The third Deadly Sin exd-3

by Lawrence Sanders

  He began speaking, consulting pages on his lap, letting them flutter to the floor as he finished with them.

  "First," he said, "let's look at drugs… Statistics about illegal drugs are notoriously inaccurate. I'm talking now about marijuana, cocaine, and heroin. It's almost impossible to get exact tallies on the total number of users, let alone a breakdown by sex and age. But from what reports are available, it appears that men and women are about equal in illicit drug use.

  "When we turn to legal drugs, particularly psychoactive drugs prescribed by physicians, we can get more accurate totals. They show that of all prescriptions issued for such drugs, about 80 percent of amphetamines, 67 percent of tranquilizers, and 60 percent of barbiturates and sedatives go to women. It is estimated that at least two million women have dependencies-addiction would be a better word-on prescription drugs. More than half of all women convicted of crimes have problems with prescription drug abuse. Twice as many women as men use Valium and Librium. Fifty percent more women than men take barbiturates regularly. They're a favored method of suicide by women."

  "There's a good reason for all that," Monica said sharply. "When you consider the frustrations and-"

  "Halt!" Delaney said, showing a palm. "Monica, I'm a policeman, not a sociologist. I'm not interested in the causes. Only in things as they are, and the effect they may have on crime. Okay?"

  She was silent.

  "Second," he said, consulting more pages, "the number of known female alcoholics has doubled since World War Two. Alcoholics Anonymous reports that in the past, one in ten members- was a woman. Today, the ratio of women to men is about one to one. Statistics on alcoholism are hard to come by and not too accurate, but no one doubts the enormous recent increase of female alcoholics."

  "Only because more women are coming forward and admitting their problem. Up to now, there's been such social condemnation of women drinkers that they kept it hidden."

  "And still do, I imagine," he said. "Just as a lot of men keep their alcoholism hidden. But that doesn't negate all the testimony of authorities in the field reporting a high incidence of female alcoholism. Women make the majority of purchases in package liquor stores. Whiskey makers are beginning to realize what's going on. Now their ads are designed to attract women drinkers. There's even a new Scotch, blended expressly for women, to be advertised in women's magazines."

  "When everyone is drinking more, is it so unusual to find women doing their share?"

  "More than their share," he answered, with as much patience as he could muster. "Read the numbers in these reports Handry collected; it's all here. Third, deaths from lung cancer have increased about 45 percent for women and only about 4 percent for men. The lung cancer rate for women, not just deaths, has tripled."

  "And pray, what does that prove?"

  "For one thing, I think it proves women are smoking a hell of a lot more cigarettes, for whatever reasons, and suffering from it. Monica, as far as I'm concerned, alcohol and nicotine are as much drugs as amphetamines and barbiturates. You can get hooked on booze and cigarettes as easily as you can on uppers and downers."

  She was getting increasingly angry; he could see it in her stiffened posture, the drawn-down corners of her mouth, her narrowed eyes. But having come this far, he had no intention of stopping now.

  "All right," she said in a hard voice, "assuming more women are popping pills, drinking, and smoking-what does that prove?"

  "One final set of numbers," he said, searching through the remaining research. "Here it is… Women constitute about 51 percent of the population. But all the evidence indicates they constitute a much higher percentage of the mentally ill. One hundred and seventy-five women for every 100 men are hospi- talized for depression, and 238 women for every 100 men are treated as outpatients for depression."

  "Depression!" she said scornfully. "Hasn't it occurred to you that there's a good explanation for that? The social roles-"

  "Not only depression," he interrupted, "but mania as well. They're called 'affective disorders.' and it's been estimated that more than twice as many women as men suffer from them."

  "As a result of-"

  "Monica!" he cried desperately. "I told you I'm not interested in the causes. If you tell me that drug addiction-including alcohol and nicotine-and poor mental health are due to the past role of women in our culture, I'll take your word for it. I'm just trying to isolate certain current traits in women. The 'new women.' I'm not making a value judgment here. I'm just giving you the numbers. Percentages have no conscience, no ax to grind, no particular point to make. They just exist. They can be interpreted in a hundred different ways."

