It really was a beautiful day. Crisp, clear. Everyone had been predicting a mild winter. He hoped so. He’d had his fill of snow, slush, blizzards, garbage-decked drifts—all the crap. He and Barbara would retire to some warm place, some place quiet. Not Florida. He didn’t enjoy the heat that much. But maybe to the Carolinas. Some place like that. He’d go fishing. He had never fished in his life, but he could learn. Barbara would have a decent garden. She’d love that.
God damn it, it wasn’t the murders! He had seen the results of murder without end. Murders by gun, by knife, by strangling, by bludgeoning, by drowning, by stomping, by—by anything. You name it; he had seen it. And he had handled homicides where the corpse was robbed: money taken, fingers cut off to get the rings, necklaces wrenched from a dead neck, even shoes taken and, in one case, gold teeth pulled out with pliers.
He turned back to that display on his overcoat. This was the worst. He could not say exactly why, but this was an obscenity so awful he wasn’t certain he wanted to live, to be a member of the human race. This was despoiling the dead, not for vengeance, want, or greed, but for—For what? A souvenir? A trophy? A scalp? There was something godless about it, something he could not endure. He didn’t know. He just didn’t know. Not right now. But he’d think about it.
He cleaned up fast. Everything back into the envelope with tweezers, in the exact order in which they had originally been packed. The envelope flap tucked under with no bend or crease. The top tape pressed down again upon the wood. It held. The drawer turned rightside up. Underwear back in neat stacks in the original order. Drawer slid into the dresser. He inspected the lining of his overcoat. Some wood dust there, from the drawer runners. He went into the bathroom, moistened two sheets of toilet paper at the sink, came back into the bedroom, sponged his overcoat lining clean. Back into the bathroom, used tissues into the toilet. But before he flushed, he used two more squares to wipe the sink dry. Then those went into the toilet also; he flushed all away. He would, he thought sardonically—and not for the first time—have made a hell of a murderer.
He made a quick trip of inspection through the apartment. All clean. He was at the front door, his hand on the knob, when he thought of something else. He went back into the kitchen, opened the lower cabinets. A plastic pail, detergents, roach spray, floor wax, furniture polish. And, what he had hoped to find, a small can of light machine oil.
He tore a square of paper towel from the roll hanging from the kitchen wall. Could this man keep track of pieces of toilet paper or sections of paper towel? Delaney wouldn’t be a bit surprised. But he soaked the paper towel in the machine oil, folded it up, put it inside one of his fleece-lined gloves in his overcoat pocket. Machine oil can returned to its original position.
Then back to the outside door, unlocking, a quick peer outside at an empty corridor. He stepped out, locked up, tried the knob three times. Solid. He walked toward the elevators, stripping off his black silk gloves stuffing them, away into an inside pocket. He rang the Down button and while he waited, he took three ten-dollar bills from his wallet, folded them tightly about the keys, held them in his right hand.
There were six other people in the elevator. They stood back politely to let him get on. He edged slowly toward the back. Music was playing softly. In the lobby, he let everyone else off first, then walked out, looked about for Lipsky. He finally saw him, outside, helping an old woman into a cab. He waited patiently until Lipsky came back inside. Lipsky saw him, and the Captain thought he might faint. Delaney moved forward smiling, holding out his right hand. He felt Lipsky’s wet palm as keys and money were passed.
Delaney nodded, still smiling, and walked outside. He walked down the driveway. He walked home. He was thinking a curious thought: that his transfer to the Patrol Division had been a mistake. He didn’t want administrative experience. He didn’t want to be Police Commissioner. This was what he did best. And what he liked best.
He called Thorsen from his home. It was no time to be worrying about tapped phones, if that ever had any validity to begin with. But Thorsen did not return his call, not for 15 minutes. Delaney then called his office. The Deputy Inspector was “in conference” and could not be disturbed.
“Disturb him,” Delaney said sharply. “This is Captain Edward X. Delaney. It’s an emergency.”
He waited a few moments, then:
“Jesus Christ, Edward, what’s so—”
“I’ve got to see you. At once.”
“Impossible. You don’t know what’s going on down here. All hell is breaking loose. It’s the showdown.”
Delaney didn’t ask what “showdown.” He wasn’t interested. “I’ve got to see you,” he repeated.
