The 1st Deadly Sin

3

It began to come together. Slowly. What he had set in motion. The first report on the 116 names came from the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles: a neatly folded computer printout, an original and six copies. Delaney took a quick look, noted there were 11 individuals listed, tore off a carbon for his own file, and took the report over to Monica Gilbert. He explained what he wanted:

“It’s easy to read once you get the hang of it. It’s computer printing-all capitals and no punctuation-but don’t let that throw you. Now the first one listed is AVERY JOHN H on East Seventy-ninth Street. You have Avery’s card?”

Obediently she flipped through her file and handed him the card.

“Good. Now Avery was charged with going through an unattended toll booth without tossing fifty cents in the hopper. Pleaded guilty, paid a fine. It’s printed here in a kind of official lingo, but I’m sure you can make it out. Now I’d like you to make a very brief notation on his card. If you write, ‘Toll booth-guilty-fine,’ it will be sufficient. I’d also like you to note his license number and make of car, in this case a blue Mercury. All clear?”

“I think so,” she nodded. “Let me try the next one myself. ‘BLANK DANIEL G on East Eighty-third Street; two arrests for speeding, guilty, fined. Black Corvette and then his license number. ’ Is that what you want on this card?”

“Right. In case you’re wondering, I’m not going to lean on these particular people. This report is just possible background stuff. The important returns will come from city and federal files. One more thing…”

He showed her the multicolored plastic tabs he had purchased in a stationery store, and explained the color code he had written out for her. She consulted it and clipped red tabs onto the top edges of the AVERY and BLANK cards. It looked very efficient, and he was satisfied.

Calvin Case called to report he had finished going through the Outside Life sales checks and had a file of 234 purchases of ice axes made in the past seven years. Delaney brought him a hand-drawn map of the 251st Precinct, and by the next day Case had separated those purchases made by residents of the Precinct. There were six of them. Delaney took the six sales checks, went home, and made two lists. One was for his file, one he delivered to Monica Gilbert so she could make notations on the appropriate cards and attach green plastic tabs. He had hardly returned home when she called. She was troubled because one of the six ice ax purchasers was not included in her master file of Outside Life customers. She gave him the name and address.

Delaney laughed. “Look,” he said, “don’t let it worry you. We can’t expect perfection. It was probably human error; it usually is. For some reason this particular customer wasn’t included on the mailing list. Who knows-maybe he said he didn’t want their catalogue; he doesn’t like junk mail. Just make out a card for him.”

“Yes, Edward.”

He was silent. It was the first time she had used his given name. She must have realized what she had done for suddenly she said, in a rush, “Yes, Captain.”

“Edward is better,” he told her, and they said goodby.

Now he could call her Monica.

Back to his records, remembering to start a new list for Thorsen headed by the single ax purchaser not included on the original list. Two days later Monica Gilbert had finished going through the new mailing list he had given her, and 34 more names were added to her master file and to the new list for Thorsen. And two days after that, Calvin Case had finished flipping through sales checks of the two additional New York stores that sold ice axes, and the names of three more purchasers in the 251st Precinct were added to Monica’s file, green plastic tabs attached, and the names also added to the new Thorsen list. Delaney had it delivered to the Deputy Inspector.

Meanwhile computer printouts were coming in on the original 116, and Monica Gilbert was making notations on her cards, and attaching colored tabs to indicate the source of the information. Meanwhile Calvin Case was breaking down his big file of Outside Life receipts of sales of any type of mountaineering equipment, to extract those of residents of the 251st Precinct. Meanwhile Christopher Langley was visiting official German agencies in New York to determine the manufacturer, importer, jobbers and retail outlets that handled the ice ax in the U.S. Meanwhile, Captain Edward X. Delaney was personally checking out the six people who had purchased ice axes at the other two stores. And reading “Honey Bunch” to his wife.

Ever since he had been promoted from uniformed patrolman to detective third grade, Delaney, following the advice of his first partner-an old, experienced, and alcoholic detective who called him “Buddy Boy”-had collected business cards. If he was given a card by a banker, shoe salesman, mortician, insurance agent, private investigator-whatever-he hung onto it, and it went into a little rubber-banded pack. Just as his mentor had promised, the business cards proved valuable. They provided temporary “cover.” People were impressed by them; often they were all the identification he needed to be banker, shoe salesman, mortician, insurance agent, private investigator-whatever. That little bit of pasteboard was a passport; few people investigated his identity further. When he passed printing shops advertising “100 Business Cards for $5.00” he could understand how easily conmen and swindlers operated.

Now he made a selection of his collected cards and set out to investigate personally the nine residents of the 251st Precinct who had purchased ice axes in the past seven years. He had arranged the nine names and addresses according to location, so he wouldn’t have to retrace his steps or end the day at the other end of the Precinct. This was strictly a walking job, and he dug out an old pair of shoes he had worn on similar jobs in the past. They were soft, comfortable kangaroo leather with high laced cuffs that came up over his ankles.

He waited until 9:00 a.m., then began his rounds, speaking only to doormen, supers, landlords, neighbors…

“Good morning. My name’s Barrett, of Acme Insurance. Here’s my card. But I don’t want to sell you anything. I’m looking for a man named David Sharpe. He was listed as beneficiary on one of our policies and has some money coming to him. He live here?”

“Who?”

“David Sharpe.”

“I don’t know him.”

“This is the address we have for him.”

“Nah, I never-wait…What’s his name?”

“David Sharpe.”

“Oh yeah. Chris’, he move away almost two years ago.”

“Oh. I don’t suppose you have any forwarding address?”

“Nah. Try the post office.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll try them.”

And plucking his business card back, Delaney trudged on. “Good morning. My name’s Barrett, of Acme Insurance. Here’s my card. But I don’t want to sell you anything. I’m looking for a man named Arnold K. Abel. He was listed as beneficiary on one of our policies and has some money coming to him. He-”

“Tough shit. He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah. Remember that plane crash last year? It landed short and went into Jamaica Bay.”

“Yes, I remember that.”

“Well, Abel was on it.”

“Fm sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, he was a nice guy. A lush but a nice guy. He always give me a tenner at Christmas.”

And then something happened he should have expected. “Good morning,” he started his spiel, “I’m-”

“Hell, I know you, Captain Delaney. I was on that owners’ protective committee you started. Don’t you remember me? The name’s Goldenberg.”

“Of course, Mr. Goldenberg. How are you?”

“Healthy, thank God. And you, Captain?”

“Can’t complain.”

“I was sorry to hear you retired.”

“Well…not retired exactly. Just temporary leave of absence. But things piled up and I’m spending a few hours a day helping out the new commander. You know?”

“Oh sure. Breaking him in-right?”

“Right. Now we’re looking for a man named Simmons. Walter J. Simmons. He’s not wanted or anything like that, but he was a witness to a robbery about a year ago, and now we got the guy we think pulled the job, and we hoped this Simmons could identify him.”

“Roosevelt Hospital, Captain. He’s been in there almost six months now. He’s one of these mountain climbers, and he fell and got all cracked up. From what I hear, he’ll never be the same again.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But he still may be able to testify. I better get over there. Thank you for your trouble.”

“My pleasure, Captain. Tell me the truth, what do you think about this new man, this Dorfman?”

“Good man,” Delaney said promptly.

“With these three murders we’ve had in the last few months and the dingaling still running around free? What’s this Dorfman doing about that?”

“Well, it’s out of his hands, Mr. Goldenberg. The investigation is being handled personally by Deputy Commissioner Broughton.”

“I read, I read. But it’s Dorfman’s precinct-right?”

“Right,” Delaney said sadly.

So the day went. It was a disaster. Of the nine ice ax purchasers, three had moved out of the precinct, one had died, one was hospitalized, and one had been on a climbing tour in Europe for the past six months.

That left three possibles. Delaney made a hurried visit to Barbara, then spent the evening checking out the three, this time questioning them personally, giving his name and showing his shield and identification. He didn’t tell them the reason for his questions, and they didn’t ask. The efforts of Delaney, New York Police Department, were no more productive than those of Barrett, Acme Insurance.

One purchaser was an octogenarian who had bought the ax as a birthday present for a 12-year-old great-grandson.

One was a sprightly, almost maniacal young man who assured Delaney he had given up mountain climbing for skydiving. “Much more machismo, man!” At Delaney’s urging, he dug his ax out of a back closet. It was dusty, stained, pitted with rust, and the Captain wondered if it had ever been used, for anything.

