The 1st Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  Alinski looked at Delaney and smiled. “Could we sit down?” he asked. “It seems to me we have been standing much too long.”

  Delaney nodded. They took padded armchairs on opposite sides of the oak table.

  “You don’t smoke cigars?” Alinski asked.

  “No more. Oh, occasionally. But not very often.”

  “Filthy habit,” Alinski nodded. “But all enjoyable habits are filthy. I looked up your record. ‘Iron Balls.’ Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “In my younger days I was called ‘Bubble Head.’” Delaney smiled.

  “Good record,” Alinski said. “How many commendations?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve lost count. Many. You were in the Army in World War Two. Military Police.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Yes. Tell me something, Captain: Do you feel that the military—the Army, Navy, Air Force—should be, at the top, under control of civilian authority—President, Secretary of Defense, and so forth?”

  “Of course.”

  “And do you also believe that the Police Department of the City of New York should also, essentially, be under civilian control? That is, that the Commissioner, the highest ranking police officer, should be appointed by the Mayor, a civilian politician?”

  “Yes…I guess I believe that,” Delaney said slowly. “I don’t like civilian interference in Department affairs anymore than any other cop. But I agree the Department should be subject to some civilian control authority, not be a totally autonomous body. Some form of civilian control is the lesser of two evils.”

  Alinski smiled wryly. “So many decisions in this world come down to that,” he nodded. “The lesser of two evils. Thorsen and Johnson tell me you are an apolitical man. That is, you have very little interest in Department politics, in feuds, cliques, personality conflicts. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You just want to be left alone to do your job?”

  “That’s right.”

  The Deputy Mayor nodded again. “We owe you an explanation,” he said. “It won’t be a complete explanation because there are some things you have no need to know. Also, time is growing short. We must all be at the Mansion by seven. Well then…

  “About three years ago it became apparent that there was a serious breach of security in the Mayor’s ‘Inner Circle.’ This is an informal group, about a dozen men—the Mayor’s closest personal friends, advisors, various media experts, campaign contributors, labor leaders, and so forth—on whom he depends for advice and ideas. Meetings are held once a month, or more often when needed. Well, someone in that group was leaking. Newspapers were getting rumors they shouldn’t get, and some individuals were profiting from plans still in the discussion stage, before the public announcement was made. The problem was dumped in my lap; one of my responsibilities is internal security. It wasn’t hard to discover who was leaking—his name’s of no importance to you.”

  “How did you do it?” Delaney asked. “I’m just interested in the technique you used.”

  “The most obvious,” Alinski shrugged. “Various fictitious documents planted with every man in the Inner Circle. Only one was leaked. It was that easy. But before we kicked this bastard downstairs to a job inspecting monuments or potholes—you don’t fire a man like that; the public scandal helps no one—I put him under twenty-four hour surveillance and discovered something interesting. Once a week he was having dinner with five men, always the same five men. They were meeting at one of their homes or in a hotel room or renting a private dining room in a restaurant. It was a curious group. Chairman of the Board of a downtown bank, real estate speculator, editor of a news magazine, a corporation VP, our squealer, and Deputy Commissioner Broughton. I didn’t like the smell of it. What did those men have in common? They didn’t even all belong to the same political party. So I kept an eye on them. A few months later, the six had grown to twelve, then to twenty. And they were entertaining occasional guests from Albany, and once a man from the Attorney-General’s office in Washington. By this time there were almost thirty members, dining together every week.”

  “Including the man you infiltrated,” Delaney said.

