Fourth Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Exactly,” Delaney said. “Could you drop me uptown, Sergeant? Let’s call it a day.”

  Just before Delaney got out of the car in front of his brownstone, Boone said, “If you had to make a wild guess, sir, which of the six would you pick as the perp?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Delaney said thoughtfully. “Maybe Ronald Bellsey. But only because I don’t like the guy. Who’s your choice?”

  “Harold Gerber—for the same reason. We’re probably both wrong.”

  Delaney grunted. “Probably. Too bad there’s not a butler involved. See you tomorrow morning, Sergeant. Give my best to Rebecca.”

  Monica was in the kitchen, cutting up chicken wings. She had four prepared bowls before her: Dijon mustard, Worcestershire sauce, chicken broth, flavored bread crumbs. She looked up when he came in, and he bent to kiss her cheek.

  “Just one sandwich,” he pleaded. “I haven’t had a thing all day, and we’re not eating for hours. One sandwich won’t spoil my appetite.”

  “All right, Edward. Just one.”

  He rummaged through the refrigerator, saying, “I really deserve this. I’ve had a hard day. Did you know that psychiatrists have a very high suicide rate? The highest of all doctors except ophthalmologists.”

  He was standing at the sink, but turned to face her, sandwich clamped in one big hand, a glass of beer in the other.

  “Don’t tell me you think Doctor Ellerbee crushed in his own skull with a hammer?”

  “No, I just mentioned it because I’m beginning to understand what shrinks go through. No wonder they need a month a year to recharge their batteries. These patients of Ellerbee’s are wild ones. It’s hard to get a handle on them. They don’t live in my world.”

  Monica nodded.

  “Do you think women are more sensitive than men?” he asked her.

  “Sensitive?” Monica said. “Physically, you mean? Like ticklish?”

  “No, not that. Sensitive to emotions, feelings, the way people behave. We’ve been asking everyone if they noticed any change recently in Doctor Ellerbee’s manner. The reason is to find out if he was being threatened or blackmailed or anything like that. All the men we asked said they saw no change. But so far, three women have said yes, they noticed a change. They don’t agree on how he changed, but all three said there was a difference in his manner in the last six months. That’s why I asked you if women are more sensitive to that sort of thing than men.”

  “Yes,” Monica said, “we are.”

  Five hours later, when Delaney had finished bringing his files up to the minute and Monica had long since cleaned up the dinner dishes, he came out of his study and asked, “Do you know anyone who’s under analysis?”

  She looked up at him. “Yes, Edward, I know two or three women who are in therapy.”

  “Well, will you ask them how they pay? I mean, do they fork over cash or a check after every session or does the doctor bill them by the month? I’m just curious about how the shrink’s money comes in.”

  “You think that has something to do with Ellerbee’s murder?”

  “I don’t know. There’s so much I don’t know about this case. Like how does a psychiatrist get patients? Referrals from other doctors? Or do patients walk in off the street or use the Yellow Pages? I just don’t know.”

  “I’ll ask around,” Monica promised. “I suspect every case is different.”

  “I suspect the same thing,” he grumbled. “Makes it hard to figure percentages.”

  And, four hours later, when they were in their upstairs bedroom preparing for sleep, he said, “I haven’t even looked at the Sunday Times. Was there anything on the Ellerbee case?”

  “I didn’t notice anything. But there’s an interesting article in the magazine section about new colors for women’s hair. Would you like me to get pink streaks, Edward?”

  “I’d prefer kelly green,” he said. “But suit yourself.”

  “Monster,” she said affably and crawled into her bed.

  “You know what I think?” he said. “I think absolute craziness and absolute normality are extremes, and very few people fit into either category. Most of us suffer varying degrees of abnormality that can range from mild eccentricity to outright psychosis. Look at that article on hair coloring. I’ll bet a lot of women are going to dye their hair pink or orange or purple. That doesn’t make them all whackos.”

  “What’s your point, Edward?”

  “This afternoon I said those patients we’ve been questioning don’t live in my world. But that’s not true; they do live in my world. They’re just a little farther along toward craziness than I am, so I find it difficult to understand them.”