The third was a young man who, when he answered Delaney’s ring, seemed at first sight to fit the profile: tall, slender, quick, strong. But behind him, eyeing the unexpected visitor nervously and curiously, was his obviously pregnant wife. Their apartment was a shambles of barrels and cartons; Delaney had interrupted their packing; they were moving in two days since, with the expected new arrival, they would need more room. When the Captain brought up the subject of the ice ax, they both laughed. Apparently, one of the conditions she had insisted on, before marrying him, was that he give up mountain climbing. So he had, and quite voluntarily he showed Delaney his ice ax. They had been using it as a general purpose hammer; the head was scarred and nicked. Also, they had tried to use the spike to pry open a painted-shut window and suddenly, without warning, the pick of the ice ax had just snapped off. And it was supposed to be steel. Wasn’t that the damndest thing? they asked. Delaney agreed despondently it was the damndest thing he ever heard.

He walked home slowly, thinking he had been a fool to believe it would be easy. Still, it was the obvious thing to trace weapon to source to buyer. It had to be done, and he had done it. Nothing. He knew how many other paths he could now take, but it was a disappointment; he admitted it. He had hoped-just hoped-that one of those cards with the green plastic tab would be the one.

His big worry was time. All this checking of sales receipts and list making and setting up of card files and questioning innocents-time! It all took days and weeks, and meanwhile this nut was wandering the streets and, as past histories of similar crimes indicated, the intervals between murders became shorter and shorter.

When he got home he found a package Mary had signed for. He recognized it as coming from Thorsen by commercial messenger. He tore it open and when he saw what it was, he didn’t look any further. It was a report from the Records Division, New York Police Department, including the Special Services Branch. That completed the check on criminal records of the original 116 names.

He had been doing a curious thing. As reports came in from federal, state, and local authorities, he had been tearing off a carbon for his files, then delivering the other copies to Monica Gilbert for notation and tabbing in her master file. He didn’t read the reports himself; he didn’t even glance at them. He told himself the reason for this was that he couldn’t move on individuals with criminal records until all the reports were in and recorded on Monica’s file cards. Then he’d be able to see at a glance how many men had committed how many offenses. That’s what he told himself.

He also told himself he was lying-to himself.

The real reason he was following this procedure was very involved, and he wasn’t quite sure he understood it. First of all, being a superstitious cop, he had the feeling that Monica Gilbert had brought him and would bring him luck. Somehow, through her efforts, solely or in part, he’d find the lead he needed. The second thing was that he hoped these computer printouts of criminal records would lead to the killer and thus prove to Monica he had merely been logical and professional when he had requested them. He had seen it in her eyes when he told her what he was about to do; she had thought him a brutal, callous-well, a cop, who had no feeling or sympathy for human frailty. That was, he assured himself, simply not true.

Unlacing his high shoes, peeling off his sweated socks, he paused a moment, sock in hand, and wondered why her good opinion of him was so important to him. He thought of her, of her heavy muscular haunches moving slowly under the thin black dress, and he realized to his shame that he was beginning to get an erection. He had had no sex since Barbara became ill, and his “sacrifice” seemed so much less than her pain that he couldn’t believe what he was dreaming: the recent widow of a murder victim…while Barbara…and he…He snorted with disgust at himself, took a tepid shower, donned fresh pajamas, and got out of bed an hour later, wide-eyed and frantic, to gulp two sleeping pills.

He delivered the new report to her the next morning and refused her offer to stay for coffee and Danish. Did she seem hurt? He thought so. Then, sighing, he spent a whole day-time! time! — doing what he had to do and what he knew would be of no value whatsoever: he checked those purchasers of ice axes who had moved, died, were abroad, or hospitalized. The results, as he knew they would, added up to zero. They really had moved, died, were abroad, or hospitalized.

Mary had left a note that Mrs. Gilbert had called, and would the Captain please call her back. So he did, immediately, and there was no coolness in her voice he could detect. She told him she had completed noting all the reported criminal records in her master file, and had attached appropriately colored plastic tabs. He asked her if she’d care to have lunch with him at 1:00 p.m. the following day, and she accepted promptly.

They ate at a local seafood restaurant and had identical luncheons: crabmeat salads with a glass of white wine. They spent a pleasant hour and half together, talking of the pains and pleasures of life in the city. She told him of her frustrated efforts to grow geraniums in window boxes; he told her of how, for years, Barbara and he had tried to grow flowers and flowering shrubs in their shaded backyard, had finally surrendered to the soot and sour soil, and let the ivy take over. Now it was a jungle of ivy and, surprisingly, rather pretty.

He told her about Barbara while they sipped coffee. She listened intently and finally asked:

“Do you think you should change doctors?”

“I don’t know what to do,” he confessed. “He’s always been her physician, and she has great faith in him. I couldn’t bring someone else in without her permission. He’s trying everything he can, I’m sure. And there are consultants in on this. But she shows no improvement. In fact, it seems to me she’s just wasting away, just fading. My son was up to visit a few weeks ago and was shocked at how she looked. So thin and flushed and drawn. And occasionally now she’s irrational. Just for short periods of time.”

“That could be the fever, or even the antibiotics she’s getting.”

“I suppose so,” he nodded miserably. “But it frightens me. She was always so-so sharp and perceptive. Still is, when she isn’t floating off in never-never land. Well…I didn’t invite you to lunch to cry on your shoulder. Tell me about your girls. How are they getting along in school?”

She brightened, and told him about their goodness and deviltry, things they had said and how different their personalities were, one from the other. He listened with interest, smiling, remembering the days when Eddie and Liza were growing up, and wondering if he was now paying for that happiness.

“Well,” he said, after she finished her coffee, “can we go back to your place? I’d like to take a look at that card file. All the reports finished?”

“Yes,” she nodded, “everything’s entered. I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”

“I usually am,” he said wryly.

“Oh well,” she smiled, “these are only the unsuccessful criminals.”

“Pardon?” he asked, not realizing at first that she was teasing him.

“Well, when a man has a record, it proves he was an inefficient criminal, doesn’t it? He got caught. If he was good at his job, he wouldn’t have a record.”

“Yes,” he laughed. “You’re right.”

They stood and moved to the cashier’s desk, Delaney had his wallet out, but the manager, who had apparently been waiting for this moment, moved in close, smiling, and said to the cashier, “No check for Captain Delaney.”

He looked up in surprise. “Oh…hello, Mr. Varro. How are you?”

“Bless God, okay, Captain. And you?”

“Fine. Thanks for the offer, but I’m afraid I can’t accept it, I’m not on active duty, you know. Leave of absence. And besides-” He gestured toward Monica Gilbert who was watching this scene closely. “-this young lady is a witness, and I wouldn’t want her to think I was accepting a bribe.”

They all laughed-an easy laugh.

“Tell you what,” Delaney said, paying his bill, “next time I’ll come in alone, order the biggest lobster in the house, and let you pick up the tab. Okay?”

“Sure, okay,” Varro smiled. “You know me. Anytime, Captain.”

They walked toward Monica’s apartment, and she looked up at him curiously. “Will you?” she asked. “Stop in for a free meal, I mean?”

“Sure,” he said cheerfully. “He’d be hurt if I didn’t. Varro is all right. The best men stop in for coffee almost every day. The squad car men do, too. Not all of them take, but I’d guess most of them do. It doesn’t mean a thing. Happens in a hundred restaurants and bars and hotdog stands and pizza parlors in the Precinct. Are you going to say, ‘Petty graft’? You’re right, but most cops are struggling to get their kids to college on a cop’s pay, and a free lunch now and then is more important than you think. When I said it doesn’t mean a thing, I meant that if any of these generous owners and managers get out of line, they’ll be leaned on like anyone else. A free cup of coffee doesn’t entitle them to anything but a friendly hello. Besides, Varro owes me a favor. About two years ago he discovered he was losing stuff from his storeroom. It wasn’t the usual pilferage-a can or package now and then. This stuff was disappearing in cases. So he came to me, and I called in Jeri Fernandez who was lieutenant of our precinct detective squad at that time. Jeri put a two-man stakeout watching the back alley. The first night they were there-the first night! — this guy pulls up to the back door in a station wagon, unlocks the door cool as you please, and starts bringing up cases and cartons and bags from the basement and loading his wagon. They waited until he had the wagon full and was locking the back door. Then they moved in.”

“What did they do?” she asked breathlessly.

Delaney laughed. “They made him unload his station wagon and carry all that stuff back down to the basement again and store it neatly away. They said he was puffing like a whale by the time he got through. He was one of the assistant chefs there and had keys to the back door and storeroom. It really wasn’t important enough to bring charges. It would have meant impounding evidence, a lot of paperwork for everyone, time lost in court, and the guy probably would have been fined and put on probation if it was his first offense. So after he finished putting everything back the way it was, Jeri’s boys worked him over. Nothing serious. I mean he didn’t have to go to the hospital or anything like that, but I suppose they marked him up some-a few aches and pains. And of course he was fired. The word got around, and Varro hasn’t lost a can of salad oil since. That’s why he wanted to buy our lunch.”