  Alinski smiled distantly but didn’t answer. “It took me a while to catch on,” he continued. “As far as I could determine, they had no name, no address, no letterhead, no formal organization, no officers. Just an informal group who met for dinner. That’s what I called them in my verbal reports to the Mayor—the ‘Group.’ I kept watching. It was fascinating to see how they grew. They split into three divisions; three separate dinners every week: one of the money men; one of editors, writers, publishers, TV producers; one of cops—local, state, a few federal. Then they began recruiting. Nothing obvious, but a solid cadre. Still no name, no address, no program—nothing. But odd things began happening: certain editorials, hefty campaign contributions to minor league pols, pressure for or against certain bills, some obviously planned and extremely well organized demonstrations, heavy clout that got a certain man off on probation of a tax evasion rap that should have netted him five years. The Group was growing, fast. And the members were Democrats, Republicans, Liberals, Conservatives—you name it, they had them. Still no public announcements, no formal program, no statement of principles—nothing like that. But it came increasingly clear what they were after: an authoritarian city government, ‘law and order,’ let the cops use their sticks, guns for everyone. Except the blacks. More muscle in government. Tell people, don’t ask them. Because people really want to be told, don’t they? All they need or want is a cold six-pack and a fourth rerun of ‘I Love Lucy.’”

  Alinski glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to cut this short,” he said. “Time’s running out. But I get carried away. Half my family got made into soup at Treblinka. Anyway, Deputy Commissioner Broughton began to throw his weight around. The man is good; I don’t deny it. Shrewd, strong, active. And loud. Above all, loud. So when Frank Lombard was killed, the Group’s agit-prop division went to work. It was a natural. After all, Frank Lombard was a member of the Group.”

  Delaney looked at him, astounded. “You mean these four victims had something in common after all—a political angle? Were the other three members of the Group, too?”

  “No, no,” Alinski shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong. Detective Kope couldn’t have been a member because the Group doesn’t recruit cops under the rank of lieutenant. And Bernard Gilbert and Albert Feinberg couldn’t have been members because there are no Jews in the Group. No, Lombard’s death was just a coincidence, a chance killing, and I guess the man you’ve found has never even heard of the Group. Not many people have. But Lombard’s murder was a marvelous opportunity for the Group. First of all, he was a very vocal advocate of law and order.’ ‘Let us crush completely crime in our city streets.’ Broughton saw his opportunity. He got command of Operation Lombard. With the political pressures the Group organized, he got everything he wanted—men, equipment, unlimited funds. You’ve met Broughton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t underestimate him. He has the confidence of the devil. He thought he’d wrap up the Lombard murder in record time. Score one for his side, and an important step toward becoming the next Commissioner. But in case he didn’t find Lombard’s killer, the Group would be left with their thumbs up their assholes. So I asked Thorsen and Johnson who were the best detectives in New York. They named you and Chief Pauley. Broughton took Pauley. Thorsen and Johnson asked for you, and we went along with them.”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  “Our Group,” Alinski smiled. “Or call it our ‘Anti-Group.’ Anyway, here is the situation of this moment. At the meeting tonight, we think we can get Broughton dumped from Operation Lombard. No guarantee, but we think we can do it. But not if you go to him now and give him the killer.”

  “Fuck Broughton,” Delaney said roughly. “I couldn’t care less about his ambitions, political or otherwise. I won’t go t
o him if you’ll just give me my three plainclothesmen on foot and two in an unmarked car.”

  “But you see,” Alinski explained patiently, “we cannot possibly do that. How could we? From where? You don’t realize how big the Group has grown, how powerful. They are everywhere, in every precinct, in every special unit in the Department. Not the men; the officers. How can we risk alerting Broughton that we have the killer and want to put a watch on him? You know exactly what would happen. He would come galloping with sirens screaming, flashing lights, a hundred men and, when all the TV cameras were in place, he’d pull your man out of his apartment in chains.”

  “And lose him in the courts,” Delaney said bitterly. “I’m telling you, at this moment you couldn’t even indict this man, let alone convict him.”

  The Deputy Mayor looked at his watch again and grimaced. “We’re going to be late,” he said. He strode to the door, yanked it open. Thorsen and Johnson were waiting outside, in hats and overcoats. Alinski waved them into the dining room, then closed the door behind them. He turned to Delaney. “Captain,” he said. “Twenty-four hours. Will you give us that? Just twenty-four hours. After that, if Broughton still heads Operation Lombard, you better go to him and tell him what you have. He’ll crucify you, but he’ll have the killer—and the headlines—whether or not the man is ever convicted.”

