Third Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

“I’ll pass, thank you. Stick to these.”

  Boone shook another cigarette from his pack. The Chief held a light for him, then used the same wooden match for his cigar.

  From the living room and hallway, they heard the sounds of departing guests: cries and laughter, the front door slamming. Monica Delaney opened the door to the kitchen and poked her head in.

  “They’re leaving,” she announced, “but it’ll take another hour to clean up.”

  “Need any help?” the Chief asked.

  “What if I said, ‘Yes’?”

  “I’d say, ‘No.’ ”

  “Grouch,” she said, and withdrew.

  Delaney sat down heavily in his swivel chair. He tilted back, puffing his cigar, staring at the ceiling.

  “What would I have done?” he asked. “I’d have figured it just as you probably did. Going by percentages. A salesman in New York for a convention or sales meeting or whatever. He goes out on the town by himself. He finds that good steak he was looking for. Has a few drinks. Maybe a bottle of wine. More drinks.”

  Boone interrupted. “That’s what the stomach contents showed.”

  “He wanders around,” Delaney continued. “Visits a few rough joints. Picks up a prostitute, brings her back to his room. Maybe they had a fight about money. Maybe he wanted something kinky, and she wouldn’t play. She’s got a knife in her purse. Most hookers carry them. He gets ugly, and she offs him. That’s the way I would have figured it. Didn’t you?”

  Abner Boone exhaled a great sigh of relief.

  “Exactly,” he said. “I figured the same scenario. A short-bladed knife—that’s a woman’s weapon. And the killer had to be naked when Puller was killed. Otherwise, why the shower and missing towel? So I started the wheels turning. We picked up a zillion hookers, as far west as Eleventh Avenue. We alerted all our whore and pimp snitches. Hit every bar in midtown Manhattan and flashed Puller’s photograph. Zilch. Then I began to wonder if we weren’t wasting our time. Because of something I haven’t told you. Something I didn’t find out myself for sure until three days after the body was found.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Puller wasn’t rolled. He had an unlocked sample case in the room with about twenty G’s of silver and turquoise jewelry. Nothing taken. He had a wallet filled with cash and credit cards. All still there. We went back over his movements since he left Denver. His wife and partner knew how much he was carrying. We figured how much he would spend in one day and two nights in New York. It came out right. It was all there. He wasn’t rolled.”

  Edward X. Delaney stared a moment, then shook his massive head from side to side.

  “It doesn’t listen,” he said angrily. “A prostie would have taken him. For something. She didn’t panic because she was smart enough to shower away his blood before she left. So why didn’t she fleece him?”

  The sergeant threw his hands in the air.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” he said bitterly. “It just doesn’t figure. And there’s another thing that doesn’t make sense: there was no sign of a struggle. Absolutely none. Nothing under Puller’s fingernails. No hairs other than his on the bed. The guy was fifty-four, sure, but he was heavy and muscular. If he had a fight with a whore, and she comes after him with a shiv, he’s going to do something—right? Roll out of bed, smack her, throw a lamp—something. But there is no evidence he put up any resistance at all. Just lay there happily and let her slit his throat. How do you figure that?”

  “Wasn’t unconscious, was he?”

  “The Lab Services Unit did the blood alcohol level and says he was about half-drunk, but unconsciousness would be highly improbable.”

  Then both men were silent, staring blankly at each other. Finally …

  “You mentioned his wife,” Delaney said. “Children?”

  “Three,” Boone said.

  “Shit.”

  Boone nodded sadly.

  “Anyway, Chief, they gave me more men, and we’ve really been hacking it. Out-of-town visitor in New York for a sales meeting gets stiffed in a midtown hotel. You can imagine the flak the Commissioner has been getting—from the hotel association and tourist bureau right up through a Deputy Mayor.”

  “I can imagine,” Delaney said.

  “All right,” the sergeant said, “that was the first killing. Listen, Chief, are you sure I’m not disturbing you? I don’t want to bore you silly with my problems.”

  “No, no, you’re not boring me. Besides, our other choice is to go out and help Rebecca and Monica clean up the mess. You want to do that?”

