The 1st Deadly Sin (57 page)

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?”