“I’d really like to know her,” Monica said slowly. “I mean, talk to her. I’d like to know what’s going through her mind.”
“Her mind?” Delaney said. “I don’t think you’d like it in there. Listen, when I was having that go-around with Ivar, he said something that bothers me. That’s why I’ve been so grouchy all night. He said, ‘It’s an ego thing with you.’”
“What did he mean by that?”
“I think he was saying that this case has become a personal thing with me. That I’m out to prove that I’m smarter than the Hotel Ripper. That I can plan better, react faster, outthink her. That I’m superior to her.”
“You mean you don’t want a woman to get the better of you?”
“Come on! Don’t get your feminist balls in an uproar. No, Ivar just meant that I see this thing as a personal challenge.”
“And is he right?”
“Oh shit,” he said roughly. “Who the hell has a coherent philosophy or a beautifully organized chart of beliefs that doesn’t get daily scratching-outs and additions? Maybe the ego thing is part of it, but it’s not all of it. There are other things.”
“Like what?”
“Like the simple, basic belief that killing is wrong. Like the belief that the law, with all its stupidities and fuck-ups, is still the best we’ve been able to devise after all these thousands of years, and any assault on the law should be punished. And also, homicide isn’t only an assault on the law, it’s an attack against humanity.”
“That I don’t follow.”
“All right, then murder is a crime against life. Does that make more sense?”
“You mean all life? Cows? And the birds and the bees and the flowers?”
“You should have been a Jesuit,” he said, smiling. “But you know what I mean. I’m just saying that human life should not be taken lightly. Maybe there are more important things, but life itself is important enough so that anyone who destroys it for selfish motives should be punished.”
“And you think this woman, this Hotel Ripper, has selfish motives?”
“All killers have selfish motives. Even those who say they were just obeying the command of God. When you get right down to it, they’re just doing it because it makes them feel good.”
She was incredulous. “You think this woman is killing because it makes her feel good?”
“Sure,” he said cheerfully. “No doubt about it.”
“That’s awful.”
“Is it? We all act from self-interest, don’t we?”
“Edward, you don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Of course I do. And what’s so awful about it? The only problem is that most people spend their lives trying to figure out where their best interest lies, and nine times out of ten they’re wrong.”
“But I suppose you know where your best interest lies?”
“That’s easy. In your bed.”
“Pig.”
About an hour later he turned off the air conditioner.
Delaney had no sooner settled down in the study to read his morning Times when the phone rang. The caller was Sergeant Abner Boone.
“Good morning, Chief.”
“Morning, sergeant.”
“Sorry to bother you so early, sir, but I was wondering if you were planning to drop by the precinct today.”
“I wasn’t, no. Should I?”
“Well, ah, I’m going to ask a favor.”
“Sure. What gives?”
“I got a call from that Dr. Patrick Ho. He’s got the hospital reports on the blood analysis and wants to come over to talk to me. He told me a little about it on the phone, and, Chief, I can’t make any sense out of it at all. I’m up to my ass in paperwork and I was wondering if you’d be willing to talk to Dr. Ho at your place. Keep him out of my hair.”
Delaney reflected that Boone was beginning to show the pressure. He was becoming increasingly dour and snappish. He should be pushing Dr. Ho for results, not trying to weasel out of talking to the man.
“You don’t like him much, do you, sergeant?” he said.
“No, sir, I don’t,” Boone said. “He smells like a fruitcake and he treats this whole thing like some kind of scientific riddle. I still think he’s just trying to make points, and wasting our time in the process.”
“Could be,” Delaney said, thinking that maybe Boone simply wanted to disassociate himself from a loser.
“Will you deal with him, sir?”
“Sure,” the Chief said genially. “Give him my address. I’ll be in all morning.”
Dr. Patrick Ho arrived about an hour later and made an immediate hit with Monica. She was in the kitchen, preparing a salad, and the doctor insisted on showing her how to make radish rosettes and how to slice a celery stalk so it resembled an exotic bloom.
Delaney finally got him into the study and provided him with a cup of tea. He then sat in his swivel chair, benignly watching Dr. Ho flip through a stack of papers he pulled from a battered briefcase.
“So?” the Chief said. “How did you make out with the hospitals?”
“Ah, splendid,” the beaming little man said. “They were very cooperative when I explained why their aid was absolutely vital. And it was something to tell their families and friends—no? That they worked on the Hotel Ripper case.”
“And were you able to identify the two unknown substances in the killer’s blood?”
“Ah, yes. Where is it? Ah, here it is. Yes, yes. High potassium, low sodium, chloride, and bicarbonate, as we already knew. The two previously unidentified substances were high levels of ACTH and MSH.”
He looked up at Delaney, delighted but modest, as if expecting a round of applause.
“ACTH and MSH?” the Chief asked.
“Exactly. Abnormally high levels.”
“Doctor,” Delaney said with great patience, “what are ACTH and MSH?”
“Pituitary hormones,” Dr. Ho said happily. “They would not be present at such levels in normal blood. And something I find very, very interesting is that MSH is a melanocyte-stimulating hormone. I would be willing to venture the opinion that the woman whose blood this is has noticeable skin discolorations. A darkening, like a very heavy suntan, but perhaps grayish or dirty-looking.”