He looked at her, smiling, and saw her shiver suddenly.

“It’s a whole different world,” she said in a low voice.

“What is?”

But she didn’t answer.

She was right; the criminal records were a disappointment. What he had been hoping was that when the computer printouts were collated and entered on the file cards, there would be a few or several cards with a perfect forest of multicolored plastic tabs clipped to their upper edges, indicating significant criminal records that might show a pattern of psychopathic and uncontrollable violence.

Instead, the card file was distressingly bare. There was one card with three tabs, two with two tabs, and 43 with one tab. None of the nine purchasers of ice axes, who Delaney had already checked out, had a criminal record.

While he went through the tabbed cards, slowly, working at Monica’s kitchen table, she had brought in mending, donned a pair of rimless spectacles, and began making a hem on one of the girl’s dresses, working swiftly, making small stitches, a thimble and scissors handy. When he had finished the cards, he pushed the file box away from him, and the sound made her look up. He gave her a bleak smile.

“You’re right,” he said. “A disappointment. One rape, one robbery, one assault with a deadly weapon. And my God, have you ever seen so many income tax frauds in your life!”

She smiled slightly and went back to her sewing. He sat brooding, tapping his pencil eraser lightly on the table top.

“Of course, this is a good precinct,” he said, thinking aloud as much as he was talking to her. “I mean ‘good’ in the sense of better than East Harlem and Bedford-Stuyvesant. The per capita income is second highest of all the precincts in the city, and the rates of crimes of violence are in the lower third. I’m speaking of Manhattan, Bronx, and Brooklyn now. Not Queens and Staten Island. So I should have expected a high preponderance of white-collar crime. Did you notice the tax evasions, unscrupulous repair estimates, stock swindles-things like that? But still…What I didn’t really consider is that all these cards, all these individuals-by the way, did you see that there are only four women in the whole file? — these individuals are all presumably mountain climbers or have bought gifts for mountain climbers or are outdoorsmen of one type or another: hunters, fishermen, boat owners, hikers, campers, and so forth. That means people with enough money for a leisure hobby. And lack of money is usually the cause of violent crime. So what we’ve got is a well-to-do precinct and a file of people who can afford to spend money, heavy money, on their leisuretime activities. I guess I was foolish to expect mountain climbers and deep-sea fishermen to have the same percentage of records as people in the ghettos. Still…it is a disappointment.”

“Discouraged?” she asked quietly, not looking up.

“Monica,” he said, and at this tone of voice she did look up to find him smiling at her. “I’m never discouraged,” he said. “Well…hardly ever. I’ll check out the rape, the robbery, and the assault. If nothing comes of that, there’s a lot more I can do. I’m just getting started.”

She nodded, and went back to her mending. He took notes on the three records of violent crimes included on the file cards. For good measure, although he thought the chances were nil, he added the names and addresses of men convicted of vandalism, extortion, and safe-breaking. He glanced at his watch, a thick hunter his grandfather had owned, and saw he had time to check out three or four of the men with records.

He rose, she put aside her sewing and stood up, and they took off their glasses simultaneously, and laughed together, it seemed like such an odd thing.

“I hope your wife is feeling better soon,” she said, walking him to the door.

“Thank you.”

“I’d-I’d like to meet her,” she said faintly. “That is, if you think it’s all right. I mean, I have time on my hands now that the file is finished, and I could go over and sit with-”

He turned to her eagerly. “Would you? My God, that would be wonderful! I know you two will get along. She’ll like you, and you’ll like her. I try to get there twice a day, but sometimes I don’t. We have friends who come to see her. At least at first they did. But-you know-they don’t come too often anymore. I’ll go over with you and introduce you, and then if you could just stop by occasionally.

“Of course. I’ll be happy to.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind. And thank you for having lunch with me. I really enjoyed it.”

She held out her hand. He was surprised, a second, then grasped it, and they shook. Her grip was dry, her flesh firm, the hand unexpectedly strong.

He went out into the dull winter afternoon, the sky tarnished pewter, and glanced at his list to see who he should hit first. But curiously he was not thinking of the list, nor of Monica Gilbert, nor of Barbara. Something was nibbling at the edge of his mind, something that had to do with the murders. It was something he had heard recently; someone had said something. But what it was he could not identify. It hovered there, tantalizing, teasing, until finally he shook his head, put it away from him, and started tramping the streets.

He got home a little after ten that evening, his feet aching (he had not worn his “cop shoes”), and so soured with frustration that he whistled and thought of daffodils-anything to keep from brooding on false leads and time wasted. He soaked under a hot shower and washed his hair. That made him feel a little better. He pulled on pajamas, robe, slippers, and went down to the study.

During the afternoon and evening he had checked out five of the six on his list. The rapist and the robber were still in prison. The man convicted of assault with a deadly weapon had been released a year ago, but was not living at the address given. It would have to be checked with his parole officer in the morning. Of the other three, the safe-breaker was still in prison, the vandal had moved to Florida two months ago and considerately left a forwarding address, and Delaney was just too damned tired to look for the extortionist, but would the next day.

He stolidly wrote out reports on all his activities and added them to his files. Then he made his nightly tour of inspection, trying locks on all windows and outside doors. Lights out and up to bed. It wasn’t midnight, but he was weary. He was really getting too old for this kind of nonsense. No pill tonight. Blessed sleep would come easily.

While he waited for it, he wondered if it was wise to introduce Monica Gilbert to his wife. He had said they would hit it off, and they probably would. Barbara would certainly feel sympathy for a murder victim’s widow. But would she think…would she imagine…But she had asked him to…Oh, he didn’t know, couldn’t judge. He’d bring them together, once at least, and see what happened.

Then he turned his thoughts to what had been nagging his brain since he left Monica’s apartment that afternoon. He was a firm believer in the theory that if you fell asleep with a problem on your mind-a word you were trying to remember, an address, a name, a professional or personal dilemma-you would awake refreshed and the magic solution would be there, the problem solved in your subconscious while you slept.

He awoke the next morning, and the problem still existed, gnawing at his memory. But now it was closer; it was something Monica had said at their luncheon. He tried to remember their conversation in every detail: she had talked about her geraniums, he had talked about his ivy; she had talked about her children, he had talked about Barbara. Then Varro tried to pick up the check, and he, Delaney, told her about the break-in at the restaurant. But what the hell did all that have to do with the price of eggs in China? He shook his head disgustedly and went in to shave.

He spent the morning tracking down the extortionist, the last man of the six in Monica Gilbert’s file with a record of even mildly violent crime. Delaney finally found him pressing pants in a little tailor shop on Second Avenue. The extortionist was barely five feet tall, at least 55 and 175 lbs., pasty-faced, with trembling hands and watery eyes. What in God’s name did he ever extort? Delaney muttered something about “mistaken identity” and departed as fast as he could, leaving the fat little man in a paroxysm of trembling and watering.

He went directly to the hospital, helped feed Barbara her noon meal, and then read to her for almost an hour from “Honey Bunch: Her First Little Garden.” Strangely, the reading soothed him as much as it did her, and when he returned home he was in a somber but not depressed mood-a mood to work steadily without questioning the why’s or wherefore’s.

He spent an hour on his personal affairs: checks, investments, bank balances, tax estimates, charitable contributions. He cleaned up the month’s accumulated shit, paid what he had to pay, wrote a letter to his accountant, made out a deposit for his savings account and a withdrawal against his checking account for current expenses.

Envelopes were sealed, stamped, and put on the hall table where he’d be sure to see them and pick them up for mailing the next time he went out. Then he returned to the study, drew the long legal pad toward him, and began listing his options.

1. He could begin personally investigating every name in Monica’s card file. He estimated there were about 155.

2. He could wait for Christopher Langley’s report, and then contact, by mail or phone, every retail outlet for the West German ice ax in the U.S.

3. He could wait for Calvin Case’s file of everyone in the 251st Precinct who had bought any kind of mountaineering equipment whatsoever from Outside Life and that other store that had supplied a mailing list, and then he could ask Monica to double-check her file to make certain she had a card for every customer.

4. He could go back to the store that refused to volunteer sales checks and mailing list, and he could lean on them. If that didn’t work, he could ask Thorsen what the chances were for a search warrant.

5. He could recheck his own investigations of the nine ice ax purchases and the six men in the file with a record of violent crime.

6. He could finally get to his early idea of determining if there was a magazine for mountain climbers and he could borrow their subscription list; if there was a club or society of mountain climbers and he could borrow their membership list; and if it was possible to check the local library on residents of the 251st Precinct who had withdrawn books on mountaineering.

