Third Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Well, there’s one fellow I’ve been seeing. He’s very nice.”

  “What does he do, baby?”

  “I’m not sure, Dad. I know he’s taking courses in computers.”

  “Computers? Hey, sounds like a smart fellow.”

  “He is, Dad. I think you’d like him.”

  “Well, that’s fine, baby. I’m glad you’re getting out and, uh, socializing. And it’s good to hear you’re feeling okay. That damned doctor scared us.”

  “I’m feeling fine, Dad, really I am.”

  “Now listen to me, Zoe,” her mother said. “I want you to call us at least once a week. You can reverse the charges. All right, Dad?”

  “Of course, Mother. Baby, you do that. Call at least once a week and reverse the charges.”

  “All right, Dad.”

  “You take care of yourself now, y’hear?”

  “I will. Thank you for calling. Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, Dad.”

  “Goodbye, Zoe.”

  “Goodbye, baby.”

  She hung up, and when she looked at her hands, they were trembling. Her parents always had that effect: made her nervous, defensive. Made her feel guilty. Not once during the call had she said, “I love you.” But then, neither had they.

  She ate a sandwich of something she couldn’t taste. She drank another vodka; and swallowed vitamins, minerals, two Anacin, and a Valium. Then she took a shower, pulled on her threadbare robe.

  She sat on the living room couch, drained by the conversation with her parents. It had taken energy, even bravado, to speak brightly, optimistically, to calm their fears and forestall their coming to New York and seeing her in her present state.

  She supposed that when they thought of her, they remembered a little girl in a spotless pinafore. White gloves, knee-length cotton socks, and shiny black shoes with straps. A cute hat with flowers. A red plastic purse on a brass chain.

  Zoe Kohler opened her robe, looked down, and saw what had become of that little girl. Tears came to her eyes, and she wondered how it had happened, and why it had happened.

  As a child, when balked, scolded, or ignored, she had wished her tormentor dead. If her mother died, or her father, or a certain teacher, then Zoe’s troubles would end, and she would be happy.

  She had wished Kenneth dead. Not wished it exactly, but dreamed often of how her burdens would be lightened if he were gone. Once she had even fantasized that Maddie Kurnitz might die, and Zoe would comfort the widower, and he would look at her with new eyes.

  All her life she had seen the death of others as the solution to her problems. Now, looking at her spoiled flesh, she realized that only her own death would put a stop to …

  She was sick, and she was tired, and that thin, sour man she saw as “police” was stalking closer and closer. She wished him dead, but knew it could not be. He would persevere and …

  That drawing was so accurate that it was only a matter of time until …

  She might return to her parents’ home and pretend …

  Thoughts, unfinished, whirled by so rapidly that she felt faint with the flickering speed, the brief intensity. She closed her eyes, made tight fists. She hung on until her mind slowed, cleared, and she was able to concentrate on what she wanted to do, and find the resolve to do it.

  She phoned Ernest Mittle.

  “Ernie,” she said, “do you really love me?”

  July 11-12; Friday and Saturday …

  Detective Sergeant Thomas K. Broderick and his squad had been assigned the task of tracing the WHY NOT? bracelet worn by the Hotel Ripper, but it was proving to be another dead end. Too many stores carried the bracelet, too many had been sold for cash; it was impossible to track every one.

  So Broderick and his crew were pulled off the bracelet search and given the task of finding victims of Addison’s disease who had purchased a medical identification bracelet and emergency kit in New York.

  Broderick decided to start with the island of Manhattan, and the Yellow Pages were the first place he looked for names and addresses of medical supply houses.

  Then he talked to police surgeons and to a small number of physicians who were police buffs or “groupies” and who were happy to cooperate with the NYPD as long as they weren’t asked to violate the law or their professional ethics.

  From these sources, Broderick compiled a list of places that might conceivably sell the things he was trying to trace. Then he divided his list into neighborhoods. Then he sent his men out to pound the pavements.

  Most of the pharmacists they visited were willing to help. Those who weren’t received a follow-up visit from Broderick or Sergeant Abner Boone. Both men were armed with opinions from the Legal Division of the NYPD, stating that the courts had held that communications to druggists and prescriptions given to them by customers were not confidential and not protected from disclosure.

