The 1st Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Just a few more minutes,” he said firmly, “and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Morgenthau fell back into his chair, looked at the Captain with dull, weary eyes.

  “‘Iron Balls,”’ he said. “The mass killer seeks to impose order on chaos. Not the kind of order you and I want and welcome, but his kind of order. World in a ferment. He organizes it. He can’t cope. He wants the security of prison. That dear, familiar prison. ‘Catch me before I kill again.’ You understand? He wants the institution. And if not that, order in the universe. Humanity is disorderly. Unpredictable. So he must work for order. Even if he must kill to attain it. Then he will find peace, because in an ordered world there will be no responsibility.”

  Delaney wasn’t making notes now, but leaning forward listening intently. Dr. Morgenthau looked at him and suddenly yawned, a wide, jaw-cracking yawn. Delaney, unable to help himself, yawned in return.

  “Or,” Dr. Morgenthau went on, and yawned again (and Delaney yawned in reply), “we have the graffiti artist. Pico 137. Marv 145. Slinky 179. Goddamn it, world, I exist. I am Pico, Marv, Slinky. I have made my mark. You are required to acknowledge my existence. You mother-fuckers, I am! So he kills fifteen people or assassinates a President so the world says, ‘Yes, Pico, Marv, Slinky, you do exist!’”

  Delaney wondered if the man would last. Puffed lids were coming down over dulled eyes, the flesh was slack, swollen fingers plucked at folds of loose skin under the chin. Even the voice had lost its timbre and resolve.

  “Or,” Morgenthau droned, “or…”

  Eyes rolled up into his skull until all Delaney could see were clotted whites. But suddenly, pulling himself partly upright, the doctor shook his head wildly, side to side, tiny drops of spittle splattering the glass top of his desk.

  “Or alienation,” he said thickly. “You cannot relate. Worse. You cannot feel. You want to come close. You want to understand. Truly you do. Come close. To another human being and through him to all humanity and the secret of existence. Captain? Iron Balls? You want to enter into life. Because emotion, feeling, love, ecstasy—all that has been denied you.

  I said metaphysical. But. That’s what you seek. And you cannot find, except by killing. To find your way. And now, Captain Iron Balls, I must…”

  “I’m going,” Delaney said hastily, rising to his feet. “Thank you very much, doctor. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Have I?” Morgenthau said vaguely. He staggered upward, made it on the second try, headed toward his inner office.

  Delaney paused with his hand on the knob of the reception room door. Then he turned.

  “Doctor,” he said sharply.

  Morgenthau turned slowly, staggered, looked at him through unseeing eyes.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Captain Delaney. One more thing…This killer we’ve been discussing has snuffed three men. No women or children. He kills with an ice ax, with a pointed pick. A phallus. I know I’m talking like an amateur now. But could he be a homosexual? Latent maybe? Fighting it. Is it possible?”

  Morgenthau stared at him, and before Delaney’s eyes he melted farther into his oversize clothes, his face decayed and fell, the light vanished from his eyes.

  “Possible?” he whispered. “Anything is possible.”

  2

  DELANEY WATCHED, with anger and dismay, as Operation Lombard fell apart. It had been a viable concept—a temporary horizontal organization cutting across precinct lines and the chain of command—and under Chief Pauley, with his talent for organization and administrative genius, it had had a good chance of succeeding. But Pauley had been fired, and under the direction of Deputy Commissioner Broughton, Operation Lombard was foundering.

  It was not for lack of energy: Broughton had plenty of that—too much. But he simply didn’t have the experience to oversee a manhunt of this size and complexity. And he didn’t know the men working for him. He sent weapons specialists halfway across the country to interrogate a recaptured escapee from a mental institution, and he used interrogation experts to check birth and marriage records in musty libraries. He dispatched four men in a car with screaming siren to question a suspect, where one man on foot would have obtained better results. And his paper work was atrocious; from reading the Operation Lombard reports, Delaney could tell it was getting out of hand; Broughton was detailing men to tasks that had been checked out weeks ago by Chief Pauley; reports were in the file, if Broughton knew where to look.

  It was Thomas Handry, now calling Delaney at least twice a week, who described another of Broughton’s failures: his ineptitude at handling the news media. Broughton made the fatal error of continually promising more than he could deliver, and newsmen became disillusioned with his “An arrest is expected momentarily” or “I’ll have a very important announcement tomorrow” or “We have a suspect in custody who looks very hot.” According to Handry, few reporters now bothered to attend Broughton’s daily news briefings; he had earned the sobriquet of “Deputy Commissioner Bullshit.”