Thorsen was silent a minute. Then: “Will it wait till six o’clock? There’s another meeting with the Commissioner at seven, but I’ll be able to see you at six. Can it hold till then?”
Delaney thought. “All right. Six o’clock. Where?”
“Uptown. The seven o’clock meeting’s at the Mansion. Better make it my house at six.”
“I’ll be there.”
He pressed the phone prongs just long enough to break the connection, then dialed Dr. Sanford Ferguson.
“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”
“Neglect, neglect, neglect,” Ferguson said sorrowfully. “You haven’t called me for ‘two more things’ in weeks. Not sore at me, are you, Edward?”
“No,” Delaney laughed, “I’m not sore at you.”
“How you coming along?”
“All right. I read your preliminary report on the Feinberg kill, but I didn’t see the final PM.”
“Completed it today. The usual. Nothing new.”
“The preliminary report said that blood found on the sidewalk was not the victim’s type.”
“That’s correct.”
“What type was it?”
“You’re asking me? Edward, you’re losing your grip. I thought you’d be telling me.”
“Just a minute.” Delaney took his notebook from his inside coat pocket. “All right, I’ll tell you. AB-Rh negative.”
There was a swift intake of breath. “Edward, you are getting somewhere, aren’t you? You’re right. AB-Rh negative. A rare type. Who has it?”
“A friend of mine,” Delaney said tonelessly. “A close friend.”
“Well, when you take him, make it clean, will you?” the Medical Examiner said. “I’m getting bored with crushed skulls. A single pop through the heart would be nice.”
“Too good for him,” Delaney said savagely.
Silence then. Finally: “Edward, you’re not losing your cool, are you?” Ferguson asked, concern in his voice.
“I’ve never been colder in my life.”
“Good.”
“One more thing …”
“Now I know you’re normal.”
“I’m mailing you a sample of a light machine oil. It’s a different brand from the one I gave you before. Will you try to get a match with oil in the tissue from Feinberg’s wounds?”
“I’ll try. Sounds like you’re close, Edward.”
“Yes. Thank you, doctor.”
He looked at his watch. Almost two hours to kill before his meeting with Thorsen. He sat down at his study desk, put on his glasses, picked up a pencil, drew a pad toward him. He began to head the page “Report on—” then stopped, thinking carefully. Was it wise to have an account of that illegal break-in, in his handwriting? He pushed pad and pencil away, rose, began to pace around the room, hands jammed in his hip pockets.
If, for some reason he could not yet foresee, it came to a court trial or the taking of sworn depositions, it was Lipsky’s word against his. All Lipsky could swear to was that he had passed the keys. He had not seen Delaney in Blank’s apartment. He could not honestly swear to that, only that he had given Delaney the keys and presumed he was going to search the apartment. But presumptions had no value. Still, the Captain decided, he would not make a written report of the search. Not at this moment, at
any rate. He continued his pacing.
The problem, he decided—the essential problem—was not how to take Blank. That had to wait for his meeting with Thorsen at six o’clock. The essential problem was Blank, the man himself, who he was, what he was, what he might do.
That apartment was a puzzle. It displayed a dichotomy (the Captain was familiar with the word) of personality difficult to decipher. There was the incredible orderliness, almost a fanatical tidiness. And the ultramodern furnishings, black and white, steel and leather, no warmth, no softness, no personal “give” to the surroundings.
Then there were the multi-hued linens, luxurious personal belongings, the excess of silk and soft fabrics, feminine underwear, the perfumes, oils, scented creams, the jewelry. That mutilated nude photograph. And, above all, the mirrors. Mirrors everywhere.
He went over to the cabinet, flipped through the Daniel G. Blank file, pulled out the thick report he had written after his interview with Dr. Otto Morgenthau. Delaney stood at his desk, turning pages until he found the section he wanted, where Morgenthau, having discussed causes, spoke about motives, how the mass murderer justified his actions to himself. The Captain had jotted short, elliptic notes:
“Elaborate rationalizations. No guilt. Killings necessary …
“1. Impose order on chaos. Cannot stand disorder or the unpredictable. Needs rules of institution: prison, army, etc. Finds peace, because no responsibility in completely ordered world.
