“Mmm,” Delaney said.
They slumped back in their chairs. They stared at each other.
“What do you think, Chief?”
“A long shot.”
“I think it’s a lot of bullshit,” Boone said angrily. “Thorsen is the only man who could give Ho what he wants, and he’d have to pull a lot of strings and crack a lot of skulls to do it. I just don’t have the juice.”
“I understand that.”
“But if I go to Thorsen with that cockamamie story of potassium in the blood, he’ll think I’m some kind of a nut.”
“That’s true,” Delaney said sympathetically. “On the other hand, if you turn him down cold, that crazy doctor is liable to go over your head. Then, if he gets action and it turns out to be something, your name is mud.”
“Yeah,” the sergeant said miserably, “I know.”
“It may be nothing, but I think you should move on it.”
“That’s easy—” Boone started to say, then shut his mouth so abruptly that his teeth clicked.
The Chief looked at him steadily.
“I know what you’re thinking, sergeant—that I’ve got nothing to lose, but you have. I understand all that. But I don’t think you can afford to do nothing. Look, suppose we do this … I’ll call Thorsen and tell him the doctor came to see me, but you sat in on the meet. I’ll recommend he gets Dr. Ho what he wants and I’ll tell him you’ll go along. That way the blame is on me if it turns sour. I couldn’t care less. If it turns out to be something, you’ll be on record as having been on it from the start.”
Abner Boone thought it over.
“Yeah,” he said finally, “Let’s do it that way. Thanks, Chief.”
Delaney tried to call Thorsen from Boone’s office, but the Deputy Commissioner was in a meeting. The Chief said he’d try him later from home.
He waved so-long to the sergeant and walked home slowly through Central Park. It was a hot, steamy day, but he didn’t take off his hat or doff his jacket. He rarely complained about the weather. He was constantly amazed at people who never seemed to learn that in the summer it was hot and in the winter it was cold.
As usual, Monica was out somewhere. He went upstairs to take off jacket, vest, and tie. Then he peeled off his sodden shirt and undershirt and wiped his torso cool with a soaked washcloth. He pulled on a knitted polo shirt of Sea Island cotton.
He inspected the contents of the refrigerator. On the previous night, they had had veal cutlets dredged in seasoned flour (with paprika) and then sauteed in butter with onion flakes and garlic chips. There was enough cold veal left over to make a decent sandwich.
He used white bread spread thinly with Russian dressing. He added slices of red onion and a light dusting of freshly ground pepper. He carried the sandwich and a cold can of Ballantine Ale into the study.
While he ate and drank, he searched through his home medical encyclopedia and found the section on potassium. All it said was that potassium was. a chemical element present in the human body, usually in combination with sodium salts.
The section on blood was longer and more detailed. Among other things, it said that the red fluid was a very complex substance, and plasma (the liquid part of the blood) carried organic and inorganic elements that had to be transported from one part of the body to another.
The blood also carried gases and secretions from the endocrine glands (hormones) as well as enzymes, proteins, etc. Serious imbalance in blood chemistry, the encyclopedia said, was usually indicative of physiological malfunction.
He put the book aside and finished his sandwich and beer. He called Thorsen again, and this time he got through. He told the Deputy Commissioner about the visit of Dr. Patrick Ho, from the Lab Services Section.
He made it sound like the doctor had come to see him, and that Sergeant Boone was present at the meeting. He explained what it was Dr. Ho wanted and urged that they cooperate. He said Sergeant Boone agreed.
Ivar Thorsen was dubious.
“Pretty thin stuff, Edward,” he said. “As I understand it, he hasn’t got a clue as to why there’s so much potassium in the blood or what it means.”
“That’s correct. That’s what he wants to find out.”
“Well, suppose he does find out, and the killer is popping potassium pills for some medical reason—how does that help us? My God, Edward, maybe the Hotel Ripper is a banana freak. She wolfs down bananas like mad. That would account for the potassium. So what? Are we going to arrest every woman in New York who eats bananas?”
