“Right!” Delaney said savagely. He turned to the two doctors. “What you won’t admit is that some people are so morally corrupt that they cannot be helped. They accept evil as a way of life. They love it! They enjoy it! And the world is better off without them.”
“What about someone who kills in passion?” Monica asked. “A sudden, uncontrollable passion.”
“Temporary insanity?” Boone said. “Is that what you’re pleading? It just won’t wash. We’re supposed to be Homo sapiens—wise, intelligent animals with a civilized rein on our primitive instincts. A crime of passion is a crime—period. And the reasons should have no effect on the verdict.”
Then they all began to argue: blame, guilt, capital punishment, parole, the conflict between law and justice. Delaney sat back happily and listened to the brouhaha he had started. A good house party. Finally …
“Did you ever notice,” he said, “that when a killer is nabbed bloody-handed, the defense attorney always goes for the insanity plea and hires a battery of ‘friendly’ psychiatrists?”
“And meanwhile,” Boone added, “the accused announces to the world that he’s become a born-again Christian and wants only to renounce his wicked ways and live a saintly life.”
“You’re too ready to find excuses for your patients,” Delaney said to the two psychiatrists. “Won’t you admit the existence of evil in the world? Would you say Hitler was evil or just mentally ill?”
“Both,” Dr. Samuelson said. “His illness took the form of evil. But if it had been caught in time it could have been treated.”
“Sure it could,” Delaney said grimly. “A bullet to the brain would have been very effective.”
The argument flared again and gradually centered on the problem of the “normal” person living a law-abiding existence who suddenly commits a totally inexplicable heinous crime.
“I had a case like that once,” Delaney said. “A dentist in the Bronx … Apparently under no great emotional stress or business pressures. A quiet guy. A good citizen. But he started sniping at people from the roof of his apartment house. Killed two, wounded five. No one could explain why. I think he’s still in the acorn academy. But I never thought he was insane. You’ll laugh when I tell you what I think his motive was. I think he was just bored. His life was empty, lacked excitement. So he started popping people with his hunting rifle. It gave a kick to his existence.”
“A very penetrating analysis,” Samuelson said admiringly. “We call it anomie: a state of disorientation and isolation.”
“But no excuse for killing,” Delaney said. “There’s never an excuse for that. He was an intelligent man; he knew what he was doing was wrong.”
“Perhaps he couldn’t help himself,” Diane Ellerbee said. “That does happen, you know.”
“No excuse,” Delaney repeated stubbornly. “We all may have homicidal urges at some time in our lives, but we control them. If there is no self-discipline, then we’re back in the jungle. Self-discipline is what civilization is all about.”
Diane smiled faintly. “I’m afraid we’re not all as strong as you.”
“Strong? I’m a pussycat. Right, Monica?”
“I refuse to answer,” she said, “on the grounds that I might incriminate myself.”
Diane laughed and got up to prepare dinner. The women set out plates, glasses, thick pink napkins, and cutlery on linen place mats.
The Beef Bourguignon was in two cast-iron Dutch ovens that had to be handled with thick asbestos mitts. Delaney and Boone carried the pots into the dining room and set them on trivets. Samuelson handled the salad bowl and baskets of hot, crusty French bread. Then Diane Ellerbee put out a ’78 California cabernet sauvignon.
“That’s beautiful,” Delaney said, examining the label.
“The last of the last case,” their hostess said sadly. “Simon and I loved it so much. We kept it for special occasions. Mr. Delaney, would you uncork the bottles?”
“My pleasure,” he said. “All of them?”
“All,” she said firmly. “Once you taste it, you’ll know why.”
They had plenty of room at the long table. The hostess sat at the head and filled plates with the stew, and small wooden bowls with the salad.
“It’s heaven,” Monica said. “Diane, you’ll never make me believe this is stew meat.”
“As a matter of fact, it’s sirloin. Please, when you’re ready for seconds, help yourself; I’m too busy eating.”