7. If it came to it, he would personally check out every goddamn name of every goddamn New Yorker on the goddamn Outside Life mailing list. There were probably about 10,000 goddamn New Yorkers included, and he’d hunt down every goddamn one of them.

But he was just blathering, and he knew it. If he was commanding the 500 detectives in Operation Lombard he could do it, but not by himself in much less than five years. How many murder victims would there be by then? Oh?…probably not more than a thousand or so.

But all this was cheesy thinking. One thing was bothering him, and he knew what it was. When Monica called him to report that one of the ice ax purchasers in Calvin Case’s file hadn’t been included on her Outside Life mailing list, he had laughed it off as “human error.” No one is perfect. People do make mistakes, errors of commission or omission. Quite innocently, of course.

What if Calvin Case, late at night and weary, flipped by the sales check of an ice ax purchaser?

What if Christopher Langley had missed a store in the New York area that sold axes?

What if Monica Gilbert had somehow skipped a record of violent crime on one of the computer reports she noted on her file cards?

And what if he, Captain Edward X. Delaney, had the solution to the whole fucking mess right under his big, beaky nose and couldn’t see it because he was stupid, stupid, stupid?

Human errors. And professionals were just as prone to them as Delaney’s amateurs. That was why Chief Pauley sent different men back to check the same facts, why he repeated interrogations twice, sometimes three times. My God, even computers weren’t perfect. But was there anything he could do about it? No.

So the Captain read over his list of options again and tossed it aside. A lot of shit. He called Monica Gilbert.

“Monica? Edward. Am I disturbing you?”

“Oh no.”

“Do you have a few minutes?”

“Do you want to come over?”

“Oh no. I just want to talk to you. About our lunch yesterday. You said something, and I can’t remember what it was. I have a feeling it’s important, and it’s been nagging at me, and I can’t for the life of me remember it.”

“What was it?”

He broke up: a great blast of raucous laughter. Finally he spluttered, “If I knew, I wouldn’t be calling, would I? What did we talk about?”

She wasn’t offended by his laughter. “Talk about?” she said. “Let’s see…I told you about my window boxes, and you told me about your backyard. And then you spoke about your wife’s illness, and then we talked about my girls. Going out, the manager tried to pick up the check, and you wouldn’t let him. On the way home you told me about the assistant chef who was robbing him.”

“No, no,” he said impatiently. “It must have been something to do with the case. Did we discuss the case while we were eating?”

“Nooo…” she said doubtfully. “After we finished coffee you said we’d come back to my place and you’d go over the cards. Oh yes. You asked if I had finished entering all the reports on the cards, and I said I had.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yes. Edward, what is this-No, wait a minute. I was teasing you. I said something about the records from the computers just showing unsuccessful criminals, because if they were good at their jobs, they wouldn’t have any record, and you laughed and said that was so.”

He was silent a moment.

“Monica,” he said finally.

“Yes, Edward?”

“I love you,” he said, laughing and keeping it light.

' “You mean that's what you wanted?”

“That’s exactly what I wanted.”

His erratic memory flashed back now, and he recalled talking to Detective Lieutenant Jeri Fernandez on the steps leading up to the second floor of the precinct house. That was when they were breaking up the precinct detective squads.

“What did you get?” Delaney had asked.

“I drew a Safe, Loft, and Truck Division in midtown,” Fernandez had said disgustedly.

Now Delaney called Police Information, identified himself, told the operator what he wanted: the telephone number of the new Safe, Loft and Truck Division in midtown Manhattan. He was shunted twice more-it took almost five minutes-but eventually he got the number and, carefully crossing his fingers, dialed and asked for Lieutenant Fernandez. His luck was in; the detective picked up the phone after eight rings. “Lieutenant Fernandez.”

“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

There was a second of silence, then a jubilant, “Captain! Jesus Christ! This is great! How the hell are you, Captain?”

“Just fine, lieutenant. And you?”

“Up to my ears in shit. Captain, this new system just ain’t working. I can tell you. It’s a lot of crap. You think I know what’s going on? I don’ know what’s going on. No one knows what’s going on. We got guys in here from every precinct in town. They set us all down here, and we’re supposed to know all about the garment business. Pilferage, hijacking, fraud, arson, safecracking, the mob-the whole bit. Captain, it’s wicked. I tell you, it’s wicked/”

“Take it easy,” Delaney soothed. “Give it a little time. Maybe it’ll work out.”

“Work out my ass,” Fernandez shouted. “Yesterday two of my boys caught a spade taking packages out of the back of a U.S. Mail parcel post truck. Can you imagine that? In broad daylight. It’s parked at Thirty-fourth and Madison, and this nut is calmly dragging out two heavy packages and strolling off with them. The U.S. Mail!”

“Lieutenant,” Delaney said patiently, “the reason I called, I need some help from you.”

“Help?” Fernandez cried. “Jesus Christ, Captain, you name it you got it. You know that. What is it?”

“I remember your telling me, just before the precinct squad was broken up, that you had been working on your open files and sending them to the new detective districts, depending on the nature of the crime.”

“That’s right, Captain. Took us weeks to get cleaned out.”

“Well, what about the garbage? You know-the beef sheets, reports on squeals, tips, diaries, and so forth?”

“All the shit? Most of it was thrung out. What could we do with it? We was sent all over the city, and maybe only one or two guys would be working in the Two-five-one. It was all past history anyway-right? So I told the boys to trash the whole lot and-”

“Well, thanks very much,” Delaney said heavily. “I guess that-”

“-except for the last year,” Fernandez kept talking, ignoring the Captain’s interruption. “I figured the new stuff might mean something to somebody, so we kept the paper that came in the last year, but everything else was thrung out.”

“Oh?” Delaney said, still alive. “What did you do with it?”

“It’s down in the basement of the precinct house. You know when you go down the stairs and the locker room is off to your right and the detention cells on your left? Well, you go past the cells and past the drunk tank, then turn right. There’s this hallway that leads to a flight of stairs and the back door.”

“Yes, I remember that. We always closed off that hallway during inspections.”

“Right. Well, along that hallway is the broom closet where they keep mops and pails and all that shit, and then farther on toward the back door there’s this little storage room with a lot of crap in it. I think it used to be a torture chamber in the old days.”

“Yes,” Delaney laughed. “Probably was.”

“Sure, Captain. The walls are thick and that room’s got no windows, so who could hear the screams? Who knows how many crimes got solved in there-right? Anyways, that’s where we dumped all the garbage files. But just for the last year. That any help?”

“A lot of help. Thank you very much, lieutenant.”

“My pleasure, Captain. Listen, can I ask you a favor now?”

“Of course.”

“It’s a one-word favor: HELP! Captain, you got influence and a good rep. Get me out of here, will you? I’m dying here. I don’t like the spot and I don’t like the guys I’m with. I shuffle papers around all day like some kind of Manchurian idiot, and you think I know what I’m doing? I don’ know my ass from my elbow. I want to get out on the street again. The street I know. Can you work it, Captain?”

“What do you want?”

“Assault-Homicide or Burglary,” Fernandez said promptly. “I’ll even take Narcotics. I know I can’t hope for Vice; I ain’t pretty enough.”

“Well…” Delaney said slowly, “I can’t promise you anything, but let me see what I can do. Maybe I can work something.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Fernandez said cheerfully. “Many thanks, Captain.”

“Thank you, lieutenant.”

He hung up and stared at the telephone, thinking of what Fernandez had told him. It was a long shot, of course, but it shouldn’t take more than a day, and it was better than resigning himself to one of those seven options on his list, most of which offered nothing but hard, grinding labor with no guarantees of success.

When Monica Gilbert had repeated her teasing remark about successful criminals having no record, he had to recognize its truth. But Monica wasn’t aware that between a criminal’s complete freedom and formal charges against him existed a halfworld of documentation: of charges dismissed, of arrests never made because of lack of adequate evidence, of suits settled out of court, of complaints dropped because of dollar bribery or physical threats, of trials delayed or rejected simply because of the horrific backlog of court cases and the shortage of personnel.

But most of these judicial abortions had a history, a written record that existed somewhere. And part of it was in detectives’ paperwork: the squeals and beef sheets and diaries and records of “Charge dropped,”

“Refused to press charges,”

“Agreed to make restitution,”

“Let off with warning,”-all the circumlocutions to indicate that the over-worked detective, using patient persuasion in most cases, with or without the approval of his superior officer, had kept a case off the court calendar.

Most judicial adjustments were of a minor nature, and a product of the investigating officer’s experience and common sense. Two men in a bar, both liquored up, begin beating on each others’ faces with their fists. The police are called. Each antagonist wants the other arrested on charges of assault. What is the cop to do? If he’s smart, he gives both a tongue-lashing, threatens to arrest both for disturbing the peace, and sends them off in opposite directions. No pain, no strain, no paperwork with formal charges, warrants, time lost in court-an ache in the ass to everyone. And the judge would probably listen incredulously for all of five minutes and then throw both plaintiff and defendant out of his court.