  "And I know how you interpret them," she said scathingly. "As a result of the women's liberation movement."

  "Goddamn it!" he said furiously. "Are you listening to me or are you not? The only interest I have in these numbers is as a statistical background to my theory that the Hotel Ripper is a woman.

  "What the hell is the connection?"

  He drew a deep breath. He willed himself to be calm. He tried to speak reasonably. She seemed to be missing the point-or perhaps he was explaining it badly.

  "Monica, I'm willing to admit that the things I've mentioned about women today may be temporary aberrations. They may be the result of the social upheavals and the rapidly changing role of women in the last few years. Maybe in another ten or fifteen years, women will have settled into their new roles and learned to cope with their new problems. Then their mental health will improve and their drug dependency decrease.

  "But I'm only concerned with the way things are today. And I think women today are capable of making irrelevant all the existing criminal data dealing with females. Those numbers were accurate for yesterday, not today. The new women make them obsolete.

  "I think enough hard evidence exists to justify believing the Hotel Ripper is a woman. I asked Handry to do this research in hopes that it might provide statistical background to reinforce that belief. I think it does.

  "Monica, we have shit-all evidence of what the killer looks like. We know she's about five-five to five-seven and wears wigs. That's about it. But we can guess at other things about her. For instance, she's probably a young woman, say in the area of eighteen to forty, because she's strong enough to rip a man's throat and she's young enough to have menstrual periods.

  "We also know she's smart. She plans carefully. She's cool and determined enough to carry through a vicious murder and then wash bloodstains from her body before leaving the scene. She makes certain she leaves no fingerprints. Everything indicates a woman of above average intelligence.

  "This research gives us additional clues to other things she may be. Quite possibly she's addicted to prescription drugs, alcohol, or nicotine-or a combination of two or all three. The chances are good that she suffers from depression or mania, or both.

  "All I'm trying to do is put together a profile. Not a psychological profile-those things are usually pure bullshit. I'm trying to give the killer certain personal and emotional characteristics that will give us a more accurate picture of the kind of woman she is."

  "You think she's a feminist?" Monica demanded.

  "She may be; she may not be. I just don't know and can't guess. But I do believe the great majority of women in this country have been affected by the women's liberation movement whether they are active in it or not."

  Monica was silent a moment, pondering. She stared down, her eyes blinking. Then she asked the question Delaney had hoped to avoid. But, he admitted wryly, he should have known she'd go to the heart of the matter.

  She looked up, directly at him. "Did Handry research current crime statistics?"

  "Yes, he did."

  "And?"

  "The arrest rate is up for women. Much higher than that for men."

  "What about murder?" she asked.

  He had to be honest. "No, there's no evidence that murder by women is increasing. But their arrests for robbery, breaking-and-entering, and auto theft are in
creasing at a higher rate than for men. And much higher for larceny-theft, embezzlement, and fraud. Generally, women's crimes against property are increasing faster than men's, but not in the category of violent crimes such as murder and manslaughter."

  "Or rape," she added bitterly.

  He said nothing.

  "Well?" she questioned. "If you think your research is justification for the Hotel Ripper being a woman, wouldn't there be some evidence of murder by women being on the increase?"

  "I would have thought so," he admitted.

  "You hoped so, didn't you?" she said, looking at him narrowly.

  "Come on, Monica," he protested. "It's not giving me any great satisfaction to know the Hotel Ripper is a woman."

  She sniffed and rose, gathering up her knitting things.

  "You don't know any such thing," she said. "You're just guessing. And I think you're totally wrong."

  "I may be," he acknowledged.

  "Are you going to tell Boone about your wild idea?"

  "No. Not yet. But I'm going to call him and warn him about May seventh to May ninth. If I'm right, then there will be another killing or attempted killing around then."

  She swept grandly from the room.

