BRODERICK: “That’s nice. There must be a zillion different makes of pocket knives for sale in the New York area.”
BOONE: “Find out. Third, Johnson you take the business with the Mace. Who makes it, how it gets into New York. Is it sold by mail order? Can you get a license to buy it? Anyone pushing it on the street? And so forth.”
BENTLEY: “And me?”
BOONE: “Pull your decoys out of the gay bars. Concentrate on the straight places, and mostly the bars and cocktail lounges in midtown hotels. And show photos of the victims to bartenders and waitresses. See if you can pick up a trail.”
BENTLEY: “We’ve already done that, sarge.”
BOONE: “So? Do it again.”
DELANEY: “Wait a minute …”
They all turned to look at him but the Chief was silent. Then he spoke to Detective Bentley.
DELANEY: “Your squad showed photos of all the victims around in hotel bars and cocktail lounges?”
BENTLEY: “That’s right, Chief.”
DELANEY: “And you came up with zilch?”
BENTLEY: “Correct. That’s understandable; most of the places were mobbed. What waitress would remember one customer’s face?”
DELANEY: “Uh-huh. Boone, who was the victim with the badly scarred hands?”
BOONE: “The third. Jerome Ashley, at the Hotel Coolidge.”
DELANEY: “Go back to the Coolidge. Don’t show Ashley’s photo. At first. Ask if any waitress or bartender remembers a customer with badly scarred hands. If they do, then show his photo.”
BENTLEY: “Got it. Beautiful.”
BOONE: “Any more questions?”
CRANE: “Are we releasing this to the media? About the Ripper being a woman?”
BOONE: “Thorsen says no, not at the moment. They’ll decide on it downtown.”
BRODERICK: “No way we can keep it quiet. Too many people involved.”
BOONE: “I agree, but it’s not our decision to make. Anything else?”
BENTLEY: “What color wig are my decoys looking for?”
BOONE: “Probably strawberry blond. But it could be any color.”
BENTLEY: “Thank you. That narrows it down.”
Laughing, the men rose, the meeting broke up. Delaney watched them go. He was satisfied with them; he thought they knew their jobs.
More than that, he was gratified by the way they had accepted, more or less, his theory as a working hypothesis. He knew how comforting it was in any criminal case to have a framework, no matter how bare. The outline, hopefully, would be filled in as the investigation proceeded.
But to start out with absolutely nothing, and still have nothing three months later, was not only discouraging, it was enervating; it drained the will, weakened resolve, and made men question their professional ability.
Now, at least, he had given them an aim, a direction. Policemen, in many ways, are like priests. No experienced cop believes in justice; the law is his bible. And Delaney had given them hope that, in this case at least, the law would not be flouted.
“Want to stay around, Chief?” Sergeant Boone asked. “Maybe you can suggest some improvements on how we’re organized.”
“Thanks,” Delaney said, “but I better climb out of your hair and let you get to work. I think it would be smart if I stayed away from here as much as possible. Keep resentment to a minimum.”
“No one resents your helping out, Chief.”
Delaney smiled and waved a hand.
On his way out of Midtown North, he looked in at busy offices, squad and interrogation rooms. Most of his years of service had been spent in precinct houses older than this one, but the atmosphere was similar. The smell was identical.
He knew that most of the bustle he witnessed had nothing to do with the Hotel Ripper case; it was the daily activity of an undermanned precinct that patrolled one of the most crowded sections of Manhattan, usually the only part of New York City visited by tourists.
It would have been helpful, and probably more efficient, if the entire Hotel Ripper task force could have been accommodated in one suite of offices, or even one large bullpen. But they had to make do with the space available.
As a result, only Boone and his command squad and Slavin and his bookkeepers worked out of Midtown North. Johnson and Bentley, and their crews, were stationed in Midtown South. Broderick’s men had desks in the 20th Precinct, and Lieutenant Crane’s research staff had been given temporary space downtown at 1 Police Plaza.
Still, the organization creaked along, twenty-four hours a day, with three shifts of plainclothesmen and detectives turning up to keep the investigation rolling. Delaney didn’t want to think about the scheduling problems involved—that was Slavin’s headache.
And the paperwork! It boggled the mind. Daily reports, status updates, requests for record checks, and pleas for additional manpower were probably driving Sergeant Boone right up the wall. Delaney suspected he was sleeping on a cot in his office—when he had a chance to grab a few hours.
The Chief walked across town on 54th Street, musing on the size of the machine that had been set in motion to stop a single criminal and what it was costing the city. He didn’t doubt for a moment that it was necessary, but he wondered if adding more men, and more, and more, would bring success sooner. Would doubling the task force break the case in half the time? Ridiculous.
He guessed that the size of the operation must be a matter of some pride and satisfaction to the murderer. Most mass killers had a desire for recognition of the monstrousness of their crimes. They wrote to the newspapers. They called TV and radio stations. They wanted attention, and if it came at the cost of slashed corpses and a terrorized city—so be it.
He lumbered along the city street, crowded this Saturday afternoon in spring, and looked with new eyes at the women passing by. He was as adept at observing himself as others, and he realized that his way of looking at women had changed since he became convinced that the Hotel Ripper was female.
