“Professor?” the Chief said.
The head came up slowly.
“Yes?”
“Here’s your drink.”
The coiled fingers clamped around.
“That lecture of yours,” Delaney said. “Your last lecture. Was it written out? Typed?”
The head bobbed.
“Would you have a copy of it? I’d like to read it.”
Albert Braun roused, looking at the Chief with eyes that had a spark, burning.
“Lots of copies,” he said. “In the study. Watch this …”
He pushed the controls in a metal box fixed to the arm of his wheelchair. He began to move slowly toward the doorway. Delaney stood hastily, hovered close. But Braun maneuvered his chair skillfully through the doorway, turned down the hallway. The Chief moved nearby, ready to grab the old man if he toppled.
But he didn’t. He steered expertly into the doorway of a darkened room and stopped his chair.
“Switch on your right,” he said in a faint voice.
Delaney fumbled, found the wall plate. Light blazed. It was a long cavern of a room, a study-den-library. Rough, unpainted pine bookshelves rose to the ceiling. Bound volumes, some in ancient leather covers. Paperbacks. Magazines. Stapled and photocopied academic papers. One shelf of photographs in folders.
There was a ramshackle desk, swivel chair, file cabinet, typewriter on a separate table. A desk lamp. A wilted philodendron.
The room had been dusted; it was not squalid. But it had the deserted look of a chamber long unused. The desktop was blank; the air had a stale odor. It was a deserted room, dying.
Albert Braun looked around.
“I’m leaving all my books and files to the John Jay library,” he said. “It’s in my will.”
“Good,” Delaney said.
“The lectures are over there in the lefthand corner. Third shelf up. In manila folders.”
Delaney went searching. He found the most recent folder, opened it. At least a dozen copies of a lecture entitled: “Multiple Random Homicides; History and Motives.”
“May I take a copy?” he asked.
No answer.
“Professor,” he said sharply.
Braun’s spurt of energy seemed to have depleted him. He raised his head with difficulty.
“May I take a copy?” Delaney repeated.
“Take all you want,” Braun said in a peevish voice. “Take everything. What difference does it make?”
The Chief took one copy of Detective Sergeant Albert Braun’s last lecture. He folded it lengthwise, tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.
“We’ll get you back to your bedroom now,” he said.
But there in the doorway, looming, was big, motherly Mrs. Martha Kaslove. She looked down with horror at the lolling Albert Braun and snatched the glass from his nerveless fingers. Then she looked furiously at Edward X. Delaney.
“What did you do to him?” she demanded.
He said nothing.
“You got him drunk,” she accused. “You may have killed him! You get out of here and never, never come back. Don’t try to call; I’ll hang up on you. And if I see you lurking around, I’ll call the cops and have you put away, you disgusting man.”
He waited until she had wheeled Albert Braun back to his bedroom. Then Delaney turned off the lights in the study, went downstairs, and found his hat and coat. He called a taxi from the living room phone.
He went outside and stood on the sidewalk, waiting for the cab. He looked around at the pleasant, peaceful street, so free of traffic that kids were skateboarding down the middle of the pavement. Nice homes. Private lives.
He was back in Manhattan shortly after 3:30 P.M. In the kitchen, taped to the refrigerator door—she knew how to communicate with him—was a note from Monica. She had gone to a symposium and would return no later than 5:30. He was to put the chicken and potatoes in the oven at precisely 4:00.
He welcomed the chore. He didn’t want to think of what he had done. He was not ashamed of how he had used a dying man, but he didn’t want to dwell on it.
There were six chicken legs. He cut them into pieces, drumsticks and thighs, rinsed and dried them. Then he rubbed them with olive oil, sprinkled on toasted onion flakes, and dusted them with garlic and parsley salt. He put the twelve pieces (the thighs skin side down) in a disposable aluminum foil baking pan.
He washed and dried the four Idaho potatoes. He rubbed them with vegetable oil and wrapped them in aluminum foil. Monica and he could never eat four baked potatoes, but the two left over would be kept refrigerated, sliced another day, and fried with butter, chopped onions, and lots of paprika. Good homefries.