  “You won’t give the guards?” Delaney asked.

  “No. I can’t stop you from going to Broughton right now, if that’s what you want to do. But I will not cooperate in his triumph by furnishing the men you want.”

  “All right,” the Captain said mildly. He pushed by Alinski, Thorsen, Johnson, and pulled open the door. “You can have your twenty-four hours.”

  He made his way through the hallway, crowded now with men pulling on hats and coats. He looked at no one, spoke to no one, although one man called his name.

  Back in the dining room, Alinski looked at the two officers in astonishment. “He agreed so easily,” he said, puzzled. “Maybe he was exaggerating. Perhaps there is no danger tonight. He certainly didn’t fight very hard for the guards he wanted.”

  Thorsen looked at him, then looked out into the hallway where the others were waiting.

  “You don’t know Edward,” he said, almost sadly.

  “That’s right,” Inspector Johnson agreed softly. “He’s going to freeze his ass off tonight.”

  He wasn’t furious, wasn’t even angry. They had their priorities, and he had his. They had the “Group” and “Anti-Group.” He had Daniel G. Blank. It was interesting, listening to the Deputy Mayor, and he supposed their concern was important. But he had been in the Department a long time, had witnessed many similar battles between the “Ins” and the “Outs,” and it was difficult for him to become personally involved in this political clash. Somehow the Department always survived. At the moment, his only interest was Dan, his close friend Dan.

  He walked home rapidly, called Barbara immediately. But it was Dr. Louis Bernardi who answered the phone.

  “What’s wrong?” Delaney demanded. “Is Barbara all right?”

  “Fine, fine, Captain,” the doctor soothed. “We’re just conducting a little examination.”

  “So you think the new drug is helping?”

  “Coming along,” Bernardi said blithely. “A little fretful, perhaps, but that’s understandable. It doesn’t worry me.”

  Oh you bastard, Delaney thought again. Nothing worries you. Why the hell should it?

  “I think we’ll give her a little something to help her sleep tonight,” Bernardi went on in his greasy voice. “Just a little something. I think perhaps you might skip your visit tonight, Captain. A nice, long sleep will do our Barbara more good.”

  “Our Barbara.” Delaney could have throttled him, and cheerfully.

  “All right,” he said shortly. “I’ll see her tomorrow.”

  He looked at his watch: almost seven-thirty. He didn’t have much time; it was dark outside; the street lights were on, had been since six. He went up to the bedroom, stripped down to his skin. He knew, from painful experience, what to wear on an all-night vigil in the winter.

  Thermal underwear, a two-piece set. A pair of light cotton socks with heavy wool socks over them. An old winter uniform, pants shiny, jacket frayed at the cuffs and along the seams. But there was still no civilian suit as warm as that good, heavy blanket wool. And the choker collar would protect his chest and throat. Then his comfortable “cop shoes” with a pair of rubbers over them, even though the streets were dry and no rain or snow predicted.

  He unlocked his equipment drawer in the bedroom taboret. He owned three guns: his .38 service revolver, a .32 “belly gun” with a two-inch barrel, and a .45 automatic pistol which he had stolen from the U.S. Army in 1946. He selected the small .32, slid it from its flannel bag and, flicking the cylinder to the side, loaded it slowly and carefully from a box of ammunition. He didn’t bother with an extra gun belt. The gun was carried on his pants belt in a black leather holster. He adjusted it under his uniform jacket so the gun hung down over his right groin, aimed toward his testicles: a happy thought. He checked the safety again.

  His identification into his inside breast pocket. A leather-covered sap slid into a special narrow pocket alongside his right leg. Handcuffs into his righthand pants pocket and, at the last minute, he added a steel-linked “come-along”—a short length of chain, just long enough to encircle a wrist, with heavy grips at both ends.

  Downstairs, he prepared a thick sandwich of bologna and sliced onion, wrapped it in waxed paper, put it into his civilian overcoat pocket. He filled a pint flask with brandy; that went into the inside overcoat breast pocket. He found his fleece-lined earmuffs and fur-lined leather gloves; they went into outside overcoat pockets.

