Fourth Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “They brought her into St. Vincent’s Emergency about four-thirty, so I guess she sliced herself around four o’clock. Okay?”

  “Thank you, Hogan. You did exactly right to call me. Pack it in for the day.”

  He hung up and turned to Monica. He told her what had happened.

  “The poor woman,” she said somberly.

  “If she tried suicide yesterday at four o’clock, it couldn’t have been more than an hour after Boone and I had questioned her. I hope to God we didn’t trigger it.”

  “How did she seem when you left?”

  “Well, she’s a mousy little thing and suffers from depression. She was very quiet and withdrawn. Dominated by her mother. But she sure didn’t seem suicidal. I wonder if it was anything we said.”

  “I doubt that. Don’t worry about it, Edward.”

  “This morning I was happy that things were beginning to happen, that we were making them happen. But I didn’t figure on anything like this.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she assured him. “She’s tried before, hasn’t she?”

  “Three times.”

  “Well, there you are. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Son of a bitch,” he said bitterly. “I just don’t get it. We talk to her, very politely, no arguments, we leave, and she tries to kill herself.”

  “Edward, maybe it was just talking about the murder that pushed her over the edge. If she’s depressed to start with, reminding her of the death of someone who was trying to help her might have made her decide life wasn’t worth living.”

  “Yes,” he said gratefully, “it could have been that. I’m going to have a slug of rye. Would you like one?”

  “I’ll have a white wine. We’re having linguine with clam sauce tonight. I added a can of minced clams and a dozen fresh cherrystones.”

  “Very good,” he said approvingly. “In that case, I’ll have a white wine, too. By the way, Chief Suarez is stopping by later. I don’t know what time, but he’ll call first. I’d like you to meet him; I think you’ll like him.”

  After dinner, Delaney went into the study to write out a report on Carol Judd. Suarez called around eight o’clock and said he was on his way uptown. But it was almost nine before he arrived. Delaney took him into the living room and introduced him to Monica.

  “What can I get you, Chief?” he asked. “You look like you could use a transfusion.”

  Suarez smiled wanly. “Yes, it has been that kind of a day. Would a very, very dry gin martini on the rocks be possible?”

  “Of course. Monica, would you like anything?”

  “A small Cointreau would be nice.”

  Delaney went into the kitchen and made the drinks. He put them on a tray along with a brandy for himself.

  “Delightful,” Chief Suarez said, when he tasted his. “Best martini I’ve ever had.”

  “As I told you,” Delaney said, shrugging away the compliment, “I have no good news for you, but I wanted you to know what we’ve been doing.”

  Rapidly, concisely, he summarized the progress of his investigation to date. He omitted nothing he thought important, except the lifting of the ball peen hammer from Ronald Bellsey’s Cadillac. He expressed no great optimism, but pointed out there was still a lot of work to be done, particularly on those vague alibis of the six patients.

  Monica and the Chief listened intently, fascinated by his recital. When he finished, Suarez said, “I do not believe things are as gloomy as you seem to suggest, Mr. Delaney. You have uncovered several promising leads—more, certainly, than we have found. I commend you for persuading Doctor Diane Ellerbee to furnish a list of violence-prone patients. But you should know, that lady and the victim’s father continue to bring pressure on the Department, demanding a quick solution.”

  “That’s Thorsen’s problem,” Delaney said shortly.

  “True,” Suarez said, “and he handles it by making it my problem.” He glanced around the living room. “Mrs. Delaney, you have a lovely home. So warm and cheerful.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I hope you and your wife will visit us. A social visit—no talk of murder.”

  “Rosa would like that,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

  He sat a moment in silence, staring into his glass. His long face seemed drawn, olive skin sallow with fatigue, the tic at the left of his mouth more pronounced.

