The 1st Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Oysters!” Ferguson boomed happily. “I definitely recommend the oysters. The horse-radish is freshly ground. Then I’ll have the mutton chop.”

  “Very good, sir,” the waiter said.

  “Oysters for me also,” Delaney nodded. “Then I’ll have the broiled kidney. What comes with that?”

  “Home-fries and salad, sir.”

  “Skip the potatoes, please. Just the salad. Oil and vinegar.”

  “I’ll have everything,” Ferguson cried, and drained half his martini.

  “What did you buy your sister?” Delaney asked.

  “A silk scarf. What else? Come on, Edward, what’s this all about? You’re on leave of absence.”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Dr. Sanford Ferguson was suddenly sober and quiet. He stared at Delaney a long moment. “No,” he said finally. “I really don’t want to know. Except…will my name be brought into it?”

  “I swear to you—no.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  Their oysters were brought, and they looked down at them, beaming. They went through the business with the horse-radish sauce and the hot stuff. They swallowed, looked at each other, groaned with pleasure.

  “All right,” Ferguson said. “What do you want?”

  “About your report on the Lombard—”

  “How did you get my report?”

  Delaney looked at him steadily. “You said you didn’t want to know.”

  “That’s right; I don’t. All right, what about the report?”

  “I have a few questions.” Delaney took a short list out of his side pocket, put it on the cloth before him, donned his heavy glasses, consulted it, then leaned toward Ferguson.

  “Doctor,” he said earnestly, “your official reports are most complete. I don’t deny it. But they’re couched in medical language. As they should be, of course,” he added hastily. “So?”

  “I have some questions about what your medical terms mean.”

  “Edward, you’re jiving me.”

  “Well…really what the significance is.”

  “That’s better,” Ferguson smiled. “You can read a PM as well as a third-year medical student.”

  “Yes. Also, I happen to know, doctor, that you include in your official reports only that which you objectively observe and which could be substantiated by any other capable surgeon doing the identical post-mortem. I also know that in an autopsy—in any investigation—there are impressions, feelings, hunches—call them what you like—that can never be part of an official report because the physical evidence doesn’t exist. And its those impressions, feelings and hunches that I want from you.”

  Ferguson slipped a dipped oyster into his mouth, swallowed, rolled his eyes.

  “You’re a bastard, Edward,” he said amiably. “You really are a bastard. You’ll use anyone, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” Delaney nodded. “I’ll use anyone. Any time.”

  “Let’s start from word one,” Ferguson said, busily stirring his oyster sauce. “Let’s start with head wounds. Much experience?”

  “No. Not much.”

  “Edward, the human skull and the human brain are tougher beyond your comprehension. Ever read a detective novel or see a movie where a man has a single bullet fired into his head and dies instantly? Practically impossible. I’ve had cases of victims with five bullets in their heads who lived. They were vegetables, true, but they lived. Three years ago I had a would-be suicide who fired a bullet at his head with a low calibre revolver. Twenty-two, I think. The slug bounced off his skull and hit the ceiling. Literally. Commit suicide by firing a bullet into your temple? Forget it. The slug could pass completely through, come out the other side, and you still wouldn’t be dead. You might live hours, weeks, or years. Maybe you couldn’t talk, or move, or control your bowels, but you’d be alive. How are your oysters, Edward?”

  “Very good. Yours?”

  “Marvelous. There’s only one way of committing sure suicide—instantaneous suicide—by a gunshot to the head. That’s by using a pistol or revolver of reasonably heavy calibre, say a thirty-eight at least—a rifle or shotgun would do as well, of course—put the muzzle deep into your mouth aimed at the back of your head, close your lips and teeth firmly about the barrel, pull the trigger, and splatter your brains onto the opposing wall. Some of these little oysterettes, Edward?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Now about the Lombard homicide. The entry was made from the back, low on the crown. About halfway to where the spine joins the skull. The only other spot where death might be instantaneous.”

