a study of it, to my knowledge, but my guess is that most two- and three-time losers are asking for it. They need the bars. They can’t cope on the outside. I’m hoping a check on your list will turn up a man or men like that. If not, it may turn up something. A similar case, a pattern of violence, something that may give me a lead.”
“Does that mean if you get a report that some poor man on this list forged a check or deserted his wife, you’ll swoop down on him and demand to know where he was on the night my husband and those other men were killed?”
“Of course not. Nothing like that. First of all, criminals can be classified. They have their specialties, and rarely vary. Some deal strictly in white-collar crime: embezzlement, bribery, patent infringement—things like that. Crimes against property, mostly. Then there’s a grey area: forgery, swindling, fraud, and so forth. Still crimes against property, but now the victim tends to be an individual rather than the government or the public. And then there’s the big area of conventional crime: homicide, kidnapping, robbery, and so forth. These are usually crimes of violence during which the criminal actually sees and has physical contact with his victim; and infliction of injury or death usually results. Or, at least, the potential is there. I’m looking for a man with a record in this last classification, a man with a record of violence, physical violence.”
“But—but how will you know? What if one of the men on that list was arrested for beating his wife? That’s certainly violent, isn’t it? Does that make him the killer?”
“Not necessarily, though I’d certainly check him out. But I’m looking for a man who fits a profile.”
She stared at him, not understanding. “A profile?”
He debated if he should tell her, but felt a need to impress her, couldn’t resist it, and wondered why that was.
“Mrs. Gilbert, I have a pretty good idea—a pretty good visualization of the man who’s doing these killings. He’s young—between thirty-five and forty—tall and slender. He’s in good health and strong. His physical reactions are very fast. He’s probably a bachelor. He may be a latent homosexual. He dresses very well, but conservatively. Dark suits. If you passed him on the street at night, you’d feel perfectly safe. He probably has a good job and handles it well. There’s nothing about him that would make people suspect him. But he’s addicted to danger, to taking risks. He’s a mountain climber. He’s cool, determined, and I’m positive he’s a resident of this neighborhood. Certainly of this precinct. And tall. Did I say he was tall? Yes, I did. Well, he’s probably six feet or over.”
Her astonishment was all he could have asked, and he cursed his own ego for showing off in this fashion.
“But how do you know all this?” she said finally.
He rose to his feet and began to gather his papers together. He was so disgusted with himself.
“Sherlock Holmes,” he said sourly. “It’s all guesswork, Mrs. Gilbert. Forget it. I was just shooting off my mouth.”
She followed him to the door.
“I’m sorry about what I said,” she told him, putting a strong hand on his arm. “I mean about how cruel it is to check men with records. I know you’ve got to do it.”
“Yes,” he nodded. “I’ve got to do it. Percentages.”
“Captain, please do everything you think should be done. I don’t know anything about it. This is all new to me.”
He smiled at her without speaking.
“I’ll get on the new list tonight. And thank you, Captain.”
“For what?”
“For doing what you’re doing.”
“I haven’t done anything yet except give you work to do.”
“You’re going to get him, aren’t you?”
“Listen,” Delaney said, “could we—”
He stopped suddenly and was silent. She was puzzled. “Could we what?” she asked finally.
“Nothing,” he said. “Good-night, Mrs. Gilbert. Thank you for the coffee and cookies.”
He walked home, resolutely turning his mind from the thought of what a fool he had made of himself—in his own eyes if not in hers. He stopped at a phone booth to call Deputy Inspector Thorsen, and waited five minutes until Thorsen called him back.
“Edward?”
“Yes.”
“Anything new?”
“I have a list of a hundred and sixteen names and addresses. I need them checked out against city, state, and federal records.”
“My God.”
“It’s important.”
“I know, Edward. Well … at least we’ve got some names. That’s more than Broughton has.”
“I hear he’s in trouble.”
“You hear right.”
“Heavy?”
“Not yet. But it’s growing. Everyone’s leaning on him.”
“About this list of mine—I’ll get it to your office tomorrow by messenger. All right?”
“Better send it to my home.”
“All right, and listen, please include the State Department of Motor Vehicles and the NYPD’s Special Services Branch. Can you do that?”
“We’ll have to do it.”
“Yes.”
“Getting close, Edward?”
“Well … closer.”
“You think he’s on the list?”
“He better be,” Delaney said. Everyone was leaning on him, too.
