It was a close-up. Daniel Blank was staring directly at the lens. His shoulders were straight and wide. There was a faint smile on his lips, but not in his eyes.
He seemed remarkably youthful. His face was smooth, unlined. Small ears set close to the skull. A strong jaw. Prominent cheek bones. Large eyes, widely spaced, with an expression at once impassive and brooding. Straight hair, parted on the left, but combed flatly back. Heavy brows. Sculpted and unexpectedly tender lips, softly curved.
“Looks a little like an Indian,” Delaney said.
“No,” Handry said. “More Slavic. Almost Mongol. Look like a killer to you?”
“Everyone looks like a killer to me,” Delaney said, not smiling. He turned his attention to the copy of the press release.
It was dated almost two years previously. It was brief, only two paragraphs, and said merely that Daniel G. Blank had been appointed Circulation Director of all Javis-Bircham Publications and would assume his new duties immediately. He was planning to computerize the Circulation Department of Javis-Bircham and would be in charge of the installation of AMROK II, a new computer that had been leased and would occupy almost an entire floor of the Javis-Bircham Building on West 46th Street.
Delaney read through the release again, then pushed it away from him. He took off his heavy glasses, placed them on top of the release. Then he leaned back in his swivel chair, clasped his hands behind his head, stared at the ceiling.
“I told you it wouldn’t be much help,” Handry said.
“Oh…I don’t know,” Delaney murmured dreamily. “There are some things…Fix yourself a fresh drink.”
“Thanks. You want some more rye?”
“All right. A little.”
He waited until Handry was settled back in the club chair again. Then the Captain sat up straight, put on his glasses, read the release again. He moved his glasses down on his nose, stared at Handry over the rims.
“How much do you think the Circulation Director of Javis-Bircham earns?”
“Oh, I’d guess a minimum of thirty thousand. And if it ran to fifty, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”
“That much?”
“Javis-Bircham is a big outfit. I looked it up. It’s in the top five hundred of all the corporations in the country.”
“Fifty thousand? Pretty good for a young man.”
“How old is he?” Handry asked.
“I don’t know exactly. Around thirty-five I’d guess.”
“Jesus. What does he do with his money?”
“Pays a heavy rent. Keeps an expensive car. Pays alimony. Travels, I suppose. Invests. Maybe he owns a summer home; I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know about him.”
He got up to add more ice to his drink. Then he began to wander about the room, carrying the highball.
“The computer,” he said. “What was it-AMROK II?” Handry, puzzled, said nothing.
“Want to hear something funny?” Delaney asked.
“Sure. I could use a good laugh.”
“This isn’t funny-haha; this is funny strange. I was a detective for almost twenty years before I transferred to the Patrol Division. In those twenty years I had my share of cases involving sexual aberrations, either as a primary or secondary motive. And you know, a lot of those cases-many more than could be accounted for by statistical averages-involved electronic experts, electricians, mechanics, computer programmers, bookkeepers and accountants. Men who worked with things, with machinery, with numbers. These men were rapists or Peeping Toms or flashers or child molesters or sadists or exhibitionists. This is my own experience, you understand. I have never seen any study that breaks down sex offenders according to occupation. I think I’ll suggest an analysis like that to Inspector Johnson. It might prove valuable.”
“How do you figure it?”
“I can’t. It might just be my own experience with sex offenders, too limited to be significant. But it does seem to me that men whose jobs are-are mechanized or automated, whose daily relations with people are limited, are more prone to sex aberrations than men who have frequent and varied human contacts during their working hours. Whether the sex offense is due to the nature of the man’s work, or whether the man unconsciously sought that type of work because he was already a potential sex offender and feared human contact, I can’t say. How would you like to go talk to Daniel Blank in his office?” Handry was startled. His drink slopped over the rim of the glass.
“What?” he asked incredulously. “What did you say?” Delaney started to repeat his question, but the phone on his desk shrilled loudly.
“Delaney here.”
“Edward? Thorsen. Can you talk?”
“Not very well.”
“Can you listen a moment?”
“Yes.”
“Good news. We think Broughton’s on the way out. This fourth killing did it. The Mayor and Commissioner and their top aides are meeting tonight on it.”
“I see.”
“If I hear anything more tonight, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you.”
“How are you coming?”
“So-so.”
“Got a name?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Hang in there. Things are beginning to break.”
“All right. Thank you for calling.”
He hung up, turned back to Handry. “I asked how you’d like to go talk to Daniel Blank in his office.”
“Oh sure,” Handry nodded. “Just waltz in and say, ‘Mr. Blank, Captain Edward X. Delaney of the New York Police Department thinks you axed four men to death on the east side. Would you care to make a statement?’”
“No, not like that,” Delaney said seriously. “Javis-Bircham will have a publicity or public relations department, won’t they?”
“Bound to.”
“I’d do this myself, but you have a press card and identifications man. Identify yourself. Make an appointment. The
“Hey, wait a minute!”
“The new breed of young executives who are familiar with computers, market sampling, demographic percentages and all that shit. Ask the public relations man to suggest four or five young, progressive Javis-Bircham executives who might fit the type your paper is looking for.”
“Now see here-”
“Don’t-repeat,
“Easy?” Handry' shook his head. “Madness! And what if the Javis-Bircham PR man checks back with the finance editor of my paper and finds out no such series of articles is planned?”
“Chances are he won’t. He’ll be happy to get the publicity for Javis-Bircham, won’t he?”
“But what if he does check? Then I’ll be out on my ass.”
“So what? You’re thinking of quitting anyway, aren’t you? So one of your problems is solved right there.”
Handry stared at him, shaking his head. “You really are a special kind of bastard,” he said in wonderment.
“Or,” Delaney went on imperturbably, “if you like, you can give the finance editor on your paper a cover story.