  “You think the killer had a surgeon’s knowledge?”

  “Oh God, no,” Ferguson said, signaling the waiter to remove their emptied oyster plates. “Yes, to hit that spot deliberately would require a surgeon’s experience. But the victim would have to be on an operating table. No killer swinging a weapon violently could hope to hit it. It was luck. The killer’s luck, not Lombard’s luck.”

  “Was death instantaneous?” Delaney asked.

  “Close to it. If not instant, then within a few seconds. A half-inch to the right or left and the man might have lived for hours or weeks.”

  “It was that close?”

  “I told you the human skull and brain are much tougher than most people realize. Do you know how many ex-soldiers are walking around today with hunks of shrapnel in their brains? They live normally, except for occasional crushing headaches, but we can’t operate. And they’ll live out their normal lives and die from smoking too many cigarettes or eating too much cheese.”

  The mutton chop, broiled kidney, and salads were served. Ferguson got his home-fries, a big plate with plenty of onions. After consultation with the head waiter, who was 343 years old, they ordered a bottle of heavy burgundy.

  “To get back to Lombard,” Delaney said, digging into his broiled kidney, “was it really a circular wound?”

  “Oh you’re so smart,” Ferguson said without rancor. “You’re so fucking smart. My report stated it appeared to be a circular penetration. But I had the impression it could have been triangular. Or even square. Look, Edward, you’ve never probed a brain penetration. You think it’s like pounding a spike into modeling clay, and then you pull out the spike and you’ve got a nice, clean perfect cavity? It’s nothing like that. The wound fills up. Brain matter presses in. There is blood. Bits of bone. Hair. All kinds of crap. And you expect me to—How’s the kidney?”

  “Delicious,” Delaney said. “I’ve been here before, but I forgot how much bacon they give you.”

  “The mutton chop is fine,” Ferguson said, dipping into his little dish of applesauce. “I’m really enjoying this. But about that Lombard wound…In addition to the impression I had that the opening was not necessarily circular in shape, I also had the feeling that the penetration curved downward.”

  “Curved?”

  “Yes. Like a limp cone. The tip of the weapon lower than the shaft. A curve. Like a hard-on just beginning to go soft. You understand?”

  “Yes. But why are you so uncertain about the shape of the wound and the shape of the penetration? I know what you wrote, but what do you guess?”

  “I think, I guess that Lombard fell forward with such force that it wrenched the weapon out of the killer’s hand. And that the killer then bent forward and twisted his tool or weapon to remove it from Lombard’s skull. If the spike was triangular or square, the twisting would result in a roughly circular shape.”

  “And it would mean the weapon was valuable to the killer,” Delaney said. “He took the time to recover it. It was valuable intrinsically, or valuable because it might be traced to the killer. Murderers who use a hammer or pipe or rock usually wear gloves and leave the weapon behind.”

  “Beautiful,” Dr. Ferguson said, draining his wine. “I love to listen to you think.”

  “I’m glad it wasn’t a hammer,” Delaney said. “I never really believed it was.”

  “Why not?�
�

  “I’ve handled three hammer cases. In two of them the handle broke. In the third, the head snapped off.”

  “So you knew how tough the human skull is? But you let me talk.”

  “That’s the name of the game. Anything else?”

  “What else? Nothing else. It’s all smoke. On the evidence, the penetration was circular, but it might have been triangular. It might have been square. It hit the one spot that killed the man instantly. Do I think the killer has surgical knowledge? No. It was a lucky hit.”

  “Dessert?” Delaney asked.

  “Just coffee for me, thanks.”

  “Two coffees, please,” Delaney ordered. “Any ideas, any guesses, any wild suggestions at all as to what the weapon might have been?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Was there anything inside the wound you didn’t expect to find? Anything that wasn’t in your report?”

  Ferguson looked at him sternly a moment, then relaxed and laughed. “You never give up, do you? There were traces of oil.”

  “Oil? What kind of oil?”

