Third Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “And who’s going to be in command?”

  Thorsen sat back, crossed his knees. He adjusted the sharp crease in his trouser leg. He picked up his drink, took a sip. He stared at Delaney over the rim of the glass.

  “That’s what I was doing all morning,” he said “A meeting downtown. It started at about three A.M., and went through to eleven. I’ve never drunk so much black coffee in my life. Everyone agreed Slavin had to go. Then we started debating who the CO should be. It had to be someone high up in the Department, to send a signal to the politicians and businessmen and public that we’re giving this case top priority.”

  “Cosmetics,” Delaney said disgustedly. “The image.”

  “Correct,” Thorsen said levelly. “When you don’t know where you’re going, you rush around busily. It gives the impression of action. What more could we have done? Any suggestions?”

  “No.”

  “So we needed a top man in command. It couldn’t be the Chief of Detectives. He’s got a full plate even without the Hotel Ripper. He can’t drop everything and concentrate on one case. Besides, we figured we needed higher brass. Someone close to the PC. No one was willing to volunteer.”

  “Can’t say I blame them,” the Chief admitted. “Too much risk for the ambitious types. Failure could break them. End their careers.”

  “Right. Well, we finally got one guy who was willing to stick out his neck.”

  “Who’s the idiot?”

  The Admiral looked at him steadily. “Me,” he said. “I’m the idiot.”

  “Ivar!” Delaney cried. “For God’s sake, why? You haven’t worked an active case in twenty years.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? I recognized the dangers of taking it on. If I flop, I might as well resign. Nothing left for me in the Department. I’d always be the guy who bungled the Hotel Ripper case. On the other hand, if I could possibly pull it off, I’d be the fair-haired boy, remembered when the Police Commissioner’s chair became vacant.”

  “And that’s what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well …” Delaney said loyally, “the city could do a lot worse.”

  “Thank you, Edward. But it wasn’t just wishful thinking on my part. When I agreed to take it on, I had an ace in the hole.”

  “Oh? What was that?”

  “Who was that. You.”

  Delaney banged his hand down on the desktop in disgust.

  “Jesus Christ, Ivar, you gambled on getting me to go along?”

  Thorsen nodded. “That’s what I gambled on. That’s why I’m here pulling out all the stops to persuade you to help me, help the Department, help yourself.”

  Delaney was silent, staring at the composed man in the armchair, the small foot in the polished moccasin bobbing idly up and down. Thorsen endured his scrutiny with serenity, slowly sipping his drink.

  “There’s one stop you didn’t pull, Ivar.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Our friendship.”

  The deputy frowned. “I don’t want to put it on that basis, Edward. You don’t owe me. Turn me down and we’ll still be friends.”

  “Uh-huh. Tell me something, Ivar—did you instruct Sergeant Boone not to call me about that killing last night, figuring to give me a taste of what it would feel like to be shut out of this thing?”

  “My God, Edward, do you think I’d be capable of a Machiavellian move like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re perfectly right,” Thorsen said calmly. “That’s exactly what I did for the reason you guessed. And it worked, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, it worked.”

  “You’ve got cops’ blood,” the Admiral said. “Retirement didn’t change that. Well … how about it? Will you agree to work with me? Serve as an unofficial right-hand man? You won’t be on active duty, of course, but you’ll know everything that’s going on, have access to all the papers—statements, photographs, evidence, autopsy reports, and so on. Boone will act as our liaison.”

  “Ivar, what do you expect of me?” Delaney asked desperately. “I’m no miracle man.”

  “I don’t expect miracles. Just handle it as if you were on active duty, assigned to the Hotel Ripper case. If you fail, it’s my cock that’s on the block, not yours. What do you say?”

  “Give me a little time to—”

  “No,” Thorsen said sharply. “I haven’t got time. I need to know now.”

  Delaney leaned back, laced his hands behind his head.

