The 1st Deadly Sin

“Impossible. You don’t know what’s going on down here. All hell is breaking loose. It’s the showdown.”

Delaney didn’t ask what “showdown.” He wasn’t interested. “I’ve got to see you,” he repeated.

Thorsen was silent a minute. Then: “Will it wait till six o’clock? There’s another meeting with the Commissioner at seven, but I’ll be able to see you at six. Can it hold till then?” Delaney thought. “All right. Six o’clock. Where?”

“Uptown. The seven o’clock meeting’s at the Mansion. Better make it my house at six.”

“I’ll be there.”

He pressed the phone prongs just long enough to break the connection, then dialed Dr. Sanford Ferguson.

“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

“Neglect, neglect, neglect,” Ferguson said sorrowfully. “You haven’t called me for ‘two more things’ in weeks. Not sore at me, are you, Edward?”

“No,” Delaney laughed, “I’m not sore at you.”

“How you coming along?”

“All right. I read your preliminary report on the Feinberg kill, but I didn’t see the final PM.”

“Completed it today. The usual. Nothing new.”

“The preliminary report said that blood found on the sidewalk was not the victim’s type.”

“That’s correct.”

“What type was it?”

“You’re asking me? Edward, you're losing your grip. I thought you’d be telling me.”

“Just a minute.” Delaney took his notebook from his inside coat pocket. “All right, I’ll tell you. AB-Rh negative.”

There was a swift intake of breath. “Edward, you are getting somewhere, aren’t you? You’re right. AB-Rh negative. A rare type. Who has it?”

“A friend of mine,” Delaney said tonelessly. “A close friend.”

“Well, when you take him, make it clean, will you?” the Medical Examiner said. “I’m getting bored with crushed skulls. A single pop through the heart would be nice.”

“Too good for him,” Delaney said savagely.

Silence then. Finally: “Edward, you’re not losing your cool, are you?” Ferguson asked, concern in his voice.

“I’ve never been colder in my life.”

“Good.”

“One more thing…”

“Now I know you’re normal.”

“I’m mailing you a sample of a light machine oil. It’s a different brand from the one I gave you before. Will you try' to get a match with oil in the tissue from Feinberg’s wounds?”

“I’ll try. Sounds like you’re close, Edward.”

“Yes. Thank you, doctor.”

He looked at his watch. Almost two hours to kill before his meeting with Thorsen. He sat down at his study desk, put on his glasses, picked up a pencil, drew a pad toward him. He began to head the page “Report on-” then stopped, thinking carefully. Was it wise to have an account of that illegal break-in, in his handwriting? He pushed pad and pencil away, rose, began to pace around the room, hands jammed in his hip pockets.

If, for some reason he could not yet foresee, it came to a court trial or the taking of sworn depositions, it was Lipsky’s word against his. All Lipsky could swear to was that he had passed the keys. He had not seen Delaney in Blank’s apartment. He could not honestly swear to that, only that he had given Delaney the keys and presumed he was going to search the apartment. But presumptions had no value. Still, the Captain decided, he would not make a written report of the search. Not at this moment, at any rate. He continued his pacing.

The problem, he decided-the essential problem-was not how to take Blank. That had to wait for his meeting with Thorsen at six o’clock. The essential problem was Blank, the man himself, who he was, what he was, what he might do.

That apartment was a puzzle. It displayed a dichotomy (the Captain was familiar with the word) of personality difficult to decipher. There was the incredible orderliness, almost a fanatical tidiness. And the ultramodern furnishings, black and white, steel and leather, no warmth, no softness, no personal “give” to the surroundings.

Then there were the multi-hued linens, luxurious personal belongings, the excess of silk and soft fabrics, feminine underwear, the perfumes, oils, scented creams, the jewelry. That mutilated nude photograph. And, above all, the mirrors. Mirrors everywhere.

He went over to the cabinet, flipped through the Daniel G. Blank file, pulled out the thick report he had written after his interview with Dr. Otto Morgenthau. Delaney stood at his desk, turning pages until he found the section he wanted, where Morgenthau, having discussed causes, spoke about motives, how the mass murderer justified his actions to himself. The Captain had jotted short, elliptic notes:

“Elaborate rationalizations. No guilt. Killings necessary…

“1. Impose order on chaos. Cannot stand disorder or the unpredictable. Needs rules of institution: prison, army, etc. Finds peace, because no responsibility in completely ordered world.

“2. Graffiti artist. Make his mark by murder. I exist! Statement to world.

“3. Alienation. Cannot relate to anyone. Cannot feel. Wants to come close to another human being. To love? Through love to all humanity and secret of existence. God? Because (in youth?) emotion, feeling, love have been denied to him. Cannot find (feel) except by killing. Ecstasy.”

Delaney reread these notes again, and recalled Dr. Morgenthau’s warning that in dealing with multiple killers, there were no precise classifications. Causes overlapped, and so did motives. These were not simple men who killed from greed, lust or vengeance. They were a tangled complex, could not recognize themselves where truth ended and fantasy began. But perhaps in their mad, whirling minds there were no endings and no beginnings. Just a hot swirl, with no more outline than a flame and as fluid as blood.

He put the notes away, no closer to Dan’s heart. The thing about Dan was-He stopped suddenly. Dan? He was thinking of him as “Dan” now? Not Blank, or Daniel G. Blank, but Dan. Very well, he would think of him as Dan. “A friend,” he had told Dr. Ferguson. “A close friend.” He had smelled his soap, handled his underwear, felt his silken robes, heard his voice, seen a photo of him naked. Discovered his secrets.

The trouble with Dan, the trouble with understanding Dan, was the question he had posed to Barbara: Was it possible to solve an irrational problem by rational means? He hadn’t the answer to that. Yet. He glanced at his watch, hurriedly emptied his pockets of penlite, black silk gloves, case of lock picks. He wrapped the oil-soaked wad of paper towel in a square of aluminum foil, put it into an envelope addressed to Dr. Sanford Ferguson, and mailed it on his way to the home of Deputy Inspector Thorsen.

It was strange; he could smell cigar smoke on the sidewalk outside Thorsen’s brownstone. He walked up the stoop; the smell was stronger. He hoped to hell Karen was visiting or up in her bedroom; she hated cigars.

He rang. And rang. Rang. Finally Thorsen pulled open the door.

“Sorry, Edward. Lots of noise,”

Thorsen, he noted, was under pressure. The “Admiral” was hanging on tight, but the fine silver hair was unbrushed, blue eyes dimmed, the whites bloodshot, lines in his face Delaney had never seen before. And a jerkiness to his movements.

The door of the living room was closed. But the Captain heard a loud, angry babble. He saw a pile of overcoats, at least a dozen, thrown over hallway chairs. Civilian and uniform coats, civilian hats and cop hats. One cane. One umbrella. The air was hot and swirling-cigar smoke, and harsh. Thorsen didn’t ask for his hat and coat.

“Come in here,” he commanded.

He led Delaney down a short hall to a dining room, flicked on a wall switch. There was a Tiffany lampshade over the heavy oak dining table. Thorsen closed the door, but the Captain could still hear the voices, still smell the coarse cigars.