First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

The same officer, Detective first grade Ronald A. Blankenship, had handled both beefs. His language, in his reports, was official, clear, concise, colorless, and implied no judgments.

  Delaney read through the file slowly, then read it through again. He got up to mix another rye highball and then, standing at his desk, read it through a third time. He took off his glasses, began to pace about his chilly study, carrying his drink, sipping occasionally. Once or twice he came back behind his desk to stare at the Daniel Blank manila folder, but he didn’t open the file again.

  Several years previously, when he had been a Detective lieutenant, he had contributed two articles to the Department’s monthly magazine. The first monograph was entitled “Common Sense and the New Detective.” It was a very basic, down-to-earth analysis of how the great majority of crimes are solved: good judgment based on physical evidence and experience—the ability to put two and two together and come up with four, not three or five. It was hardly a revolutionary argument.

  The second article, entitled “Hunch, Instinct, and the New Detective,” occasioned a little more comment. Delaney argued that in spite of the great advances in laboratory analysis, the forensic sciences, computerized records and probability percentages, the new detective disregarded his hunches and instinct at his peril, for frequently they were not a sudden brainstorm, but were the result of observation of physical evidence and experience of which the detective might not even be consciously aware. But stewing in his subconscious, a rational and reasonable conclusion was reached, thrust into his conscious thought, and should never be allowed to wither unexplored, since it was, in many cases, as logical and empirical as common sense.

  (Delaney had prepared a third article for the series. This dealt with his theory of an “adversary concept” in which he explored the Dostoevskian relationship between detective and criminal. It was an abstruse examination of the “sensual” (Delaney’s word) affinity between hunter and hunted, of how, in certain cases, it was necessary for the detective to penetrate and assume the physical body, spirit, and soul of the criminal in order to bring him to justice. This treatise, at Barbara’s gentle persuasion, Delaney did not submit for publication.)

  Now, thinking over the facts included in the Daniel Blank file, Captain Delaney acknowledged he was halfway between common sense and instinct. Intelligence and experience convinced him that the man involved in the two incidents described was worth investigating further.

  The salient point in the second incident was the raw savagery Blank had displayed. A normal man—well, an average man—might have handled the homosexual’s first advance by merely smiling and shaking his head, or moving down the bar, or even leaving The Parrot. The violence displayed by Blank was excessive. Protesting too much?

  The first incident—the case of the injured dog-owner—might not be as innocent as it appeared in Detective Blankenship’s report. It was true that the witness, the doorman—what was his name? Delaney looked it up. Charles Lipsky—it was true that Lipsky stated that Blank had been struck with a folded newspaper before pushing his assailant. But witnesses can be bribed; it was hardly an uncommon occurrence. Even if Lipsky had told the truth, Delaney was amazed at how this incident fit into a pattern he had learned from experience; men prone to violence, men too ready to use their fists, their feet, even their teeth, somehow became involved in situations that were obviously not their fault, and yet resulted in injury or death to their antagonist.

  Delaney called Monica Gilbert.

  “Monica? Edward. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. I hope I didn’t wake the children.”

  “Oh no. That takes more than a phone ring. What is it?”

  “Would you mind looking at your card file and see if you have anything on a man named Blank. Daniel G. He lives on East Eighty-third Street.”

  “Just a minute.”

  He waited patiently. He heard her moving about. Then she was back on the phone.

  “Blank, Daniel G.,” she read. “Arrested twice for speeding. Guilty and fined. Do you want the make of car and license number?”

  “Please.”

  He took notes as she gave him the information.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Edward, is it—anything?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. It’s interesting. That’s about all I can say right now. I’ll know more tomorrow.”

  “Will you call?”

  “Yes, if you want me to.”

  “Please do.”

  “All right. Sleep well.”

  “Thank you. You, too.”

  Two arrests for speeding. Not in itself significant, but within the pattern. The choice of car was similarly meaningful. Delaney was glad Daniel Blank didn’t drive a Volkswagen.

  He called Thomas Handry at the newspaper office. He had left for home. He called him at home. No answer. He called Detective Lieutenant Jeri Fernandez at his office. Fernandez had gone home. Delaney felt a sudden surge of anger at these people who couldn’t be reached when he needed them. Then he realized how childish that was, and calmed down.

  He found Fernandez’ home phone number in the back of his pocket notebook where he had carefully listed home phone numbers of all sergeants and higher ranks in the 251st Precinct. Fernandez lived in Brooklyn. A child answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Is Detective Fernandez there, please?”

  “Just a minute. Daddy, it’s for you!” the child screamed.

  In the background Delaney could hear music, shouts, loud laughter, the thump of heavy dancing. Finally Fernandez came to the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

  “Oh. Howrya, Captain?”

  “Lieutenant, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. Sounds like you’re having a party.”

  “Yeah, it’s the wife’s birthday, and we have some people in.”

  “I won’t keep you long. Lieutenant, when you were at the Two-five-one, you had a dick one named Blankenship. Right?”

  “Sure. Ronnie. Good man.”

  “What did he look like? I can’t seem to remember him.”