  He stared at the ceiling. Maybe, he thought, the reason for Ivar Thorsen’s success in threading his way through the booby-trapped upper echelons of the New York Police Department was his ability to use people by persuading them that they had everything to gain from his manipulation.

  Knowing that, the Chief still had to admit that Thorsen’s sales pitch wasn’t all con. There was enough truth in what he had said to consider his proposal seriously.

  But not once had he mentioned a motive that cut more ice with Delaney than all the dire warnings of how retirement would flab his fiber and muddle his brain. It was a basic motive, almost simple, that would have sounded mawkish if spoken.

  Edward X. Delaney wanted to stop the Hotel Ripper because killing was wrong. Not just immoral, antisocial, or irreligious. But wrong.

  “All right, Ivar,” he said. “I’m in.”

  Thorsen nodded, drained his glass. But when Delaney started to rise, to pour him more Glenlivet, the deputy held his hand over his glass.

  “No more, thank you, Edward. I’ve got to go back downtown again.”

  “Tell me about the killing last night.”

  “I don’t know too much about it. You’ll have to get the details from Boone. But I gather it was pretty much like the others, with a few minor differences. The victim was naked, but his body was found on the floor between the bed and the bathroom. The bed hadn’t been used.”

  “Throat slashed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Genitals stabbed?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Middle forties. One odd thing—or rather two odd things. The body was discovered by a gang of pals who barged in for a drink. They said there was a sweet odor in the bedroom where the body was found.”

  “A sweet odor? Perfume?”

  “Not exactly. One of the guys said it smelled to him like apple blossoms. The other odd thing was that the victim’s face was burned. First-degree burns. Reddening but no blistering or charring.”

  “Tear gas,” Delaney said. “It smells like apple blossoms in low concentrations and it can cause burns if applied close to the skin.”

  “Tear gas?” Thorsen said. “How do you figure that?”

  “I don’t. Unless the killer couldn’t get behind the victim, like the others were slashed, and gassing was the only way to handle him.”

  “Well, they’ll find out what it was in the PM. We’ve been promised the report tomorrow morning. Now … let’s get back to my original question: How the hell did you know there’d be a killing last night?”

  “I didn’t know. I guessed. And I didn’t specify last night; I warned Boone about May seventh to ninth. Did you put on more men?”

  “Yeah,” Thorsen said sourly. “As a matter of fact, we had a decoy in the Cameron Arms Hotel last night while it was going down.”

  “Shit,” Delaney said.

  “He was in a disco, figuring that would be the logical place for the killer to make contact. It didn’t work out that way. Edward, we can’t cover every bar, cocktail lounge, disco, dining room, and hotel lobby in midtown Manhattan. That would take an army.”

  “I know. Still, it burns my ass to be so close and miss it.”

  “You still haven’t told me how you figured it might happen last night.”

  “It’s a long story. You better have another drink.”

  The Admiral hesitated just a moment.

  “All right,” he said finally. “After what I’ve gone through in the
last twelve hours, I’ve earned it.”

  Delaney repeated everything he had previously related to Monica: how he had slowly come to believe the Hotel Ripper might be a woman; the research he had done; and how some of it substantiated his theory.

  And how the implied circumstances of the murders lent further credence: the absence of any signs of struggles; the heterosexual victims found naked; the attacks (except for the last) all made from the rear, the victims apparently not expecting sudden violence.

  Midway through his recital, Delaney took two cigars from his desk humidor. Still talking, he rose and leaned forward to hand one to the Admiral, then held a match for him. He sat down again and, puffing, resumed his discourse.

  He argued that only presuming the perpetrator was a woman wearing a wig—not a prostitute, but a psychopath—could all the anomalies of the murders be explained.

  “She kills at regular intervals,” he concluded. “In, say, twenty-five to twenty-seven-day cycles.”

  “During her periods?”

  “Probably. Maybe a few days before or a few days after. But every month.”

  “Well …” Thorsen said with a rueful smile, “that gives us an age approximation: twelve to fifty!”

  “What do you think, Ivar? About the whole idea?”

