Third Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

“Chief, it was approximate. I mean, when you sit in that chair, it has a soft seat cushion that depresses. You understand? So it was tough getting an exact measurement from the back of the head to the tailbone.”

  “Of course.”

  “Anyway,” Boone went on, “we did what we could. Then there was no one in the Lab Services Unit or ME’s office who could help. But one of the assistant ME’s suggested we call a guy up at the American Museum of Natural History. He’s an anthropologist, supposed to be a hotshot on reconstructing skeletons from bone fragments.”

  “Good,” Delaney said, pleased with Boone’s thoroughness. “What did he say?”

  “I gave him the measurement and he called back within an hour. He said his estimate—and he insisted it was only a guess—was that the person who sat in that chair was about five feet five to five feet seven.”

  There was silence.

  “Chief?” Boone said. “You still there?”

  “Yes, sergeant,” Delaney said slowly, “I’m still here. Five-five to five-seven? That could be a smallish man or a tallish woman.”

  “Right,” the sergeant said. “But it’s something, isn’t it, Chief? I mean, it’s more than we had before.”

  “Of course,” Edward X. Delaney said, as heartily as he could. He didn’t want to say how frail that clue was; the sergeant would know that. “How are you getting along with Slavin?”

  “Okay,” Boone said, lowering his voice. “So far. He’s been making us recheck everything we did before he came aboard. I guess I can understand that; he doesn’t want to be responsible for anything that happened before he took command.”

  “Uh-huh,” Delaney said, thinking that Slavin was a fool to waste his men’s time in that fashion and to imply doubt of their professional competence.

  “Chief, I’d like to ask you a favor …”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “Could I call you about the investigation?” the sergeant asked, still speaking in a muffled voice. “Every once in a while? To keep you up on what’s going on and ask your help on things?”

  That would be Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen’s suggestion, the Chief knew. “Sergeant, why don’t you call Delaney every day or so? You’re friends, aren’t you? Keep him up on the progress of the investigation. See if he has any ideas.”

  Which meant that Thorsen didn’t entirely trust the expertise of Lieutenant Martin Slavin.

  “Call me any time you like, sergeant,” Edward X. Delaney said. “I’ll be here.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Boone said gratefully.

  Delaney hung up. On the dossier headed Perpetrator, he added:

  4. Approx. 5-5 to 5-7.

  Then he went into the kitchen and made a sandwich of sliced kielbasa and Jewish coleslaw, on sour rye. Since it was a “wet” sandwich, he ate it standing over the sink.

  There was one person Edward X. Delaney was eager to talk to—but he wasn’t sure the old man was still alive. He had been Detective Sergeant Albert Braun, assigned to the office of the District Attorney of New York County. But he had retired about fifteen years ago and Delaney lost track of him.

  Braun had joined the New York Police Department with a law degree at a time when the force was having trouble recruiting qualified high school graduates. During his first five years, he served as a foot patrolman and continued his education with special studies at local universities in criminal law, forensic science and, his particular interest, the psychology of criminal behavior.

  During his early years in the Department, he had won the reputation of being a dependable, if unspectacular, street cop. His nickname during this period of service was “Arf,” from Little Orphan Annie’s dog. That hound wasn’t a bulldog, but Albert Braun was—and that’s how he got the canine moniker.

  Delaney remembered that it was said of Braun that if he was assigned to a stakeout in front of a house, and told, “Watch for a male Caucasian, 5-11, 185 pounds, about fifty-five, grayish hair, wearing a plaid sport jacket,” you could come back two years later and Arf would look up and say, “He hasn’t shown up yet.”

  Finally, Albert Braun’s background, erudition, and intelligence were recognized. He earned the gold shield of a detective, received rapid promotions, and ended up a sergeant in the Manhattan DA’s office where he remained until his retirement.

  Long before that, he was recognized as the Department’s top expert in the history of crime. He possessed a library of more than 2,000 volumes on criminology, and his knowledge of old cases, weapons, and criminal methodology was encyclopedic.