But if the matter is a little more serious than a barroom squabble, if damage has been done to property or someone has suffered obvious injury, then the investigating officer might move more circumspectly. It can still be settled out of court, with the cop acting as judge and jury. It can be settled by voluntary withdrawal of charges, by immediate payment of money to the aggrieved party by the man who has wronged him, by mutual consent of both parties when threatened with more substantial charges by the investigating officer, or by a bribe to the cop.

This is “street justice,” and for every case that comes to trial in a walnut-paneled courtroom, a hundred street trials are held every hour of every day in every city in the country, and the presiding magistrate is a cop-plainclothes detective or uniformed patrolman. And honest or venal, he is the kingpin of the whole ramshackle, tottering, ridiculous, working system of “street justice,” and without him the already overclogged formal courts of the nation would be inundated, drowned in a sea of pettifoggery, and unable to function.

The conscientious investigating officer will or will not make a written report of the case, depending on his judgement of its importance. But if the investigating officer is a plainclothes detective, and if the case involves people of an obviously higher social status than sidewalk brawlers, and if formal charges have been made by anyone, and one or more visits to the precinct house have been made, then the detective will almost certainly make a written report of what happened, who did what, who said what, how much injury or damage resulted. Even if the confrontation simply dissolves-charges withdrawn, no warrants issued, no trial-the detective, sighing, fills out the forms, writes his report, and stuffs all the paper in the slush heap, to be thrown out when the file is overflowing.

Knowing all this, knowing how slim his chances were of finding anything meaningful in the detritus left behind by the Precinct’s detective squad when it was disbanded, Delaney followed his cop’s instinct and phoned Lt. Marty Dorfman at the 251st Precinct, next door.

Their preliminary conversation was friendly but cool. Delaney asked after the well-being of Dorfman’s family, and the lieutenant inquired as to Mrs. Delaney’s health. It was only when the Captain inquired about conditions in the Precinct that Dorfman’s voice took on a tone of anguish and anger.

It developed that Operation Lombard was using the 251st Precinct house as command headquarters. Deputy Commissioner Broughton had taken over Lt. Dorfman’s office, and his men were filling the second floor offices and bull pen formerly occupied by the Precinct detective squad. Dorfman himself was stuck at a desk in a corner of the sergeants’ room.

He could have endured this ignominy, he suggested to Delaney, and even endured Broughton’s slights that included ignoring him completely when they met in the hallway and commandeering the Precinct’s vehicles without prior consultation with Dorfman. But what really rankled was that apparently residents of the Precinct were blaming him, Dorfman, personally for not finding the killer. In spite of what they read in the papers and saw on television about Operation Lombard, headed by Deputy Commissioner Broughton, they knew Dorfman was commander of their precinct, and they blamed him for failing to make their streets safe.

“I know,” Delaney said sympathetically. “They feel it’s your neighborhood and your responsibility.”

“Oh yes,” Dorfman sighed. “Well, I’m learning. Learning what you had to put up with. I guess it’s good experience.”

“It is,” Delaney said definitely. “The best experience of all-being on the firing line. Are you going to take the exam for captain?”

“I don’t know what to do. My wife says no. She wants me to get out, get into something else.”

“Don’t do that,” Delaney said quickly. “Hang in there. A little while longer anyway. Things might change before you know it.”

“Oh?” Dorfman asked, interested now, curious, but not wanting to pin Delaney down. “You think there may be changes?”

“Yes. Maybe sooner than you think. Don’t make any decisions now. Wait. Just wait.”

“All right, Captain. If you say so.”

“Lieutenant, the reason I called-I want to come into the Precinct house around eight or nine tomorrow morning. I want to go down to that storage room in the basement. It’s off the hallway to the back door. You know, when you pass the pens and drunk tank and turn right. I want to go through some old files stored in there. It’s slush left by the detective squad. It’ll probably take me all day, and I may remove some of the files. I want your permission.”

There was silence, and Delaney thought the connection might have been cut.

“Hello? Hello?” he said.

“I’m still here,” Dorfman said finally in a soft voice. “Yes, you have my permission. Thank you for calling first, Captain. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s your precinct.”

“So I’ve been learning. Captain…”

“What?”

“I think I know what you’ve been doing. Are you getting anywhere?”

“Nothing definite. Yet. Coming along.”

“Will the files help?”

“Maybe.”

“Take whatever you need.”

“Thank you. If I meet you, just nod and pass by. Don’t stop to talk. Broughton’s men don’t have to-”

“I understand.”

“Dorfman…”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Don’t stop studying for the captain’s exam”

“All right. I won’t.”

“I know you’ll do fine on the written, but on the oral they ask some tricky questions. One they ask every year, but it takes different forms. It goes something like this: You’re a captain with a lieutenant, three sergeants, and maybe twenty or thirty men. There’s this riot. Hippies or drunks off a Hudson River cruise or some kind of nutty mob. Maybe a hundred people hollering and breaking windows and raising hell. How do you handle it?”

There was silence. Then Dorfman said, not sure of himself, “I’d have the men form a wedge. Then, if I had a bullhorn, I’d tell the mob to disperse. If that didn’t work, I’d tell the men to-”

“No,” Delaney said. “That isn’t the answer they want. The right answer is this: you turn to your lieutenant and say. ‘Break ’em up.’ Then you turn your back on the mob and walk away. It might not be the right way. You understand? But it’s the right answer to the question. They want to make sure you know how to use command. Watch out for a question like that.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Dorfman said, and Delaney hoped they might be easing back into their earlier, closer relationship.

He thought it out carefully in his methodical way. He would wear his oldest suit, since that basement storeroom was sure to be dusty. It was probably adequately lighted with an overhead bulb, but just in case he would take along his flashlight.

Now, the room itself might be locked, and then he’d be forced to make a fuss until he found someone with the proper key. But he had never turned in his ring of master keys which, his predecessor had assured him, opened every door, cell and locker in the Precinct house. So he’d take his ring of keys along.

He didn’t know how long it would take to go through the detectives’ old files, but he judged it might be all day. He wouldn’t want to go out to eat; the less chance of being seen by Broughton’s men, or by Broughton himself, moving around the stairs and corridors, the better for everyone. So he would need sandwiches, two sandwiches, that he would ask Mary to make up for him in the morning, plus a thermos of black coffee. He would carry all this, plus the flashlight and keys, in his briefcase, which would also hold the typed lists of the cards included in Monica Gilbert’s file.

Anything else? Well, he should have some kind of cover story just in case, by bad luck, Broughton saw him, braced him, and wanted to know what the fuck he was up to. He would say, he decided, that he had just stopped by to reclaim some personal files from the basement storeroom. He would keep it as vague as possible; it might be enough to get by.

He awoke the next morning, resolutely trying not to hope, but attempting to treat this search as just another logical step that had to be taken, whether it yielded results or not. He ate an unusually large breakfast for him: tomato juice, two poached eggs on whole wheat toast, a side order of pork sausages, and two cups of black coffee.

While Mary was preparing his luncheon sandwiches and his thermos, he went into the study to call Barbara, to explain why he would be unable to see her that day. Thankfully, she was in an alert, cheery mood, and when he told her exactly what he planned to do, she approved immediately and made him promise to call her as soon as his search was completed, to report results.

His entry into the 251st Precinct house went easily, without incident. That intimidating woman, the blonde sergeant, was on the blotter when he walked in. She was leaning across the desk, talking to a black woman who was weeping. The sergeant looked up, recognized the Captain, and flapped him a halfsalute. He waved in return and marched steadily ahead, carrying his briefcase like a salesman. He went down the worn wooden staircase and turned into the detention area.

The officer on duty-on limited duty since his right arm had been knifed open by an eleven-year-old on the shit-was tilted back against the wall in an ancient armchair. He was reading a late edition of the Daily News; Delaney could see the headline: MANIAC KILLER STILL ON LOOSE. The officer glanced up, recognized the Captain, and started to scramble to his feet. Delaney waved him down, ashamed of himself for not remembering the man’s name.

“How you coming along?” he asked.

“Fine, Captain. It’s healing real good. The doc said I should be mustering in a week or so.”

“Glad to hear it. But don’t hurry it; take all the time you need. I’m going to that storeroom in the back hallway. I’ve got some personal files there I want to get.”

The officer nodded. He couldn’t care less.

“I don’t know how long it’ll take, so if I’m not out by the time you leave, please tell your relief I’m back here.”

“Okay, Captain.”

