The third Deadly Sin exd-3

by Lawrence Sanders

  "But where are the psychologists, criminologists, sociologists, and amateur aficionados of murder most foul when it comes to resolving the motives of those who kill, and kill again, and again, and again…?

  "Good reason for this, I think. Cases of mass homicide are too uncommon to reveal a sure pattern. Each massacre is different, each slaughter unique. Where is the link between Jack the Ripper, Charles Manson, Unruh, the Black Dahlia, Speck, the Boston Strangler, Panzram, William Heirens ('Stop me before I kill again!'), Zodiac (never caught, that one), the rifleman in the Texas tower, the Los Angeles 'Trash Bag' butchers, the homosexual killers in Houston, the executioner of the California itinerant workers? What do all these monsters have in common? '"They were all quite mad,' you say. An observation of blinding brilliance rivaled only by John F. Kennedy's, 'Life is unfair.' "No, the puzzling denominator is that they are all male. Where are the ladies in this pantheon of horror? Victims frequently, killers never. Oh, there was Martha Beck, true, but she 'worked' with a male paramour and slaughtered from corruptive greed. Shoddy stuff.

  "We are not here concerned with greed as a motive for multiple homicide. Nor shall we muse on familial tensions which erupt in the butchery of an entire Nebraska family or Kentucky clan, including in-laws and, oddly enough, usually the family dog.

  "What concerns us this evening is a series of isolated murders, frequently over a lengthy period of time, the victims unrelated and strangers to the slayer. Let us also eliminate political and military terrorism. What remains of motive? It is not enough to intone, 'Paranoiac schizophrenic,' and let it go at that. It may satisfy a psychologist, but should not satisfy the homicide detective since labels are of no use to him in solving the case.

  "What, then, should the detective look for? What possible motives for random slayings may exist that will help him apprehend the perpetrator?

  "Pay attention here; watch your footing. We are in a steamy place of reaching vines, barbed creepers, roots beneath and swamp around. Beasts howl. Motives intertwine and interact. Words fail, and the sun is blocked. Poor psychologists. Poor sociologists. No patterns, no paths. But shivery shadows-plenty of those.

  "First, maniacal lust. Oh yes. This staple of penny dreadfuls did exist, does exist and, if current statistics on rape are correct, seems likely to increase tomorrow. It might-and that was the first of many 'mights' you will hear from me tonight-it might account for the barbarities of Jack the Ripper, the Boston Strangler, the Black Dahlia, Heirens, Speck, and others whose names, fortunately, escape me. I have a good memory for old lags, con men, outlaws and safecrackers. When it comes to recalling mass killers, my mind fuzzes over. It is, I think, an unconscious protective mechanism. The horror is too bright; it shines a light in corners better left in gloom.

  "Sexual frenzy: passion becomes violence through hatred, impotence, a groaning realization of the emptiness of sex without love. Water results; blood is wanted. Then blood is needed, and the throat-choked slayer seeks the ultimate orgasm. And aware- oh yes, aware!-and weeping for himself-never for his victim; his own anguish fills him-he scrawls in lipstick on the bathroom mirror, 'Stop me before I kill again!' As if anyone could rein his demented desire or want to. Leave that to the hangman's noose. It is stated that capital punishment does not deter. It will deter him.

  "Second, revenge. It might serve for Jack the Ripper, the Boston Strangler, Unruh, the killer of those California farmhands, the homosexual executioner in Houston-ah, it might serve for the whole scurvy lot, including the latest addition, Son of Sam.

  "Revenge, as a motive, I interpret as hatred of a type of individual or a class of individuals who, in the killer's sick mind, are deserving of death. All women, all blacks, all homosexuals, the poor, the mighty, or attractive young girls with long brown hair.

  "When the New York Police Department compared ballistics reports and came to the stunned conclusion that it was up against a repeat killer, one of the first theories advanced involved the long hair of the victims. It was suggested that the murderer, having been spurned or humiliated by a girl with flowing tresses, vowed vengeance and is intent on killing her over and over again.