They were all busy eating, but not too busy to keep the talk flowing. Abner Boone was seated next to Monica, and Rebecca was paired with Dr. Samuelson. Delaney sat on the right of the hostess.
“I hope,” he said, leaning toward her, “you weren’t upset by the conversation before dinner. All that talk about crime and punishment.”
“I wasn’t upset at all,” she assured him. “I found it fascinating. So many viewpoints …”
“I was a little hard on psychiatrists,” he admitted. “I’m really not that hostile toward your profession. I was just—”
“I know what you were just,” she interrupted. “You were trying to get an argument started to wake everyone up. You succeeded brilliantly, and I’m grateful for it.”
“That’s me,” he said with a wry smile. “The life of the party. One thing you said surprised me.”
“Oh? What was that?”
“Your objection to capital punishment. After what you’ve been through, I’d have thought you’d be in favor of the death penalty.”
“No,” she said shortly, “I’m not. I want Simon’s murderer caught and punished. To the limit of the law. But I don’t believe in an eye for an eye or a life for a life.”
He was saved from replying by Dr. Samuelson, who raised a hand and called in a squeaky voice, “A question!” They all quieted and turned to him. “Will anyone object if I sop up my gravy with chunks of this marvelous bread?”
There were no objections.
As the hostess had predicted, the wine went swiftly, and the stew and salad were almost totally consumed. Later, when the table was cleared, the women went into the kitchen, shooing the men back to the living room. The room had become chilly, and Samuelson added two more pressed logs to the fireplace.
“There’s central heating, of course,” he told the others, “but Diane prefers to keep the thermostat low and use the fireplaces.”
“Can’t blame her for that,” Abner Boone said. “Saves on fuel, and an open fire is something special. But shouldn’t she have a screen?”
“I think there’s one around,” Samuelson said vaguely, “but she doesn’t use it.”
They sat staring into the rejuvenated blaze.
“I was afraid we might have upset Doctor Ellerbee,” Delaney said to Samuelson, “with all our talk about murders. But she says no.”
“Diane is a very strong woman,” Samuelson said. “She has made a very swift recovery from the trauma of Simon’s death. Only occasionally now do I see how it has affected her. Suddenly she is sad, or sits in silence, staring at nothing. It is to be expected. It was a terrible shock, but she is coping.”
“I suppose her work helps,” Boone said.
“Oh, yes. Dealing with other people’s problems is excellent therapy for your own. I speak from personal experience. Not a total cure, you understand, but a help. Tell me, Mr. Delaney, you are making progress in the investigation?”
“Some,” he said cautiously. “As Doctor Ellerbee probably told you, we’re still working on the alibis. I haven’t yet thanked you for getting her to cooperate.”
Samuelson held up a hand. “I was happy to assist. And do you think any of the patients she named might have been capable of the murder?”
“Too early to tell. We’ve eliminated two of them. But there’s one, a woman, who claims an alibi that doesn’t seem to hold up.”
“Oh? Did Diane give you any background on her?”
“Suffers from depression. And she has attempted suicide several times. Once since we started que
stioning her.”
“Well …” the psychiatrist said doubtfully, “she may be the one you seek, but I find it hard to believe. I can’t recall a case when a suicidal type turned to homicide. I am not saying it could not happen, you understand, but the potential suicide and the potential murderer have little in common. Still, human behavior is endlessly different, so do not let my comments influence your investigation.”
“Oh, they won’t,” Delaney said cheerfully. “We’ll keep plugging.”
The women came in, and the men rose. They talked for a while, and then, catching Monica’s look, Delaney suggested it might be time for them to depart, not knowing what traffic would be like on Saturday night. The hostess protested—but not too strongly.
They thanked Dr. Ellerbee for her hospitality, the wonderful food, and complimented her again on her beautiful home.
“Do plan to come back,” she urged them. “In the spring or summer when the trees are out and the garden is planted. I think you’ll like it.”
“I know we shall,” Monica said. She and Rebecca embraced their hostess and they were on their way.
On the drive back to Manhattan, Delaney said, “Do you suppose Samuelson is staying for the weekend?”