  “What you’re saying is that we’re all loonies, some more, some less.”

  “Yes,” he said gratefully. “That’s what I mean. I’ve got to keep in mind that I share the patients’ queerness, but to a milder degree.”

  She turned her head to stare at him.

  “Don’t be so sure of that, buster,” she said, and he gave a great hoot of laughter and climbed into her bed.

  14

  “I STOPPED AT THE precinct on my way over,” Boone said on Monday morning. “Talked to the Sergeant handling paperwork for Suarez’s investigation. He says the new people will be here by nine o’clock. Gave me a copy of the roster. He wasn’t happy about losing them.”

  “No,” Delaney said, “I don’t imagine he would be.”

  “You don’t think Chief Suarez will send us six dummies, do you, sir?” Jason T. Jason asked.

  “Sabotage?” Delaney said, smiling. “No, I don’t think he’ll do that. Not with Deputy Thorsen looking over his shoulder. But if any of these men don’t work out, we’ll ask for replacements.”

  “They’re not all men, sir,” Boone said. “Five men and a woman. And one of the guys is a black—Robert Keisman. You know him, Jase?”

  “Oh, sure. He’s a sharp cat; you won’t need a replacement for him. They call him the Spoiler because for a time there he was assigned to busting bunco artists and three-card-monte games in the Times Square area. One of the guys he grabbed screamed, ‘You’re spoiling all our fun!’ and the name stuck. You know any of the others, Sergeant?”

  “I’ve worked with two of them. Not much flash, but they’re solid enough. Benny Calazo has been around a hundred years. He’s slowing down some, but he still makes all the right moves. The other guy I know is Ross Konigsbacher. He’s a dick two. They call him Kraut. He’s built like a dumpster, and maybe he likes to use his hands too much. But he’s thorough; I’ll say that for him. The other people I don’t know.”

  “All right,” Delaney said. “Let’s get set up for this. We’re going to need more chairs in here—five more should do it.”

  They carried in chairs from the living room and kitchen and arranged them in a rough semicircle facing the desk in the study. They also brought in extra ashtrays.

  “I was going to let them read my reports on the six patients,” Delaney said, “but I decided not to. I don’t want them prejudiced by my reactions to those people. We’ll just give them a brief introduction, hand them their assignments, and turn them loose. I’m hoping we can get them out on the street by noon. You two decide who you want to partner first, then switch around from day to day.”

  The new recruits began arriving a little before 9:00 A.M. Sergeant Boone served as doorman, showing them where to hang their coats and bringing them back to the study to introduce them to Delaney and Jason Two.

  By 9:15, everyone was present and Boone closed the doors. Delaney had hidden his glasses away, firmly believing that wearing spectacles while issuing orders was counterproductive, being a sign of physical infirmity in a commanding officer.

  “My name is Edward X. Delaney,” he said in a loud, forceful voice. “Former Captain, Commander of the Two-Five-One Precinct, and former Chief of Detectives prior to my retirement several years ago. As you probably know, I am assisting Chief Suarez in his investigation of the Ellerbee homici
de. Are you all familiar with that case?”

  They nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “Then I won’t have to repeat the details. By the way, you can smoke if you like.”

  He waited while a few of them lighted cigarettes. Detective Brian Estrella, a string bean of a man, took pipe and pouch from his jacket pockets and started slowly packing the tobacco.

  Delaney told them that the first job of this “task force,” as he called it, was to investigate six of the victim’s patients who had a history of violence. He emphasized that these people were not yet considered suspects, just subjects worth checking out in depth. Later they might have to investigate other of Ellerbee’s patients.

  “The first thing you’ll want to do,” he said, “is to run them through Records and see if any of them have sheets.”

  He said that eventually each detective would be assigned to one patient. But for the first few days, they’d be moved around, meeting the patients, questioning them, digging into their backgrounds and personal lives.

  “We’re hoping,” he continued, “you will each find one subject who will think you simpatico and talk a little more freely. Now let me give you a rundown on the people we’re dealing with.”

  He was gratified to see all the detectives take out their notebooks and ballpoints.

