The 1st Deadly Sin

“A record?”

“Sure. Been charged, been convicted of any crime. Been sentenced. Fined, on probation, or time in jail.”

She was disturbed; he could see it.

“Will this help find the man who killed my husband?”

“Yes,” he said decisively, paused a moment, staring at her, then asked, “What’s bothering you?”

“it seems so-so unfair,” she said faintly.

He became suddenly aware of her as a woman: the solid, warm body beneath the black dress, the strong arms and legs, the steady look of purpose. She was not a beautiful woman, not as delicate as Barbara nor as fine. But there was a peasant sensuality to her; her smell was deep and disturbing.

“What’s unfair?” he asked quietly.

“Hounding men who have made one mistake. You do it all the time I suppose.”

“Yes,” he nodded, “we do it all the time. You know what the recidivist rate is, Mrs. Gilbert? Of all the men present in prison, about eighty percent have been behind bars at least once before.”

“It still seems-”

“Percentages, Mrs. Gilbert: We’ve got to use them. We know that if a man rapes, robs, or kills once, the chances are he’ll rape, rob, or kill again. We can’t deny that. We didn’t create that situation, but we’d be fools to overlook it.”

“But doesn’t police surveillance, the constant hounding of men with records, contribute to-”

“No,” he shook his great head angrily. “If an ex-con wants to go straight, really wants to, he will. I’m not going to tell you there have never been frames of ex-cons. Of course there have. But generally, when a man repeats, he wants to go back behind bars. Did you know that? There’s never been a study of it, to my knowledge, but my guess is that most two-and three-time losers are asking for it. They need the bars. They can’t cope on the outside. I’m hoping a check on your list will turn up a man or men like that. If not, it may turn up something. A similar case, a pattern of violence, something that may give me a lead.”

“Does that mean if you get a report that some poor man on this list forged a check or deserted his wife, you’ll swoop down on him and demand to know where he was on the night my husband and those other men were killed?”

“Of course not. Nothing like that. First of all, criminals can be classified. They have their specialties, and rarely vary. Some deal strictly in white-collar crime: embezzlement, bribery, patent infringement-things like that. Crimes against property, mostly. Then there’s a grey area: forgery, swindling, fraud, and so forth. Still crimes against property, but now the victim tends to be an individual rather than the government or the public. And then there’s the big area of conventional crime: homicide, kidnapping, robbery, and so forth. These are usually crimes of violence during which the criminal actually sees and has physical contact with his victim; and infliction of injury or death usually results. Or, at least, the potential is there. I’m looking for a man with a record in this last classification, a man with a record of violence, physical violence.”

“But-but how will you know? What if one of the men on that list was arrested for beating his wife? That’s certainly violent, isn’t it? Does that make him the killer?”

“Not necessarily, though I’d certainly check him out. But I’m looking for a man who fits a profile.”

She stared at him, not understanding. “A profile?”

He debated if he should tell her, but felt a need to impress her, couldn’t resist it, and wondered why that was.

“Mrs. Gilbert, I have a pretty good idea-a pretty good visualization of the man who’s doing these killings. He’s young-between thirty-five and forty-tall and slender. He’s in good health and strong. His physical reactions are very fast. He’s probably a bachelor. He may be a latent homosexual. He dresses very well, but conservatively. Dark suits. If you passed him on the street at night, you’d feel perfectly safe. He probably has a good job and handles it well. There’s nothing about him that would make people suspect him. But he’s addicted to danger, to taking risks. He’s a mountain climber. He's cool, determined, and I’m positive he’s a resident of this neighborhood. Certainly of this precinct. And tall. Did I say he was tall? Yes, I did. Well, he’s probably six feet or over.”

Her astonishment was all he could have asked, and he cursed his own ego for showing off in this fashion.

“But how do you know all this?” she said finally.

He rose to his feet and began to gather his papers together. He was so disgusted with himself.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said sourly. “It’s all guesswork, Mrs. Gilbert. Forget it. I was just shooting off my mouth.” She followed him to the door.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” she told him, putting a strong hand on his arm. “I mean about how cruel it is to check men with records. I know you’ve got to do it.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I’ve got to do it. Percentages.”

“Captain, please do everything you think should be done. I don’t know anything about it. This is all new to me.”

He smiled at her without speaking.

“I’ll get on the new list tonight. And thank you, Captain.”

“For what?”

“For doing what you’re doing.”

“I haven’t done anything yet except give you work to do.”

“You’re going to get him, aren’t you?”

“Listen,” Delaney said, “could we-”

He stopped suddenly and was silent. She was puzzled. “Could we what?” she asked finally.

“Nothing,” he said. “Good-night, Mrs. Gilbert. Thank you for the coffee and cookies.”

He walked home, resolutely turning his mind from the thought of what a fool he had made of himself-in his own eyes if not in hers. He stopped at a phone booth to call Deputy Inspector Thorsen, and waited five minutes until Thorsen called him back.

“Edward?”

“Yes.”

“Anything new?”

“I have a list of a hundred and sixteen names and addresses. I need them checked out against city, state, and federal records.”

“My God.”

“It’s important.”

“I know, Edward. Well…at least we’ve got some names. That’s more than Broughton has.”

“I hear he’s in trouble.”

“You hear right.”

“Heavy?”

“Not yet. But it’s growing. Everyone’s leaning on him.”

“About this list of mine-I’ll get it to your office tomorrow by messenger. All right?”

“Better send it to my home.”

“All right, and listen, please include the State Department of Motor Vehicles and the NYPD’s Special Services Branch. Can you do that?”

“We’ll have to do it.”

“Yes.”

“Getting close, Edward?”

“Well…closer.”

“You think he’s on the list?”

“He better be,” Delaney said. Everyone was leaning on him, too.

He was weary now, wanting nothing but a hot shower, a rye highball, perhaps a sleeping pill, and bed. But he had his paper work to do, and drove himself to it. What was it Case called him-a fucking bookkeeper.

He finished his writing, his brain frazzled, and filed his neat folders away. He drained his highball, watery now, and considered the best way to handle results from the search of records of those 116 individuals, when they