He set the oven for 350° and put in chicken and potatoes. He searched in the fridge for salad stuff and found a nice head of romaine. He snapped it into single long leaves, washed them, wrapped them in a paper towel. Then he put them back into the refrigerator to chill. He and Monica liked to eat romaine leaf by leaf, dipped into a spicy sauce.
He made the sauce, a tingly mixture of mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, Tabasco, salt, pepper, garlic powder, and parsley flakes. He whipped up a bowl of the stuff and left it to meld.
He was not a good cook; he knew that. He smoked too much and drank too much; his palate was dulled. That was why he overspiced everything. Monica complained that when he cooked, sweat broke out on her scalp.
He had accomplished all his tasks in his heavy, vested sharkskin suit, a canvas kitchen apron knotted about his waist. Finished, he untied the apron, took an opened can of Ballantine ale, and went into his study.
He settled down, took a sip of the ale, donned his reading glasses. He began to read Detective Sergeant Albert Braun’s last lecture. He read it twice. Between readings, he went into the kitchen to turn the chicken, sprinkling on more toasted onion flakes and garlic and parsley salt. And he opened another ale.
Multiple Random Homicides
History and Motives
by Albert Braun, Det. Sgt., NYPD, Ret.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen …
“The homicide detective, in establishing the guilt or innocence of a suspect must concern himself—as we have previously discussed—with means, opportunity, and motive. The criminal may choose his weapon and select his opportunity. His motive cannot be manipulated; he is its creature. And it is usually motive by which his crime succeeds or fails.
“What are we to make of the motive of New York’s current multiple murderer—an individual described in headlines as ‘The .44 Caliber Killer’ or ‘Son of Sam’? The former title refers to the handgun used to kill six and wound seven—to date. The latter is a self-awarded nickname used by the killer in taunting notes to the police and press and, by extension, to all of us.
“The detective’s mind at work: He calls himself ‘Son of Sam.’ Invert to Samson, who lost his potency when his long hair was shorn. Then we learn the victims had long hair. A connection here? A clue? No, I do not believe so. Too tenuous. But it illustrates how every possibility, no matter how farfetched, must be explored in attempting to establish the criminal’s motive or plural motives.
“In researching the murky drives of the wholesale killer, the detective goes to the past history of similar crimes, and finds literature on the topic disturbingly scant. Rape, robbery, even art forgery have been thoroughly studied, analyzed, charted, computerized, dissected, skinned, and hung up to dry.
“But where are the psychologists, criminologists, sociologists, and amateur aficionados of murder most foul when it comes to resolving the motives of those who kill, and kill again, and again, and again … ?
“Good reason for this, I think. Cases of mass homicide are too uncommon to reveal a sure pattern. Each massacre is different, each slaughter unique. Where is the link between Jack the Ripper, Charles Manson, Unruh, the Black Dahlia, Speck, the Boston Strangler, Panzram, William Heirens (‘Stop me before I kill again!’), Zodiac (never caught, that one), the rifleman in the Texas tower, the Los Angeles �
�Trash Bag’ butchers, the homosexual killers in Houston, the executioner of the California itinerant workers? What do all these monsters have in common?
“ ‘They were all quite mad,’ you say. An observation of blinding brilliance rivaled only by John F. Kennedy’s, ‘Life is unfair.’
“No, the puzzling denominator is that they are all male. Where are the ladies in this pantheon of horror? Victims frequently, killers never. Oh, there was Martha Beck, true, but she ‘worked’ with a male paramour and slaughtered from corruptive greed. Shoddy stuff.
“We are not here concerned with greed as a motive for multiple homicide. Nor shall we muse on familial tensions which erupt in the butchery of an entire Nebraska family or Kentucky clan, including in-laws and, oddly enough, usually the family dog.
“What concerns us this evening is a series of isolated murders, frequently over a lengthy period of time, the victims unrelated and strangers to the slayer. Let us also eliminate political and military terrorism. What remains of motive? It is not enough to intone, ‘Paranoiac schizophrenic,’ and let it go at that. It may satisfy a psychologist, but should not satisfy the homicide detective since labels are of no use to him in solving the case.