“All over her body?”
“Oh no. I doubt that. But in exposed portions of the skin. Face, neck, hands, and so forth. Possibly on the elbows and nipples. Points of friction or pressure.”
“Interesting,” Delaney said, “what you can deduce from a blood analysis. Tell me, doctor, is it possible to identify an individual from an analysis of the blood? Like fingerprints?”
“Oh no,” Dr. Ho said. “No, no, no. Perhaps, someday, the genetic code, but not the blood. You see, this liquid is affected by what we eat, what we drink, drugs that may be ingested, and so forth. The chemical composition of the blood is constantly changing, weekly, daily, almost minute to minute. So as a means of positive identification, I fear it would be without value. However, a complete blood profile can be a marvelous clue to the physical condition of the donor. And that is what we now have: a complete blood profile.”
“Those hormones you mentioned—what were they?”
“ACTH and MSH.”
“Yes. You said they were present in abnormally high levels in the killer’s blood?”
“That is correct.”
“Well, why is that? I mean, what would cause those high levels?”
“Illness,” the doctor said with delight. “I would say that almost certainly the woman who owned this blood is suffering from some disease. Or at least some serious physiological malfunction. Chief Delaney, this is very odd blood. Very peculiar indeed.”
“Would you care to make a guess as to what the illness might be?”
“Ah, no,” Dr. Patrick Ho confessed, frowning sorrowfully. “That is beyond my experience and training. Also, the hematologists I consulted were unable to hazard a guess as to the illness, disease, or perhaps genetic fault that might
be producing this curious blood.”
“Well …” Delaney said, rocking back in his chair, lacing fingers across his stomach, “then I guess we’re stymied, aren’t we? End of the road.”
Dr. Ho was horrified. His dark eyes widened, rosy lips pouted, plump hands fluttered in the air.
“Ah, no!” he protested. “No, no, no! I have obtained the names of the three best diagnosticians in New York. I will take our blood profile to these doctors and they will tell me what the illness is.”
Delaney laughed. “You never give up, do you?”
Dr. Patrick Ho sobered. He looked at the Chief with eyes suddenly shrewd and piercing.
“No,” he said, “I never give up. Do you?”
“No,” Delaney said and stood to shake hands.
On the way out, Dr. Ho stopped at the kitchen and showed Monica how to slice raw carrots into attractive curls.
On June 25th, at the morning meeting of the Hotel Ripper task force in Midtown Precinct North, certain personnel changes were decided on.
Lieutenant Wilson T. Crane’s squad was reduced to a minimum and most of his men assigned to the task of compiling and organizing the list of women who might have had access to the convention schedule. Lieutenant Crane was put in command of this group.
Detective Daniel Bentley’s squad was also reduced, the men being switched to Detective Aaron Johnson’s small army who were attempting to track down purchases of Chemical Mace and other tear gases in the New York area.
Detective Bentley was assigned to work with a police artist on sketches prepared from the scant description furnished by cocktail waitress Anne Rogovich.
Sergeant Thomas K. Broderick was given additional men to expedite the questioning of clerks in department stores and jewelry shops where the WHY NOT? bracelet was sold.
Everyone recognized that all these personnel shifts were merely paper changes and represented no significant breakthroughs. Still, progress was being made, and it was estimated that within a week, questioning of individual women on the convention schedule access list could begin.
And Detective Johnson reported that at the same time his men could start personal visits to the purchasers of tear gas. Every container, gun, and generator would be physically examined by Johnson’s crew—or an explanation demanded for its absence.
It was decided that everyone in the task force—deskmen and street cops alike—would be on duty during the nights of June 29th through July 2nd. Midtown Manhattan would be flooded with uniformed and plainclothes officers from 8:00 P.M., to 2:00 A.M.
In addition, squad cars and unmarked vehicles would continually tour the streets of this section, and some would be parked in front of the larger hotels that were hosting conventions. The Crime Scene Unit was alerted and a command post established once again in Midtown Precinct South.
A larger number of policewomen in mufti were added to the stakeout crews in hotel bars and cocktail lounges. The reasoning here was that the women might be better able to spot suspicious behavior in another female.
It was debated whether or not an appeal should be issued asking the public to avoid the midtown area on the nights in question. It was decided the warning would be counterproductive.
“We’d have whackos flocking in from Boston to Philly,” was the consensus.
When the meeting broke up, Delaney and Sergeant Boone walked out into the corridor to find a beaming Dr. Patrick Ho awaiting them. The sergeant gave the Chief a look of anguished entreaty.
“Please,” he begged in a low voice, “you take him. Use my office.” He hurried away.
After an exchange of polite pleasantries, during which the doctor inquired after the health of the Chiefs wife, the two men went into Boone’s office. Delaney closed the door to muffle the loud talk, laughter, and shouts in the hallway.
He took the swivel chair. Dr. Ho sat in a battered wooden armchair and crossed his short legs delicately, smoothing his trouser crease to avoid wrinkles.
“Well …” Delaney said, “I hope you have some good news to report.”