  “Of course,” Boone would say, “if you want to fight this, and hire yourself a high-priced lawyer, and spend weeks sitting around in court, then I’ll have to get a subpoena.”

  Cooperation was 100 percent.

  As the names and addresses of Addisonian victims began to come in, Broderick’s deskmen put aside the obviously masculine names and compiled a list only of the women. This list, in turn, was broken down into separate files for each borough of New York, and one for out-of-town addresses.

  “It’s all so mechanical!” Monica Delaney exclaimed.

  “Mechanical?” the Chief said. “What the hell’s mechanical about it? How do you think detectives work?”

  “Well, maybe not mechanical,” she said. “But you’re all acting like bookkeepers. Like accountants.”

  “That’s what we are,” he said. “Accountants.”

  “Wise-ass,” she said.

  They were having dinner at P. J. Moriarty on Third Avenue. It was a fine, comfortable Irish bar and restaurant with Tiffany lampshades and smoke-mellowed wood paneling. For some unaccountable reason, a toy electric train ran around the bar on a track suspended from the ceiling.

  They had started with dry Beefeater martinis. Then slabs of herring in cream sauce. Then pot roast with potato pancakes. With Canadian ale. Then black coffee and Armagnac. They were both blessed with good digestions.

  “The greatest of God’s gifts,” Delaney was fond of remarking.

  During dinner, he had told her about Dr. Ho’s report on Addison’s disease, and exactly how Sergeant Broderick’s men were going about the search for Addisonian victims in New York.

  “He says his list should be completed by late today,” he concluded. “Tomorrow morning I’m going down to the precinct. We’ll crosscheck the lists and see if we have anything.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll keep plugging. Every murder in the series has revealed more. Eventually we’ll get her.”

  “Edward, if you find out who it is—what then?”

  “Depends. Do we have enough evidence for an arrest? For an indictment?”

  “You won’t, uh …”

  He looked at her, smiling slightly.

  “Go in with guns blazing and cut her down? No, dear, we won’t do that. I don’t believe this woman will be armed. With a gun, that is. I think she’ll come along quietly. Almost with relief.”

  “Then what? I mean, if you have enough evidence for an arrest and an indictment? What will happen to her then?”

  He filled their coffee cups from the pewter pot.

  “Depends,” he said again. “If she gets a smart lawyer, he’ll probably try to plead insanity. Seems to me that slitting the throats of six strangers is pretty good prima facie evidence of insanity. But even if she’s adjudged capable of standing trial and is convicted, she’ll get off with the minimum.”

  “Edward! Why? After what she’s done?”

  “Because she’s a woman.”

  “You’re joking?”

  “I’m not joking. Want me to quote the numbers to you? I don’t need Thomas Handry’s resear
ch. The judicial system in this country is about fifty years behind the times as far as equality between men and women goes. Almost invariably females will receive lighter sentences than males for identical or comparable crimes. And when it comes to homicide, juries and judges seem to have a built-in bias that works in favor of women. They can literally get away with murder.”

  “But surely not the Hotel Ripper?”

  “Don’t be too sure of that. A good defense attorney will put her on the stand dressed in something conservative and black with a white Peter Pan collar. She’ll speak in a low, trembling voice and dab at her eyes with a balled-up Kleenex. Remember when we were first arguing about whether the Hotel Ripper could be a woman, and you asked people at one of your meetings? All the men said a woman couldn’t commit crimes like that and all the women said she could. Well, an experienced defense lawyer knows that, even if he doesn’t know why. If he’s got a female client accused of homicide, he’ll try to get an all-male jury. Most of the men in this country still have a completely false concept of women’s sensibilities. They think women are inherently incapable of killing. So they vote Not Guilty. That’s why I think there should be an ECA.”

  “An ECA?”

  “Sure,” he said innocently. “To go along with the ERA, the Equal Rights Amendment. ECA, the Equal Conviction Amendment.”

  “Bastard,” she said, kicking him under the table.

  They walked home slowly through the warm, sticky summer night.