His feelings about women had already undergone one revolution, spurred by Monica’s interest in the feminist movement. But now, seeing these strange, aloof creatures striding along on a busy New York street, he was conscious of another shift in his reactions to the female sex.
He could only recognize it as a kind of wariness. It was an awareness that, for him at least, women had suddenly revealed a new, hitherto unsuspected dimension.
There was a mystery there, previously shrugged off, like most males, with the muttered comment: “Just like a woman.” With no one, ever, defining exactly what was meant by that judgment, except that it was inevitably uttered in a condemnatory tone.
But now, attempting to analyze the mystery, he thought it might be nothing more complex than granting to women the humanity granted to men—with all its sins and virtues, ideals and depravities.
If one was willing to accord to women equality (superiority even!) in all the finer instincts and nobilities of which men were capable, was it such a wrench or so illogical to acknowledge also that they were capable of men’s faults and corruptions?
It was a nice point, he decided, and one he would certainly enjoy debating with Monica. The first time he caught her in a forgiving mood …
He took an uptown bus on Third Avenue and arrived home a little before 4:00 P.M. Monica was asleep on the living room couch, a book open on her lap, reading glasses down on her nose. He smiled and closed the door quietly when he went into the kitchen.
Moving stealthily, he opened the refrigerator door and considered the possibilities. He decided on a sandwich of anchovies, egg salad, and sliced tomato on a seeded roll. Rather than eat it while leaning over the sink, he put it on a sheet of waxed paper and carried it, along with an opened beer, into the study.
While he ate and drank, he added a few additional facts to the dossier of Leonard T. Bergdorfer. Then he shuffled the files of all four victims and tried to add to his list of commonalities.
The days of the week when the crimes were committed
seemed to have no connection. Nor did the precise time of day. The exact location of the hotels, other than being in midtown Manhattan, suggested no particular pattern. The victims apparently had nothing in common other than being out-of-town males.
He threw his lists aside. Perhaps, he thought, he was deceiving himself by believing there was a link between the four killings that was eluding him. Maybe because he wanted a link, he had convinced himself that one existed.
An hour later, when Monica came into the study yawning and blinking, he was still staring morosely at the papers on his desk. When she asked him what he was doing, he replied, “Nothing.” And that, he reflected sourly, was the truth.
There were days when he wanted to be the lowliest of plainclothesmen, assigned to ringing doorbells and asking questions. Or a deskbound researcher, poring over stacks of yellowed arrest records, looking for a name, a number, anything. At least those men were doing something.
It seemed to him that his role in the Hotel Ripper case was that of the “consultant” Boone had mentioned. He was the kindly old uncle whose advice was solicited, but who was then shunted aside while younger, more energetic men took over the legwork and the on-the-spot decision making.
He could not endure that inactivity. An investigation was precisely that: tracking, observing, studying, making a systematic examination and inquiry. A criminal investigation was a search, and he was being kept from the challenge, the excitement, the disappointments and rewards of searching.
Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen had been right; he had cop’s blood; he admitted it. He could not resist the chase; it was a pleasure almost as keen as sex. Age had nothing to do with it, nor physical energy. It was the mystery that enticed; he would never be free from the lust to reveal secrets.
His opportunity for action came sooner than expected …
On Friday morning, May 16th, the Delaneys sat down to breakfast at their kitchen table. The Chief looked with astonishment at the meal Monica had prepared: kippers, scrambled eggs, baked potatoes, sauteed onions.
“What,” he wanted to know, “have you done to justify serving a magnificent breakfast like this?”
She laughed guiltily.
“It’s the last meal you’ll get from me today,” she said. “I’m going to be busy. So I thought if you start out with a solid breakfast, it might keep you from sandwiches for a few hours. You’re putting on weight.”
“More of me to love,” he said complacently, and dug into his food with great enjoyment. They ate busily for a while, then he asked casually, “What’s going to keep you busy all day?”
“The American Women’s Association is having a three-day convention in New York. I signed up for today’s activities. Lectures and a film this morning. Then lunch. Seminars and a general discussion this afternoon. Then dinner tonight.”
“You’ll take a cab home?”
“Of course.”
“Make the driver wait until you’re inside the door.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
They ate awhile in silence, handing condiments back and forth. Delaney liked to put the buttered onions directly on his steaming potato, with a little coarsely ground black pepper.
“Where is the convention being held?” he asked idly. “Which hotel?”
“The Hilton.”
He paused, holding a forkful of kipper halfway to his mouth. He gazed up in the air, over her head.
“How do you know the convention is at the Hilton?” he asked slowly.
“I got a notice in the mail. With an application blank.”
“But there was no notice in the papers?”
“I didn’t see any. Today is the first day. There may be stories tomorrow.”
He took his bite of kipper, chewed it thoughtfully.
“But there was nothing in the papers about it?” he asked again. “No advance notice?”
“Edward, what is this?”
Instead of answering, he said, “What other conventions are being held at the Hilton today?”
“How on earth would I know that?”
“What conventions are being held at the Americana right now?”