  He delivered brief summaries of the six patients.

  When he finished, he turned to Boone. “Anything to add, Sergeant?”

  “Not about the people, sir; I think you’ve covered what we know. But the hammer …”

  “I was getting to that.”

  Delaney told them that the murder weapon was apparently a ball peen hammer. It had not been found, and none of the six subjects had admitted owning such a tool. He urged them to make a search for the hammer an important part of their investigation.

  He also reminded them of the two sets of footprints and suggested they query the subjects as to ownership of rubbers, galoshes, boots, or any other type of foul-weather footwear.

  “If you can get their shoe size,” he told them, “so much the better. We have photos of the footprints. Anything else, Boone?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Anything you want to add, Jason?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right,” Delaney said to the others. “Any questions?”

  The female detective, Helen K. Venable, raised her hand. “Sir,” she said, “are these people all crackpots?”

  There was some amused laughter, but Delaney didn’t smile. “This job is going to take patience and understanding. Your first impression might be of a bunch of whackos, but don’t underestimate them because of that. Remember, quite possibly one of them had the intelligence, resolve, and cunning to zap Doctor Ellerbee and, so far, get away with it.”

  Benjamin Calazo, the old gumshoe, raised a meaty hand. “I’d like to take Isaac Kane. My brother’s kid is retarded. A sweet boy, no harm in him, but like you said, he needs patience and understanding. I’ve learned to deal with him, so if it’s okay with you, I’d like to take on Isaac Kane.”

  “Fine with me,” Delaney said. “Anyone else got a preference?”

  Robert Keisman, the Spoiler, spoke up: “If no one else wants him, I’ll start with the Vietnam vet—what’s his name? Gerber? I can jive with those guys.”

  “He’s all yours,” Delaney said. “Just watch your back; I think the kid can be dangerous. Any other preferences?”

  There were none, so they set to work making assignments, arranging schedules, exchanging phone numbers so any of them could be reached at any hour, either directly or by leaving a message.

  Boone selected Detectives Konigsbacher, Calazo, and Venable for his squad. Jason had Estrella, the pipe smoker; Keisman; and Timothy (Big Tim) Hogan, a short, blunt man as bald as a peeled egg.

  Delaney impressed on all of them the need for daily reports, as complete as they could make them.

  “Include everything,” he told them. “Even if it seems silly or insignificant. If you think it’s important, contact Boone or Jason immediately. If you can’t get hold of them, call me any hour of the day or night. Now let’s get moving. The trail is getting colder by the day, and the Department wants to close out this file as soon as possible. If you need cars, backup, special equipment, or the cooperation of technical squads, just let me know.”

  They all shook his hand and tramped out, along with Boone and Jason. Delaney returned the extra chairs to their proper places and emptied the ashtrays. Then he called Suarez, but the Chief was in a meeting and not available. Delaney left his name and asked that Suarez call him back.

  He sat at his desk, put on his reading glasses, lighted a cigar. Working from the duty roster, from what Boone and Jason had told him, and from his own observations, he made a list of the newly assigned detectives on a pad of yellow legal paper. It went like this:

  Boone’s squad—

  1. Ross (Kraut) Konigsbacher. Heavy. Muscular. Blond mustache. Likes to use fists. Faint scar over left eyebrow.

  2. Benjamin Calazo. Old flatfoot. White hair. Heavy hands, keratosis on backs. Picked Isaac Kane.

  3. Helen K. Venable. Short. Chubby. Reddish brown hair. Very intense. Deep voice.

  Jason’s squad—

  1. Brian Estrella. Tall. Stringy. Smokes pipe. Left-handed. Prominent Adam’s apple.

  2. Robert (Spoiler) Keisman. Black. Slender. Elegant. Packs shoulder holster. Picked Harold Gerber.

  3. Timothy (Big Tim) Hogan. Stubby. Bald. Big ears. Nicotine-stained fingers. Whiny voice.

  Finished, Delaney read over the list and could visualize the new people, recognize them as individuals. He put his notes in the back of the top drawer of his desk. Comments on their performance would be added later. Some of them might earn citations out of this.