  “You know,” he said with his shy, rueful smile, “since the death of Doctor Ellerbee, there have been perhaps fifty homicides in the city. Many of those, of course, were solved immediately. But our solution rate on the others is not what it should be; I am aware of that and it troubles me. I will not speak to you of our manpower needs, Mr. Delaney; I know you had the same problem when you were in the Department. I mentioned all this merely to tell you how grateful I am for your assistance. I wish I could devote more time to the Ellerbee murder, but I cannot. So I am depending on you.”

  “I warned you from the start,” Delaney said. “No guarantees.”

  “Naturally. I realize that. But your participation lifts part of my burden and gives me confidence that, during this difficult time, I badly need. Mrs. Delaney, do you have faith in your husband?”

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  “And do you think he will find Ellerbee’s killer?”

  “Of course he will. Once Edward sets his mind on something, it’s practically done. He’s a very tenacious man.”

  “Hey,” Delaney said, laughing, “what’s this—the two of you ganging up on me?”

  “Tenacious,” Chief Suarez repeated, staring at the other man. “Yes, I think you are right. I am not a betting man, but if I was, I would bet on you, Mr. Delaney. I have a good feeling that you will succeed. Now I have a favor I would like to ask of you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I would like it if we could call each other by our Christian names.”

  “Of course, Michael.”

  “Thank you, Edward.”

  “And I’m Monica,” she said loudly.

  They all laughed, and Delaney went into the kitchen for another round of drinks.

  After the Chief had left, Delaney came back into the living room and sprawled into his chair.

  “What do you think of him?” he asked.

  “A very nice man,” Monica said. “Very polite and soft-spoken. But he looks headed for a burnout. Do you think he’s tough enough for the job?”

  “It’ll make him or break him,” Delaney said roughly. “Headquarters is a bullring. Turn your back for a second and you get gored. Monica, when I was telling him what we’re doing in the Ellerbee case, was there anything special that caught your attention? Something that sounded false? Or something we should have done that we haven’t?”

  “No,” she said slowly, “nothing in particular. It sounded awfully complicated, Edward. All those people …”

  “It is complicated,” he said, rubbing his forehead wearily. “In the first stages of any investigation, you expect to be overwhelmed by all the bits and pieces that come flooding in. Facts and rumors and guesses. Then, after a while, if you’re lucky, they all fall into a pattern, and you know more or less what happened. But I admit this case has me all bollixed up. I’ve been trying to keep on top of it with reports and files and time schedules, but it keeps spreading out in more directions. It’s so complex that I’m afraid I may be missing something that’s right under my nose. Maybe I’m getting too old for this business.”

  “You’re not getting older,” she said loyally, “you’re getting better.”

  “Keep telling me that,” he said.

  15

  DURING THE NEXT TWO days, the disorder in the Ellerbee case that had troubled Edward X. Delaney showed signs of lessening.

  “It’s still confusion,” he told Sergeant Boone, “but it’s becoming organized confusion.”

  Driving his little task force with stern directives, he was able to move them around so each had the chance to eyeball several patients. By Wednesd
ay night, Delaney, Boone, and Jason were able to achieve optimum pairings of detective and subject. They went like this:

  Benjamin Calazo—Isaac Kane.

  Robert Keisman—Harold Gerber.

  Ross Konigsbacher—L. Vincent Symington.

  Helen K. Venable—Joan Yesell.

  Timothy Hogan—Ronald J. Bellsey.

  Brian Estrella—Sylvia Mae Otherton.

  “If it doesn’t work out,” Delaney told his people, “we’ll switch you around until we start getting results.”

  Brian Estrella, the pipe-smoker, hoped he wouldn’t be switched from Sylvia Mae Otherton. The woman fascinated him, and he thought he could do some good there.

  On the morning he started out to meet her for the first time, his horoscope in the Daily News read: “Expect a profitable surprise.” And as if that wasn’t encouraging enough, his wife, Meg, called from the nursing home to report she was feeling better, her hair was beginning to grow back in, and she would be home soon.

  Which was, Estrella knew, a lie—but a brave, happy lie all the same.