  “God forbid!” Boone said. “I’ll just keep crying on your shoulder. Well, the second homicide was six days ago.”

  “How many days between killings?” the Chief said sharply.

  “Uh … twenty-seven, sir. Is that important?”

  “Might be. Same MO?”

  “Practically identical. The victim’s name was Frederick Wolheim, male Caucasian, fifty-six, stabbed to death in Room 3015 of the Hotel Pierce, that new palace on Sixth Avenue. Naked, throat slit, multiple stab wounds in the genitals. This time the victim died from that first slash. The killer got the carotid and the jugular. Blood? You wouldn’t believe! A swimming pool. The—”

  “Wait a minute,” Delaney interrupted. “Those stab wounds in the genitals—vicious?”

  “Very. The ME counted at least twenty in each case, and then gave up and called them ‘multiple.’ Delivered with force. A few wounds in the lower groin showed bruise marks indicating the killer’s knuckles had slammed into the surrounding skin.”

  “I’m aware of what bruise marks indicate,” Edward X. Delaney said.

  “Oh,” Boone said, abashed. “Sorry, sir. Well, this time everything went off all right. I mean, as far as protecting the murder scene. Wolheim was supposed to deliver a speech at a morning meeting of marketing managers of electrical appliances. It was a convention being held at the Pierce. When he didn’t show up on time, the guy who had organized the program came up to his room looking for him. He got the chambermaid to open the door. They took one look, slammed the door, and called hotel security. The security man took one look, slammed the door, and called us. When my crew got there, and the Crime Scene Unit showed up, it was virgin territory, untouched by human hands. The security guy was standing guard outside the door.”

  “Good man,” Delaney said.

  “Ex-cop,” Boone said, grinning. “But it wasn’t all that much help. The Hotel Pierce is new, just opened last November, so the print problem was a little easier. But the CSU found nothing but Wolheim’s prints and the chambermaid’s. So the killer must have been very careful or smeared everything. Before he died, the victim had been drinking a brandy. His prints were on the glass and on the bottle on the dresser. There was another glass with a small shot of brandy on a table next to an armchair. Wolheim’s prints on that. No one else’s.”

  “The door?” the Chief asked.

  “Here’s where it gets cute,” Boone said. “No keyhole showing on the outside.”

  He explained how the new electric locks worked. The door was opened by the insertion of a coded magnetic card into an outside slot. When closed, the door locked automatically. It was even necessary to insert the card into an inside slot when exiting from the room.

  “A good security system,” he told Delaney. “It’s cut way down on hotel B-and-E’s. They don’t care if you don’t turn in the card when you leave because the magnetic code for the lock is changed when a guest checks out, and a new card issued. No way for a locksmith to duplicate the code.”

  “There must be a passcard for all the rooms,” the Chief said.

  “Oh sure. Held by the Security Section. The chambermaids have cards only for the rooms on the floor they service.”

  “Well,” Delaney said grudgingly, “it sounds good, but sooner or later some wise-ass will figure out how to beat it. But the important thing is that the killer couldn’t have left Wolheim’s room without putting the card in the slot on the
inside of the door. Have I got that right?”

  “Right,” Boone said, nodding. “The card had apparently been used to open the door, then it was tossed on top of a bureau. It’s white plastic that would take nice prints, but it had been wiped clean.”

  “I told you,” the Chief said with some satisfaction. “You’re up against a smart apple. Any signs of a fight?”

  “None,” Boone reported. “The ME says Wolheim must have died almost instantly. Certainly in a second or two after his throat was ripped. Chief, I saw him. It looked like his head was ready to fall off.”

  Delaney took a deep breath, then a swallow of his highball. He could imagine how the victim looked; he had seen similar cases. It took awhile before you learned to look and not vomit.

  “Anything taken?” he asked.

  “Not as far as we could tell. He had a fat wallet. Cash and travelers checks. Credit cards. All there. A gold wristwatch worth at least one big one. A pinkie ring with a diamond as big as the Ritz. Untouched.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Delaney said angrily. “It doesn’t make sense. Anything from routine?”

