“But I’m only concerned with the way things are today. And I think women today are capable of making irrelevant all the existing criminal data dealing with females. Those numbers were accurate for yesterday, not today. The new women make them obsolete.
“I think enough hard evidence exists to justify believing the Hotel Ripper is a woman. I asked Handry to do this research in hopes that it might provide statistical background to reinforce that belief. I think it does.
“Monica, we have shit-all evidence of what the killer looks like. We know she’s about five-five to five-seven and wears wigs. That’s about it. But we can guess at other things about her. For instance, she’s probably a young woman, say in the area of eighteen to forty, because she’s strong enough to rip a man’s throat and she’s young enough to have menstrual periods.
“We also know she’s smart. She plans carefully. She’s cool and determined enough to carry through a vicious murder and then wash bloodstains from her body before leaving the scene. She makes certain she leaves no fingerprints. Everything indicates a woman of above average intelligence.
“This research gives us additional clues to other things she may be. Quite possibly she’s addicted to prescription drugs, alcohol, or nicotine—or a combination of two or all three. The chances are good that she suffers from depression or mania, or both.
“All I’m trying to do is put together a profile. Not a psychological profile—those things are usually pure bullshit. I’m trying to give the killer certain personal and emotional characteristics that will give us a more accurate picture of the kind of woman she is.”
“You think she’s a feminist?” Monica demanded.
“She may be; she may not be. I just don’t know and can’t guess. But I do believe the great majority of women in this country have been affected by the women’s liberation movement whether they are active in it or not.”
Monica was silent a moment, pondering. She stared down, her eyes blinking. Then she asked the question Delaney had hoped to avoid. But, he admitted wryly, he should have known she’d go to the heart of the matter.
She looked up, directly at him. “Did Handry research current crime statistics?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And?”
“The arrest rate is up for women. Much higher than that for men.”
“What about murder?” she asked.
He had to be honest. “No, there’s no evidence that murder by women is increasing. But their arrests for robbery, breaking-and-entering, and auto theft are increasing at a higher rate than for men. And much higher for larceny-theft, embezzlement, and fraud. Generally, women’s crimes against property are increasing faster than men’s, but not in the category of violent crimes such as murder and manslaughter.”
“Or rape,” she added bitterly.
He said nothing.
“Well?” she questioned. “If you think your research is justification for the Hotel Ripper being a woman, wouldn’t there be some evidence of murder by women being on the increase?”
“I would have thought so,” he admitted.
“You hoped so, didn’t you?” she said, looking at him narrowly.
“Come on, Monica,” he protested. “It’s not giving me any great satisfaction to know the Hotel Ripper is a woman.”
She sniffed and rose, gathering up her knitting things.
“You don’t know any such thing,” she said. “You’re just guessing. And I think you’re totally wrong.”
“I may be,” he acknowledged.
“Are you going to tell Boone about your wild idea?”
“No. Not yet. But I’m going to call him and warn him about May seventh to May ninth. If I’m right, then there will be another killing or attempted killing around then.”
She swept grandly from the room.
“You’re making a damned fool of yourself!” she flung over her shoulder.
After the door slammed behind her, he kicked fretfully at the pages of research discarded on the carpet.
“Won’t be the first time,” he grumbled.
On the morning of May 9th, a little before 9:00 A.M., Monica and Edward X. Delaney were seated at the kitchen table, having a quiet breakfast. They were sharing a pan of eggs scrambled with lox and onions.
Since their heated debate on the significance of Thomas Handry’s research, their relation had been one of careful politesse:
“Would you care for more coffee?”
“Thank you. Another piece of toast?”
“No more, thank you. Would it bother you if I turned on the radio?”
“Not at all. Would you like a section of the newspaper?”
It had been going on like that for more than a week, neither willing to yield. But on that morning, the Chief decided it had continued long enough.
He threw down his newspaper, slammed his hand on the table with a crack that made Monica jump.
