The 1st Deadly Sin

“How do you like the new assignment? Tell me, do you think this reorganization is going to work?”

“Captain, it’s great!” Blankenship said enthusiastically. “They should have done it years ago. Now I can spend some time on important stuff and forget the little squeals. Our arrest rate is up, and morale is real good. The case load is way down, and we’ve got time to think.”

The man sounded intelligent. His voice was pleasingly deep, vibrant, resonant. Delaney remembered that big, jutting Adam’s apple.

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Listen, I’m on leave of absence, but something came up and I agreed to help out on it.”

He let it go at that, keeping it vague, waiting to see if Blankenship would pick up on it and ask questions. But the detective hesitated a moment, then said, “Sure, Captain.”

“It concerns a man named Daniel Blank, in the Two-five-one. He was involved in two beefs last year. You handled both of them. I have your reports. Good reports. Very complete.”

“What was that name again?”

“Blank, B-l-a-n-k, Daniel G. He lives on East Eighty-third Street. The first thing was a pushing match with a guy who was allegedly beating his dog. The second-”

“Oh sure,” Blankenship interrupted. “I remember. Probably because his name is Blank and mine is Blankenship. At the time I thought it was funny I should be handling him. Two beefs in six months. In the second, he kicked the shit out of a faggot. Right?”

“Right.”

“But the victim wouldn’t sign a complaint. What do you want to know, Captain?”

“About Blank. You saw him?”

“Sure. Twice.”

“What do you remember about him?”

Blankenship recited: “Blank, Daniel G. White, male, approximately six feet or slightly taller, about-”

“Wait, wait a minute,” Delaney said hastily. “I’m taking notes. Go a little slower.”

“Okay, Captain. You got the height?”

“Six feet or a little over.”

“Right. Weight about one seventy-five. Slim build but good shoulders. Good physical condition from what I could see. No obvious physical scars or infirmities. Dark complexion. Sunburned, I’d say. Long face. Sort of Chinese- looking. Let’s see-anything else?”

“How was he dressed?” Delaney asked, admiring the man’s observation and memory.

“Dark suits,” Blankenship said promptly. “Nothing flashy, but well-cut and expensive. Some funny things I remember. Gold link chain on his wrist watch. Like a bracelet. The first time I saw him I think it was his own hair. The second time I swear it was a rug. The second time he was wearing a real crazy shirt open to his pipik, with some kind of necklace. You know-hippie stuff.”

“Accent?” Delaney nodded.

“Accent?” Blankenship repeated, thought a moment, then said, “Not a native New Yorker. Mid-western, I’d guess. Sorry I can’t be more specific.”

“You’re doing great,” Delaney assured him, elated. “You think he’s strong?”

“Strong? I’d guess so. Any guy who can break another man’s jaw with a punch has got to be strong. Right?”

“Right. What was your personal reaction to him? Flitty?”

“Could be, Captain. When they punish an obvious faggot like that, it’s got to mean something. Right?”

“Right.”

“I wanted to charge him, but the victim refused to sign anything. So what could I do?”

“I understand,” Delaney said. “Believe me, this has nothing to do with that beef.”

“I believe you, Captain.”

“Do you know where he works, what he does for a living?”

“It’s not in my reports?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Sorry about that. But you’ve got his lawyer’s name and address, haven’t you?”

“Oh yes, I have that. I’ll get it from him,” Delaney lied. It was Blankenship’s first mistake, and a small one. No use going to the lawyer; he’d simply refuse to divulge the information, then surely mention to Blank that the police had been around asking questions.

“That just about covers it,” Delaney said. “Thanks very much for your help. What are you working on now?”

“It’s a beaut, Captain,” Blankenship said in his enthusiastic way. “This old dame got knocked off in her apartment. Strangled. No signs of forcible entry. And as far as we can tell, nothing stolen. A neighbor smelled it; that’s how we got on to it. A poor little apartment, but it turns out the old dame was loaded.”

“Who inherits?”

“A nephew. But we checked him out six ways from the middle. He’s got an alibi that holds up. He was down in Florida for two weeks. We checked. He really was there. Every minute.”

“Check his bank account, back for about six months or a year. See if there was a heavy withdrawal-maybe five or ten big ones.”

“You mean he hired-? Son of a bitch!” Blankenship said bitterly. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Stick around for twenty-five years,” Delaney laughed. “You’ll learn. Thanks again. If there’s ever anything I can do, for you, just let me know.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Captain,” Blankenship said in his deep, throaty voice.

“You do that,” Delaney said seriously.

After he hung up, he finished mixing his highball. He took a deep swallow, then grinned, grinned, grinned. He looked around at walls, ceiling, floor, furniture, and grinned at everything. It felt good. It had gone beyond his first article on common sense: the value of personally observed evidence and experience. It had even gone beyond the second article that extolled the value of hunch and instinct. Now he was in the realm of the third, unpublished article which Barbara had convinced him should never be printed. Quite rightly, too. Because in that monograph, exploring the nature of the detective-criminal relationship-his theory of the adversary concept-he had rashly dwelt on the “joy” of the successful detective.

That was what he felt now-joy! He worked at his new file-BLANK, Daniel G.-adding to it everything Detective Blankenship had reported, and not a thing, not one single thing, varied in any significant aspect from his original “The Suspect” outline. He gained surety as he amplified his notes. It was beautiful, beautiful, all so beautiful. And, just as he had written in his unpublished article, there was sensuous pleasure-was it sexual? — in the chase. So intent was he on his rapid writing, his reports, his new, beautiful file, that the phone rang five times before he picked it up. As a matter of fact, he kept writing as he answered it.

“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

“Dorfman. There’s been another one.”

“Captain-what?”

“Lieutenant Dorfman, Captain. Sorry to wake you up. There’s been another killing. Same type, with extras.”

“Where?”

“Eighty-fifth. Between First and York.”

“A man?”

“Yes ”

“Tall?”

“Tall? I’d guess five-ten or eleven.”

“Weight?”

There was silence, then Dorfman’s dull voice: “I don’t know what he weighed, Captain. Is it important?”

“Extras? You said ‘Extras.’ What extras?”

“He was struck at least three times. Maybe more. There are signs of a struggle. Christmas packages, three of them, thrown around. Scuff marks on the sidewalk. His coat was tom. Looks like he put up a fight.”

“Identified?”