“2. Graffiti artist. Make his mark by murder. I exist! Statement to world.
“3. Alienation. Cannot relate to anyone. Cannot feel. Wants to come close to another human being. To love? Through love to all humanity and secret of existence. God? Because (in youth?) emotion, feeling, love have been denied to him. Cannot find (feel) except by killing. Ecstasy.”
Delaney reread these notes again, and recalled Dr. Morgenthau’s warning that in dealing with multiple killers, there were no precise classifications. Causes overlapped, and so did motives. These were not simple men who killed from greed, lust or vengeance. They were a tangled complex, could not recognize themselves where truth ended and fantasy began. But perhaps in their mad, whirling minds there were no endings and no beginnings. Just a hot swirl, with no more outline than a flame and as fluid as blood.
He put the notes away, no closer to Dan’s heart. The thing about Dan was—He stopped suddenly. Dan? He was thinking of him as “Dan” now? Not Blank, or Daniel G. Blank, but Dan. Very well, he would think of him as Dan. “A friend,” he had told Dr. Ferguson. “A close friend.” He had smelled his soap, handled his underwear, felt his silken robes, heard his voice, seen a photo of him naked. Discovered his secrets.
The trouble with Dan, the trouble with understanding Dan; was the question he had posed to Barbara: Was it possible to solve an irrational problem by rational means? He hadn’t the answer to that. Yet. He glanced at his watch, hurriedly emptied his pockets of penlite, black silk gloves, case of lock picks. He wrapped the oil-soaked wad of paper towel in a square of aluminum foil, put it into an envelope addressed to Dr. Sanford Ferguson, and mailed it on his way to the home of Deputy Inspector Thorsen.
It was strange; he could smell cigar smoke on the sidewalk outside Thorsen’s brownstone. He walked up the stoop; the smell was stronger. He hoped to hell Karen was visiting or up in her bedroom; she hated cigars.
He rang. And rang. Rang. Finally Thorsen pulled open the door.
“Sorry, Edward. Lots of noise.”
Thorsen, he noted, was under pressure. The “Admiral” was hanging on tight, but the fine silver hair was unbrushed, blue eyes dimmed, the whites bloodshot, lines in his face Delaney had never seen before. And a jerkiness to his movements.
The door of the living room was closed. But the Captain heard a loud, angry babble. He saw a pile of overcoats, at least a dozen, thrown over hallway chairs. Civilian and uniform coats, civilian hats and cop hats. One cane. One umbrella. The air was hot and swirling—cigar smoke, and harsh. Thorsen didn’t ask for his hat and coat.
“Come in here,” he commanded.
He led Delaney down a short hall to a dining room, flicked on a wall switch. There was a Tiffany lampshade over the heavy oak dining table. Thorsen closed the door, but the Captain could still hear the voices, still smell the coarse cigars.
“What is it?” Thorsen demanded.
Delaney looked at him. He could forgive that tone; the man was obviously exhausted. Something was happening, something big.
“Ivar,” he said gently—perhaps the second or third time in his life he had used the Deputy Inspector’s given name—“I’ve found him.”
Thorsen looked at him, not comprehending.
“Found him?”
Delaney didn’t answer. Thorsen, staring at him, suddenly knew.
“Oh Jesus,” he groaned. “Now of all times. Right now. Oh God. No doubt at all?”
“No. No doubt. It’s absolute.”
Thorsen took a deep breath.
“Don’t—” he started to say, then stopped, smiled wanly at the Captain. “Congratulations, Edward.”
Delaney didn’t say anything.
“Don’t move from here. Please. I want Johnson and Alinski in on this. I’ll be right back.”
The Captain waited patiently. Still standing, he ran his fingers over the waxed surface of the dining table. Old, scarred oak. There was something about wood, something you couldn’t find in steel, chrome, aluminum, plastic. The wood had lived, he decided; that was the answer. The wood had been seedling, twig, trunk, all pulsing with sap, responding to the seasons, growing. The tree cut down eventually, and sliced, planed, worked, sanded, polished. But the sense of life was still there. You could feel it.
Inspector Johnson seemed as distraught as Thorsen; his black face was sweated, and Delaney noted the hands thrust into trouser pockets. You did that to conceal trembling. But Deputy Mayor Herman Alinski was still expressionless, the short, heavy body composed, dark, intelligent eyes moving from man to man.