“Jesus Christ!” he said explosively. “What are we—a couple of kids? What kind of bullshit is this? Can’t we disagree without treating each other like strangers?”
“You’re so damned bullheaded,” she said. “You can never admit you’re wrong.”
“I admit I might be wrong,” he said. “On this thing. But I haven’t been proved wrong—yet. You think I’m wrong? All right, how about a bet? Put your money where your mouth is. How much? Five, ten, a hundred? Whatever you say.”
“It’s too serious a matter to bet money on,” she said loftily.
“All right, let’s make a serious bet. The windows are filthy. If I’m proved wrong, I’ll wash every goddamned window in the house. If I’m proved right, you wash them.”
She considered that a moment.
“Every window,” she insisted. “Including basement and attic. Inside and out.”
“I agree,” he said and held out his big paw. They shook hands.
“Turn the radio on,” she ordered.
“Pour me some more coffee,” he commanded.
Things were back to normal. But they both froze when they heard the first news item.
“The body of a murdered man was discovered in a suite at the Cameron Arms Hotel on Central Park South last night around midnight. The victim has been identified as Leonard T. Bergdorfer, an airline broker from Atlanta, Georgia. A police spokesman has definitely linked the slaying with the series of Hotel Ripper murders. The death of Bergdorfer is the fourth. No further details are available at this hour.”
Monica and Edward stared at each other.
“The Windex is in the cupboard under the sink,” he said slowly.
She began to cry, silently, tears welling down her cheeks. He rose to put a heavy arm about her shoulders, pull her close.
“It’s so awful,” she said, her voice muffled. “So awful. We were joking and making bets, and all the time …”
“I know,” he said, “I know.”
“You better tell Abner,” she said. “About what you think.”
“Yes,” he said, “I guess I better.”
He went into the study, sat down heavily behind the desk. He had his hand on the phone, but then paused, pondering.
He could not understand why he had not been informed. The newscaster had said the body was discovered around midnight.
Delaney would have expected Sergeant Boone to call him as soon as it had been verified as a Ripper killing.
Perhaps Boone had been commanded by Lieutenant Slavin to stop discussing the case with Delaney. Or perhaps enough evidence had been found to wrap up the investigation with no more help from a retired cop. Or maybe the sergeant was just too busy to report. Anything was possible.
He called Boone at home, at Midtown North, and at the Cameron Arms Hotel. No success anywhere. He left messages at all three places, asking the sergeant to call him back as soon as possible.
He started a new dossier: a sheet of paper headed: “Leonard T. Bergdorfer, midnight May 8, from Atlanta, Georgia. Fourth victim. Body found at Cameron Arms Hotel.” Then he went
back into the kitchen to listen to the ten o’clock news. Monica was gathering a pail of water, clean rags, Windex, a roll of paper towels.
“You don’t have to do the windows,” he told her, smiling. “It was just a stupid joke. We’ll have someone come in and do them. Besides, it looks like rain.”
“No, no,” she said. “I lost the bet. Also, I think I’d like to keep busy with physical work today. Therapy. Maybe it’ll keep me from thinking.”
“Well … just do the insides,” he said. “Stop when you get tired.”
The news broadcast added a few more facts. The victim had come to New York to attend a convention at the Cameron Arms Hotel. His body was discovered by friends who stopped by his suite for a drink and found the door unlocked.
There were indignant statements from a Deputy Mayor, from travel agents, from the president of the hotel association. All called for quick apprehension of the Hotel Ripper before tourist trade in New York dwindled to nothing.
Edward X. Delaney waited all morning in his study, but Sergeant Abner Boone never called back. The Chief concluded that his aid was no longer being sought. For whatever reason, he was being ignored.
He pulled on his raincoat, homburg, took an umbrella from the hall closet. He yelled upstairs to Monica that he was going out and would be back shortly. He waited for her shouted reply before he left, double-locking the front door behind him.
