“Married?”
“Yes. Three small children.”
Her eyes closed slowly, her face took on a waxen hue. It was then she asked him to read aloud to her from one of the “Honey Bunch” books he had brought her. He took it up gladly, eager to change the subject, opened the book at random and began reading aloud in a resolute, expressive voice.
But now, after only two pages, she seemed to be sleeping. He put the book aside, pulled on his overcoat, took his hat, started to step quietly from the room. But she called, “Edward,” and when he turned, her eyes were open, she was holding a hand out to him. He returned immediately to her bedside, pulled up a chair, sat holding her hot, dry fingers.
“That makes three,” she said.
“Yes,” he nodded miserably. “Three.”
“All men,” she said vaguely. “Why all men? It would be so much easier to kill women. Or children. Wouldn’t it, Edward? Not as dangerous for the killer.”
He stared at her, the import of what she was saying growing in his mind. It could be nothing, of course. But it could be something. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek softly.
“You’re a wonder, you are,” he whispered. “What would I ever do without you?”
Back in his study, a rye highball in his big fist, he forgot about the chicken pie Mary had left on the kitchen table, and thought only of the significance of what his wife had suggested.
It certainly wasn’t unusual for a psychopathic killer to be uninterested in or fearful of sex before killing (or even impotent) and then, during or after the murder, to become an uncontrollable satyr. There had been many such cases, but all, to his knowledge, involved women or children as victims.
But now the three victims were men, and Lombard and Kope had been big, muscular men, well able to defend themselves, given half a chance. Still, so far the killer had selected only men, slaying with an ice ax. As Barbara had said, it was a dangerous way to kill-dangerous for the assassin. How much easier to strike down a woman or use a gun against a man. But he had not. Only men. With an ax. Did that mean anything?
It might, Delaney nodded, it just might. Of course, if the next victim was a woman, the theory would be shot to hell, but just consider it a moment. The killer, a male, had killed three other men, risking. Playing amateur psychologist, Delaney considered the sexual symbolism of the weapon used: a pointed ice ax, an ax with a rigid spike. Was that so farfetched? An ice ax with a drooping spike! Even more farfetched?
He took his “Expert File” from the bottom drawer of his desk and found the card he wanted: “PSYCHIATRIST-CRIMINOLOGIST. Dr. Otto Morgenthau.” There were short additional notes in Delaney’s handwriting on the card, recalling the two cases in which Dr. Morgenthau had assisted the Department. One involved a rapist, the other a bomber. Delaney called the number listed: The doctor’s office on Fifth Avenue in the 60s, not in the 251st Precinct.
A feminine voice: “Dr. Morgenthau’s office.”
“Could I speak to Dr. Morgenthau, please? This is Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department.”
“I’m sorry, Captain, the doctor is unavailable at the moment.”
That meant Morgenthau had a patient.
“Could he call me back?” Delaney asked.
“I’ll try, sir. May I have your number?”
He gave it to her, hung up, then went into the kitchen. He tried some of the chicken pie; it was good but he really wasn’t hungry. He covered the remainder carefully with plastic wrap and put it into the refrigerator. He mixed another rye highball and sat hunched in the swivel chair behind his study desk, sipping his drink, staring blankly at the telephone. When it rang, half an hour later, he let it ring three times before he picked it up.
“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”
“And here is Dr. Otto Morgenthau. How are you, Captain?”
“Well, thank you, doctor. And you?”
“Weary. What is it, Captain?”
“I’d like to see you, sir.”
“
“Department.”
“Well, what is it?”
“It’s difficult to explain over the phone, doctor. I was wondering-”
“Impossible,” Morgenthau interrupted sharply. “I have patients until ten o’clock tonight. And then I must-”
“The three men who were axed to death on the east side,” Delaney interrupted in his turn. “You must have read about it.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Yes,” Dr. Morgenthau said slowly, “I have read about it. Interesting. The work of one man?”
“Yes, sir. Everything points to it.”
“What do you have?”
“Bits and pieces. I hoped you could fill in some of the gaps.”
Dr. Morgenthau sighed. “I suppose it must be immediately?”
“If possible, sir.”
“Be here promptly at ten o’clock. Then I will give you fifteen minutes. No more.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be there. Thank you, doctor.”
Delaney arrived five minutes early. The morose, matronly nurse was pulling on an ugly cloth coat, fastened in front with wooden toggles.
“Captain Delaney?”
“Yes,”
“Please to doublelock the door after I leave,” she said. “Doctor will call you when he is ready.”
Delaney nodded, and after she marched out, he obediently turned the latch, then sat down in a straight chair, his hat hooked over one knee, and waited patiently, staring at nothing.
When the doctor finally appeared from his consulting room, Delaney rose to his feet, shocked at the man’s appearance. The last time the Captain had seen him, Morgenthau was somewhat corpulent but robust, alert, with erect posture, healthy skin tone, clear and active eyes. But now Delaney was confronted by a wheyfaced man shrunken within clothing that seemed three sizes too large in all dimensions. The eyes were dull and hooded, the hair thinning and uncombed. There was a tremor to the hands and, Delaney noted, fingernails were dirty and untrimmed.
They sat in the consulting room, Morgenthau slumped behind his desk, Delaney in an armchair at one side.
“I’ll be as brief as possible, doctor,” he began. “I know how busy-”
“Just a moment,” Morgenthau muttered, gripping the edge of the desk to pull himself upright. “Sorry to interrupt you, Captain, but I have just remembered a phone call I must make at once. A disturbed patient. I shall only be a few minutes. You wait here.”
He hurried out, not to the reception room but to an inner office. Delaney caught a quick glimpse of white medical cabinets, a stainless steel sink. Morgenthau was gone almost ten minutes. When he returned, his walk was swift and steady, his eyes wide and shiny. He was rubbing his palms together, smiling.
“Well now,” he said genially, “what have we got, Captain?” Not pills, Delaney thought; the reaction was too swift for pills. Probably an amphetamine injection. Whatever it was, it had worked wonders for Dr. Otto Morgenthau; he was relaxed, assured, listened closely, and when he lighted a cigar his hands were unhurried and steady.
Delaney went through it all: the deaths of the three victims, the ice ax, what he had learned about mountaineers, the way he believed the crimes were committed, the missing identification-everything he felt Morgenthau needed to know, omitting the fact, naturally, that he, Delaney, was not on active duty and was not in charge of the official investigation.
“And that’s about all we’ve got, doctor.”
“No possible link between the three men?”