  "You're making a damned fool of yourself!" she flung over her shoulder.

  After the door slammed behind her, he kicked fretfully at the pages of research discarded on the carpet.

  "Won't be the first time," he grumbled.

  On the morning of May 9th, a little before 9:00 a.m., Monica and Edward X. Delaney were seated at the kitchen table, having a quiet breakfast. They were sharing a pan of eggs scrambled with lox and onions.

  Since their heated debate on the significance of Thomas Handry's research, their relation had been one of careful politesse:

  "Would you care for more coffee?"

  "Thank you. Another piece of toast?"

  "No more, thank you. Would it bother you if I turned on the radio?"

  "Not at all. Would you like a section of the newspaper?"

  It had been going on like that for more than a week, neither willing to yield. But on that morning, the Chief decided it had continued long enough.

  He threw down his newspaper, slammed his hand on the table with a crack that made Monica jump.

  "Jesus Christ!" he said explosively. "What are we-a couple of kids? What kind of bullshit is this? Can't we disagree without treating each other like strangers?"

  "You're so damned bullheaded," she said. "You can never admit you're wrong."

  "I admit I might be wrong," he said. "On this thing. But I haven't been proved wrong-yet. You think I'm wrong? All right, how about a bet? Put your money where your mouth is. How much? Five, ten, a hundred? Whatever you say."

  "It's too serious a matter to bet money on," she said loftily.

  "All right, let's make a serious bet. The windows are filthy. If I'm proved wrong, I'll wash every goddamned window in the house. If I'm proved right, you wash them."

  She considered that a moment.

  "Every window," she insisted. "Including basement and attic. Inside and out."

  "I agree," he said and held out his big paw. They shook hands.

  "Turn the radio on," she ordered.

  "Pour me some more coffee," he commanded.

  Things were back to normal. But they both froze when they heard the first news item.

  "The body of a murdered man was discovered in a suite at the Cameron Arms Hotel on Central Park South last night around midnight. The victim has been identified as Leonard T. Bergdorfer, an airline broker from Atlanta, Georgia. A police spokesman has definitely linked the slaying with the series of Hotel Ripper murders. The death of Bergdorfer is the fourth. No further details are available at this hour."

  Monica and Edward stared at each other.

  "The Windex is in the cupboard under the sink," he said slowly.

  She began to cry, silently, tears welling down her cheeks. He rose to put a heavy arm about her shoulders, pull her close.

  "It's so awful," she said, her voice muffled. "So awful. We were joking and making bets, and all the time…"

  "I know," he said, "I know."

  "You better tell Abner," she said. "About what you think."

  "Yes," he said, "I guess I better."

  He went into the study, sat down heavily behind the desk. He had his hand on the phone, but then paused, pondering.

  He could not understand why he had not been informed. The newscaster had said the body was discovered around midnight.

  Delaney would have expected Sergeant Boone to call him as soon as it had been verified as a Ripper killing.

  Perhaps Boone had been commanded by Lieutenant Slavin to stop discussing the case with Delaney. Or perhaps enough evidence had been found to wrap up the investigation with no more help from a retired cop. Or maybe the sergeant was just too busy to report. Anything was possible.

  He called Boone at home, at Midtown North, and at the Cameron Arms Hotel. No success anywhere. He left messages at all three places, asking the sergeant to call him back as soon as possible.

  He started a new dossier: a sheet of paper headed: "Leonard T. Bergdorfer, midnight May 8, from Atlanta, Georgia. Fourth victim. Body found at Cameron Arms Hotel." Then he went back into the kitchen to listen to the ten o'clock news. Monica was gathering a pail of water, clean rags, Windex, a roll of paper towels.

  "You don't have to do the windows," he told her, smiling. "It was just a stupid joke. We'll have someone come in and do them. Besides, it looks like rain."

  "No, no," she said. "I lost the bet. Also, I think I'd like to keep busy with physical work today. Therapy. Maybe it'll keep me from thinking."