  "More recent reports demolish this hypothesis. Males have been shot (one was killed), and not all the female victims had brown, shoulder-length hair. One was blonde; others had short coiffures.

  "But still, revenge as a motive has validity. It has been proposed that Jack the Ripper executed and mutilated prostitutes because one had infected him with a venereal disease. A neat theory. Just as elegant, I believe, is my own belief: that he was the type of man who compulsively sought the company of whores (there are such men) and killed to eradicate his own weakness, eliminate his shame.

  "I told you we are in a jungle here, and nowhere does the sun shine through. We are poking around the dark, secret niches of the human heart, and our medical chart resembles antique maps with the dread legends: 'Terra incognita' and 'Here be dragons.' "Third, rejection. Closely allied to revenge, but rejection not by individual or class but by society, the world, life itself. 'I didn't ask to be born,' the killer whines, and the only answer can be, 'Who did?' Is Son of Sam of this rejected brotherhood?

  "There was once a mass killer named Panzram. He was an intelligent man, a thinking man, but a bum, a drifter, scorned, abused, and betrayed. He rejected, scorned, and abused in turn. And he slew, so many that it seemed he wanted to kill not people but life itself. Wipe out all humanity, then all things that pulse, and leave only a cinder whirling dead through freezing space.

  "That was total rejection: rejection of the killer by society, and of society by the killer. Has no one ever turned his back on you, or you to him? We are dealing here not with another planet's language that no one speaks on ours. The vocabulary is in us all, but we dast not give it tongue.

  "The flip side of rejection, real or fancied, is the need to assert: 'I do exist. I am I. A person of consequence. You must pay attention. And to make certain you do, I shall kill a baker's dozen of those lumps who look through me on the street. Then you will recognize who I am.' Is that what Unruh was thinking as he strolled along the New Jersey street, shooting passersby, drivers of cars, pausing to reload, stopping in stores to pot a few more? '"I am I. World, take notice!' First, rejection; then, need to prove existence. Murder becomes a mirror.

  "Finally, punk rock, punk fashion, punk souls. Not 'Small is better than big,' but 'Nothing is better than something.' So, what's new? Surely there were a few wild-eyed Neanderthals rushing about the caves, screaming, 'Down with up!' "We can afford a low-kilowatt smile at combat boots worn with gold lame bikinis, at the splintered dissonance of punk rock, at the touching fervor with which punkists assault the establishment. We can smile, oh yes, knowing how quickly their music, fashions, language, and personal habits will be preempted, smoothed, glossed, gussied-up, and sold tomorrow via 30-second commercials at highly inflated prices.

  "But there are a few punk souls whose nihilism is so intense, who are so etched by negativism and riddled by despair, that they will never be preempted. Never! Anarchy was not invented yesterday; the demons of Dostoevski have been with us always. To the man who believes 'Nothing is evil,' it is but one midget step to 'Everything is good.' "The nihilist may murder to prove himself superior to the tribal taboo (the human tribe): 'Thou shalt not kill.' Or he may slay to prove to his victims the fallacy and ephemerality of their faith. In either case, the killer is acting as an evangelist of anarchy. It is not enough that he not believe; he must convert-at the muzzle of a revolver or the point of a knife.

  "Because the hell of punk souls is this: if one other person in the world believes, he is doomed. And so the spiritual anarchist will kill before he will acknowledge that he has spent his life in thin sneers while other, more ignorant and less cynical men have affirmed, and accepted the attendant pain with stoicism and resolve.

  "The acrid stink of nihilism followed Charles Manson and his merry band on all their creepy-crawlies. And a charred whiff of spiritual anarchy
rises from the notes and deeds of Son of Sam. But I do not believe this his sole goad. Two or more motives are interacting here.

  "And that is the thought I wish to leave with you tonight. The motives of mass killers are rarely simple and rarely single. We are not earthworms. We are infinitely complex, infinitely chimerical organisms. In the case of multiple random killings, it is the task of the homicide detective to pick his way through this maze of motives and isolate those strands that will, hopefully, enable him to apprehend the murderer.

  "Any questions?"