It wasn’t a hard rain. More of a thick, soaking mist that fell steadily from a steely sky. And it was unpleasantly warm. There were puddles on the sidewalks. The gutters ran with filth. The day suited Delaney’s mood perfectly.
His pride was hurt; he acknowledged it. He had cooperated with Boone and, through him, with Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen. He had made suggestions. He had warned of the May 7-9 time period.
The only thing he hadn’t passed along was his theory that the Hotel Ripper was a woman. Not a prostitute, but a psychopathic female posing as one. And he hadn’t told Boone about that simply because it was a theory and needed more evidence to give it substance.
He thought the timing of the murder of Leonard T. Bergdorfer made it more than just a hypothesis. But if they didn’t want his help, the hell with them. It was no skin off his ass. He was an honorably retired cop, and for all he cared the Department could go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.
That’s what he told himself.
He walked for blocks and blocks, feeling the damp creep into his feet and shoulders. His umbrella soaked through, his ungloved hands dripped, and he felt as steamed as if the city had become an enormous sauna with someone pouring water on heated rocks.
He stopped at an Irish bar on First Avenue. He had two straight whiskies, which brought more sweat popping but at least calmed his anger. By the time he started home, he had regained some measure of serenity, convinced the Hotel Ripper case was past history as far as he was concerned.
He was putting his sodden homburg and raincoat in the hall closet when Monica came out of the kitchen.
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
“Taking a stroll,” he said shortly.
“Ivar Thorsen is in the study,” she said. “He’s been waiting almost an hour. I gave him a drink.”
Delaney grunted.
“You’re in a foul mood,” Monica said. “Just like Ivar. Put your umbrella in the sink to drip.”
He stood the closed umbrella in the kitchen sink. He felt the shoulders of his jacket. They were dampish but not soaked. He passed a palm over his iron-gray, brush-cut hair. Then he went into the study.
Deputy Commissioner Thorsen stood up, drink in hand.
“Hullo, Ivar,” the Chief said.
“How the hell did you know there’d be a killing last night?” Thorsen said loudly, almost shouting.
Delaney stared at him. “It’s a long story,” he said, “and one you’re not likely to hear if you keep yelling at me.”
Thorsen took a deep breath. “Oh God,” he said, shaking his head, “I must be cracking up. I’m sorry, Edward. I apologize.”
He came forward to shake the Chief’s hand. Then he sat down again in the armchair. Delaney freshened his glass with more Glenlivet and poured himself a healthy shot of rye whiskey. They held their glasses up to each other before sipping.
Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen was called “The Admiral” in the NYPD, and his appearance justified the nickname. He was a small, slender man with posture so erect, shoulders so squared, that it was said he left the hangers in the jackets he wore.
His complexion was fair, unblemished; his profile belonged on postage stamps. His white hair, worn short and rigorously brushed, had the gleam of chromium.
His pale blue eyes seemed genial enough, but subordinates knew how they could deepen and blaze. “It’s easy enough to get along with Thorsen,” one of his aides had remarked. “Just be perfect.”
“How’s Karen?” Delaney asked, referring to the deputy’s beautiful Swedish wife.
“She’s fine, thanks,” Thorsen said. “When are you and Monica coming over for one of her herring smorgasbords?”
“Whenever you say.”
They sat in silence, looking at each other. Finally.
“You first or me first?” Thorsen asked.
“You,” Delaney said.
“We’ve got problems downtown,” the Admiral announced.
“So what else is new? You’ve always got problems downtown.”
“I know, but this Hotel Ripper thing is something else. It’s as bad as Son of Sam. Maybe worse. The Governor’s office called today. The Department is taking a lot of flak. From the politicians and the business community.”
“You know how I feel about the Department.”
“I know how you say you feel, Edward. But don’t tell me a man who gave as many years as you did would stand idly by and not do what he could to help the Department.”