He walked past the detention cells: six cells, four occupied. He didn’t look to the right or to the left. Someone whispered to him; someone screamed. There were three men in the drunk tank lying in each others’ filth and moaning. It wasn’t the noise that bothered him, it was the smell; he had almost forgotten how bad it was: old urine, old shit, old blood, old vomit, old puss-90 years of human pain soaked into floors and walls. And coming through the miasma, like a knife thrust, the sharp, piercing carbolic odor that stung his nostrils and brought tears to his eyes.

The storeroom was locked, and it took him almost five minutes to find the right key on the big ring. And when the latch snapped open, he paused a few seconds and wondered why he hadn’t turned that ring of keys over to Dorfman. Officially, they should be in the lieutenant’s possession; it was his precinct.

He shoved the door open, found the wall switch, flipped on the overhead light, closed the door behind him and looked around. It was as bad as he had expected.

The precinct house had opened for business in 1882 and, inspecting the storeroom, Delaney guessed that every desk blotter for every one of those 90 years was carefully retained and never looked at again. They were stacked to the ceiling. An historian might do wonders with them. The Captain was amused by the thought: “A Criminal History of Our Times”-reconstructing the way our great-grandparents, grandparents, and parents lived by analyzing the evidence in those yellowing police blotters. It could be done, he thought, and it might prove revealing. Not the usual history, not the theories of philosophers, discoveries of scientists, programs of statesmen; not wars, explorations, revolutions, and new religions.

Just the petty crimes, misdemeanors, and felonies of a weak and sinning humanity. It was all there: the mayhem, frauds, child-beating, theft, drug abuse, alcoholism, kidnapping, rape, murder. It would make a fascinating record, and he wished an historian would attempt it. Something might be learned from it.

He took off his coat, hat and jacket and laid them on the least dusty crate he could find. The windowless room had a single radiator that clanked and hissed constantly, spitting out steam and water. Delaney opened the door a few inches. The air that came in was carbolic-laden, but a little cooler.

He put on his glasses and looked at what else the room held.

Mostly cardboard cartons, overflowing with files and papers.

The cartons bore on their sides the names of whiskies, rums, gins, etc., and he knew most of them came from the liquor store on First Avenue, around the corner. There were also rough wooden cases filled with what appeared to be physical evidence of long forgotten crimes: a knitted woolen glove, moth-eaten; a rusted cleaver with a broken handle; a stained upper denture; a child’s Raggedy-Ann doll; a woman’s patent leather purse, yawning empty; a broken crutch; a window-weight with black stains; a man’s fedora with one bullet hole through the crown; sealed and bulging envelopes with information jotted on their sides; a bloodied wig; a corset ripped down with a knife thrust.

Delaney turned away and found himself facing a carton of theatrical costumes. He fumbled through them and thought they might have been left from some remote Christmas pageant performed in the Precinct house by neighborhood children, the costumes provided by the cops. But beneath the cheap cotton-sleazy to begin with and now rotting away-he found an ancient Colt revolver, at least 12 inches long, rusted past all usefulness, and to the trigger guard was attached a wrinkled tag with the faded inscription: “Malone’s gun. July 16, 1902.” Malone. Who had he been-cop or killer? It made no difference now.

He finally found what he was looking for: two stacks of relatively fresh cardboard cartons containing the last year’s garbage from the detective squad’s files. Each carton held folders in alphabetical order, but the cartons themselves were stacked helter-skelter, and Delaney spent almost an hour organizing them. It was then past noon, and he sat down on a nailed wooden crate (painted on the top: “Hold for Capt. Kelly”) and ate one of his sandwiches, spiced salami and thickly sliced Spanish onion on rye bread thinly spread with mayonnaise-which he dearly loved-and drank half his thermos of coffee.

Then he got out his list of names from Monica’s cards and went to work. He had to compare list to files, and had to work standing up or kneeling or crouching. Occasionally he would spread his arms wide and bend back his spine. Twice he stepped out into the hallway and walked up and down a few minutes, trying to shake the kinks out of his legs.

He felt no elation whatsoever when he found the first file labeled with a name on his list. The address checked out. He merely put the file aside and went on with the job. It was lumbering work, like a stake-out or a 24-hour shadow. You didn’t stop to question what you were doing; it was just something that had to be done, usually to prove the “no” rather than discover the “yes.”

When he finished the last file in the last cardboard carton, it was nearly 7:00 p.m. He had long ago finished his second sandwich and the remainder of his coffee. But he wasn’t hungry; just thirsty. His nostrils and throat seemed caked with dust, but the radiator had never stopped clanking, hissing steam and water, and his shirt was plastered to armpits, chest, and back; he could smell his own sweat.

He packed carefully. Three files. Three of the people on Monica’s cards had been involved in cases of “street justice.” He tucked the files carefully in his brief case, added the empty thermos and wax paper wrappings from the sandwiches. He pulled on jacket and overcoat, put on his hat, took a final look around. If he ever came back to the Two-five-one, the first thing he’d do was have this room cleaned up. He turned off the light, stepped out into the hallway, made certain the spring lock clicked.

He walked past the drunk tank and detention cells. Two of the drunks were gone, and only one cell was occupied. There was no uniformed officer about, but he might have gone upstairs for coffee. Delaney walked up the rickety staircase and was surprised to feel his knees tremble from tiredness. Lt. Dorfman was standing near the outside door, talking to a civilian Delaney didn’t recognize. When he passed, the Captain nodded, smiling slightly, and Dorfman nodded in return, not interrupting his conversation.

In his bedroom, Delaney stripped down to his skin as quickly as he could, leaving all his soiled clothing in a damp heap on the floor. He soaked in a hot shower and soaped his hands three times but was unable to get the grime out of the pores or from under his nails. Then he found a can of kitchen cleanser in the cabinet under the sink; that did the trick. After he dried, he used cologne and powder, but he still smelled the carbolic.

He dressed in pajamas, robe, slippers, then glanced at the bedside clock. Getting on…He decided to call Barbara, rather than wait until he went through the retrieved files. But when she answered the phone, he realized that she had drifted away. Perhaps it was sleep or the medication, perhaps the illness; he just didn’t know. She kept repeating his name. Laughing: “Edward!” Questioning: “Edward?” Demanding: “Edward!” Loving: “Ed-d-w-ward…”

Finally he said, “Good-night, dear,” hung up, took a deep breath, tried not to weep. In his study, moving mechanically, he mixed a heavy rye highball, then unpacked his briefcase.

Flashlight back to the drawer in the kitchen cabinet. Crumpled wax paper into the garbage can. Thermos rinsed out, then filled with hot water and left to soak on the sink sideboard. Ring of keys into his top desk drawer, to be handed over to Lt. Dorfman. Delaney knew now, in some realization, he would never again command the Two-five-one.

And the three files stacked neatly in the center of his desk blotter. He got a square of paper towel, wiped off their surface dust, stacked them neatly again. He washed his hands, sat down behind his desk, put on his glasses. Then he just sat there and slowly, slowly sipped away half his strong highball, staring at the files. Then he leaned forward, began to read.

The first case was amusing, and the officer who had handled the beef, Detective second grade Samuel Berkowitz, had recognized it from the start; his tart, ironic reports understated and heightened the humor. A man named Timothy J. Lester had been apprehended shortly after throwing an empty garbage can through the plate glass window of a Madison Avenue shop that specialized in maternity clothes. The shop was coyly called “Expectin’.” Berkowitz reported the suspect was “apparently intoxicated on Jamesons”-a reasonable deduction since next door to “Expectin’” was a tavern called “Ye Olde Emerald Isle.” Detective Berkowitz had also determined that Mr. Lester, although only 34, was the father of seven children and had, that very night, been informed by his wife that it would soon be eight. Timothy had immediately departed for “Ye Olde Emerald Isle” to celebrate, had celebrated, and on his way home had paused to toss the garbage can through the window of “Expectin’.” Since Lester was, in Berkowitz’ words, “apparently an exemplary family man,” since he had a good job as a typesetter, since he offered to make complete restitution for the shattered window, Detective Berkowitz felt the cause of justice would best be served if Mr. Lester was allowed to pay for his mischievous damage and all charges dropped.

Captain Edward X. Delaney, reading this file and smiling, concurred with the judgment of Detective Berkowitz.

The second file was short and sad. It concerned one of the few women included on Monica Gilbert’s list. She was 38 years old and lived in a smart apartment on Second Avenue near 85th Street. She had taken in a roommate, a young woman of 22. All apparently went well for almost a year. Then the younger woman met a man, they became engaged, and she announced the news to her roommate and was congratulated. She returned home the following evening to discover the older woman had slashed all her clothes to thin ribbons with a razor blade and had trashed all her personal belongings. She called the police. But after consultation with her fiance, she refused to press charges, moved out of the apartment, and the case was dropped.