  Thorsen looked down at his drink, swirling the whiskey around slowly in the glass. “Not exactly what I’d call hard evidence. A lot of shrewd guesses. And a lot of smoke.”

  “Oh hell yes. I admit it. But have you got any better ideas?”

  “I haven’t got any ideas. But on the basis of what you’ve told me, you want us to—”

  “I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing,” Delaney said furiously. “You asked me for my ideas and I gave them to you. If you think it’s all bullshit, then I—”

  “Whoa, whoa!” the deputy said, holding up a hand. “My God, Edward, you’ve got the shortest fuse of any man I know. I don’t think it’s all bullshit. I think you’ve come up with the first new idea anyone has offered on this mess. But I’m trying to figure out what to do about it. Assuming you’re right, where do we go from here?”

  “Start all over again,” Delaney said promptly. “They’ve been checking out escaped mental patients and psychos, haven’t they?”

  “Of course. All over the country.”

  “Sure they have—male crazies, and probably just homosexual male crazies. We’ve got to go back and do it all over again, looking for psychopathic women, escaped or recently released. And pull out all the decoys from gay bars and send them to straight places. These killings have nothing to do with homosexuals. And go back through our records again, looking for women with a sheet including violent crimes. There’s a hell of a lot that can be done once you’re convinced the killer is female. It turns the whole investigation around.”

  “You think this should be released to the media?”

  Delaney pondered that a long time.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “They’re going to find out sooner or later. But publicity might frighten the killer off.”

  “Or spur her on to more.”

  “That’s true. Ivar, I’d suggest keeping this under wraps as long as possible. Just to give us a little time to get things organized. But it’s not my decision to make.”

  “I know,” the Admiral said mournfully, “it’s mine.”

  “You volunteered,” the Chief said, shrugging. “You’re now the commanding officer. So command.”

  “I’d feel a lot better about this, Edward, if you could be more positive about it. If you could tell me that, yes, you absolutely believe that the killer is definitely a woman.”

  “My gut instinct tells me so,” Delaney said solemnly, and both men burst out laughing.

  “Well,” Thorsen said, rising, “I’ve got to get going. I’ll spread the news—at least to the people who count.”

  “Ivar, there’s no need for the media to know I’m working with you.”

  “I agree. But some of the brass will have to know, and some of the politicos. And Sergeant Boone, of course. Call him tomorrow morning. I’ll have a system set up by then on how he’s to liaise with you.”

  “Fine.”

  “Edward, I want to tell you how happy I am that you’ve decided to help out.”

  “You’re a supersalesman.”

  “Not really. You can’t sell something to someone who really doesn’t want to buy. Not to someone as stubborn as you, anyway. But having you with me makes all the difference in the world. May I use your phone?”

  “Of course. Want me to step outside?”

  “No, no. I want you to hear this.”

  Thorsen dialed a number, waited a moment.

  “Mary?” he said. “It’s Ivar Thorsen. Put himself on, will you? He’s expecting my call.”

  While he waited, the Deputy Commissioner winked at Delaney. Then …

  “Timothy?” he said. “Ivar Thorsen here. All right, Timmy, I’ll take the job.”

  He hung up and turned to the Chief.

  “You bastard!” Delaney gasped. “You’ve got to be the biggest son of a bitch who ever came down the pike.”

  “So I’ve been told,” the Admiral said.

  After he had shown Thorsen out, Delaney wandered back into the kitchen. Monica was readying a veal roast for the oven, laying on thin strips of fat salt pork. The Chief took a celery stalk from the refrigerator crisper. He leaned against the sink, chomping, watching Monica work.

  “I told Ivar I’d help him out on the Hotel Ripper case,” he offered.

  She nodded. “I thought that was probably what he wanted.”

  “He’s in command now. I’ll be working through Abner Boone.”

  “Good,” she said unexpectedly. “I’m glad you’ll be busy on something important.”

  “Have I been getting in your hair?”