  “Not enough for analysis. But undoubtedly hair oil. The rest of his hair was heavily oiled, so I assume the oil in the wound came from the hair driven into it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Since you’re paying, I’ll have a brandy.”

  After Ferguson took a cab back to his office, Delaney walked slowly toward Sixth Avenue. He realized he was only a few blocks from the flower market and sauntered down there. He was in no hurry. He knew from experience that each investigation had a pace of its own. Some shouted of a quick solution and were wrapped-up in hours. Others had the feel of slow growth and the need for time. The Lombard homicide was one of those. He consoled himself that Broughton, who was in a hurry, was getting nowhere. But was he doing any better? As Dr. Ferguson had said, it was all smoke.

  He found what he was looking for in the third flower shop he visited: violets, out of season. They were the flowers with which he had courted Barbara. They were sold by street vendors in those days, old ladies with baskets next to old men selling chestnuts. He would buy a bunch for Barbara and ask, “Fresh roasted violets, lady?” She was always kind enough to laugh. Now he bought the last two bunches the store had and took a cab to the hospital.

  But when he tiptoed into her room she was sleeping peacefully and he didn’t have the heart to awaken her. He unwrapped the violets and looked around the room for something to put them in, but there was nothing. Finally he sat in the straight chair, his uniformed bulk overflowing it. He grasped the tender violets in his big fist and waited quietly, watching his wife sleep. He glanced once at the dusty windows. The sharp November sunlight was diluted and softened.

  Perhaps, the sad, hunkering man wondered, a marriage was like one of those stained glass windows he had seen in a modest village church in France. From the outside, the windows were almost opaque with the dirt and grime of centuries. But when you went inside, and saw the sunlight leaping through, diffused by the dust, the colors struck into your eye and heart with their boldness and purity, their youth and liveliness.

  His marriage to Barbara, he supposed, must seem dull and dusty to an outsider. But seen from within, as father of a family, it was all bright and beguiling, touching and, finally, holy and mysterious. He watched his wife sleep and willed his strength to her, making her whole and laughing again. Then, unable to endure his thoughts, he stood and placed the violets on her bedside table with a scribbled note: “Fresh roasted violets, lady?”

  When he got back to his office, Dorfman was waiting for him with a sheet of paper torn from the Telex.

  “Captain,” he said in a choked voice, and Delaney was afraid he might weep, “is this—”

  “Yes, lieutenant, it’s correct. As of now, I’m on leave of absence. Come on in and let’s talk about it.”

  Dorfman followed him inside and took the scarred chair next to Delaney’s desk.

  “Captain, I had no idea your wife was so ill.”

  “Well, as far as I can guess, it’s going to be a long haul, and I wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Thank you, no. Well, perhaps there is something. You might call her. I have a feeling she’d like to see you. Whenever you can spare the time.”

  “I’ll call her right away,” Dorfman cried.

  “Wait a few hours. I’ve just come from there, and she’s sleeping.”

  “I’ll call just before my watch ends. Then if she wants to see me, I can go right over. What can I bring—flowers, candy, what?”

  “Oh nothing, thanks. She has everything she needs.”

  “Maybe a cake?” Dorfman said. “A nice cake. She can share it with the nurses. Nurses love cake.”

  “Fine,” Delaney smiled. “I think she’d like a cake from you.”

  “Captain,” Dorfman mourned, his long horse-face sagging again, “I suppose this means we’ll be getting an Acting Captain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any idea who it will be, sir?”

  Delaney debated a moment, briefly ashamed of manipulating a man so honest and sincere. But it was the sensible thing to do, to cement Dorfman’s trust and affection.

  “I recommended you for the job, lieutenant,” he said quietly.

  Dorfman’s pale blue eyes widened in shock.

  “Me?” he gasped. Then, “Me?” he repeated with real pleasure.

  “Wait a minute,” Delaney held up his hand. “I recommended you, but I don’t think you’ll get it. Not because your file isn’t good enough or you couldn’t handle the job, but your rank is against you. This precinct calls for a captain or deputy inspector. You understand that?”