The third file, thicker, dealt with Daniel G. Blank, divorced, living alone on East 83rd Street. He had been involved in two separate incidents about six months apart. In the first he had originally been charged with simple assault in an altercation involving a fellow tenant of his apartment house who apparently had been beating his own dog. Blank had intervened, and the dog owner had suffered a broken arm. There had been a witness, Charles Lipsky, a doorman, who signed a statement that Blank had merely pushed the other man after being struck with a folded newspaper. The man had stumbled off the curb and fell, breaking his arm. Charges were eventually dropped.

The second incident was more serious. Blank had been in a bar, The Parrot on Third Avenue, and was allegedly solicited by a middle-aged homosexual. Blank, according to testimony of witnesses, thereupon hit the man twice, breaking his jaw with the second blow. While the man was helpless on the floor, Blank had kicked him repeatedly in the groin until he was dragged away and the police were called. The homosexual refused to sign a complaint, Blank’s lawyer appeared, and apparently the injured man signed a release.

The same officer, Detective first grade Ronald A. Blankenship, had handled both beefs. His language, in his reports, was official, clear, concise, colorless, and implied no judgments.

Delaney read through the file slowly, then read it through again. He got up to mix another rye highball and then, standing at his desk, read it through a third time. He took off his glasses, began to pace about his chilly study, carrying his drink, sipping occasionally. Once or twice he came back behind his desk to stare at the Daniel Blank manila folder, but he didn’t open the file again.

Several years previously, when he had been a Detective lieutenant, he had contributed two articles to the Department’s monthly magazine. The first monograph was entitled “Common Sense and the New Detective.” It was a very basic, down-to-earth analysis of how the great majority of crimes are solved: good judgment based on physical evidence and experience-the ability to put two and two together and come up with four, not three or five. It was hardly a revolutionary argument.

The second article, entitled “Hunch, Instinct, and the New Detective,” occasioned a little more comment. Delaney argued that in spite of the great advances in laboratory analysis, the forensic sciences, computerized records and probability percentages, the new detective disregarded his hunches and instinct at his peril, for frequently they were not a sudden brainstorm, but were the result of observation of physical evidence and experience of which the detective might not even be consciously aware. But stewing in his subconscious, a rational and reasonable conclusion was reached, thrust into his conscious thought, and should never be allowed to wither unexplored, since it was, in many cases, as logical and empirical as common sense.

(Delaney had prepared a third article for the series. This dealt with his theory of an “adversary concept” in which he explored the Dostoevskian relationship between detective and criminal. It was an abstruse examination of the “sensual” (Delaney’s word) affinity between hunter and hunted, of how, in certain cases, it was necessary for the detective to penetrate and assume the physical body, spirit, and soul of the criminal in order to bring him to justice. This treatise, at Barbara’s gentle persuasion, Delaney did not submit for publication.)

Now, thinking over the facts included in the Daniel Blank file, Captain Delaney acknowledged he was halfway between common sense and instinct. Intelligence and experience convinced him that the man involved in the two incidents described was worth investigating further.

The salient point in the second incident was the raw savagery Blank had displayed. A normal man-well, an average man-might have handled the homosexual’s first advance by merely smiling and shaking his head, or moving down the bar, or even leaving The Parrot. The violence displayed by Blank was excessive. Protesting too much?

The first incident-the case of the injured dog-owner-might not be as innocent as it appeared in Detective Blankenship’s report. It was true that the witness, the doorman-what was his name? Delaney looked it up. Charles Lipsky-it was true that Lipsky stated that Blank had been struck with a folded newspaper before pushing his assailant. But witnesses can be bribed; it was hardly an uncommon occurrence. Even if Lipsky had told the truth, Delaney was amazed at how this incident fit into a pattern he had learned from experience; men prone to violence, men too ready to use their fists, their feet, even their teeth, somehow became involved in situations that were obviously not their fault, and yet resulted in injury or death to their antagonist.

Delaney called Monica Gilbert.

“Monica? Edward. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. I hope I didn’t wake the children.”

“Oh no. That takes more than a phone ring. What is it?”

“Would you mind looking at your card file and see if you have anything on a man named Blank. Daniel G. He lives on East Eighty-third Street.”

“Just a minute.”

He waited patiently. He heard her moving about. Then she was back on the phone.

“Blank, Daniel G.,” she read. “Arrested twice for speeding. Guilty and fined. Do you want the make of car and license number?”

“Please.”

He took notes as she gave him the information.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Edward, is it-anything?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. It’s interesting. That’s about all I can say right now. I’ll know more tomorrow.”

“Will you call?”

“Yes, if you want me to.”

“Please do.”

“All right. Sleep well.”

“Thank you. You, too.”

Two arrests for speeding. Not in itself significant, but within the pattern. The choice of car was similarly meaningful. Delaney was glad Daniel Blank didn’t drive a Volkswagen.

He called Thomas Handry at the newspaper office. He had left for home. He called him at home. No answer. He called Detective Lieutenant Jeri Fernandez at his office. Fernandez had gone home. Delaney felt a sudden surge of anger at these people who couldn’t be reached when he needed them. Then he realized how childish that was, and calmed down.

He found Fernandez’ home phone number in the back of his pocket notebook where he had carefully listed home phone numbers of all sergeants and higher ranks in the 251st Precinct. Fernandez lived in Brooklyn. A child answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Is Detective Fernandez there, please?”

“Just a minute. Daddy, it’s for you!” the child screamed. In the background Delaney could hear music, shouts, loud laughter, the thump of heavy dancing. Finally Fernandez came to the phone.

“Hello?”

“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

“Oh. Howrya, Captain?”

“Lieutenant, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. Sounds like you’re having a party.”

“Yeah, it’s the wife’s birthday, and we have some people in.”

“I won’t keep you long. Lieutenant, when you were at the Two-five-one, you had a dick one named Blankenship. Right?”

“Sure. Ronnie. Good man.”

“What did he look like? I can’t seem to remember him.”

“Sure you do, Captain. A real tall guy. About six-three or four. Skinny as a rail. We called him ‘Scarecrow.’ Remember now?”

“Oh yes. A big Adam’s apple?”

“That’s the guy.”

“What happened to him?”

“He drew an Assault-Homicide Squad over on the West Side. I think it’s up in the Sixties-Seventies-Eighties-around there. I know it takes in the Twentieth Precinct. Listen, I got his home phone number somewhere. Would that help?”

“It certainly would.”

“Hang on a minute.”

It was almost five minutes, but eventually Fernandez was back with Blankenship’s phone number. Delaney thanked him. Fernandez seemed to want to talk more, but the Captain cut him short.

He dialed Blankenship’s home phone. A woman answered. In the background Delaney could hear an infant wailing loudly. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Blankenship?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Delaney, Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Depart-”

“What’s happened? What’s happened to Ronnie? Is he all right? Is he hurt? What-”

“No, no, Mrs. Blankenship,” he said hurriedly, soothing her fears. “As far as I know, your husband is perfectly all right.”

He could sympathize with her fright. Every cop’s wife lived with that dread. But she should have known that if anything had happened to her husband, she wouldn’t learn of it from a phone call. Two men from the Department would ring her bell. She would open the door and they would be standing there, faces twisted and guilty, and she would know.

“I’m trying to contact your husband to get some information, Mrs. Blankenship,” he went on, speaking slowly and distinctly. This was obviously not an alert woman. “I gather he’s not at home. Is he working?”

“Yes. He’s on nights for the next two weeks.”

“Could you give me his office phone number, please?”

“All right. Just a minute.”

He could also have told her not to give out any information about her husband to a stranger who calls in the middle of the night and claims he’s a captain in the NYPD. But what would be the use? Her husband had probably told her that a dozen times. A dull woman.

He got the number and thanked her. It was now getting on toward eleven o’clock; he wondered if he should try or let it go till morning. He dialed the number. Blankenship had checked in all right, but he wasn’t on the premises. Delaney left his number, without identifying himself, and asked if the operator would have him call back.

“Please tell him it’s important,” he said.

“‘Important’?” the male operator said. “How do you spell that, Mr. Important?”

Delaney hung up. A wise-ass. The Captain would remember. The Department moved in involved and sometimes mysterious ways. One day that phone operator in that detective division might be under Delaney’s command. He’d remember the high, lilting, laughing voice. It was stupid to act like that.

He started a new file, headed BLANK, Daniel G., and in it he stowed the Blankenship reports, his notes on Blank’s record of arrests for speeding, the make of car he drove and his license number. Then he went to the Manhattan telephone directory and looked up Blank, Daniel G. There was only one listing of that name, on East 83rd Street. He made a note of the phone number and added that to his file.