  He had been consulted many times by police departments outside New York City and even by foreign police bureaus and Interpol. In addition, he taught a popular course on investigative techniques to detectives of the NYPD and was a frequent guest lecturer at John Jay College of Criminal Justice.

  Delaney remembered that Braun had never married, and lived somewhere in Elmhurst, in Queens. The Chief consulted his personal telephone directory, a small, battered black book that contained numbers so ancient that instead of a three-digit prefix some bore designations such as Murray Hill-3, Beekman-5, and Butterfield-8.

  He found Albert Braun’s number and dialed. He waited while the phone rang seven times. He was about to hang up when a woman came on the line with a breathless “Yes?”

  “Is this the Albert Braun residence?” Delaney asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  He didn’t want to ask anything as crude as, “Is the old man still alive?” He tried, “Is Mr. Braun available?”

  “Not at the moment,” the woman said. “Who’s calling, please?”

  “My name is Edward X. Delaney. I’m an old friend of Mr. Braun. I haven’t seen or spoken to him in years. I hope he’s in good health?”

  “Not very,” the woman said, her voice lowering. “He fell and broke his hip about three years ago and developed pneumonia from that. Then last year he had a stroke. He’s recovering from that, somewhat, but he spends most of his time in bed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Well, he’s doing as well as can be expected. A man of his age.”

  “Yes,” Delaney said, wanting to ask who she was and what she was doing there. She answered his unspoken question.

  “My name is Martha Kaslove. Mrs. Martha Kaslove,” she added firmly. “I’ve been Mr. Braun’s housekeeper since he fell.”

  “Well, I’m glad he’s not alone,” the Chief said. “I had hoped to talk to him, but under the circumstances I won’t bother him. I’d appreciate it if you’d tell him I called. The name is Edward X.—”

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “You knew him when he was a policeman? Before he retired?”

  “Yes, I knew him well.”

  “Mr. Braun doesn’t have many visitors,” she said sadly. “None, in fact. He doesn’t have any family. Oh, neighbors stop by occasionally, but it’s really to visit with me, not him. I think a visit from an old friend would do him the world of good. Would you be willing to … ?”

  “Of course,” Delaney said promptly. “I’ll be glad to. I’m in Manhattan. I could be there in half an hour or so.”

  “Good,” she said happily. “Let me ask him, Mr. Laney.”

  “Delaney,” he said. “Edward X. Delaney.”

  “Hang on just a minute, please,” she said.

  He hung on for several minutes. Then Mrs. Kaslove came back on the phone.

  “He wants to see you,” she reported. “He’s all excited. He’s even putting clothes on and he wants me to shave him.”

  “Wonderful,” the Chief said, smiling at the phone. “Tell him I’m on my way.”

  He made sure he had his reading glasses, notebook, two ballpoint pens, and a sharpened pencil. He pulled on his heavy, navy-blue melton overcoat, double-breasted. He set his hard black homburg squarely atop his big head. Then he went lumbering over to a liquor store on Second Avenue where he bought a bottle of Glenlivet Scotch. He had it gift-wrapped and put in a brown paper bag.

 
He stopped an empty northbound cab, got in, closed the door. He gave Albert Braun’s address in Elmhurst.

  The driver turned around to stare at him. “I don’t go to Queens,” he said.

  “Sure you do,” Edward X. Delaney said genially. “Or we can go to the Two-five-one Precinct House, just a block away. Or, if you prefer, you can take me downtown to the Hack Bureau and I’ll swear out a complaint there.”

  “Jesus Christ!” the driver said disgustedly and slammed the cab into gear.

  They made the trip in silence, which was all right with Delaney. He was rehearsing in his mind the questions he wanted to ask Albert Braun.

  It was a pleasant house on a street of lawns and trees. In spring and summer, Delaney thought, it would look like a residential street in a small town, with people mowing the grass, trimming hedges, poking at flower borders. He had almost forgotten there were streets like that in New York.

  She must have been watching for him through the front window, for the door opened as he came up the stoop.

  She filled the doorway: a big, motherly woman with twinkling eyes and a flawless complexion.

  “Mr. Delaney?” she said in a warm, pleasing voice.