  “Sure you do, Captain. A real tall guy. About six-three or four. Skinny as a rail. We called him ‘Scarecrow.’ Remember now?”

  “Oh yes. A big Adam’s apple?”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He drew an Assault-Homicide Squad over on the West Side. I think it’s up in the Sixties-Seventies-Eighties—around there. I know it takes in the Twentieth Precinct. Listen, I got his home phone number somewhere. Would that help?”

  “It certainly would.”

  “Hang on a minute.”

  It was almost five minutes, but eventually Fernandez was back with Blankenship’s phone number. Delaney thanked him. Fernandez seemed to want to talk more, but the Captain cut him short.

  He dialed Blankenship’s home phone. A woman answered. In the background Delaney could hear an infant wailing loudly.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Blankenship?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “My name is Delaney, Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Depart—”

  “What’s happened? What’s happened to Ronnie? Is he all right? Is he hurt? What—”

  “No, no, Mrs. Blankenship,” he said hurriedly, soothing her fears. “As far as I know, your husband is perfectly all right.”

  He could sympathize with her fright. Every cop’s wife lived with that dread. But she should have known that if anything had happened to her husband, she wouldn’t learn of it from a phone call. Two men from the Department would ring her bell. She would open the door and they would be standing there, faces twisted and guilty, and she would know.

  “I’m trying to contact your husband to get some information, Mrs. Blankenship,” he went on, speaking slowly and distinctly. This was obviously not an alert woman. “I gather he’s not at home. Is he working?”

  “Yes. He�
�s on nights for the next two weeks.”

  “Could you give me his office phone number, please?”

  “All right. Just a minute.”

  He could also have told her not to give out any information about her husband to a stranger who calls in the middle of the night and claims he’s a captain in the NYPD. But what would be the use? Her husband had probably told her that a dozen times. A dull woman.

  He got the number and thanked her. It was now getting on toward eleven o’clock; he wondered if he should try or let it go till morning. He dialed the number. Blankenship had checked in all right, but he wasn’t on the premises. Delaney left his number, without identifying himself, and asked if the operator would have him call back.

  “Please tell him it’s important,” he said.

  “ ‘Important’?” the male operator said. “How do you spell that, Mr. Important?”

  Delaney hung up. A wise-ass. The Captain would remember. The Department moved in involved and sometimes mysterious ways. One day that phone operator in that detective division might be under Delaney’s command. He’d remember the high, lilting, laughing voice. It was stupid to act like that.

  He started a new file, headed BLANK, Daniel G., and in it he stowed the Blankenship reports, his notes on Blank’s record of arrests for speeding, the make of car he drove and his license number. Then he went to the Manhattan telephone directory and looked up Blank, Daniel G. There was only one listing of that name, on East 83rd Street. He made a note of the phone number and added that to his file.

  He was mixing a fresh rye highball—was it his second or third?—when the phone rang. He put down the glass and bottle carefully, then ran for the phone, catching it midway through the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Blankenship. Who’s this?”

  “Captain Edward X. Delaney here. I was—”

  “Captain! Good to hear from you. How are you, sir?”

  “Fine, Ronnie. And you?” Delaney had never before called the man by his first name, hadn’t even known what it was before his call to Fernandez. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever speaking to Blankenship personally, but he wanted to set a tone.

  “Okay, Captain. Getting along.”

  “How do you like the new assignment? Tell me, do you think this reorganization is going to work?”

  “Captain, it’s great!” Blankenship said enthusiastically. “They should have done it years ago. Now I can spend some time on important stuff and forget the little squeals. Our arrest rate is up, and morale is real good. The case load is way down, and we’ve got time to think.”

  The man sounded intelligent. His voice was pleasingly deep, vibrant, resonant. Delaney remembered that big, jutting Adam’s apple.

  “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Listen, I’m on leave of absence, but something came up and I agreed to help out on it.”

  He let it go at that, keeping it vague, waiting to see if Blankenship would pick up on it and ask questions. But the detective hesitated a moment, then said, “Sure, Captain.”

  “It concerns a man named Daniel Blank, in the Two-five-one. He was involved in two beefs last year. You handled both of them. I have your reports. Good reports. Very complete.”

  “What was that name again?”

  “Blank, B-l-a-n-k, Daniel G. He lives on East Eighty-third Street. The first thing was a pushing match with a guy who was allegedly beating his dog. The second—”

  “Oh sure,” Blankenship interrupted. “I remember. Probably because his name is Blank and mine is Blankenship. At the time I thought it was funny I should be handling him. Two beefs in six months. In the second, he kicked the shit out of a faggot. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “But the victim wouldn’t sign a complaint. What do you want to know, Captain?”

  “About Blank. You saw him?”

  “Sure. Twice.”

  “What do you remember about him?”

  Blankenship recited: “Blank, Daniel G. White, male, approximately six feet or slightly taller, about—”

  “Wait, wait a minute,” Delaney said hastily. “I’m taking notes. Go a little slower.”

  “Okay, Captain. You got the height?”

  “Six feet or a little over.”