  Medical Examiner Sanford Ferguson also called. He wanted to tell Delaney that the Olfactory Analysis Indicator report on tissue taken from Bernard Gilbert’s wound had been inconclusive. There could have been trace elements of a light machine oil; it could also have been half a dozen similar substances. Ferguson was trying again with scrapings from the fatal wound of Detective Roger Kope.

  “Did you tell Broughton anything about this?”

  “That son of a bitch? Don’t be silly. He’s caused us more trouble—I can’t begin to tell you. It’s not the work we mind, it’s the bastard’s manner.”

  Then Ferguson detailed some Departmental gossip:

  Broughton was in real trouble. Demands from wealthy east side residents of the 251st Precinct for a quick solution to the three street murders were growing. A citizens’ group had been formed. The Mayor was leaning on the Commissioner, and there were even rumors of the Governor appointing a board of inquiry. The murder of Frank Lombard was bad enough—he had wielded a lot of political clout—but the killing of a police officer had intensified editorial demands for a more productive investigation. Broughton, said Ferguson, had a lighted dynamite stick up his ass.

  “It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” he added cheerfully.

  Delaney wasted no time savoring the comeuppance of Deputy Commissioner Broughton. Nor did he dwell too long on his own personal guilt in the death of Detective third grade Roger Kope. He had done all he could to alert Broughton to the weapon used and the method of attack. And besides, if the truth be known, he blamed Kope; no officer on decoy should have allowed himself to be taken that way. Kope knew what he was up against and what the stakes were. You could feel horror and sympathy for a man shot down from ambush. But Kope had failed—and paid for it.

  Delaney had enough on his plate without guilt feelings about Detective Kope. His amateurs needed constant mothering: telephone calls, personal visits and steady, low-key assurance that what they were doing was of value. So when Christopher Langley called to invite him to dinner with the Widow Zimmerman, and to discuss Langley’s progress and future activities later, Delaney accepted promptly. He knew Langley’s business could be decided in that phone conversation, but he also knew his physical presence was important to Langley, and he gave up the time gladly.

  The dinner, thankfully, was prepared by the dapper little gourmet and served in his apartment, although the Widow Zimmerman had provided an incredibly renitent cheese cake. Delaney brought two bottles of wine, white and red, and they drank them both with Langley’s poulet en cocotte du midi, since he assured them the business of red for meat and white for fish was pure poppycock.

  After the meal, the Widow Zimmerman cleaned up, moving about Christopher Langley’s apartment as if she was already mistress—as indeed she probably was, Delaney decided, having intercepted their affectionate glances, sly touchings, and sudden giggles at comments the humor of which he could not detect.

  Langley and Delaney sat at th
e cleared table, sipped brandy, and the ex-curator brought out his lists, records, and notes, all beautifully neat, written out in a scholar’s fine hand.

  “Now then,” he said, handing a paper over to Delaney, “here is a list of all stores and shops in the New York area selling the ice ax. Some call it ‘ice ax’ and some call it ‘ice hammer.’ I don’t think that’s important, do you?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Of the five, the three I had checked in red itemize their sales checks, so that the purchase of an ice ax would be on record. Of these three, one does no mail order business and hence has no mailing list. The other two do have mailing lists and send out catalogues.”

  “Good,” Delaney nodded. “I’ll try to get copies of the mailing lists and their sales checks.”

  “I should warn you,” Langley said, “not all these stores carry the same ax I found at Outside Life. The axes are similar in design, but they are not identical. I found one from Austria, one from Switzerland, and one made in America. The other two were identical to the Outside Life ax made in West Germany. I’ve marked all this on the list.”

  “Fine. Thank you. Well…where do we go from here?”

  “I think,” Christopher Langley said thoughtfully, “I should first concentrate on the West German ax, the one Outside Life sells. They’re by far the largest outlet for mountaineering equipment in this area—and the least expensive, incidentally. I’ll try to identify the manufacturer, the importer, and all retail outlets in this country that handle that particular ax. How does that sound?”

  “Excellent. Just right. You’re doing a marvelous job on this, Mr. Langley.”

  “Oh well, you know…”

  When he left them, the Widow Zimmerman was washing dishes, and Christopher Langley was drying.

  Delaney spent the next two days checking on Langley’s list of stores in the New York area that sold ice axes and kept itemized sales checks. The one that did no mail order business and had no mailing list was willing to cooperate and lend Delaney the sales slips. He made arrangements to have them delivered to Calvin Case. The Captain wasn’t optimistic about results; this particular store kept the checks for only six months.

  Of the other two stores, Delaney was able to obtain checks and mailing lists from only one. The owner of the other simply refused to cooperate, claiming his mailing list was a carefully guarded business secret, of value to competitors, and Delaney couldn’t have it without a court order. The Captain didn’t push it; he could always come back to it later.