  “Edward,” Monica said, “back there in the restaurant you said you thought the killer would surrender quietly, with relief. Why relief?”

  “I think she’s getting tired,” Delaney said, and explained to his wife why he believed that. “Also, Dr. Ho thinks that emotional stress could be triggering an Addisonian crisis. It all ties in: a sick woman coming to the end of her rope.”

  “Then you believe she is sick?”

  “Physically, not mentally. She knows the difference between right and wrong. But the laws regarding insanity and culpability are so screwed-up that it’s impossible to predict how a judge or jury might decide. They could say she’s usually sane but killed in moments of overwhelming madness. Temporary insanity. It’s really not important. Well, it is important, but it’s not the concern of cops. Our only job is to stop her.”

  “Good luck tomorrow morning,” Monica said faintly. “Will you call me?”

  He took her arm.

  “If you want me to,” he said.

  Edward X. Delaney slept well that night. In the morning he was amused to find himself dressing with special care for the meeting at Midtown Precinct North.

  “Like I was going to a wedding,” he mentioned to Monica. “Or a funeral.”

  He wore a three-piece suit of navy blue tropical worsted, a white shirt with starched collar, a wide cravat of maroon rep. His wife tucked a foulard square into the breast pocket of his jacket, one flowered edge showing. Delaney poked the silk down the moment he was out of the house.

  As many men as possible crowded into the conference room upstairs at Midtown Precinct North. Lieutenant Crane, Sergeant Broderick, Boone, Bentley, Delaney, and Thorsen got the chairs. The others stood against the walls. Men milled about in the corridor outside, waiting for news. Good or bad.

  “Okay, Tom,” Sergeant Boone said to Broderick, “it’s all yours.”

  “What I got here first,” the detective sergeant said, “is an alphabetical list of female victims of Addison’s living in Manhattan. Sixteen names.”

  “Right,” Lieutenant Wilson T. Crane said, shuffling through the stack of typed lists in front of him. “What I have is a list of females who work or reside in Manhattan and who, one way or another, have access to a schedule of hotel conventions. Let’s go …”

  “First name,” Broderick said, “is Alzanas. A-l-z-a-n-a-s. Marie. That’s Marie Alzanas.”

  Lieutenant Crane pored over his list, flipped a page.

  “No,” he said, “haven’t got her. Next?”

  “Carson, Elizabeth J. That’s C-a-r-s-o-n.”

  “Carson, Carson, Carson … I’ve got a Muriel Carson.”

  “No good. This one is Elizabeth J. Next name is Domani, Doris. That’s D-o-m-a-n-i.”

  “No, no Domani.”

  “Edwards, Marilyn B. E-d-w-a-r-d-s.”

  “No Marilyn B. Edwards.”

  The roll call of names continued slowly. The other men in the room were silent. The men in the hallway had quieted. They could hear noises from downstairs, the occasional sound of a siren starting up. But their part of the building seemed hushed, waiting …

  “Jackson,” Sergeant Broderick intoned. “Grace T. Jackson. J-a-c-k-s-o-n.”

  “No Grace T. Jackson,” Lieutenant Crane said. “Next?”

  “Kohler. K-o-h-l-e-r. First name Zoe. Z-o-e. That’s Zoe Kohler.”

  Crane’s finger ran down the page. Stopped. He looked up.

  “Got her,” he said. “Zoe Kohler.”

  A sigh like a wind in the room. Men slumped, expressionless. They lighted cigarettes.

  “All right,” Sergeant Boone said, “finish the list. There may be more than one.”

  They waited quietly, patiently, while Sergeant Broderick completed his list of names. Zoe Kohler was the only name duplicated on Crane’s convention schedule access list.

  “Zoe Kohler,” Delaney said. “Where did you find her, Broderick?”

  “She bought a medical ID bracelet for Addison’s disease and an emergency kit at a pharmacy on Twenty-third Street.”

  “Crane?” the Chief asked.

  “We’ve got her listed at the Hotel Granger on Madison and Forty-sixth Street. Access to the hotel trade magazine that publishes the convention schedule every week.”