  She gave him a quick, mischievous grin. “Not any more than usual. You told Ivar you think it’s a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he agree?”

  “He didn’t agree and he didn’t disagree. We’ll check it out. He’ll want to move cautiously. That’s all right; his reputation and career are on the line. He wants to be Police Commissioner some day.”

  “I know.”

  “You know? How do you know?”

  “Karen told me.”

  “And you never told me?”

  “I thought you knew. Besides, I don’t tell you everything.”

  “You don’t? I tell you everything.”

  “Bullshit,” she said, and he kissed her.

  7

  IT WASN’T SO MUCH a weakness as a languor. Her will was blunted; her body now seemed in command of all her actions. An indolence infected her. She slept long, drugged hours, and awoke listless, aching with weariness.

  Each morning she stepped on the bathroom scale and saw her weight inexorably lessening. After a while she stepped weighing herself; she just didn’t want to know. It was something beyond her control. She thought vaguely it was due to her loss of appetite; food sickened her: all that stuff going into her mouth …

  Her monthly had ended, but the abdominal cramps persisted. Sometimes she felt nauseated; twice she vomited for no apparent reason. She had inexplicable attacks of diarrhea followed by spells of constipation. The incidents of syncope increased: more of them for longer periods.

  It seemed to her that her body, that fleshy envelope containing her, was breaking up, flying apart, forgetting its functions and programs, disintegrating into chaos. It occurred to her that she might be dying. She ran into the kitchen to take a Valium.

  She looked down at her naked self. She felt skin, hair, softness of fat and hardness of bone. Undeniably she was still there; warm and pulsing. Pinched, she felt hurt. Stroked, she felt joy. But deep inside was rot. She was convinced of it; there was rot. She knew more wonder than fear.

  She functioned; she did what she had to do. Dropped the broken knife down a sewer grating. Wrapped the empty
Mace can in a bundle of garbage and tossed it into a litter basket two blocks from her home. Inspected her body and clothing for bloodstains. She did all these things indolently, without reasoning why.

  She bathed, dressed, went to work each day. Chatted with Ernest Mittle on the phone. Had lunch with Maddie Kurnitz. It was all a dream, once removed from reality. Anomie engulfed her; she swam in a foreign sea.

  Once she called Sergeant Coe to ask if he was available for moonlighting. Coe’s wife answered the phone and Zoe said, “This is Irene—” stopped, dazed, then said, “This is Zoe Kohler.”

  Something was happening to her. Something slow, gradual, and final. She let it take her, going to her fate without protest or whimper. It was too late, too painful to change. There was comfort in being a victim. Almost a pleasure. Life, do with me what you will.

  On May 10th, a Saturday, she met Ernest Mittle at the entrance to Central Park at Fifth Avenue and 59th Street. It was only a few blocks from the Cameron Arms Hotel. They exchanged light kisses and, holding hands, joined the throng sauntering toward the menagerie and children’s zoo.

  It was more summer than spring. A high sky went on forever; the air was a fluffy softness that caressed the skin. The breeze was scarcely strong enough to raise kites; the fulgent sun cast purplish shadows.

  People on the benches raised white, meek faces to the blue, happy with the new world. Coats and sweaters were doffed and carried; children scampered. Bells and flutes could be heard; the greening earth stirred.

  “Oh, what a day!” Ernest exulted. “I ordered it just for us. Do you approve, Zoe?”

  “It is nice,” she said, looking about. “Like being born again.”

  “Would you like an ice cream? Hot dog? Peanuts?”

  “No, nothing right now, thank you.”

  “How about a balloon?” he said, laughing.

  “Yes, I’d like a balloon. A red one.”

  So he bought her a helium-filled balloon and carefully tied the end of the string to the handle of her purse. They strolled on, the little sun bobbing above them.

  A carnival swirled about: noise, movement, color. But they felt singularly alone and at peace, a universe of two. It seemed to them the crowd parted to allow passage, then closed behind them. They were in a private space and no one could intrude.