  “Nothing, and we’ve questioned more than 200 people so far. That Hotel Pierce is a city, a city! No one remembers seeing him with anyone. His last contact was with some convention buddies. They had dinner right there in the hotel. Then his pals wanted to go down to the traps in Greenwich Village, but Wolheim split. As far as we’ve been able to discover, they were the last to see him alive.”

  “Was he married?”

  “Yes. Five children. He was from Akron, Ohio. The cops out there broke the news. Rather them than me.”

  “I know what you mean.” Delaney was silent a moment, brooding. Then: “Any connection between the two men—Puller and Wolheim?”

  “We’re working on that right now. It doesn’t look good. As far as we can tell, they didn’t even know each other, weren’t related even distantly, never even met, for God’s sake! Went to different schools. Served in different branches of the armed forces. If there’s a connection, we haven’t found it. They had nothing in common.”

  “Sure they did.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They were both men. And in their mid-fifties.”

  “Well … yeah,” Boone acknowledged. “But, Chief, if someone is trying to knock off every man in his mid-fifties in Manhattan, we got real trouble.”

  “Not every man,” the Chief said. “Out-of-towners in the city for a convention, staying at a midtown hotel.”

  “How does that help, sir?”

  “It doesn’t,” Delaney said. “But it’s interesting. Did the Crime Scene Unit come up with anything?”

  “No unidentified prints. But they took the bathroom apart again. This time there were traces of the victim’s blood in the trap under the sink, so I guess the killer didn’t have to take a shower. Just used the sink.”

  “Towel missing again?”

  “That’s right. But the important thing is that they found hairs. Three of them. One on the pillow near the victim’s head. Two on the back of the armchair. Black hairs. Wolheim had reddish-gray hair.”

  “Well, my God, that’s something. What did the lab men say?”

  “Nylon. From a wig. Too long to be from a toupee.”

  Delaney blew out his breath. He stared at the sergeant. “The plot thickens,” he said.

  “Thickens?” Boone cried. “It curdles!”

  “It could still be a hooker.”

  “Could be,” the sergeant agreed. “Or a gay in drag. Or a transvestite. Anyway, the wig is a whole new ballgame. We’ve got pretty good relations with the gays these days, and they’re cooperating—asking around and trying to turn up something. And of course we have some undercover guys they don’t know about. And we’re covering the black leather joints. Maybe it was a transvestite, and the victims didn’t know it until they were in bed with a man. Some of those guys are so beautiful they could fool their mother.”

  Edward X. Delaney pondered awhile, frowning down into his empty highball glass.

  “Well …” he said, “maybe. Was the penis cut off?”

  “No.”

  “In all the homosexual killings I handled, the cock was hacked off.”

  “I talked to a sergeant in the Sex Crimes Analysis Unit, and that’s what he said. But he doesn’t rule out a male killer.”

  “I don’t either.”

  Then the two men were silent, each looking down, busy with his own thoughts. They heard Rebecca Boone laughing in the kitchen. They heard the clash of pots and pans. Comforting domestic noises.

  “Chief,” Sergeant Boone said finally, “what do you think we’ve got here?”

  Delaney looked up.

  “You want me to guess? That’s all I can do—guess. I’d guess it’s the start of a series of random killings. Motive unknown for the moment. The more I think about it, the more reasonable it seems that your perp is a male. I never heard of a female random killer.”

  “You think he’ll hit again?”

  “I’d figure on it,” Delaney advised. “If it follows the usual pattern, the periods between killings will become shorter and shorter. Not always. Look at the Yorkshire Ripper. But usually the random killer gets caught up in a frenzy, and hits faster and faster. Going by the percentages, he should kill again in about three weeks. You better cover the midtown hotels.”

  “How?” Boone said desperately. “With an army? And if we alert all the hotels’ security sections, the word is going to get around that New York has a new Son of Sam. There goes the convention business and the tourist trade.”

  Edward X. Delaney looked at him without expression.

  “That’s not your worry, sergeant,” he said tonelessly. “Your job is to nab a murderer.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Boone demanded. “But you’ve got no idea of the pressure to keep this thing under wraps.”