  They stared at each other, looks going around the room, no one wanting to speak.

  “Sergeant,” Delaney said to Abner Boone, “is Johnson down at Midtown South?”

  “If he’s not there, one of his guys will be. The phone is manned.”

  “Give him a call. Ask if the Hotel Granger, Madison and Forty-sixth, is on the list of tear gas customers.”

  They all listened as Boone made the call. He asked the man at the other end to check the list for the Hotel Granger. He heard the reply, grunted his thanks, hung up. He looked around at the waiting men.

  “Bingo,” he said softly. “The security chief at the Granger bought the stuff. Four pocket-size spray dispensers and three grenades.”

  Sergeant Broderick pushed his chair back with a clatter.

  “Let’s pick her up,” he said loudly.

  Delaney whirled on him furiously.

  “What are you going to do?” he demanded. “Beat a confession out of her with a rubber hose? What kind of a garbage arrest would that be? She’s got Addison’s disease, she reads a hotel trade magazine, and the place where she works bought some tear gas. Take that to the DA and he’ll throw your ass out the window.”

  “What do you suggest, Edward?” Thorsen asked.

  “Button her up. At least two men on her around the clock. Better include a policewoman in the tail, in case she goes into a John. Put an undercover man where she works. Broderick, where does she live?”

  The sergeant consulted his file.

  “Thirty-ninth Street, east. The address sounds like it would be near Lex.”

  “Probably an apartment house. If it is, get an undercover man in there as a porter or something. Find a friendly judge and get a phone tap authorization. Around the clock. I mean, know exactly where she is every minute of the day and night. Where she goes. Who her friends are. It’ll give us time to do more digging.”

  “Like what, Chief?” Boone said.

  “A lot of things. How did she get hold of the tear gas, for instance. Get a photo of her with a long-distance lens and show it to that waiter at the Tribunal and to the cocktail waitress out on the Coast.”

  “I’ve got her doctor’s name and address,” Sergeant Broderick offered.

  “It�
��s a possibility,” Delaney said. “He probably won’t talk, but it’s worth a try. The important thing is to keep this woman covered until she proves out, one way or the other. Meanwhile, Broderick, I suggest you check the rest of your lists against Lieutenant Crane’s. There may be more duplications.”

  Deputy Thorsen, Delaney, and Boone left the conference room and went into the sergeant’s office. The men in the corridor had heard the news and were talking excitedly.

  “Sergeant,” the Chief said, “you’re going to have your hands full keeping a lid on this. If Zoe Kohler’s name gets to reporters, and they print it, we’re finished. She’ll go back into the woodwork.”

  “Wait a minute, Edward,” Thorsen said. “What are you figuring—that she’ll try another kill, and we catch her at it?”

  “It may come to that,” Delaney said grimly. “I hope not, but it may turn out to be the only way we can make a case. She’s due again late this month.”

  “Jesus,” Sergeant Boone breathed, “that’s a dangerous way to make a case. If we fuck it up, we’ll have another stiff on our hands and we’ll all be out on the street.”

  “It may be the only way,” Delaney insisted stubbornly. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but we may have to let her try. Meanwhile, make sure your men keep their mouths shut.”

  “Yeah,” Boone said, “I better give them the word right now.”

  “And while you’re at it,” the Chief said, “call Johnson again. Tell him not to send a man to check out that tear gas at the Hotel Granger until we figure out how to handle it and give him the word.”

  “Right,” Boone said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  He left the office.

  “Edward,” Thorsen said nervously, “are you serious about letting that woman try another killing?”

  “Ivar,” Delaney said patiently, “it may turn out to be the only way we can step on her. You better be prepared for it. Right now, at this moment, we haven’t got enough for a clean arrest, let alone an indictment. Believe me, nothing makes a stronger case than ‘caught in the act.’ ”

  “If we catch her in time,” the Deputy said mournfully.

  Delaney shrugged. “Sometimes you have to take the risk. But it may not come to that. We’ve got two weeks before she hits again. If she follows the pattern, that is. We can do a lot in two weeks. With the round-the-clock tail and the phone tap, we may be able to make a case before she tries again.”