  Sergeant Boone had warned him what to expect, but still it was something of a shock to walk into that dim, overheated apartment and confront someone who looked like all she’d need would be a broomstick to soar over the rooftops.

  She was wearing a voluminous white garment which could have been a bedsheet except that it was inset with triangles of white lace. It hung quite low, almost to the floor, but not low enough to hide Otherton’s bare feet. They were short and puffy, the toenails painted black.

  Boone had mentioned the woman’s jewelry and perfume, the wildly decorated room and burning incense. It was all there, but what surprised Detective Estrella was Otherton’s patience. After all, this was the third time she had been braced by the cops on the Ellerbee kill, and he expected her to be hostile and indignant.

  But she led him into her apartment without demur and answered his questions freely without once reminding him that she had replied to the same queries twice before. He appreciated that, and decided to try an absolutely honest approach to see if that might tempt her into additional disclosures.

  “You see, ma’am,” he said, “we’re most concerned about your whereabouts the night of the crime. You’ve told us you were here alone. That may be true, but we’d feel a lot better if we could confirm it. Did you go out at all that night?”

  “Oh, no,” she said in a low voice. “I very rarely go out. That’s part of my problem.”

  “And you say you had no visitors, saw no one, made and received no phone calls?”

  She shrugged helplessly. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “I wish you’d think hard and carefully about that night, Miss Otherton, and see if you can remember anything that will help confirm what you’ve told us.”

  “I’ll try,” she said. “Really I will.”

  Estrella looked at that face marred with clown’s makeup and suddenly realized that with the chalky mask removed, and the long, unkempt hair brushed, she would be reasonably comely—maybe not pretty but pleasant enough.

  To his horror, he found himself blurting all that out, and more, telling this strange woman how she might improve her appearance, her dress, not so much to impress others but for the sake of her own self-esteem.

  “You mustn’t stay locked up in here,” he said earnestly. “You must try to get out into the world.”

  She stared at him, and her eyes slowly filled, tears began to drip down her fleshy cheeks. He was distressed, thinking he had insulted her. But …

  “Thank you,” she said in a choky voice. “It’s kind of you to be concerned. To show an interest. Most people laugh at me. Doctor Simon never did. That’s why I loved him so much. I know I am not living a normal life, but with Doctor Simon’s help I was trying to come out of it. Now, with him gone, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Then she told Detective Estrella about her childhood rape and her aversion to bearded men—things he already knew. She said her life was a sad tangle, and she was close to giving up hope of “ever getting my head together.”

  Estrella told her how important it was to think positively, and then told her of his wife’s terminal illness and how courageously she was dealing with that.

  “Your mental attitude,” he said, “is even more important than the way you look. But I think in your case, those things are connected. And if you start by improving your appearance, your state of mind will improve too, and the way you live.”

  She brought them little glasses of dry sherry, and they began to converse in an animated fashion, discovering they had a common interest in astrology, lecithin, numerology, and UFOs. He asked if he might smoke a pipe, and she said yes, she had always admired men who smoked pipes.

  After a while, Estrella was enjoying their conversation so much—he hadn’t had a long talk with a woman in months; his visits to Meg were severely limited—that he felt guilty because he had forgotten the reason he was there.

  “I hope, Miss Otherton—” he started, but she interrupted.

  “Sylvia,” she said.

  “Sylvia,” he repeated. “That’s a lovely name. It means ‘forest maiden.’ Did you know that? My first name is Brian, which means ‘strong and powerful,’ and you can see how silly that is! But what I was going to say, Sylvia, is that I hope if you can think of anything you feel might help us find Doctor Ellerbee’s killer, you’ll give me a call. I’ll leave you my card.”

  She stared at him a long moment. “I know how to find out who did it,” she said intensely.

  He felt a surge of excitement. “How?” he said hoarsely.

  She rose, went into the bedroom, came back carrying a Ouija board and planchette.