“What, then, should the detective look for? What possible motives for random slayings may exist that will help him apprehend the perpetrator?
“Pay attention here; watch your footing. We are in a steamy place of reaching vines, barbed creepers, roots beneath and swamp around. Beasts howl. Motives intertwine and interact. Words fail, and the sun is blocked. Poor psychologists. Poor sociologists. No patterns, no paths. But shivery shadows—plenty of those.
“First, maniacal lust. Oh yes. This staple of penny dreadfuls did exist, does exist and, if current statistics on rape are correct, seems likely to increase tomorrow. It might—and that was the first of many ‘mights’ you will hear from me tonight—it might account for the barbarities of Jack the Ripper, the Boston Strangler, the Black Dahlia, Heirens, Speck, and others whose names, fortunately, escape me. I have a good memory for old lags, con men, outlaws and safecrackers. When it comes to recalling mass killers, my mind fuzzes over. It is, I think, an unconscious protective mechanism. The horror is too bright; it shines a light in corners better left in gloom.
“Sexual frenzy: passion becomes violence through hatred, impotence, a groaning realization of the emptiness of sex without love. Water results; blood is wanted. Then blood is needed, and the throat-choked slayer seeks the ultimate orgasm. And aware—oh yes, aware!—and weeping for himself—never for his victim; his own anguish fills him—he scrawls in lipstick on the bathroom mirror, ‘Stop me before I kill again!’ As if anyone could rein his demented desire or want to. Leave that to the hangman’s noose. It is stated that capital punishment does not deter. It will deter him.
“Second, revenge. It might serve for Jack the Ripper, the Boston Strangler, Unruh, the killer of those California farmhands, the homosexual executioner in Houston—ah, it might serve for the whole scurvy lot, including the latest addition, Son of Sam.
“Revenge, as a motive, I interpret as hatred of a type of individual or a class of individuals who, in the killer’s sick mind, are deserving of death. All women, all blacks, all homosexuals, the poor, the mighty, or attractive young girls with long brown hair.
“When the New York Police Department compared ballistics reports and came to the stunned conclusion that it was up against a repeat killer, one of the first theories advanced involved the long hair of the victims. It was suggested that the murderer, having been spurned or humiliated by a girl with flowing tresses, vowed vengeance and is intent on killing her over and over again.
“More recent reports demolish this hypothesis. Males have been shot (one was killed), and not all the female victims had brown, shoulder-length hair. One was blonde; others had short coiffures.
“But still, revenge as a motive has validity. It has been proposed that Jack the Ripper executed and mutilated prostitutes because one had infected him with a venereal disease. A neat theory. Just as elegant, I believe, is my own belief: that he was the type of man who compulsively sought the company of whores (there are such men) and killed to eradicate his own weakness, eliminate his shame.
“I told you we are in a jungle here, and nowhere does the sun shine through. We are poking around the dark, secret niches of the human heart, and our medical chart resembles antique maps with the dread legends: ‘Terra incognita’ and ‘Here be dragons.’
“Third, rejection. Closely allied to revenge, but rejection not by individual or class but by society, the world, life itself. ‘I didn’t ask to be born,’ the killer whines, and the only answer can be, ‘Who did?’ Is Son of Sam of this rejected brotherhood?
“There was once a mass killer named Panzram. He was an intelligent man, a thinking man, but a bum, a drifter, scorned, abused, and betrayed. He rejected, scorned, and abused in turn. And he slew, so many that it seemed he wanted to kill not people but life itself. Wipe out all humanity, then all things that pulse, and leave only a cinder whirling dead through freezing space.
“That was total rejection: rejection of the killer by society, and of society by the killer. Has no one ever turned his back on you, or you to him? We are dealing here not with another planet’s language that no one speaks on ours. The vocabulary is in us all, but we dast not give it tongue.