  “Yes. You must be Mrs. Kaslove. Happy to meet you.”

  He took off his homburg. They shook hands. She ushered him into a small entrance hall, took his hat and coat, hung them away in a closet.

  “I can’t tell you how he’s looking forward to your visit,” she said. “I haven’t seen him so alive and chirpy in months.”

  “If I had known …”

  “Now you must realize he’s been a very sick man,” she rattled on, “and not be shocked at the way he looks. He’s not bedridden, but when he gets up, he uses a wheelchair. He’s lost a lot of weight and the left side of his face—you know—from the stroke …”

  Delaney nodded.

  “An hour,” she said definitely. “The doctor said he can sit up an hour at a time. And try not to upset him.”

  “I won’t upset him,” the Chief said. He held up his brown paper bag. “Can he have a drink?”

  “One weak highball a day,” she said firmly. “You’ll find glasses in his bathroom. Now I’m going to run out and do some shopping. But I’ll be back long before your hour is up.”

  “Take your time,” Delaney said, smiling. “I won’t leave until you get back.”

  “His bedroom is at the head of the stairs,” she said, pointing. “On your right. He’s waiting for you.”

  The Chief took a deep breath and climbed the stairs slowly, looking about. It was a cheerful, informal home. Patterned wallpaper. Lots of chintz. Bright curtains. Some good rugs. Everything looked clean and shining.

  The man in the bedroom was a bleached skeleton propped up in a motorized wheelchair parked in the middle of the floor. A crocheted Afghan covered his lap and legs and was tucked in at the sides. A fringed paisley shawl was draped about his bony shoulders. He wore a starched white shirt, open at the neck to reveal slack, crepey skin.

  His twisted face wrenched in a grimace. Delaney realized that Albert Braun was trying to grin at him. He stepped forward and picked up the man’s frail white hand and pressed it gently. It felt like a bunch of grapes, as soft and tender.

  “How are you?” he asked, smiling.

  “Getting along,” Braun said in a wispy voice. “Getting along. How are you, Captain? I thought you’d be in uniform. How are things at the precinct? The usual hysteria, eh?”

  Delaney hesitated just a brief instant, then said, “You’re right. The usual hysteria. It’s good to see you again, Professor.”

  “Professor,” Braun repeated, his face wrenching again. “You’re the only cop I ever knew who called me ‘Professor.’”

  “You are a professor,” Delaney said.

  “I was,” Braun said, “I was. But not really. It was just a courtesy, an honorary title. It meant nothing. Detective Sergeant Albert Braun. That’s who I was. That meant something.”

  The Chief nodded understandingly. He held out the brown paper bag. “A little something to keep you warm.”

  Braun made a feeble gesture. “You didn’t have to do that,” he protested. “You better open it for me, Captain. I don’t have much strength in my hands these days.”

  Delaney tore the wrappings away and held the bottle close to the man in the wheelchair.

  “Scotch,” Braun said, touching the bottle with trembling fingers. “What makes the heart grow fonder. Let’s have one now for old times’ sake.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Delaney said, and left the old man cackling while he went into the bathroom to mix drinks. He poured himself a heavy shot, tossed it down, and stood there, gripping the sink as he felt it hit. He thought he had been prepared, but the sight of Albert Braun had been a shock.

  Then he mixed two Scotch highballs in water tumblers, a weak one for the Professor, a dark one for himself. He brought the drinks back into the bedroom. He made certain Braun’s thin fingers encircled the glass before he released it.

  “Sit down, Captain, sit down,” the old man said. “Take that armchair there. I’ve got the cushions all broke in for you.”

  Edward X. Delaney sat down gingerly in what seemed to him to be a fragile piece of furniture. He hoisted his glass.

  “Good health and a long life,” he toasted.

  “I’ll drink to good health,” Braun said, “but a long life is for the birds. All your friends die off. I feel like the Last of the Mohicans. Say, whatever happened to Ernie Silverman? Remember him? He was with the …”

  Then they were off and running—twenty minutes of reminiscences, mostly gossip about old friends and old enemies. Braun did most of the talking, becoming more garrulous as he touched the watery highball to his pale lips. Delaney didn’t see him swallowing, but noted the level of liquid was going down.