  Just before he left the house, he dialed Daniel Blank. He knew the number by heart now. The phone rang three times, then that familiar voice said, “Hello?” Delaney hung up softly. At least his friend was home, the Captain wouldn’t be watching an empty hole.

  He put on his stiff Homburg, left the hall light burning, double-locked the front door, went out into the night. He moved stiffly, hot and sweating under his layers of clothing. But he knew that wouldn’t last long.

  He walked over to Daniel Blank’s apartment house, pausing once to transfer the come-along to his lefthand pants pocket so it wouldn’t clink against the handcuffs. The weighted blackjack knocked against his leg as he walked, but he was familiar with that feeling; there was nothing to be done about it.

  It was an overcast night, not so much cold as damp and raw. He pulled on his gloves and knew it wouldn’t be long before he clamped on the earmuffs. It was going to be a long night.

  Plenty of people still on the streets; laden Christmas shoppers hurrying home. The lobby lights of Dan’s apartment house were blazing. Two doormen on duty now, one of them Lipsky. They were hustling tips. Why not—it was Christmas, wasn’t it? Cabs were arriving and departing, private cars were heading into the underground garage, tenants on foot were staggering up with shopping bags and huge parcels.

  Delaney took up his station across the street, strolling up and down the length of the block. The lobby was easily observable during most of his to-and-from pacing, or could be glimpsed over his shoulder. When it was behind him, he turned his head frequently enough to keep track of arrivals and departures. After every five trips, up and down, he crossed the street and walked along the other side once, directly in front of the apartment house, then crossed back again and continued his back-and-forth vigil. He walked at a steady pace, not fast, not slow, stamping each foot slightly with every step, swinging his arms more than he would ordinarily.

  He could perform this job automatically, and he welcomed the chance it gave him to consider once again his conversation with Thorsen, Johnson, Deputy Mayor Alinski.

  What disturbed him was that he was not positive he had been entirely accurate in his comments regarding the admissibility of evidence and the possibility of
obtaining a search warrant. Ten years ago he would have been absolutely certain. But recent court decisions, particularly those of the Supreme Court, had so confused him—and all cops—that he no longer comprehended the laws of evidence and the rights of suspects.

  Even such a Philadelphia lawyer as Lt. Marty Dorfman had admitted his confusion. “Captain,” he had said, “they’ve demolished the old guidelines without substituting a new, definite code. Even the DA’s men are walking on eggs. As I see it, until all this gets straightened out and enough precedents established, each case will be judged on its own merits, and we’ll have to take our chances. It’s the old story: ‘The cop proposes, the judge disposes.’ Only now even the judges aren’t sure. That’s why the percentage of appeals is way, way up.”

  Well, start from the beginning…His search of Dan’s apartment had been illegal. Nothing he saw or learned from that search could be used in court. No doubt about that. If he had taken away Dan’s “trophies,” it would have served no purpose other than to alert Blank that his apartment had been tossed, that he was under suspicion.

  Now what about a search warrant? On what grounds? That Dan owned an ice ax of a type possibly used to kill four men? And, of course, of a type owned by hundreds of people all over the world. That blood of Dan’s type had been found at the scene of the most recent homicide? How many people had that blood type? That he possessed a can of light machine oil that a thousand other New Yorkers owned? And all of these facts established only by an illegal break-in. Or tell the judge that Daniel G. Blank was a known mountaineer and was suspected of carrying two dummy Christmas packages the night Albert Feinberg was slain? Delaney could imagine the judge’s reaction to a request for a search warrant on those grounds.

  No, he had been correct. As of this moment, Dan was untouchable. Then why hadn’t he taken the whole mess to Broughton and dumped it on him? Because Alinski had been exactly right, knowing his man. Broughton would have said, “Fuck the law,” would have come on like Gang Busters, would have collared Blank, got the headlines and TV exposure he wanted.