“Just a few more minutes,” he said firmly, “and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Morgenthau fell back into his chair, looked at the Captain with dull, weary eyes.
“‘Iron Balls,”’ he said. “The mass killer seeks to impose order on chaos. Not the kind of order you and I want and welcome, but
Delaney wasn’t making notes now, but leaning forward listening intently. Dr. Morgenthau looked at him and suddenly yawned, a wide, jaw-cracking yawn. Delaney, unable to help himself, yawned in return.
“Or,” Dr. Morgenthau went on, and yawned again (and Delaney yawned in reply), “we have the graffiti artist. Pico 137. Marv 145. Slinky 179. Goddamn it, world, I exist. I am Pico, Marv, Slinky. I have made my mark. You are required to acknowledge my existence. You mother-fuckers,
Delaney wondered if the man would last. Puffed lids were coming down over dulled eyes, the flesh was slack, swollen fingers plucked at folds of loose skin under the chin. Even the voice had lost its timbre and resolve.
“Or,” Morgenthau droned, “or…”
Eyes rolled up into his skull until all Delaney could see were clotted whites. But suddenly, pulling himself partly upright, the doctor shook his head wildly, side to side, tiny drops of spittle splattering the glass top of his desk.
“Or alienation,” he said thickly. “You cannot relate. Worse. You cannot feel. You want to come close. You want to understand. Truly you do. Come close. To another human being and through him to all humanity and the secret of existence. Captain? Iron Balls? You want to enter into life. Because emotion, feeling, love, ecstasy-all that has been denied you.
I said metaphysical. But. That’s what you seek. And you cannot find, except by killing. To find your way. And now, Captain Iron Balls, I must…”
“I’m going,” Delaney said hastily, rising to his feet. “Thank you very much, doctor. You’ve been a big help.”
“Have I?” Morgenthau said vaguely. He staggered upward, made it on the second try, headed toward his inner office.
Delaney paused with his hand on the knob of the reception room door. Then he turned.
“Doctor,” he said sharply.
Morgenthau turned slowly, staggered, looked at him through unseeing eyes.
“Who?” he asked.
“Captain Delaney. One more thing…This killer we’ve been discussing has snuffed three men. No women or children. He kills with an ice ax, with a pointed pick. A phallus. I know I’m talking like an amateur now. But could he be a homosexual? Latent maybe? Fighting it. Is it possible?”
Morgenthau stared at him, and before Delaney’s eyes he melted farther into his oversize clothes, his face decayed and fell, the light vanished from his eyes.
“Possible?” he whispered. “Anything is possible.”
2
Delaney watched, with anger and dismay, as Operation Lombard fell apart. It had been a viable concept-a temporary horizontal organization cutting across precinct lines and the chain of command-and under Chief Pauley, with his talent for organization and administrative genius, it had had a good chance of succeeding. But Pauley had been fired, and under the direction of Deputy Commissioner Broughton, Operation Lombard was foundering.
It was not for lack of energy: Broughton had plenty of that-too much. But he simply didn’t have the experience to oversee a manhunt of this size and complexity. And he didn’t know the men working for him. He sent weapons specialists halfway across the country to interrogate a recaptured escapee from a mental institution, and he used interrogation experts to check birth and marriage records in musty libraries. He dispatched four men in a car with screaming siren to question a suspect, where one man on foot would have obtained better results. And his paper work was atrocious; from reading the Operation Lombard reports, Delaney could tell it was getting out of hand; Broughton was detailing men to tasks that had been checked out weeks ago by Chief Pauley; reports were in the file, if Broughton knew where to look.
It was Thomas Handry, now calling Delaney at least twice a week, who described another of Broughton’s failures: his ineptitude at handling the news media. Broughton made the fatal error of continually promising more than he could deliver, and newsmen became disillusioned with his “An arrest is expected momentarily” or “I’ll have a
Medical Examiner Sanford Ferguson also called. He wanted to tell Delaney that the Olfactory Analysis Indicator report on tissue taken from Bernard Gilbert’s wound had been inconclusive. There could have been trace elements of a light machine oil; it could also have been half a dozen similar substances. Ferguson was trying again with scrapings from the fatal wound of Detective Roger Kope.
“Did you tell Broughton anything about this?”
“That son of a bitch? Don’t be silly. He’s caused us more trouble-I can’t begin to tell you. It’s not the work we mind, it’s the bastard’s
Then Ferguson detailed some Departmental gossip:
Broughton was in real trouble. Demands from wealthy east side residents of the 251st Precinct for a quick solution to the three street murders were growing. A citizens’ group had been formed. The Mayor was leaning on the Commissioner, and there were even rumors of the Governor appointing a board of inquiry. The murder of Frank Lombard was bad enough-he had wielded a lot of political clout-but the killing of a police officer had intensified editorial demands for a more productive investigation. Broughton, said Ferguson, had a lighted dynamite stick up his ass.
“It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” he added cheerfully.
Delaney wasted no time savoring the comeuppance of Deputy Commissioner Broughton. Nor did he dwell too long on his own personal guilt in the death of Detective third grade Roger Kope. He had done all he could to alert Broughton to the weapon used and the method of attack. And besides, if the truth be known, he blamed Kope; no officer on decoy should have allowed himself to be taken that way. Kope knew what he was up against and what the stakes were. You could feel horror and sympathy for a man shot down from ambush. But Kope had failed-and paid for it.
Delaney had enough on his plate without guilt feelings about Detective Kope. His amateurs needed constant mothering: telephone calls, personal visits and steady, low-key assurance that what they were doing was of value. So when Christopher Langley called to invite him to dinner with the Widow Zimmerman, and to discuss Langley’s progress and future activities later, Delaney accepted promptly. He knew Langley’s business could be decided in that phone conversation, but he also knew his physical presence was important to Langley, and he gave up the time gladly.
The dinner, thankfully, was prepared by the dapper little gourmet and served in his apartment, although the Widow Zimmerman had provided an incredibly renitent cheese cake. Delaney brought two bottles of wine, white and red, and they drank them both with Langley’s
After the meal, the Widow Zimmerman cleaned up, moving about Christopher Langley’s apartment as if she was already mistress-as indeed she probably was, Delaney decided, having intercepted their affectionate glances, sly touchings, and sudden giggles at comments the humor of which he could not detect.
Langley and Delaney sat at the cleared table, sipped brandy, and the ex-curator brought out his lists, records, and notes, all beautifully neat, written out in a scholar’s fine hand.
