The 1st Deadly Sin

“Oh Handry,” Delaney sighed. “At the time I asked you to do this, I was on my own. I had no idea I’d be back on active duty with enough dicks to run all this down. Besides, all this background shit isn’t so important. I told you that at the restaurant. I wanted your personal impressions of the man. You’re sensitive, intelligent. Since I couldn’t interview him myself, I wanted you to meet him and tell me what your reactions were. That is important. Now give me the whole thing, how it went, what you said and what he said.”

Thomas Handry took a deep breath, blew it out. Then he began talking. Delaney never interrupted once, but leaned forward, cupping one ear, the better to hear Handry’s low-voiced recital.

The newspaperman’s report was fluid and concise. He had arrived precisely at 1:30 p.m., the time previously arranged for the interview by Javis-Bircham’s Director of Public Relations. But Blank had kept him waiting almost a half-hour. It was only after two requests to Blank’s secretary that Handry had been allowed into the inner office.

Daniel G. Blank had been polite, but cold and withdrawn. Also, somewhat suspicious. He had asked to inspect Handry’s press card-an odd act for a business executive giving an interview arranged by his own PR man. But Blank had spoken lucidly and at length about the role played by AMROK II in the activities of Javis-Bircham. About his personal background, he had been cautious, uncommunicative, and frequently asked Handry what his questions had to do with the interview in progress. As far as the reporter could determine, Blank was divorced, had no children, had no plans to marry again. He lived a bachelor’s life, found it enjoyable, had no ambitions other than to serve J-B as best he might.

“Very pretty,” Delaney nodded. “You said he was ‘withdrawn.’ Your word. What did you mean by that?”

“Were you in the military, Captain?”

“Yes. Five years U.S. Army.”

“I did four with the Marines. You know the expression ‘a thousand-yard stare’?”

“Oh yes. On the range. For an unfocused vision.”

“Right. That’s what Blank has. Or had a few hours ago during the interview. He was looking at me, in me, through me, and somewhere beyond. I don’t know what the hell he was focusing on. Most of these high-pressure business executives are all teeth, hearty handshake, sincere smile, focusing between your eyes, over the bridge of your nose, so it looks like they’re returning your stare frankly, without blinking. But this guy was gone somewhere, off somewhere. I don’t know where the hell he was.”

“Good, good,” Delaney muttered, taking quick notes. “Anything else? Physical peculiarities? Habits? Bite his nails?”

“No…But he wears a wig. Did you know that?”

“No,” the Captain said in apparent astonishment. “A wig? He’s only in his middle-thirties. Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Handry said, enjoying the surprise. “It wasn’t even on straight. And he didn’t give a goddamn if I knew. He kept poking a finger up under the edge of the rug and scratching his scalp. Anything?”

“Mmm. Maybe. How was he dressed?”

“‘Conservative elegance’ is the phrase. Black suit well-cut. White shirt, starched collar. Striped tie. Black shoes with a dull gloss, not shiny.”

“You’d make a hell of a detective.”

“You told me that before.”

“Smell any booze on his breath?”

“No. But a high-powered cologne or after-shave lotion.”

“That figures. Scratch his balls?”

“What?”

“Did he play with himself?”

“Jesus, no! Captain, you’re wild.”

“Yes. Did he look drawn, thin, emaciated? Like he hasn’t been eating well lately?”

“Not that I could see. Well…”

“What?” Delaney demanded quickly.

“Shadows under his eyes. Puffy bags. Like he hasn’t been sleeping so well lately. But all the rest of his face was tight. He’s really a good-looking guy. And his handshake was firm and dry. He looked to be in good physical shape. Just before I left, when we were both standing, he handed me a promotion booklet Javis-Bircham got out on AMROK II. It slipped out of my hand. It was my fault; I dropped it. But Blank stooped and caught it before it hit the floor. The guy’s quick.”

“Oh yes,” Delaney nodded grimly, “he’s quick. All right, this is all interesting and valuable. Now tell me what you think about him, what you feel about him.”

“A drink?”

“Of course. Help yourself.”

“Well…” Thomas Handry said, pouring Scotch over ice cubes, “he’s a puzzle. He’s not one thing and he’s not another. He’s a between-man, going from A to B. Or maybe from A to Z. I guess that doesn’t make much sense.”

“Go on.”

“He’s just not with it. He’s not there. The impression I got was of a guy floating. He’s out there somewhere. Who the hell knows where? That thousand-yard stare. And it was obvious he couldn’t care less about Javis-Bircham and AMROK II. He was just going through the motions; a published interview couldn’t interest him less. I don’t know what’s on his mind. He’s lost and floating, like I said. Captain, the guy’s a balloon! He’s got no anchor. He puzzles me and he interests me. I can’t solve him.” A long pause. “Can you?”

“Getting there,” Captain Delaney said slowly. “Just beginning to get there.”

There was a lengthy silence, while Handry sipped his drink and Delaney stared at a damp spot on the opposing wall.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Handry said finally. “No doubt about it.”

Delaney sighed. “That’s right. It’s him. No doubt about it.”

“Okay,” the reporter said, surprisingly chipper. He drained his glass, rose, walked toward the hallway door. Then, knob in hand, he turned to stare at the Captain. “I want to be in on the kill,” he stated flatly.

“All right.”

Handry nodded, turned away, then turned back again. “Oh,” he said nonchalantly, “one more thing…I got a sample of his handwriting.”

He marched back to Delaney’s desk, tossed a photo onto the blotter. Delaney picked it up slowly, stared. Daniel G. Blank: a copy of the photo taken from the “Fink File,” the same photo that was now copied in the hundreds and in the hands of every man assigned to Operation Lombard. Delaney turned it over. On the back, written with a felt-tipped pen, was: “With all best wishes. Daniel G. Blank.”

“How did you get this?”

“The ego-trip. I told him I kept a scrapbook of photos and autographs of famous people I interviewed. He went for it.”

“Beautiful. Thank you for your help.”

After Handry left, Delaney kept staring at that inscription: “With all best wishes. Daniel G. Blank.” He rubbed his fingers lightly over the signature. It seemed to bring him closer to the man.

He was still staring at the handwriting, trying to see beyond it, when Detective sergeant Thomas MacDonald came in sideways, slipping his bulk neatly through the hallway door, left partly open by Handry.

The black moved a step into the study, then stopped. “Interrupting you, Captain?”

“No, no. Come on in. What’s up?”

The short, squat detective came over to Delaney’s desk. “You wanted a photo of Roger Kope, the cop who got wasted. Will this do?”

He handed Delaney a crisp white cardboard folder, opening sideways. On the front it said, in gold script, “Holiday Greetings.” Inside, on the left, in the same gold script, it read: “From the Kope family.” On the right side was pasted a color photo of Roger Kope, his wife, three little children. They were posed, grinning self-consciously, before a decorated Christmas tree. The dead detective had his arm about his wife’s shoulders. It wasn’t a good photo: obviously an amateur job taken a year ago and poorly copied. Hie colors were washed out, the face of one of