“Ivar, I think we ought to give this guy a chance. It may turn up zilch. Granted. But we haven’t got so goddamned much that we can afford to ignore anything.”
“You really think it might amount to something?”
“We’ll never know until we try, will we?” Thorsen groaned. “Well … all right. The Lab Services Unit will be no problem. I can get this Ho assigned to us on temporary duty. The Medical Examiner’s office is something else again. I don’t swing much clout there, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Ivar.”
“Edward,” Thorsen said, almost pleading, “are we going to get her?”
Delaney was astounded.
“Of course,” he said.
Newspapermen and television commentators reported no progress was being made in the investigation, SEARCH FOR RIPPER STALLED, one headline announced. The public seemed to take a ghoulish pleasure in reading how many summer conventions, hotel reservations, and tours had been canceled.
The Mayor’s office took the flak from the business community and passed it along to the Police Commissioner. The PC, in turn, leaned on Deputy Commissioner Thorsen. And he, being a decent man, refused to scream at the men in his command, knowing they were doing everything that could be done, and working their asses off.
“But give me something,” he begged. “Anything! A bone we can throw to the media.”
Actually, progress was being made, but it was slow, tedious, foot-flattening labor, and didn’t yield the kind of results that make headlines. The list of women who had access to the convention schedule was growing, and Detective Aaron Johnson’s men were checking out every can of Chemical Mace and other tear gas delivered to the New York area.
Dr. Patrick Ho had been given what he wanted, and three days later he reported back to Sergeant Boone and Delaney. He was flushed and breathless.
“Ah, it is looking good,” he said in his musical voice. “Very, very good.”
“What?” Boone demanded. “What did you find out?”
“Listen to this,” Ho said triumphantly. “In addition to the high potassium content, the sodium, chloride, and bicarbonate levels are very low. Isn’t that wonderful!”
Boone made a sound of disgust.
“What does that mean, doctor?” Delaney asked.
“Ah, it is much too early to say,” Dr. Ho said judiciously. “But definite abnormalities exist. Also, we have isolated two substances we cannot identify. Is that not exciting?”
“Maybe it would be,” the sergeant said, “if you knew what they were.”
“Where do you go from here?” the Chief asked.
“There are, in this marvelous city, two excellent hospitals with splendid hematology departments. They have beautiful hardware. I shall take our slides and samples to these hospitals, and they will tell me what these unidentified substances are.”
“Listen,” Sergeant Boone said hoarsely, “are we going to have to pay for this?”
“Oh no,” Dr. Patrick Ho said, shocked. “It is their civic duty. I shall convince them.”
Delaney looked at the little man with admiration.
“You know, doctor,” he said, “I think you will.”
Later, Boone said, “We’re getting scammed. The guy’s a loser.”
On June 16th, Detective Daniel Bentley arrived late for the morning meeting at Midtown Precinct North. He came striding into the room, glowing.
“Bingo!” he shouted. “We got somet
hing.”
“Oh Lord,” Ivar Thorsen intoned, “let it be something good.”
“Twice a day,” Bentley said, “we been checking with the mother of that cocktail waitress who worked the New Orleans Room at the Hotel Coolidge the night Jerome Ashley got washed. The girl went out to the Coast and she hasn’t called her mother yet. So we started checking out her pals. We found a boyfriend who’s on probation after doing eighteen months for B-and-E. So we could lean on him—right? He gets a call last night from this chick …” Here Bentley consulted his notebook. “Her name is Anne Rogovich. Anyway, she calls her old boyfriend, they talk, and she gives him her number out there. Then he calls us like he’s been told. I called the girl an hour ago. It’s early in the morning on the Coast and I woke her up—but what the hell.”
“Get to it,” Boone said.
“Yeah, she worked the New Orleans Room the night Ashley was offed. Yeah, she remembers serving a guy with badly scarred hands. She says he was sitting with a woman. Not much of a physical description: tall, slender, darkish, heavy on the makeup. Strawberry blond wig. But she remembers the clothes better. Very flashy. A green silk dress, skimpy as a slip. Skinny shoulder straps. This Anne Rogovich remembers because she really dug that dress and wondered what it cost. Also, the woman with Ashley was wearing a bracelet. Gold links. With big gold letters that spelled out WHY NOT?”