  “Oh sure, Captain. But I certainly do appreciate your recommending me.”

  “Well, as I said, I don’t think you’re going to get it. So if I were you, I wouldn’t mention it to a soul. Particularly your wife. Then, if they turn you down, it’ll just be your disappointment, and no one will think they considered you and passed you over, for one reason or another.”

  “I won’t mention it, sir.”

  Delaney considered whether or not to hint to Dorfman the services as a contact he might be asked to provide in the Captain’s investigation of the Lombard homicide. Then he decided against it. This wasn’t the right time, and he had given the man enough to think about.

  “In any event,” Delaney said, “if you get the job or don’t get it, remember I’m still living next door and if there is ever anything I can help you with, don’t hesitate to give me a call or ring my bell. I mean that. Don’t get the idea you’ll be bothering me or annoying me. You won’t. As a matter of fact, I’d appreciate knowing what’s going on over here. This is my precinct and, with luck, I hope to be back in command some day.”

  “I hope so too, Captain,” Dorfman said fervently. “I really do hope so.” He rose and stuck out a hand. “Best of luck, sir, and I hope Mrs. Delaney is feeling better real soon.”

  “Thank you, lieutenant.”

  After Dorfman left, Delaney sat swinging back and forth slowly in his swivel chair. Was a man as gentle and sensitive as the lieutenant capable of administering a busy precinct in the New York Police Department? It was a job that occasionally demanded ruthlessness, a certain amount of Broughton-type insensibility. But then, Delaney reflected, ruthlessness could be an acquired trait. Even an assumed trait. He certainly hoped he had not been born with it. Dorfman could learn to be ruthless when necessary, just as he, Delaney, had learned. He did it, but he didn’t enjoy it. Perhaps that was the essential difference between Broughton and him: he didn’t enjoy it.

  Then he slammed his swivel chair level and reached into his bottom desk drawer to haul out a long card file. The grey metal box was dented and battered. Delaney opened it and began searching for what he wanted. The cards were filed by subject matter.

  Soon after Patrolman Edward X. Delaney was promoted to detective th
ird grade—more years ago than he cared to remember—he became aware that despite the enormous resources of the New York Police Department, he frequently came up against problems that could only be solved, or moved toward solution, by civilian experts.

  There was, for instance, a retired detective, delighted to cooperate with his former colleagues, who had established and maintained what was probably the world’s largest collection of laundry marks. There was an 84-year-old spinster who still operated a shop on Madison Avenue. She could glance at an unusual button you showed her, and name the material, age, and source. There was a Columbia University professor whose specialty was crickets and grasshoppers. There was an amateur archeologist, all of whose “digs” had been made within city limits. He could examine rocks and soil and place them within a few blocks of their origin. A Bronx recluse was one of the world’s foremost authorities on ancient writing, and could read hieroglyphics as quickly as Delaney read English.

  All these experts were willing—nay, eager to cooperate with police investigations. It was a welcome interruption of their routine, gave them a chance to exhibit their expertise in a good cause. The only problem was shutting them up; they all did seem to talk excessively, like anyone whose hobby is his vocation. But eventually they divulged the information required.

  Delaney had them all in his card file, carefully added to and maintained for almost twenty years. Now he flipped through the cards until he found the one he was looking for. It was headed: “Weapons, antique and unusual.” The man’s name was Christopher Langley, an assistant curator of the Arms and Armor Collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. (The card following his was “Weapons, modern,” and that man was a retired colonel of Marines.)

  Delaney called the Metropolitan (the number on the card), asked for the Arms and Armor Section, and then asked for Christopher Langley.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” a young, feminine voice replied. “Mr. Langley is no longer with us. He retired about three years ago.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Do you happen to know if he’s living in New York?”

  “Yes sir, I believe he is.”

  “Then he’ll be in the phone book?”