  Then the old man’s glass was empty. He held it out in a hand that had steadied.

  “That was just flavored water,” he said. “Let’s have another with more kick to it.”

  Delaney hesitated. Braun stared at him, face mangled into a gargoyle’s mask.

  All his bones seemed to be knobby, pressing out through parchment skin. Feathers of grayish hair skirted his waxen skull. Even his eyes were filmed and distant, gaze dulled and turned inward. Black veins popped in his sunken temples.

  “I know what Martha told you,” Braun said. “One weak drink a day. Right?”

  “Right,” Delaney said. Still he hesitated.

  “She keeps the booze downstairs,” the skeleton complained. “I can’t get at it. I’m eighty-four,” he added in a querulous tone. “The game is up. You think I should be denied?”

  Edward X. Delaney made up his mind. He didn’t care to analyze his motives.

  “No,” he said, “I don’t think you should be denied.”

  He took Braun’s glass, went back to the bathroom. He mixed two more Scotch-and-waters, middling strong. He brought them into the bedroom, and Braun’s starfish hand plucked the glass from his hand. The old man sampled it.

  “That’s more like it,” he said, leaning back in his wheelchair. He observed Delaney closely. The cast over his eyes had faded. He had the shrewd, calculating look of a smart lawyer.

  “You didn’t come all the way out here to hold a dying man’s hand,” he said.

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Old ‘Iron Balls,’ ” Braun said affectionately. “You always did have the rep of using anyone you could to break a case.”

  “That’s right,” Delaney agreed. “Anyone, anytime. There is something I wanted to ask you about. A case. It’s not mine; a friend’s ass is on the line and I promised I’d talk to you.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Abner Boone. Detective Sergeant. You know him?”

  “Boone? Boone? I think I had him in one of my classes. Was his father a street cop? Shot down?”

  “That’s the man.”

  “Sure, I remember. Nice boy. What’s
his problem?”

  “It looks like a repeat killer. Two so far. Same MO, but no connection between the victims. Stranger homicides. No leads.”

  “Another Son of Sam?” Braun said excitedly, leaning forward. “What a case that was! Did you work that one, Captain?”

  “No,” Delaney said shortly, “I never did.”

  “I was retired then, of course, but I followed it in the papers and on TV every day. Made notes. Collected clippings. I had a crazy idea of writing a book on it some day.”

  “Not so crazy,” Delaney said. “Now this thing that Boone caught is—”

  “Fascinating case,” Albert Braun said slowly. His head was beginning to droop forward on the skinny stem of his neck. “Fascinating. I remember the last lecture I gave at John Jay was on that case. Multiple random homicides. The motives …” His loose dentures clacked.

  “Yes, yes,” Delaney said hurriedly, wondering if he was losing the man. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about—the motives. And also, has there ever been a female killer like Son of Sam? A woman who commits several random homicides?”

  “A woman?” the old man said, raising his head with an effort. “It’s all in my lecture.”

  “Yes,” Delaney said, “but could you tell me now? Do you remember if there was ever a case like Son of Sam when a woman was the perp?”

  “Martha Beck,” Braun said, trying to recall. “A woman in Pennsylvania—what was her name? I forget. But she was a baby-sitter and knew the victims. All kids. A woman at a Chicago fair, around the turn of the century, I think. I’d have to look it up. She ran a boardinghouse. Killed her boarders. Greed, again.” His face tried to make a grin. “Ground them up into sausages.”

  “But stranger homicides,” Delaney insisted. “Any woman involved in a series of killings of strangers?”

  “It’s all in my last lecture,” Albert Braun said sadly. “Two days later I fell. The steps weren’t even slippery. I just tripped. That’s how it ends, Captain; you trip.”

  He held out his empty glass. Delaney took it to the bathroom, mixed fresh highballs. When he brought the drinks back to the bedroom, he heard the outside door slam downstairs.

  Braun’s head had fallen forward, sharp chin on shrunken chest.