“WHY NOT?” Boone said. “Beautiful. The dress she can change, but that bracelet might be something. Broderick, how about your guys checking it out? Who makes it and who sells it. Trace it to the stores. Maybe it was bought on a charge; you never can tell.”
“Yeah,” Broderick said, “we’ll get on it.”
“Did she remember anything else?” the sergeant asked.
“That’s all I could get out of her,” Bentley reported. “But she was half-asleep. I’ll try her again later today.”
“Good, good, good,” the Deputy Commissioner said, rubbing his palms together. “Can this Anne Rogovich make the woman with Ashley if she sees her again?”
“She says no,” Bentley said. “The clothes, yes; the woman, no.”
“Still,” Thorsen said happily, “it’s something. The media will have a field day with that bracelet, WHY NOT? That should keep them off our backs for a while.”
“Deputy,” Edward X. Delaney said, “could I see you outside for a minute? Alone?”
“Sure, Edward,” Thorsen said genially. “We’re all finished in here, aren’t we?”
Delaney closed the door of Sergeant Boone’s office. Thorsen took the swivel chair behind the desk. Delaney remained standing. Slowly, methodically, he bit the tip off a cigar, threw it into the wastebasket. Then he twirled the cigar in his lips, lighted it carefully, puffed.
He stood braced, feet spread. His hands were clasped behind him, cigar clenched in his teeth. He looked at Thorsen critically through the smoke.
“Ivar,” he said coldly, “you’re a goddamned idiot.”
Thorsen rose from his chair slowly, his face white. Chilled eyes stared directly at Delaney. He leaned forward until his knuckles were pressing the desktop. The Admiral’s body was hunched, rigid.
“You’re going to release it all, aren’t you?” Delaney went on. “The physical description, the clothes, the bracelet … You’re going to go public.”
“That’s right,” the Deputy Commissioner said tightly.
“Then I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen. As soon as this woman reads it in the papers, the next time she goes out to kill she’s going to change the color of her wig or leave it off completely. She’s going to dress like a schoolmarm or a librarian. And she’s going to drop that bracelet down the nearest sewer.”
“We’ll have to take that chance,” Thorsen said tonelessly.
“Goddamnit!” Delaney exploded. “You release that stuff, and we’re back to square one. Who the hell are the decoys going to look for? Without the wig and flashy clothes and bracelet, she’ll look like a million other women. You’re making the same stupid mistake Slavin did—talking too much.”
“My responsibility is to alert possible victims,” Thorsen said. “To circulate as complete a description as possible so people know who to look for. My first job is to protect the public.”
“Bullshit!” Delaney said disgustedly. “Your first job is to protect the NYPD. The money men and the media are dumping all over you, so you figure to toss them a bone to prove the Department is on the job and making progress. So for the sake of your fucking public relations, you’re going to jeopardize the whole goddamned investigation.”
They glared at each other, eyes locked, both pressing forward aggressively. Their friendship would survive this, they knew. Their friendship wasn’t at issue. It was their wills that were in conflict—and not for the first time.
Ivar Thorsen sat down again, as slowly as he had stood up. He sat on the edge of the chair. His thin fingers drummed silently on the desk. He never took his eyes from Delaney’s.
“All right,” he said, “there’s some truth in what you say. Some truth. But you’re getting your ass in an uproar because you can’t or won’t see, the value of good public relations. I happen to believe the public’s perception of the Department—the image, if that’s what you want to call it—is just as important as the Department’s performance. We could be the greatest hotshot cops in the world, and what the hell good would that do if we were perceived as a bunch of nincompoops, Keystone Kops jumping in the air and chasing dogs? I’m not saying the image is primary; it’s not. Performance comes first, and is the foundation of the image. You want more cops on the street, don’t you? You want better pay, better training, better equipment? How the hell do you expect us to ask for those things if the politicians and the public see us as a disorganized mob of hopeless bunglers?”