“The flip side of rejection, real or fancied, is the need to assert: ‘I do exist. I am I. A person of consequence. You must pay attention. And to make certain you do, I shall kill a baker’s dozen of those lumps who look through me on the street. Then you will recognize who I am.’ Is that what Unruh was thinking as he strolled along the New Jersey street, shooting passersby, drivers of cars, pausing to reload, stopping in stores to pot a few more?
“ ‘I am I. World, take notice!’ First, rejection; then, need to prove existence. Murder becomes a mirror.
“Finally, punk rock, punk fashion, punk souls. Not ‘Small is better than big,’ but ‘Nothing is better than something.’ So, what’s new? Surely there were a few wild-eyed Neanderthals rushing about the caves, screaming, ‘Down with up!’
“We can afford a low-kilowatt smile at combat boots worn with gold lamé bikinis, at the splintered dissonance of punk rock, at the touching fervor with which punkists assault the establishment. We can smile, oh yes, knowing how quickly their music, fashions, language, and personal habits will be preempted, smoothed, glossed, gussied-up, and sold tomorrow via 30-second commercials at highly inflated prices.
“But there are a few punk souls whose nihilism is so intense, who are so etched by negativism and riddled by despair, that they will never be preempted. Never! Anarchy was not invented yesterday; the demons of Dostoevski have been with us always. To the man who believes ‘Nothing is evil,’ it is but one midget step to ‘Everything is good.’
“The nihilist may murder to prove himself superior to the tribal taboo (the human tribe): ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Or he may slay to prove to his victims the fallacy and ephemerality of their faith. In either case, the killer is acting as an evangelist of anarchy. It is not enough that he not believe; he must convert—at the muzzle of a revolver or the point of a knife.
“Because the hell of punk souls is this: if one other person in the world believes, he is doomed. And so the spiritual anarchist will kill before he will acknowledge that he has spent his life in thin sneers while other, more ignorant and less cynical men have affirmed, and accepted the attendant pain with stoicism and resolve.
“The acrid stink of nihilism followed Charles Manson and his merry band on all their creepy-crawlies. And a charred whiff of spiritual anarchy rises from the notes and deeds of Son of Sam. But I do not believe this his sole goad. Two or more motives are interacting here.
“And that is the thought I wish to leave with you tonight. The motives of mass killers are rarely simple and rarely single. We are not earthworms. We are infinitely complex, infinitely chimerical organisms. In the case of mult
iple random killings, it is the task of the homicide detective to pick his way through this maze of motives and isolate those strands that will, hopefully, enable him to apprehend the murderer.
“Any questions?”
There was nothing wrong with the dinner. The chicken was crisp and tasty. The baked potatoes, with dabs of sweet butter and a bit of freshly ground pepper, were light and fluffy. The sauce for the romaine leaves was not too spicy. And there was a chilled jug of California chablis on the table.
But the meal was spoiled by Monica’s mood. She was silent, morose. She picked at her food or sat motionless for long moments, fork poised over her food.
“What’s wrong?” Delaney asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
They cleaned the table, sat silently over coffee and small anise biscuits.
“What’s wrong?” he asked again.
“Nothing,” she said, but he saw tears welling in her eyes. He groaned, rose, bent over her. He put a meaty arm about her shoulders.
“Monica, what is it?”
“This afternoon,” she sniffled. “It was a symposium on child abuse.”
“Jesus Christ!” he said. He pulled his chair around next to hers. He sat holding her hand.
“Edward, it was so awful,” she said. “I thought I was prepared, but I wasn’t.”
“I know.”
“They had a color film of what had been done to those kids. I wanted to die.”
“I know, I know.”
She looked at him through brimming eyes.
“I don’t know how you could have endured seeing things like that for thirty years.”
“I never got used to it,” he said. “Never. Why do you think Abner Boone cracked up and started drinking?”
She was shocked. “Was that it?”
“Part of it. Most of it. Seeing what people are capable of. What they do to other people—and to children.”
“Do you suppose he told Rebecca? Why he started drinking?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. He’s ashamed of it.”
“Ashamed!” she burst out. “Of feeling horror and revulsion and sympathy for the victims?”
Third Deadly Sin Page 14