  “Do you believe?” she asked him.

  “It can’t do any harm,” he said, shrugging.

  “You must believe,” she said, “if the spiritualistic messages are to come through.”

  “I believe,” he said hastily. “I really do.”

  She put the board on the round cocktail table, and they pulled their armchairs close, leaning forward. She put her fingertips lightly on the planchette and closed her eyes.

  “Now ask the question,” she said in a hollow voice.

  “Who killed Doctor Ellerbee?” Detective Estrella said.

  “No, no,” she said. “The questions must be directed to those who have passed over.”

  “Doctor Ellerbee,” Estrella said, happy that Edward X. Delaney wasn’t there to see what he was doing, “who killed you?”

  They waited in silence. The planchette did not move.

  “Who crushed your skull, Doctor Ellerbee?” the detective asked in a quiet voice.

  He watched, fascinated, as the planchette under Sylvia Mae Otherton’s fingertips began to move slowly. Not smoothly, but in little jerks. It took a long time, but the pointer moved from letter to letter and spelled out B-L-I-N-D: blind. Then it stopped.

  Otherton opened her eyes. “What did it say?” she asked eagerly.

  “Blind,” Estrella said. “It spelled out ‘blind.’ ”

  “What do you suppose that means?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It couldn’t have been a blind man who did it, could it?”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “We could try again,” she said hopefully.

  “I’ve got to go,” he told her. “Maybe next time.”

  “You’ll come back?”

  “Of course. But there are some things I have to check out first.”

  Before he left he got from her the names of the few friends who called her occasionally, and the list of neighborhood stores that delivered her groceries and drugs.

  “Thank you for your help, Sylvia,” he said.

  She went up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Brian,” she said breathlessly.

  Going down in the elevator, he debated with himself whether or not to include the Ouija board episode in his report. He finally decided to put it in. Hadn’t D
elaney said he wanted everything?

  And everything was exactly what Delaney was getting in the daily reports. He was satisfied; better too much than not enough. Most of the stuff was boilerplate, but there were some significant revelations:

  —Benjamin Calazo reported that Isaac Kane said he had left the Community Center at 9:00 P.M. on the night of the crime, but Kane admitted he hadn’t returned home right away. He was unable or unwilling to account for the intervening time.

  —L. Vincent Symington, according to Ross Konigsbacher, had a sheet. A few years previously he had been arrested in a raid on a gay after-hours joint on 18th Street. There was no record of the disposition of the case.

  —Timothy Hogan spent some time shmoozing with workers at Ronald J. Bellsey’s wholesale meat market, and had learned that six months ago Bellsey and a butcher had a bloody fight with meat hooks that resulted in serious injuries to the butcher. He had sued, but the case was settled out of court.

  —Joan Yesell, Helen K. Venable wrote, had injured herself more seriously in her suicide attempt than first thought. Tendons in her wrist had been cut, and Yesell was not expected to return to work for at least a month.

  —Detective Robert Keisman reported that Harold Gerber’s sheet listed several arrests for assaults, refusing to obey the lawful order of a police officer, and committing a public nuisance. Because of Gerber’s war record, all charges were eventually dropped. But, Keisman noted, Gerber had received a less than honorable discharge from the army due to several offenses, including slugging an officer.

  —Finally, Brian Estrella wrote about his meeting with Sylvia Mae Otherton, briefly mentioning the incident involving the Ouija board. Edward X. Delaney told Monica about that, thinking she’d be amused. But that most rational of women didn’t laugh.

  All in all, Delaney was gratified. He had the feeling that the investigation was beginning to lurch forward. It was not unlike an archeological dig, with each layer scraped away bringing him closer to the truth.

  Detective Ross (Kraut) Konigsbacher thought he already knew the truth about L. Vincent Symington: The guy was a screaming faggot. It wasn’t only that arrest on his record, it was the way he dressed, the way he walked, even the way he handled a cigarette.