  So he now had two more shipments of itemized sales checks for Calvin Case and another mailing list for Monica Gilbert. He decided to tackle Case first. He called, then subwayed down about noon.

  The change in Calvin Case was a delight. He was clean, his hair cut and combed, his beard trimmed. He sat in pajamas in his aluminum and plastic wheelchair at his desk, flipping through Outside Life sales checks. Delaney had brought him a bottle, the same brand of whiskey Case had been drinking when Delaney first met him. The crippled mountaineer looked at the bottle and laughed.

  “Thanks a lot,” he said, “but I never touch the stuff now until the sun goes down. You?”

  “No. Thanks. It’s a bribe. I’ve got bad news for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’ve found two more stores that sell ice axes. Ice hammers, I guess you’d say. Anyway, these stores have itemized sales checks.”

  Unexpectedly, Calvin Case smiled. “So?” he asked.

  “Will you be willing to go through them?”

  “Is it going to help?”

  “Damned right,” Delaney said fervently.

  “Pile it on,” Case grinned. “I ain’t going no place. The more the merrier.”

  “Very few receipts,” Delaney assured him. “I mean,” he added hastily, “compared to Outside Life. One store keeps them for six months, and the other store for a year. How you coming?”

  “Okay. Another three days, I figure. Then what happens?”

  “Then you’ll have a file of all ice ax purchases made at Outside Life in the past seven years. Right? Then I’ll give you a map of the Two-five-one Precinct, and you’ll go through your file and pull every sales check for an ice ax in the precinct.”

  Case stared at him a long moment, then shook his head.

  “Delaney,” he said, “you’re not a detective; you’re a fucking bookkeeper. You know that?”

  “That’s right,” the Captain agreed readily. “No doubt about it.”

  He was going down the stairs when he met Evelyn Case coming up. He took off his hat, nodded, and smiled. She put down her shopping bag to grab him in her arms, hug him, kiss his cheek.

  “He’s wonderful,” she said breathlessly. “Just the way he used to be. And it’s all your doing.”

  “Is it?” Delaney asked wonderingly.

  His next meet had to be with Monica Gilbert, for he now had another mailing list for her to check. But she called him first and told him she had completed the Outside Life mailing list, had made out a file card for every resident of the 251st Precinct on the list, and had a typed record of those residents, a master and two carbon copies, just as he had instructed.

  He was amazed and delighted she had completed her job so quickly…and a little worried that she had not been as meticulous as he wanted her to be. But he had to work with what he had, and he arranged to meet her at her home the following evening. She asked him if he would care to come for dinner but he declined, with thanks; he would dine early (he lied) before he visited his wife at the hospital, and then be over later. Though why he had accepted Christopher Langley’s dinner invitation and not Monica Gilbert’s, he could not have said.

  He bought two stuffed toys for the young daughters: a black and a white poodle. When you pressed their stomachs, they made a funny barking, squeaking sound. When he arrived, Mary and Sylvia were already in their little nightgowns, but Mrs. Gilbert allowed them out of their bedroom to say hello to the visitor. They were delighted with their presents and finally retired (pushed) to their bedroom, arguing about which poodle had the more ferocious expression. For a half-hour afterwards the adults heard the squeal of pressed toys. But the sounds gradually grew more infrequent, then ceased, and then Monica Gilbert and Edward Delaney were alone, in silence.

  Finally: “Thank you for thinking of the girls,” she said warmly.

  “My pleasure. They’re lovely kids.”

  “It was very kind of you. You like children?”

  “Oh yes. Very much. I have a son and a daughter.”

  “Married?”

  “My daughter is. She’s expecting. Any day now.”

  “Her first?”

  “Yes.”

  “How wonderful. You’ll be a grandfather.”

  “Yes,” he laughed with delight. “So I will.”

  She served coffee and almond-flavored cookies, so buttery he knew immediately they were homemade. His mother had made cookies like that. He put on his heavy glasses to inspect what she had done, while he sipped black coffee and nibbled cookies.

  He saw immediately he needn’t have doubted her swift efficiency. There had been 116 residents of the 251st Precinct on the Outside Life mailing list. She had made out a file card for each one: last name first in capital letters, followed by the given name and middle initial. Beneath the name was typed the address, in two lines. Then she had made a master list and two carbons from the cards, now neatly filed alphabetically in a wooden box.

  “Very good,” he nodded approvingly. “Excellent. Now I have some bad news for you; I have another mailing list from another store.” He smiled at her. “Willing?”

  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.”