  “I’ve got a very good idea,” the Chief said softly. “I lived with it for thirty years.”

  But the sergeant would not be stopped.

  “Just before I came over here,” he said angrily, “I got a call from Deputy Commissioner Thorsen, and he …” His voice trailed away.

  Delaney straightened up, leaned forward.

  “Ivar?” he said. “Is he in on this?”

  Boone nodded, somewhat shamefacedly.

  “Did he tell you to brief me on the homicides?”

  “He didn’t exactly tell me, Chief. He called to let me know about the lieutenant who was taking over. I told him I was beat, and I was taking off. I happened to mention I was coming over here to pick up Rebecca, and he suggested it wouldn’t do any harm to fill you in.”

  Delaney smiled grimly.

  “If I did anything wrong, sir, I apologize.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, sergeant. No apologies necessary.”

  “To tell you the truth, I need all the help on this I can get.”

  “So does Deputy Commissioner Thorsen,” Delaney said dryly. “Who’s the loot coming in?”

  “Slavin. Marty Slavin. You know him?”

  Delaney thought a moment.

  “A short, skinny man?” he asked. “With a mean, pinched-up face? Looks like a ferret?”

  “That’s the guy,” Boone said.

  “Sergeant,” the Chief said solemnly, “you have my sympathy.”

  The door to the living room burst open. Monica Delaney stood there, hands on her hips, challenging.

  “All right, you guys,” she said. “That’s enough shop talk and ‘Remember whens …’ for one night. Coffee and cake in the living room. Right now. Let’s go.”

  They rose smiling and headed out.

  At the door, Sergeant Abner Boone paused.

  “Chief,” he said in a low voice, “any suggestions? Anything at all that I haven’t done and should do?”

  Edward X. Delaney saw the fatigue and worry in the man’s face. With Lieutenant Martin Slavin coming in to take over command, Boone had cau
se for worry.

  “Decoys,” the Chief said. “If they won’t let you alert the hotels, then put out decoys. Say between the hours of seven P.M. and midnight. Dress them like salesmen from out of town. Guys in their early fifties. Loud, beefy, flashing money. Have them cruise bars and hotel cocktail lounges. Probably a waste of time, but you never can tell.”

  “I’ll do it,” the sergeant said promptly. “I’ll request the manpower tomorrow.”

  “Call Thorsen,” Delaney advised. “He’ll get you what you need. And sergeant, if I were you, I’d get the decoy thing rolling before Slavin shows up. Make sure everyone knows it was your idea.”

  “Yes. I’ll do that. Uh, Chief, if this guy hits again like you figure, and I get the squeal, would you be willing to come over to the scene? You know—just to look around. I keep thinking there might be something we’re missing.”

  Delaney smiled at him. “Sure. Give me a call, and I’ll be there. It’ll be like old times.”

  “Thank you, Chief,” Boone said gratefully. “You’ve been a great help.”

  “I have?” Delaney said, secretly amused, and they went in for coffee and cake.

  Chief Edward X. Delaney inspected the living room critically. It had been tidied in satisfactory fashion. Ashtrays had been cleaned, footstools were where they belonged. His favorite club chair was in its original position.

  He turned to see his wife regarding him mockingly.

  “Does it pass inspection, O lord and master?” she inquired.

  “Nice job,” he said, nodding. “You can come to work for me anytime.”

  “I don’t do windows,” she said.

  The oak cocktail table had been set with coffeepot, creamer, sugar, cups, saucers, dessert plates, cutlery. And half a pineapple cheesecake.

  “Ab,” Rebecca Boone said, “the coffee is decaf, so you won’t have any trouble sleeping tonight.”

  He grunted.

  “And the cheesecake is low-cal,” Monica said, looking at her husband.

  “Liar,” he said cheerfully. “I’m going to have a thin slice anyway.”

  They helped themselves, then settled back with their coffee and cake. Delaney was ensconced in his club chair, Sergeant Boone in a smaller armchair. The two women sat on the sofa.