  "Well… just do the insides," he said. "Stop when you get tired."

  The news broadcast added a few more facts. The victim had come to New York to attend a convention at the Cameron Arms Hotel. His body was discovered by friends who stopped by his suite for a drink and found the door unlocked.

  There were indignant statements from a Deputy Mayor, from travel agents, from the president of the hotel association. All called for quick apprehension of the Hotel Ripper before tourist trade in New York dwindled to nothing.

  Edward X. Delaney waited all morning in his study, but Sergeant Abner Boone never called back. The Chief concluded that his aid was no longer being sought. For whatever reason, he was being ignored.

  He pulled on his raincoat, homburg, took an umbrella from the hall closet. He yelled upstairs to Monica that he was going out and would be back shortly. He waited for her shouted reply before he left, double-locking the front door behind him.

  It wasn't a hard rain. More of a thick, soaking mist that fell steadily from a steely sky. And it was unpleasantly warm. There were puddles on the sidewalks. The gutters ran with filth. The day suited Delaney's mood perfectly.

  His pride was hurt; he acknowledged it. He had cooperated with Boone and, through him, with Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen. He had made suggestions. He had warned of the May 7-9 time period.

  The only thing he hadn't passed along was his theory that the Hotel Ripper was a woman. Not a prostitute, but a psychopathic female posing as one. And he hadn't told Boone about that simply because it was a theory and needed more evidence to give it substance.

  He thought the timing of the murder of Leonard T. Bergdorfer made it more than just a hypothesis. But if they didn't want his help, the hell with them. It was no skin off his ass. He was an honorably retired cop, and for all he cared the Department could go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.

  That's what he told himself.

  He walked for blocks and blocks, feeling the damp creep intow his feet and shoulders. His umbrella soaked through, his un-gloved hands dripped, and he felt as steamed as if the city had become an enormous sauna with someone pouring water on heated rocks.

  He stopped at an Irish bar on First Avenue. He had two straight whiskies, which brought more sweat popping but at least calmed his anger. By the
time he started home, he had regained some measure of serenity, convinced the Hotel Ripper case was past history as far as he was concerned.

  He was putting his sodden homburg and raincoat in the hall closet when Monica came out of the kitchen.

  "Where have you been?" she demanded.

  "Taking a stroll," he said shortly.

  "Ivar Thorsen is in the study," she said. "He's been waiting almost an hour. I gave him a drink."

  Delaney grunted.

  "You're in a foul mood," Monica said. "Just like Ivar. Put your umbrella in the sink to drip."

  He stood the closed umbrella in the kitchen sink. He felt the shoulders of his jacket. They were dampish but not soaked. He passed a palm over his iron-gray, brush-cut hair. Then he went into the study.

  Deputy Commissioner Thorsen stood up, drink in hand.

  "Hullo, Ivar," the Chief said.

  "How the hell did you know there'd be a killing last night?" Thorsen said loudly, almost shouting.

  Delaney stared at him. "It's a long story," he said, "and one you're not likely to hear if you keep yelling at me."

  Thorsen took a deep breath. "Oh God," he said, shaking his head, "I must be cracking up. I'm sorry, Edward. I apologize."

  He came forward to shake the Chief's hand. Then he sat down again in the armchair. Delaney freshened his glass with more Glenlivet and poured himself a healthy shot of rye whiskey. They held their glasses up to each other before sipping.

  Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen was called "The Admiral" in the NYPD, and his appearance justified the nickname. He was a small, slender man with posture so erect, shoulders so squared, that it was said he left the hangers in the jackets he wore.

  His complexion was fair, unblemished; his profile belonged on postage stamps. His white hair, worn short and rigorously brushed, had the gleam of chromium.

  His pale blue eyes seemed genial enough, but subordinates knew how they could deepen and blaze. "It's easy enough to get along with Thorsen," one of his aides had remarked. "Just be perfect."

  "How's Karen?" Delaney asked, referring to the deputy's beautiful Swedish wife.