“I’m just saying that for the sake of keeping the press off your neck for a few days, you’re making it a lot tougher to break this thing.”
“Maybe,” Thorsen said. “And what do you think would happen if we tried to keep this Anne Rogovich under wraps and the papers got onto it somehow? How would I explain why the public wasn’t alerted to what the killer looks like and what she wears? They’d crucify us!”
“Look,” Delaney said, “we can go around and around on this. We have different priorities, that’s all.”
“The hell we do,” the Admiral said. “I want to put her down as much as you do. More. But it’s an ego thing with you. Isn’t that right—isn’t it an ego thing?”
Delaney was silent.
“You’ve got tunnel vision on this case, Edward. All you can see is stopping a killer. Fine. You’re a cop; that’s all you’re supposed to be thinking about. But there are other, uh, considerations that I’ve got to be aware of. And the Department’s reputation is one of them. You’re involved in the present. I am, too. But I’ve also got to think about the future.”
“I still say you’re fucking up the investigation,” Delaney said stubbornly.
Ivar Thorsen sighed. “I don’t think so. Possibly making it more difficult, but I think the benefits outweigh the risks. I may be wrong, I admit, but that’s my best judgment. And that’s the way it’s going to be.”
They were silent, still staring at each other. Finally Thorsen spoke softly …
“By the way, I happen to know we’d never have gotten onto this Anne Rogovich if you hadn’t sent Bentley’s men back to question if anyone remembered a man with scarred hands. That was good work.”
The Chief grunted.
“Edward,” the Deputy said, “you want off?”
“No,” Delaney said, “I don’t want off.”
“What is it?” Monica said. “You’ve been a pain in the ass all night.”
“Have I?” he said morosely. “I guess I have.”
They were in their beds, both sitting up, both trying to read. The overhead light was on, and the bedside lamp. The window air conditioner was humming, and would until they agreed it was time to sleep
. Then it would be turned off and the other window opened wide.
Now Monica had pushed her glasses atop her head. She had closed her book, a forefinger inserted to mark her place. She had turned toward her husband. Her words might have been challenging, but her tone was troubled and solicitous.
He told her about his run-in with Ivar Thorsen, repeating the conversation as accurately as he could. She listened in silence. When he finished, and asked, “What do you think?” she was quiet a moment longer. Then:
“You really think that’s what she’ll do? I mean, leave off the wig and bracelet and dress plainly?”
“Monica,” he said, “this is not a stupid woman. She’s no bimbo peddling her ass or a spaced-out whacko with a nose full of shit. Everything so far points to careful planning, smart reactions to unforeseen happenings, and very, very cool determination. She’s going to read that description in the papers—or hear it on TV—and she’s going to realize we’re on to her disguise. Then she’ll go in the opposite direction.”
“How can you be sure it is a disguise? Maybe she dresses that way ordinarily.”
“No, no. She was trying to change her appearance; I’m sure of it. First of all, a woman of her intelligence wouldn’t ordinarily dress that way. Also, she knew the chances were good that someone would see her with one of the victims and remember her. So she’d want to look as different as possible from the way she does in everyday life.”
“What you’re saying is that in everyday life she looks like a schoolmarm or librarian—like you told Ivar?”
“Well … I’d guess she’s a very ordinary looking lady. Dresses conventionally. Acts in a very conservative manner. Maybe even a dull woman. That’s the way I see her. Mousy. Until she breaks out and kills.”
“You make her sound schizophrenic.”
“Oh no. I don’t think she’s that. No, she knows who she is. She can function in society and not make waves. But she’s a psychopath. A walking, functioning psychopath.”
“Thank you, doctor. And why does she kill?”
“Who the hell knows?” he said crossly. “She has her reasons. Maybe they wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, but they make sense to her. It’s a completely different kind of logic. Oh yes, crazies have a logic all their own. And it does make sense—if you accept their original premises. For instance, if you really and truly believe that the earth is flat, then it makes sense not to travel too far or you might fall off the edge. The premise is nutty, but the reasoning that follows from it is logical.”
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