“You dirty old man,” Monica said. “What if he does?”
“She’s got three servants,” Abner Boone said. “The Polack couple and him.”
“Oh, you picked up on that, did you?” Delaney said. “You’re right. ‘Julie, mix the drinks. Julie, get the coffee.’ He hops.”
“I think he’s in love with her,” Rebecca said.
“Well, why not?” Monica said. “A widow and a widower. With so much in common. I think it’s nice they have each other.”
“He’s too old for her,” the Sergeant said.
“You think so?” Delaney said. “I think she’s older than all of us. Good Lord, that’s a grand home!”
“A little too beautiful,” Rebecca said. “Like a stage set. Did you notice how she kept emptying the ashtrays?”
“If it’s full ashtrays you want,” Delaney said, “how about stopping at our place for a nightcap?”
21
DETECTIVE ROSS KONIGSBACHER HAD to admit he was enjoying the best duty in fourteen years with the Department. This faggot he was assigned to, L. Vincent Symington, was turning out to be not such a bad guy after all.
He seemed to have all the money in the world, and wasn’t shy about spreading it around. He picked up all the tabs for dinners and drinks, and insisted on taking cabs wherever they went—even if it was only a five-block trip. He was a manic tipper, and he had already started buying gifts for the Kraut.
It began with a bottle of Frangelico that Vince wanted him to taste. Then Ross got an identification bracelet of heavy silver links, a cashmere pullover, a Countess Mara tie, a lizard skin belt, a foulard ascot. Every time they met, Symington had a present for him.
Ross had been invited to Vincent’s apartment twice, and thought it the greatest pad he had ever seen. On one of those visits, Symington had prepared dinner for them—filet mignon that had to be the best steak Konigsbacher ever tasted.
Meanwhile, the Kraut was submitting bullshit reports to Sergeant Boone, wanting this assignment to go on forever. But Boone couldn’t be scammed that easily, and recently he had been pressuring Konigsbacher to show some results: Either confirm Symington’s alibi or reject it. So, sighing, Ross did some work.
The first time he went into Stallions, he bellied up to the bar, ordered a beer, and looked around. Symington had been right: He had never seen so much black leather in his life. All the weirdos were trying to look like members of motorcycle gangs. Their costumes creaked when they moved, and they even had zippers on their cuffs.
“Nick been around?” he asked the hennaed bartender casually.
“Nick who, darling? I know three Nicks.”
“The kid who wants to be an actor.”
“Oh, him. He’s in and out of here all the time.”
“I’m casting for a commercial and might have a bit for him. If you see him, tell him, will you?”
“How can he get in touch with you, sweet?”
“My name is Ross,” Konigsbacher said. “I’ll be around.”
The bartender nodded. No last names, no addresses, no phone numbers.
The Kraut spent more time at Stallions than he did at home. He slowly sipped beers in the late afternoons and early evenings before his dinner dates with Symington. He began to like the place. You could get high just by breathing deeply, and if the Kraut wanted to set a record for drug busts, he could have made a career out of this one joint.
It took him five days. He was sitting at a small corner table, working on a brew, when a kid came over from the bar and lounged in front of him. He had a 1950 duck’s-ass haircut with enough grease to lubricate the QE2. He was wearing tight stone-washed jeans, a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and a wide leather bracelet with steel studs.
“You Ross?” he asked lazily, eyes half-closed, doing an early Marlon Brando.
“Yeah,” the Kraut said, touching a knuckle to his blond mustache. “You Nick?”
“I could be. Sidney pointed you out. Something about a commercial bit.”
“Pull up a chair. Want a beer? Or would you prefer a banana brandy?”
Then the kid’s eyes opened wide. “How’d you know what I drink?”
“A fegela told me. You know what a fegela is? A little bird. Now sit down.”
Nick hesitated a moment, then pulled up a chair.
“You don’t look like a film producer to me,” he said.