  “Right. Weight about one seventy-five. Slim build but good shoulders. Good physical condition from what I could see. No obvious physical scars or infirmities. Dark complexion. Sunburned, I’d say. Long face. Sort of Chinese-looking. Let’s see—anything else?”

  “How was he dressed?” Delaney asked, admiring the man’s observation and memory.

  “Dark suits,” Blankenship said promptly. “Nothing flashy, but well-cut and expensive. Some funny things I remember. Gold link chain on his wrist watch. Like a bracelet. The first time I saw him I think it was his own hair. The second time I swear it was a rug. The second time he was wearing a real crazy shirt open to his pipik, with some kind of necklace. You know—hippie stuff.”

  “Accent?” Delaney nodded.

  “Accent?” Blankenship repeated, thought a moment, then said, “Not a native New Yorker. Mid-western, I’d guess. Sorry I can’t be more specific.”

  “You’re doing great,” Delaney assured him, elated. “You think he’s strong?”

  “Strong? I’d guess so. Any guy who can break another man’s jaw with a punch has got to be strong. Right?”

  “Right. What was your personal reaction to him? Flitty?”

  “Could be, Captain. When they punish an obvious faggot like that, it’s got to mean something. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “I wanted to charge him, but the victim refused to sign anything. So what could I do?”

  “I understand,” Delaney said. “Believe me, this has nothing to do with that beef.”

  “I believe you, Captain.”

  “Do you know where he works, what he does for a living?”

  “It’s not in my reports?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Sorry about that. But you’ve got his lawyer’s name and address, haven’t you?”

  “Oh yes, I have that. I’ll get it from him,” Delaney lied. It was Blankenship’s first mistake, and a small one. No use going to the lawyer; he’d simply refuse to divulge the information, then surely mention to Blank that the police had been around asking questions.

  “That just about covers it,” Delaney said. “Thanks very much for your help. What are you working on now?”

  “It’s a beaut, Captain,” Blankenship said in his enthusiastic way. “This old dame got knocked off in her apartment. Strangled. No signs of forcible entry. And as far as we can tell, nothing stolen. A neighbor smelled it; that’s how we got on to it. A poor little apartment, but it turns out the old dame was loaded.”

  “Who inherits?”

  “A nephew. But we checked him out six ways from the middle. He’s got an alibi that holds up. He was down in Florida for two weeks. We checked. He really was there. Every minute.”

  “Check his bank account, back for about six months or a year. See if there was a heavy withdrawal—maybe five or ten big ones.”

  “You mean he hired—? Son of a bitch!” Blankenship said bitterly. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Stick around for twenty-five years,” Delaney laughed. “You’ll learn. Thanks again. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

  “I’ll hold you to that, Captain,” Blankenship said in his deep, throaty voice.

  “You do that,” Delaney said seriously.

  After he hung up, he finished mixing his highball. He took a deep swallow, then grinned, grinned, grinned. He looked around at walls, ceiling, floor, furniture, and grinned at everything. It felt good. It had gone beyond his first article on common sense: the value of personally observed evidence and experience. It had even gone beyond the second article that extolled the value of hunch and instinct. Now he was in the realm of the third, unpublished article which Barbara had convinced him should never be
printed. Quite rightly, too. Because in that monograph, exploring the nature of the detective-criminal relationship—his theory of the adversary concept—he had rashly dwelt on the “joy” of the successful detective.

  That was what he felt now—joy! He worked at his new file—BLANK, Daniel G.—adding to it everything Detective Blankenship had reported, and not a thing, not one single thing, varied in any significant aspect from his original “The Suspect” outline. He gained surety as he amplified his notes. It was beautiful, beautiful, all so beautiful. And, just as he had written in his unpublished article, there was sensuous pleasure—was it sexual?—in the chase. So intent was he on his rapid writing, his reports, his new, beautiful file, that the phone rang five times before he picked it up. As a matter of fact, he kept writing as he answered it.

  “Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

  “Dorfman. There’s been another one.”

  “Captain—what?”

  “Lieutenant Dorfman, Captain. Sorry to wake you up. There’s been another killing. Same type, with extras.”

  “Where?”

  “Eighty-fifth. Between First and York.”

  “A man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tall?”

  “Tall? I’d guess five-ten or eleven.”

  “Weight?”

  There was silence, then Dorfman’s dull voice: “I don’t know what he weighed, Captain. Is it important?”

  “Extras? You said ‘Extras.’ What extras?”

  “He was struck at least three times. Maybe more. There are signs of a struggle. Christmas packages, three of them, thrown around. Scuff marks on the sidewalk. His coat was torn. Looks like he put up a fight.”

  “Identified?”

  “A man named Feinberg. Albert Feinberg.”

  “Anything missing? Identification of any kind?”

  “We don’t know,” Dorfman said wearily. “They’re checking with his wife now. His wallet wasn’t out like in the Lombard kill. We just don’t know.”

  “All right,” Delaney said softly. “Thank you for calling. Sounds like you could use some sleep, lieutenant.”

  “Yes, I could. If I could sleep.”

  “Where was it again?”

  “Eighty-fifth, between First and York.”