He was weary now, wanting nothing but a hot shower, a rye highball, perhaps a sleeping pill, and bed. But he had his paper work to do, and drove himself to it. What was it Case called him—a fucking bookkeeper.
He finished his writing, his brain frazzled, and filed his neat folders away. He drained his highball, watery
now, and considered the best way to handle results from the search of records of those 116 individuals, when they began to come in on printouts from city, state, and federal computers.
What he would do, he decided, was this: he would ask Monica Gilbert to make notations of any criminal history on the individual cards. He would buy five or six packages of little colored plastic tabs, the kind that could be clipped on the upper edge of file cards. He would devise a color code: a red tab attached to a card would indicate a motor vehicle violation, a blue tab would indicate a New York City criminal record … and so forth. When reports were in from all computers, he could then look at Monica Gilbert’s file box and, without wasting time flipping through 116 cards, see at a glance which had one, two, three or more plastic tabs attached to their upper edges. He thought it over, and it seemed an efficient plan.
His mind was working so sluggishly that it was some time before he wondered why he hadn’t brought Monica Gilbert’s card file home with him, to keep in his own study. The computer printouts Thorsen would obtain would be delivered to him, Delaney. He could make handwritten notations on individual cards himself and attach the color-coded plastic tabs. It wasn’t necessary for him to run over to Mrs. Gilbert’s apartment to consult the file every time he needed to. So why … Still … She was efficient and he couldn’t do everything … Still … Had he angered her? If she … Barbara …
He dragged himself up to bed, took no shower and no sleeping pill, but lay awake for at least an hour, trying to understand himself. Not succeeding, he finally slid into a thin sleep.
3
IT BEGAN TO COME together. Slowly. What he had set in motion. The first report on the 116 names came from the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles: a neatly folded computer printout, an original and six copies. Delaney took a quick look, noted there were 11 individuals listed, tore off a carbon for his own file, and took the report over to Monica Gilbert. He explained what he wanted:
“It’s easy to read once you get the hang of it. It’s computer printing—all capitals and no punctuation—but don’t let that throw you. Now the first one listed is AVERY JOHN H on East Seventy-ninth Street. You have Avery’s card?”
Obediently she flipped through her file and handed him the card.
“Good. Now Avery was charged with going through an unattended toll booth without tossing fifty cents in the hopper. Pleaded guilty, paid a fine. It’s printed here in a kind of official lingo, but I’m sure you can make it out. Now I’d like you to make a very brief notation on his card. If you write, ‘Toll booth—guilty—fine,’ it will be sufficient. I’d also like you to note his license number and make of car, in this case a blue Mercury. All clear?”
“I think so,” she nodded. “Let me try the next one myself. ‘BLANK DANIEL G on East Eighty-third Street; two arrests for speeding, guilty, fined. Black Corvette and then his license number.’ Is that what you want on this card?”
“Right. In case you’re wondering, I’m not going to lean on these particular people. This report is just possible background stuff. The important returns will come from city and federal files. One more thing …”
He showed her the multicolored plastic tabs he had purchased in a stationery store, and explained the color code he had written out for her. She consulted it and clipped red tabs onto the top edges of the AVERY and BLANK cards. It looked very efficient, and he was satisfied.
Calvin Case called to report he had finished going through the Outside Life sales checks and had a file of 234 purchases of ice axes made in the past seven years. Delaney brought him a hand-drawn map of the 251st Precinct, and by the next day Case had separated those purchases made by residents of the Precinct. There were six of them. Delaney took the six sales checks, went home, and made two lists. One was for his file, one he delivered to Monica Gilbert so she could make notations on the appropriate cards and attach green plastic tabs. He had hardly returned home when she called. She was troubled because one of the six ice ax purchasers was not included in her master file of Outside Life customers. She gave him the name and address.
Delaney laughed. “Look,” he said, “don’t let it worry you. We can’t expect perfection. It was probably human error; it usually is. For some reason this particular customer wasn’t included on the mailing list. Who knows—maybe he said he didn’t want their catalogue; he doesn’t like junk mail. Just make out a card for him.”
“Yes, Edward.”
He was silent. It was the first time she had used his given name. She must have realized what she had done for suddenly she said, in a rush, “Yes, Captain.”
“Edward is better,” he told her, and they said goodbye.
Now he could call her Monica.