“Edward, will you please tell me what this is all about?”
“In a minute,” he said. “Let me finish this banquet first. It really is delicious.”
“Hmph,” she said, with scorn for this blatant effort to placate her. But she had to wait until he had cleaned his plate and poured each of them a second cup of black coffee.
“You don’t know what conventions are at the Hilton,” he said, “except for the one you’re attending. I didn’t know there were any conventions at the Hilton today. Neither of us know what conventions are being held right now at the Americana or any other New York hotel. Why should we know? We’re not interested.”
“So?”
“So for weeks now I’ve been looking for a link between the Hotel Ripper homicides. Something that ties them all together. Something we’ve overlooked.”
She stared at him, puzzling it out.
“You mean there were conventions being held at all the hotels where the murders were committed?”
He stood, moved heavily around to her side of the table. He leaned down to kiss her cheek.
“My little detective,” he said. “Thank you for a great breakfast and thank you for the lead. You’re exactly right; the killings were at hotels where conventions were being held. And this was as early as the middle of February. Not precisely the height of the convention season in New York. But the killer picked hotels with conventions, sales meetings, big gatherings. Why not? She wants lots of people around, lots of single, unattached men. She wants crowds in the lobbies and dining rooms and cocktail lounges. She wants victims ready for a good time, maybe already lubricated with booze. So she selects hotels with conventions. Does that make sense?”
“It makes sense,” Monica said. “In an awful way. But how does she know which hotels are having conventions?”
“Ah,” he said, “good question. I’ve never seen a list in the daily papers. Have you?”
“No.”
“But it must exist somewhere. The city’s convention bureau or tourist bureau or some municipal office must keep track of these things. I know they make an effort to bring conventions to the city. Maybe they publish a daily or weekly or monthly list. And maybe the hotel association does, too. Anyway, the killer knows where the conventions are and heads for them.”
“It doesn’t sound like much of a clue to me,” Monica said doubtfully.
“You never can tell,” he said cheerfully. “You just never know. But if you do nothing, you have no chance to get lucky.”
He helped Monica clean up and waited until she had departed for her first meeting at the New York Hilton. By that time he had figured out exactly how he was going to handle it.
He locked the front door, went into the study, and phoned Midtown Precinct South. He asked for Detective Second Grade Daniel Bentley, the expert on Manhattan hotels.
“Hello?”
“Bentley?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Edward X. Delaney here.”
“Oh, hiya, Chief. Don’t tell me we got her?”
“No,” Delaney said, laughing. “Not yet. How’s it going?”
“Okay. I can’t cover every bar and cocktail lounge, but I’m putting at least one man in every big hotel between Thirty-fourth and Fifty-ninth, river to river, between eight and two every night. You know we had a guy at the Cameron Arms when Bergdorfer was offed?”
“Yes, I heard that.”
“So much for decoys,” Bentley said mournfully. “But maybe next time we’ll luck out.”
Delaney paused, reflecting how everyone took it for granted that there would be a next time.
“About that Jerome Ashley kill at the Coolidge,” Detective Bentley went on. “We checked with the bartenders and waitresses in the cocktail lounges. No one remembers a guy with scarred hands. But two of the waitresses on duty that night don
’t work there anymore. We’re tracking them down. Nothing comes easy.”
“It surely doesn’t. Bentley, I wonder if you can help me.”
“Anything you say, Chief.”
“I’d like to talk to a hotel security officer. Preferably an ex-cop. Are there any working in hotels now?”
“Oh hell yes. I know of at least three. Guys who took early retirement. The pay’s not bad and the work isn’t all that hard, except maybe in the big hotels. Why do you ask? Anything cooking?”
“Not really. I just wanted to find out how hotel security works. Maybe we can convince them to beef up their patrols or put on extra guards to help us out.”
“Good idea. Here are the guys I know …”
He gave Delaney the names of three men, one of which the Chief recognized.
“Holzer?” he asked. “Eddie Holzer? Was he in Narcotics for a while?”
“Sure, that’s the one. You know him?”
“Yes. I worked with him on a couple of things.”
“He’s at the Hotel Osborne. It’s not a fleabag, but it’s not the Ritz either.”
“I’ll give him a call. Many thanks, Bentley.”
“Anytime, Chief.”
He hung up, wondering why he had lied—well, maybe not lied, but misled Detective Bentley as to the reason why he wanted to talk to a hotel security officer. He told himself that he just didn’t want to bother a busy investigating officer with a slim lead and probably a dead-end search.
But he knew it wasn’t that.
He looked up the number of the Hotel Osborne and called. He was told that Mr. Holzer wouldn’t be at his desk until noon.
He had no sooner hung up than the phone rang. It was Ivar Thorsen. He said he was heading for a meeting and wanted to get Delaney’s thinking on two subjects …
“This is with the brass and their public relations men from the offices of the Mayor, the Commissioner, and the Chief of Operations,” he said. “About what we give to the media. First of all, do we release the business about the Hotel Ripper switching to a strawberry blond wig? Second, do we say we are definitely looking for a female killer? What do you think, Edward?”
Delaney pondered a moment. Then …
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