“I’m not,” Konigsbacher said. “I’m a cop.” Then, when Nick started to rise, the Kraut clamped onto his wrist and pulled him down again. “Be nice,” he said. “You’re carrying a switchblade on your hip. It shows. I could run you in on a concealed weapons charge. It probably wouldn’t stick, but it would be a pain in the ass for you and maybe a night in the slammer where the boogies will ream you. Is that what you want?”
The kid had moxie; he didn’t cave.
“Let’s see your ID,” he said coldly.
Konigsbacher showed it to him, down low, so no one else in the bar would notice.
“Okay,” Nick said, “so you’re a cop. What do you want?”
Symington was also right about the accent; it came out “waddya wan’?”
“Just the answers to a few questions. Won’t take long. Do you remember a Friday night early in November? There was a hell of a rainstorm. You were in here that night.”
“You asking me or telling me?”
“I’m asking. A rainy Friday night early in November. A guy came in, sat with you, bought you a few banana brandies. This was about nine, ten o’clock. Around there.”
“Yeah? What’d he look like?”
Konigsbacher described L. Vincent Symington: balding, flabby face, little eyes. A guy running to suet, probably wearing a bracelet of chunky gold links.
“What’s he done?” Nick asked.
“Do you remember a guy like that?” Ross asked patiently.
“I don’t know,” the kid said, shrugging. “I meet a lot of guys.”
The Kraut leaned forward, smiling. “Now I tell you what, sonny,” he said in a low, confidential voice, “you keep smart-assing me, I’m going to put the cuffs on you and frog-march you out of here. But I won’t take you to the station house. I’ll take you into the nearest alley and kick your balls so hard that you’ll be singing soprano for the rest of your life. You don’t believe it? Just try me.”
“Yeah, I met a guy like that,” Nick said sullenly. “A fat old fart. He bought me some drinks.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try,” Ross urged. “Remember what I said about the alley, and try real hard.”
“Victor,” the kid said.
“Try again.”
“Vince. Something like that.”
Konigsbacher patted his cheek. “Good
boy,” he said.
As far as the Kraut was concerned, that was enough to clear L. Vincent Symington. He had never believed in the poof’s guilt in the first place. Vince could never kill anyone with a hammer. A knife maybe—a woman’s weapon. But not a hammer.
So, Konigsbacher thought sadly, that was the end of that. He’d submit a report to Boone and they’d shift him to some shit assignment. No more cashmere sweaters and free dinners and lazy evenings sitting around Symington’s swell apartment, soaking up his booze and trading dirty jokes.
But maybe, the Kraut thought suddenly, just maybe there was a way he could juggle it. He would clear Symington—he owed the guy that—but it didn’t mean the gravy train had to come to a screaming halt. Confident again, he headed for dinner at the Dorian Gray, wondering what Vince would bring him tonight.
Robert Keisman and Jason thought Harold Gerber might be a whacko, but he was innocent of the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee. Gerber’s confession was what Keisman called a “blivet”—four pounds of shit in a two-pound bag.
The Vietnam vet just didn’t know enough of the unpublished details to fake a convincing confession. But Delaney wanted the guy’s innocence proved out one way or another, and that’s what the two cops set out to do.
The Catholic Bible was a flimsy lead. They had no gut reaction one way or the other. The only reason they worked at it was that they had nothing else. It was just something to do.
They started with the Manhattan Yellow Pages and found the section for Churches—Roman Catholic. There were 103 listings, some of them with odd names like Most Precious Blood Church and Our Lady of Perpetual Help. The thought of visiting 103 churches was daunting, but when they picked out the ones in the Greenwich Village area, the job didn’t seem so enormous.
The Spoiler took the churches to the east of Sixth Avenue and Jason Two took those to the west. Carrying their photos of Harold Gerber, they set out to talk to priests, rectors, janitors, and anyone else who might have seen Gerber on the night Ellerbee was murdered.
It was the dullest of donkeywork: pounding the pavements, showing their ID, displaying Gerber’s photograph, and asking the same questions over and over: “Do you know this man? Have you ever seen him? Has he been in your church? Does the name Harold Gerber mean anything to you?”
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