Back to his records, remembering to start a new list for Thorsen headed by the single ax purchaser not included on the original list. Two days later Monica Gilbert had finished going through the new mailing list he had given her, and 34 more names were added to her master file and to the new list for Thorsen. And two days after that, Calvin Case had finished flipping through sales checks of the two additional New York stores that sold ice axes, and the names of three more purchasers in the 251st Precinct were added to Monica’s file, green plastic tabs attached, and the names also added to the new Thorsen list. Delaney had it delivered to the Deputy Inspector.
Meanwhile computer printouts were coming in on the original 116, and Monica Gilbert was making notations on her cards, and attaching colored tabs to indicate the source of the information. Meanwhile Calvin Case was breaking down his big file of Outside Life receipts of sales of any type of mountaineering equipment, to extract those of residents of the 251st Precinct. Meanwhile Christopher Langley was visiting official German agencies in New York to determine the manufacturer, importer, jobbers and retail outlets that handled the ice ax in the U.S. Meanwhile, Captain Edward X. Delaney was personally checking out the six people who had purchased ice axes at the other two stores. And reading “Honey Bunch” to his wife.
Ever since he had been promoted from uniformed patrolman to detective third grade, Delaney, following the advice of his first partner an old, experienced, and alcoholic detective who called him “Buddy Boy”—had collected business cards. If he was given a card by a banker, shoe salesman, mortician, insurance agent, private investigator—whatever—he hung onto it, and it went into a little rubber-banded pack. Just as his mentor had promised, the business cards proved valuable. They provided temporary “cover.” People were impressed by them; often they were all the identification he needed to be banker, shoe salesman, mortician, insurance agent, private investigator—whatever. That little bit of pasteboard was a passport; few people investigated his identity further. When he passed printing shops advertising “100 Business Cards for $5.00” he could understand how easily conmen and swindlers operated.
Now he made a selection of his collected cards and set out to investigate personally the nine residents of the 251st Precinct who had purchased ice axes in the past seven years. He had arranged the nine names and addresses according to location, so he wouldn’t have to retrace his steps or end the day at the other end of the Precinct. This was strictly a walking job, and he dug out an old pair of shoes he had worn on similar jobs in the past. They were soft, comfortable kangaroo leather with high laced cuffs that came up over his ankles.
He waited until 9:00 a.m., then began his rounds, speaking only to doormen, supers, landlords, neighbors …
“Good morning. My name’s Barrett, of Acme Insurance. Here’s my card. But I don’t want to sell you anything. I’m looking for a man named David Sharpe. He was listed as beneficiary on one of our policies and has some money coming to him. He live here?”
“Who?”
“David Sharpe.”
“I don’t know him.”
“This is the address we have for him.”
“Nah, I never—wait … What’s his name?”
“David Sharpe.”
“Oh yeah. Chris’, he move away almost two y
ears ago.”
“Oh. I don’t suppose you have any forwarding address?”
“Nah. Try the post office.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll try them.”
And plucking his business card back, Delaney trudged on.
“Good morning. My name’s Barrett, of Acme Insurance. Here’s my card. But I don’t want to sell you anything. I’m looking for a man named Arnold K. Abel. He was listed as beneficiary on one of our policies and has some money coming to him. He—”
“Tough shit. He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah. Remember that plane crash last year? It landed short and went into Jamaica Bay.”
“Yes, I remember that.”
“Well, Abel was on it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, he was a nice guy. A lush but a nice guy. He always give me a tenner at Christmas.”
And then something happened he should have expected.
“Good morning,” he started his spiel, “I’m—”
“Hell, I know you, Captain Delaney. I was on that owners’ protective committee you started. Don’t you remember me? The name’s Goldenberg.”
“Of course, Mr. Goldenberg. How are you?”
“Healthy, thank God. And you, Captain?”
“Can’t complain.”
“I was sorry to hear you retired.”
“Well … not retired exactly. Just temporary leave of absence. But things piled up and I’m spending a few hours a day helping out the new commander. You know?”
“Oh sure. Breaking him in—right?”
“Right. Now we’re looking for a man named Simmons. Walter J. Simmons. He’s not wanted or anything like that, but he was a witness to a robbery about a year ago, and now we got the guy we think pulled the job, and we hoped this Simmons could identify him.”
“Roosevelt Hospital, Captain. He’s been in there almost six months now. He’s one of these mountain climbers, and he fell and got all cracked up. From what I hear, he’ll never be the same again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But he still may be able to testify. I better get over there. Thank you for your trouble.”
First Deadly Sin Page 42