  There was nothing wrong with the dinner. The chicken was crisp and tasty. The baked potatoes, with dabs of sweet butter and a bit of freshly ground pepper, were light and fluffy. The sauce for the romaine leaves was not too spicy. And there was a chilled jug of California chablis on the table.

  But the meal was spoiled by Monica's mood. She was silent, morose. She picked at her food or sat motionless for long moments, fork poised over her food.

  "What's wrong?" Delaney asked.

  "Nothing," she said.

  They cleaned the table, sat silently over coffee and small anise biscuits.

  "What's wrong?" he asked again.

  "Nothing," she said, but he saw tears welling in her eyes. He groaned, rose, bent over her. He put a meaty arm about her shoulders.

  "Monica, what is it?"

  "This afternoon," she sniffled. "It was a symposium on child abuse."

  "Jesus Christ!" he said. He pulled his chair around next to hers. He sat holding her hand.

  "Edward, it was so awful," she said. "I thought I was prepared, but I wasn't." "I know."

  "They had a color film of what had been done to those kids. I wanted to die."

  "I know, I know."

  She looked at him through brimming eyes.

  "I don't know how you could have endured seeing things like that for thirty years."

  "I never got used to it," he said. "Never. Why do you think Abner Boone cracked up and started drinking?"

  She was shocked. "Was that it?"

  "Part of it. Most of it. Seeing what people are capable of. What they do to other people-and to children."

  "Do you suppose he told Rebecca? Why he started drinking?"

  "I don't know. Probably not. He's ashamed of it."

  "Ashamed!" she burst out. "Of feeling horror and revulsion and sympathy for the victims?"

  "Cops aren't supposed to feel those things," he said grimly. "Not if it interferes with doing your job."

  "I think I need a brandy," she said.

  After the brandy, and after they had cleaned up the kitchen, they both went into the study. Monica sat behind the desk. The lefthand stack of drawers was hers, where she kept her stationery, correspondence, notepaper, appointment books, etc. She began to write letters to the children: Eddie, Jr., Liza, Mary, and Sylvia.

  When she was finished, Delaney would append short notes in his hand. Usually things like: "Hope you are well. Weather here cold but clear. How is it there?" The children called these notes "Father's weather reports." It was a family joke.

  While Monica wrote out her long, discursive letters at the desk, Edward X. Delaney sat opposite her in the old club chair. He slowly sipped another brandy and read, for the third time, the last lecture of Albert Braun, Det. Sgt., NYPD, Ret.

  What Braun had to say about motives came as no surprise. During thirty years in the Department, most of them as a detective, Delaney had worked cases in which all those motives were involved, singly or coexistent.

  The problem, he decided, was one that Braun had recognized when he had made a brief reference to labels satisfying the criminologist or psychologist, but being of little value to the investigating detective.

  An analogy might be made to a man confronting a wild beast in the woods. An animal that threatens him with bared fangs and raised claws.

  In his laboratory, the biologist, the scientist, would be interested only in classifying the beast: family, genus, species. Its external appearance, bone structure, internal organs. Feeding and mating habits. From what previous animal forms it had evolved.

  To the man in the forest, menaced, all this would be extraneous if not meaningless. All he knew was the fear, the danger, the threat.

  The homicide detective was the man in the woods. The criminologist, psychologist, or sociologist was the man in the laboratory. The lab man was interested in causes. The man in the arena was interested in events.

  That was one point Delaney found not sufficiently emphasized in Braun's lecture. The other disappointment was lack of any speculation on why women were conspicuously missing from the rolls of multiple killers.

  Braun had made a passing reference to Martha Beck and other females who had killed many from greed. But a deep analysis of why random murderers were invariably male was missing. And since Braun's lecture had been delivered, the additional cases of the Yorkshire Ripper and the Chicago homosexual butcher had claimed headlines. Both murderers were men.

  Delaney let the pages of the lecture fall into his lap. He took off his reading glasses, massaged the bridge of his nose. He rubbed his eyes wearily.

  "Another brandy?" he asked his wife.

  She shook her head, without looking up. He regarded her intently. In the soft light of the desk lamp, she seemed tender and womanly. Her smooth skin glowed. The light burnished her hair; there was a radiance, almost a halo.