“Fiddle music,” Delaney said. “ ‘Hearts and Flowers.’ ”
Thorsen laughed. “Iron Balls,” he said. “No wonder they called you that. But forget about the Department’s problems for a moment. Let’s talk about your problems.”
Delaney looked up in surprise. “I’ve got no problems.”
“You say. I know better. I’ve seen a lot of old bulls retire and I’ve watched what happens to them after they get out of harness. A few of them can handle it, but not many.”
“I can handle it.”
“You’d be surprised how many drop dead a year or two after putting in their papers. Heart attack or stroke, cancer or bleeding ulcers. I don’t know the medical or psychological reasons for it, but studies show it’s a phenomenon that exists. When the pressure is suddenly removed, and stress vanishes, and there are no problems to solve, and drive and ambition disappear, the body just collapses.”
“Hasn’t happened to me,” Delaney said stoutly. “I’m in good health.”
“Or other things happen,” the Admiral went on relentlessly. “They can’t handle the freedom. No office to go to. No beat to pound. No shop talk. Their lives revolved around the Department and now suddenly they’re out. It’s like they were excommunicated.”
“Bullshit.”
“Some of them find a neighborhood bar that becomes their office or squad room or precinct. They keep half-bagged all day and bore their new friends silly with lies about what great cops they were.”
“Not me.”
“Or maybe they decide to read books, visit museums, go to shows—all the things they never had time for before. Fishing and hunting. Gardening. Hockey games. And so forth. But it’s just postponing the inevitable. How many books can you read? How many good plays or movies are there? How many hockey games? The day arrives when they wake up with the realization that they’ve got nothing to do, nowhere to go. They may as well stay in bed. Some of them do.”
“I don’t.”
“Or become drunks or hypochondriacs. Or start following their wives around, walking up their heels. Or start resenting their wi
ves because the poor women don’t spend every waking minute with them.”
Delaney said nothing.
Thorsen looked at him narrowly. “Don’t tell me you haven’t felt any of those things, Edward. You’ve never lied to me in your life; don’t start now. Why do you think you were so willing to help Boone? So eager to get his reports on the Hotel Ripper case? To make out those dossiers I saw on your desk? Oh yes, I peeked, and I make no apology for it. Maybe you’re not yet in the acute stage, but admit it’s starting.”
“What’s starting?”
“The feeling that you’re not wanted, not needed. No reason to your life. No aims, no desires. Worst of all is the boredom. It saps the spirit, turns the brain to mush. You’re a wise man, Edward; I’d never deny it. But you’re not smart enough to handle an empty life.”
Delaney rose slowly to his feet, with an effort. He poured more whiskey. Glenlivet for Thorsen, rye for himself. He sat down heavily again in the swivel chair behind the desk. He regarded the Deputy Commissioner reflectively.
“You’re a pisser, you are,” he said. “You want something from me. You know you’ve got to convince me. So you try the loyalty-to-the-Department ploy. When that doesn’t work, you switch without the loss of a single breath to the self-interest approach. Now I’ve got to do as you want if I hope to avoid dropping dead, becoming a lush, annoying my wife, or having my brain turn to mush.”
“Right!” the Admiral cried, slapping his knee. “You’re exactly right. It’s in your own self-interest, man. That’s the strongest motive of them all.”
“You admit you’re manipulating me—or trying to?”
“Of course. But it’s in your own best interest; can’t you see that?”
Delaney sighed. “Thank God you never went into politics. You’d end up owning the world. What is it, precisely, you want of me, Ivar?”
The sprucely dressed deputy set his drink aside. He leaned forward earnestly, hands clasped.
“Slavin has got to go,” he said. “The man’s a disaster. Releasing that black nylon wig story to the media was a blunder. We’re beefing up the Hotel Ripper squad. Another hundred detectives and plainclothesmen for a start, and more available as needed. We’ll put Slavin in charge of administration and scheduling of the task force. He’s good at that.”
Third Deadly Sin Page 23