  Pushing aside the yellow pad, he searched through his file cabinet and dug out a wide worksheet pad designed for accountants. It had fourteen ruled columns and provided enough horizontal lines for what he proposed to devise: a time schedule for the night Dr. Simon Ellerbee was murdered.

  He listed the names of individuals at the top of columns. Down the left margin of the page he noted times from 4:00 P.M. on the fatal day to 1:54 A.M., when the body was discovered.

  This was donkeywork, he knew, but it had to be done. It would require constant reference to the reports, statements, and Dr. Ellerbee’s records in his file cabinet. And all the times would be approximate. Even the time of death, estimated at nine o’clock by the ME, could be off by an hour or more. Still, you had to start somewhere. He started with the first column:

  Dr. Simon Ellerbee:

  4:00 P.M.—Appointment with Harold Gerber.

  5:00—Appointment with Mrs. Lola Brizio. Who is she?

  Check.

  6:00—Tells wife he expects late patient, but doesn’t tell her who or when. Appointment not listed in book. Receptionist doesn’t know who or when. Tells wife he will leave N.Y. for Brewster at 9:00. That suggests late patient at 7:00 or 8:00.

  9:00—Dead.

  Dr. Diane Ellerbee:

  6:00—Leaves office after speaking to husband.

  6:30—Departs Manhattan, driving.

  8:00—Arrives Brewster home.

  11:30—Calls Manhattan office. No answer. Calls twice more, times not stated.

  12:00—Calls Brewster police. No report of highway accident.

  Calls Manhattan garage, time not stated, learns Simon’s car is still in slot.

  1:15—Calls Dr. Samuelson.

  Dr. Julius K. Samuelson:

  7:00 P.M.–?—Dinner with friends at Russian Tea Room.

  8:30–11:30—Concert at Carnegie Hall.

  11:30–12:30(?)—Nightcap at St. Moritz.

  1:15 A.M.—Receives Diane’s call.

  1:45—Arrives 84th Street townhouse.

  1:54—Finds body, calls 911.

  When the phone rang, Delaney was startled and jagged his pen across the page.

  “Chief Sua
rez is calling,” a voice announced.

  “How are you doing, Chief,” Delaney asked.

  “Surviving,” Suarez said with a sigh. “I hope you have some good news for me.”

  “I’m afraid not, Chief, but I would like to get together with you—just to keep you informed of what we’re doing.”

  “Yes,” Suarez said, “I would appreciate that.”

  “Would you care to drop by here, Chief? I’ll be in all day and it shouldn’t take long.”

  A hesitation. “A bad day. So much to do. I do not expect to get uptown until this evening. Will eight or nine o’clock be too late for you?”

  “Not at all. I’ll be here.”

  “Suppose I stop at your place on my way home. I will call you first to tell you when I am leaving. Will that be satisfactory?”

  “That’s fine,” Delaney said. “See you tonight.”

  He put down the receiver, and went back to the time schedule.

  Henry Ellerbee:

  9:00—Charity dinner at Plaza. Presence confirmed.

  Receptionist:

  5:00 or 6:00?—When did she leave. Check.

  Isaac Kane:

  9:00—Leaves Community Center when it closes. Goes home?

  Sylvia Mae Otherton:

  9:00—At home alone. No confirmation.

  L. Vincent Symington:

  9:00—Dinner-dance at Hilton. Could have left, gone back.

  Ronald J. Bellsey:

  9:00—Home all night. Wife confirms.

  Harold Gerber:

  9:00—Bar-hopping, no recollection of where. No confirmation.

  Joan Yesell:

  9:00—Home all night. Mother confirms.

  Delaney had just started reading over what he had written when the phone rang again. It was Boone.

  “I’m in Ronald Bellsey’s garage with the Kraut,” he reported. “Bellsey’s Cadillac is here. I called his meat market, and he’s at work all right. There’s no one around. I can get into that Cadillac trunk. I’ve got my picks.”

  He paused. Delaney thought it over.

  “Where are you calling from, Sergeant?”

  “A public phone in the garage.”