  She wrote busily, tongue poking out one cheek. She smiled as she wrote; something humorous had occurred to her, or perhaps she was just thinking of the children. She seemed to Edward X. Delaney, at that moment, to be a perfect portrait of the female presence as he conceived it. "Monica," he said. She looked up inquiringly.

  "May I ask you a question about that child abuse symposium? I won't if it bothers you."

  "No," she said, "I'm all right now. What do you want to know?" "Did they give you any statistics, national statistics, on the incidence of child abuse cases and whether they've been increasing or decreasing?"

  "They had all the numbers," she said, nodding. "It's been increasing in the last ten years, but the speaker said that's probably because more doctors and hospitals are becoming aware of the problem and are reporting cases to the authorities. Before, they took the parents' word that the child had been injured in an accident."

  "That's probably true," he agreed. "Did they have any statistics that analyzed the abusers by sex? Did more men than women abuse children, or was it the other way around?"

  She thought a moment.

  "I don't recall any statistics about that," she said. "There were a lot of cases where both parents were involved. Even when only one of them was the, uh, active aggressor, the other usually condoned it or just kept silent."

  "Uh-huh," he said. "But when just one parent or relative was the aggressor, would it more likely be a man or a woman?"

  She looked at him, trying to puzzle out what he was getting at.

  "Edward, I told you, there were no statistics on that."

  "But if you had to guess, what would you guess?"

  She was troubled.

  "Probably women," she admitted finally. Then she added hastily, "But only because women have more pressures and more frustrations. I mean, they're locked up all day with a bunch of squalling kids, a house to clean, meals to prepare. While the husband has escaped all that in his office or factory. Or maybe he's just sitting in the neighborhood tavern, swilling beer."

  "Sure," Delaney said. "But it's your guess that at least half of all child abusers are women-and possibly a larger proportion than half?"

  She stared at him, suddenly wary.

  "Why are you asking these questions?" she demanded.

  "Just curious," he said.

  On the morning of March 24th, Delaney walked out to buy his copy of The New York Times and pick up some fresh croissants at a French bakery on Second Avenue. By the time he got back, Monica had the kitchen table set with glasses of chilled grapefruit juice, ajar of honey, a big pot of black coffee.
/>
  They made their breakfasts, settled back. He gave her the Business Day section, began leafing through the Metropolitan Report.

  "Damn it," she said.

  He looked up. "What's wrong?"

  "Bonds are down again. Maybe we should do a swap."

  "What's a swap?"

  "The paper-value of our tax-exempts are down. We sell them and take the capital tax loss. We put the money back into tax-exempts with higher yields. We can write the loss off against gains in our equities. If we do it right, our annual income from the new tax-exempts should be about equal to what we're getting now. Maybe even more."

  He was bewildered. "Whatever you say," he told her. "Oh God, look at this…"

  He showed her the article headlined: killer sought in two homicides.

  "That's Abner's case," he said. "The hotel killings. The newspapers will be all over it now. The hysteria begins."

  "It had to happen sooner or later," she said. "Didn't it? It was only a question of time."

  "I suppose," he said.

  But when he took the newspaper and a second cup of coffee into the study, the first thing he did was look up the phone number of Thomas Handry in his private telephone directory. Handry was a reporter who had provided valuable assistance to Delaney during Operation Lombard.

  The phone was picked up after the first ring. The voice was terse, harried…

  "Handry."

  "Edward X. Delaney here."

  A pause, then: "Chief! How the hell are you?"

  "Very well, thank you. And you?"

  They chatted a few minutes, then Delaney asked:

  "Still writing poetry?"

  "My God," the reporter said, "you never forget a thing, do you?"

  "Nothing important."

  "No, I've given up on the poetry. I was lousy and I knew it. Now I want to be a foreign correspondent. Who knows, next week I may want to be a fireman or a cop or an astronaut."

  Delaney laughed. "I don't think so."

  "Chief, it's nice talking to you after all these years, but I've got the strangest feeling that you didn't call just to say hello. You want something?"