“Ah, regrettably no,” Dr. Ho said sadly, making his face into a theatrical mask of sorrow.
Then Delaney wondered if Boone might be right. Perhaps this busy little man was jerking them around and wanted nothing but a vacation from his regular job.
“You saw the diagnosticians?” he asked, more sharply than he had intended.
“I did indeed,” the doctor said, nodding vigorously. “These are very big, important men, and they were exceedingly kind to lend their assistance.”
“But no soap, eh?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“They couldn’t say what the illness was?”
“Ah, no, they could not. All three agreed it is a most unusual blood profile, completely unique in their experience. Two of them refused to venture any opinion, or even a guess. They said that in the absence of an actual physical examination, they would require much more documentation: X rays, tissue samples, urinalysis, electrocardiograms, scans, sputum and feces tests, and so forth. The third man also would not offer an opinion solely on the basis of the blood profile. However, he suggested a hyperactive pituitary might be involved, but beyond that he would not go.”
“Uh-huh,” Delaney said. “Well, I can’t really blame them. We didn’t give them a whole hell of a lot to go on. So that’s it? We’ve taken it as far as we can go?”
“Oh no!” Dr. Patrick Ho said. “No, no, no! I have more, ah, arrows in my quiver.”
“I thought you might,” the Chief said. “What now?”
Dr. Ho leaned forward, serious and intent.
“There are, in this marvelous country, several diagnostic computers. A fine one at the University of Pittsburgh, another at Stanford Medical, one at the National Library of Medicine, and so forth. Now these computers have stored in their memory banks many thousand symptoms and manifestations of disease. When a series of such manifestations is given to the machine, it is able, sometimes, to make a diagnosis, name the disease, and prescribe treatment.”
Delaney sat upright.
“My God,” he said, “I had no idea such computers existed. That’s wonderful!”
“Ah, yes,” the doctor said, gratified by the Chiefs reaction, “I think so, too. If insufficient input is fed to the computers, they cannot always make a firm diagnosis, of course. But in such cases they can sometimes furnish several possibilities.”
“And you want to send your blood profile to the computers?”
“Precisely,” Dr. Ho said, blinking happily. “I would also include the sex of the subject and what physical description we have. I have prepared long telegrams telling the authorities the nature of the emergency and requesting computer time for a diagnosis.”
“I don’t see why not,” Delaney said slowly. “Having started this, we might as well see it through.”
“Ah, there is one small problem,” the doctor said, almost shyly. “These telegrams will be costly. I would like official authorization.”
“Sure,” Delaney said, shrugging. “In for a penny, in for a pound. Send them from this phone right here. If you get any flak, say they were authorized by Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen. I’ll square it with him.”
“Ah, thank you very much, sir. You are most understanding, and I am in your debt.”
Dr. Ho rummaged through his scruffy briefcase and brought out several sheets of paper. Delaney let him have the swivel chair and the doctor prepared to phone.
“Tell me, Dr. Ho,” the Chief said, “just as a matter of curiosity … If the computers don’t come up with a diagnosis, what will you do then?”
“Oh,” the little man said cheerfully, “I’ll think of something.”
Delaney stared at him.
“I’ll bet you will,” he said.
On July 1st, a Tuesday, at 10:14 A.M., a call was received at 911 reporting a violent death at the Tribunal Motor Inn on 49th Street west of Tenth Avenue. The caller identified himself as the Tribunal’s chief of secu
rity.
The alert was forwarded to Midtown North. The precinct duty sergeant dispatched a foot patrolman in the vicinity via radio, two uniformed officers in, a squad car, and two plainclothesmen in an unmarked car.
He also informed commanders of the Hotel Ripper task force who were, at the time, holding their morning meeting upstairs in the precinct house. Sergeant Abner Boone sent Detectives Bentley and Johnson to check it out.
While they were waiting for the Yes or No call, the others sat in silence, smoking, sipping stale coffee from soggy cardboard containers. Edward X. Delaney rose to locate the Tribunal on a precinct map Scotch-taped to the wall. Deputy Commissioner Thorsen joined him.
“What do you think, Edward?” he asked in a low voice.
“Not exactly midtown,” the Chief replied, “but close enough.”
They sat down again and waited. No one spoke. They could hear the noises of a busy precinct coming from the lower floors. They could even hear the bubbling sound as Lieutenant Crane blew through his pipe stem to clear it.
When the phone rang, all the men in the room jerked convulsively. They watched Boone pick it up in a hard grip, his knuckles white.
“Sergeant Boone,” he said throatily.
He listened a moment. He hung up the phone. He turned a tight face to the others.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They went with a rush, chairs clattering over, men pouring from offices, feet pounding down the stairs.
“What’s the goddamn hurry?” Sergeant Broderick said in a surly voice. “She’s long gone.”
Then engines starting up, blare of horns, the wail of sirens. Delaney rode in Deputy Thorsen’s car, the uniformed driver swinging wildly onto Eighth Avenue, west on 55th Street to Ninth Avenue, south to 49th Street.
“She fucked us again,” the Admiral said wrathfully, and the Chief mused idly on how rarely Thorsen used language like that.
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