The four men stood around the dining room table. No one suggested they sit. From outside, Delaney could still hear the loud talk going on, still smell the crude cigar smoke.
“Edward?” Thorsen said in a low voice.
Delaney looked at the other two men. Then he addressed himself directly to Alinski.
“I have found the killer of Frank Lombard, Bernard Gilbert, Detective Kope, and Albert Feinberg,” he said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “There is no possibility of error. I know the man who committed the four homicides.”
There was silence. Delaney looked from Alinski to Johnson to Thorsen.
“Oh Jesus,” Johnson said. “That tears it.”
“No possibility of error?” Alinski repeated softly.
“No, sir. None.”
“Can we make a collar, Edward?” Thorsen asked. “Now?”
“No use. He’d be out in an hour.”
“Run him around the horn?” Johnson said in a cracked voice.
Delaney: “What for? A waste of time. He’d float free eventually.”
Thorsen: “Search warrant?”
Delaney: “Not even from a pet judge.”
Johnson: “Anything for the DA?”
Delaney: “Not a thing.”
Thorsen: “Will he sweat in the slammer?”
Delaney: “No.”
Johnson: “Break-in?”
Delaney: “What do you think?”
Thorsen: “You left it?”
Delaney: “What else could I do?”
Thorsen: “But it was there?”
Delaney: “Three hours ago. It may be gone by now.”
Johnson: “Witnesses to the break-in?”
Delaney: “Presumption only.”
Thorsen: “Then we’ve got nothing?”
Delaney: “Not right now.”
Johnson: “But you can nail him?”
Delaney (astonished): “Of course. Eventually.”
Deputy Mayor Herman Alinski had followed
this fast exchange without interrupting. Now he held up a hand. They fell silent. He carefully relighted a cold cigar he had brought into the room with him.
“Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “I realize I am just a poor pole, one generation removed from the Warsaw ghetto, but I did think I had mastered the English language and the American idiom. But I would be much obliged, gentlemen, if you could inform me just what the fuck you are talking about.”
They laughed then. The ice was broken—which was, Delaney realized, exactly what Alinski had intended. The Captain turned to Thorsen.
“Let me tell it my way?”
Thorsen nodded.
“Sir,” the Captain said, addressing the Deputy Mayor directly, “I will tell you what I can. Some things I will not tell you. Not to protect myself. I don’t give a damn. But I don’t think it wise that you and these other men should have guilty knowledge. You understand?”
Alinski, smoking his cigar, nodded. His dark eyes deepened even more; he stared at Delaney with curious interest.
“I know the man who committed these homicides,” the Captain continued. “I have seen the evidence. Conclusive, incontrovertible evidence. You’ll have to take my word for that. The evidence exists, or did exist three hours ago, in this man’s apartment. But the evidence is of such a nature that it doesn’t justify a collar—an arrest. Why not? Because it exists in his apartment, his home. How could I swear to what I have seen? Legally, I have seen nothing. And if, by any chance, a sympathetic judge issued a search warrant, what then? Served on the man while he was home, he could stall long enough to destroy the evidence. Somehow. Then what? Arrest him on a charge—any charge? And run the risk of a false arrest suit? What for? Run him around the horn? That’s probably some of our Cop talk you didn’t understand. It means collaring a suspect, keeping him in a precinct house detention cell, trying to sweat him—getting him to talk. He calls his lawyer. We’re required to let him do that. His lawyer gets a release. By the time the lawyer shows up with the paper, we’ve moved him to another precinct house tank. No one knows where. By the time the lawyer finds out, we’ve moved him again. We waltz him ‘around the horn.’ It’s an old routine, not used much these days, originally used when cops needed to keep an important witness in the slammer, or needed another day or two days or three days to nail the guy good. It wouldn’t work here. Sweating him wouldn’t work either. Don’t ask me how I know—I just know. He won’t talk. Why should he? He makes fifty-five thousand a year. He’s an important business executive with a big corporation in the city. He’s no street ponce with a snoot full of shit. We can’t lean on him. He’s got no record. He’s got a good lawyer. He’s got friends. He carries weight. Got it now?”
First Deadly Sin Page 52