He was mixing a fresh rye highball-was it his second or third? — when the phone rang. He put down the glass and bottle carefully, then ran for the phone, catching it midway through the third ring.

“Hello?”

“This is Blankenship. Who’s this?”

“Captain Edward X. Delaney here. I was-”

“Captain! Good to hear from you. How are you, sir?”

“Fine, Ronnie. And you?” Delaney had never before called the man by his first name, hadn’t even known what it was before his call to Fernandez. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever speaking to Blankenship personally, but he wanted to set a tone.

“Okay, Captain. Getting along.”

“How do you like the new assignment? Tell me, do you think this reorganization is going to work?”

“Captain, it’s great!” Blankenship said enthusiastically. “They should have done it years ago. Now I can spend some time on important stuff and forget the little squeals. Our arrest rate is up, and morale is real good. The case load is way down, and we’ve got time to think.”

The man sounded intelligent. His voice was pleasingly deep, vibrant, resonant. Delaney remembered that big, jutting Adam’s apple.

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Listen, I’m on leave of absence, but something came up and I agreed to help out on it.”

He let it go at that, keeping it vague, waiting to see if Blankenship would pick up on it and ask questions. But the detective hesitated a moment, then said, “Sure, Captain.”

“It concerns a man named Daniel Blank, in the Two-five-one. He was involved in two beefs last year. You handled both of them. I have your reports. Good reports. Very complete.”

“What was that name again?”

“Blank, B-l-a-n-k, Daniel G. He lives on East Eighty-third Street. The first thing was a pushing match with a guy who was allegedly beating his dog. The second-”

“Oh sure,” Blankenship interrupted. “I remember. Probably because his name is Blank and mine is Blankenship. At the time I thought it was funny I should be handling him. Two beefs in six months. In the second, he kicked the shit out of a faggot. Right?”

“Right.”

“But the victim wouldn’t sign a complaint. What do you want to know, Captain?”

“About Blank. You saw him?”

“Sure. Twice.”

“What do you remember about him?”

Blankenship recited: “Blank, Daniel G. White, male, approximately six feet or slightly taller, about-”

“Wait, wait a minute,” Delaney said hastily. “I’m taking notes. Go a little slower.”

“Okay, Captain. You got the height?”

“Six feet or a little over.”

“Right. Weight about one seventy-five. Slim build but good shoulders. Good physical condition from what I could see. No obvious physical scars or infirmities. Dark complexion. Sunburned, I’d say. Long face. Sort of Chinese-looking. Let’s see-anything else?”

“How was he dressed?” Delaney asked, admiring the man’s observation and memory.

“Dark suits,” Blankenship said promptly. “Nothing flashy, but well-cut and expensive. Some funny things I remember. Gold link chain on his wrist watch. Like a bracelet. The first time I saw him I think it was his own hair. The second time I swear it was a rug. The second time he was wearing a real crazy shirt open to his pipik, with some kind of necklace. You know-hippie stuff.”

“Accent?” Delaney nodded.

“Accent?” Blankenship repeated, thought a moment, then said, “Not a native New Yorker. Mid-western, I’d guess. Sorry I can’t be more specific.”

“You’re doing great,” Delaney assured him, elated. “You think he’s strong?”

“Strong? I’d guess so. Any guy who can break another man’s jaw with a punch has got to be strong. Right?”

“Right. What was your personal reaction to him? Flitty?”

“Could be, Captain. When they punish an obvious faggot like that, it’s got to mean something. Right?”

“Right.”

“I wanted to charge him, but the victim refused to sign anything. So what could I do?”

“I understand,” Delaney said. “Believe me, this has nothing to do with that beef.”

“I believe you, Captain.”

“Do you know where he works, what he does for a living?”

“It’s not in my reports?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Sorry about that. But you’ve got his lawyer’s name and address, haven’t you?”

“Oh yes, I have that. I’ll get it from him,” Delaney lied. It was Blankenship’s first mistake, and a small one. No use going to the lawyer; he’d simply refuse to divulge the information, then surely mention to Blank that the police had been around asking questions.

“That just about covers it,” Delaney said. “Thanks very much for your help. What are you working on now?”

“It’s a beaut, Captain,” Blankenship said in his enthusiastic way. “This old dame got knocked off in her apartment. Strangled. No signs of forcible entry. And as far as we can tell, nothing stolen. A neighbor smelled it; that’s how we got on to it. A poor little apartment, but it turns out the old dame was loaded.”

“Who inherits?”

“A nephew. But we checked him out six ways from the middle. He’s got an alibi that holds up. He was down in Florida for two weeks. We checked. He really was there. Every minute.”

“Check his bank account, back for about six months or a year. See if there was a heavy withdrawal-maybe five or ten big ones.”

“You mean he hired-? Son of a bitch!” Blankenship said bitterly. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Stick around for twenty-five years,” Delaney laughed. “You’ll learn. Thanks again. If there’s ever anything I can do, for you, just let me know.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Captain,” Blankenship said in his deep, throaty voice.

“You do that,” Delaney said seriously.

After he hung up, he finished mixing his highball. He took a deep swallow, then grinned, grinned, grinned. He looked around at walls, ceiling, floor, furniture, and grinned at everything. It felt good. It had gone beyond his first article on common sense: the value of personally observed evidence and experience. It had even gone beyond the second article that extolled the value of hunch and instinct. Now he was in the realm of the third, unpublished article which Barbara had convinced him should never be printed. Quite rightly, too. Because in that monograph, exploring the nature of the detective-criminal relationship-his theory of the adversary concept-he had rashly dwelt on the “joy” of the successful detective.

That was what he felt now-joy! He worked at his new file-BLANK, Daniel G.-adding to it everything Detective Blankenship had reported, and not a thing, not one single thing, varied in any significant aspect from his original “The Suspect” outline. He gained surety as he amplified his notes. It was beautiful, beautiful, all so beautiful. And, just as he had written in his unpublished article, there was sensuous pleasure-was it sexual? — in the chase. So intent was he on his rapid writing, his reports, his new, beautiful file, that the phone rang five times before he picked it up. As a matter of fact, he kept writing as he answered it.

“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

“Dorfman. There’s been another one.”

“Captain-what?”

“Lieutenant Dorfman, Captain. Sorry to wake you up. There’s been another killing. Same type, with extras.”

“Where?”

“Eighty-fifth. Between First and York.”

“A man?”

“Yes ”

“Tall?”

“Tall? I’d guess five-ten or eleven.”

“Weight?”

There was silence, then Dorfman’s dull voice: “I don’t know what he weighed, Captain. Is it important?”

“Extras? You said ‘Extras.’ What extras?”

“He was struck at least three times. Maybe more. There are signs of a struggle. Christmas packages, three of them, thrown around. Scuff marks on the sidewalk. His coat was tom. Looks like he put up a fight.”

“Identified?”

“A man named Feinberg. Albert Feinberg.”

“Anything missing? Identification of any kind?”

“We don’t know,” Dorfman said wearily. “They’re checking with his wife now. His wallet wasn’t out like in the Lombard kill. We just don’t know.”

“All right,” Delaney said softly. “Thank you for calling. Sounds like you could use some sleep, lieutenant.”

“Yes, I could. If I could sleep.”

“Where was it again?”

“Eighty-fifth, between First and York.”

“Thank you. Good-night.”

He looked at his desk calendar and counted carefully. It had been eleven days since the murder of Detective Kope. His research was proving out; the intervals between killings were becoming shorter and shorter.

He got out his Precinct map with the plastic overlay and, with a red grease pencil, carefully marked in the murder of Albert Feinberg, noting victim’s name, date of killing, and place. The locations of the four murders formed a rough square on the map. On impulse, he used his grease pencil and a ruler to connect opposite corners of the square, making an X. It intersected at 84th Street and Second Avenue, right in the middle of the crossing of the two streets. He checked Daniel Blank’s address. It was on 83rd Street, about a block and a half away. The map didn’t say yes and it didn’t say no.

He was staring at the map, nodding, and awoke fifteen minutes later, startled, shocked that he had been sleeping. He pulled himself to his feet, drained the watery remains of his final highball, and made his rounds, checking window locks and outside doors.

Then the bed, groaning with weariness. What he really wanted to do…what he wanted to do…so foolish…was to go to Daniel Blank…go to him right now…introduce himself and say, “Tell me all about it.”

Yes, that was foolish…idiotic…but he was sure…well, maybe not sure, but it was a chance, and the best…and just before he fell asleep he acknowledged, with a sad smile, that all this shitty thinking about patterns and percentages and psychological profile was just that-a lot of shit. He was following up on Daniel Blank because he had no other lead. It was as simple and obvious as that. Occam’s Razor. So he fell asleep.