'Why are they bringing in someone over Boone? Hasn't Abner been doing a good job?'
'I know the sergeant's work,' the Chief said, taking a sip of brandy. 'He's a good, thorough detective. I believe that he's done all that could be done. But they've got-what did he tell me?- about twenty-five men working on this thing now, so I guess they feel they need higher rank in command. But I do assure you, Slavin's not going to break this thing. Unless there's another homicide and the killer slips up.'
'You think there will be another one, Edward?'
He sighed, looked down at his brandy glass. Then he stood, began to pace back and forth past the foot of her bed. She followed him with her eyes.
'I practically guarantee it,' he said. 'It has all the earmarks of a psycopathic repeater. The worst, absolutely the worst kind of homicides to solve. Random killings. Apparently without motive. No connection except chance between victim and killer.'
'They don't know each other?'
'Right. The coming together is accidental. Up to that time they've been strangers.'
Then he explained things to her that he didn't have to explain to Sergeant Boone.
'Monica, when I got my detective's shield, many, many years ago, about seventy-five percent of all homicides in New York were committed by relatives, friends, acquaintances, or associates of the victims.
'The other homicides, called 'stranger murders,' were committed by killers who didn't know their victims. They might have been felony homicides, committted during a burglary or robbery, or snipings, or-worst of all-just random killing for the pleasure of killing. There's a German word for it that I don't remember, but it means death lust, murder for enjoyment.
'Anyway, in those days, when three-quarters of all homicides were committed by killers who knew their victims, we had a high solution rate. We zeroed in first on the husband, wife, lover, whoever would inherit, a partner who wanted the whole pie, and so forth.
'But in the last ten years, the percentage of stranger murders has been increasing and the solution rate has been declining. I've never seen a statistical correlation, but I'd bet the two opposing curves are almost identical, percentage-wise; as stranger murders increase, the solution rate decreases.
'Because stranger murders are bitches to break. You've got nothing to go on, nowhere to start.'
'You did,' she said somberly. 'You found Bernard's killer.'
'I didn't say it couldn't be done. I just said it's very difficult. A lot tougher than a crime of passion or a murder that follows a family fight.'
'So you think there's a chance they'll catch him-the hotel killer?'
He stopped suddenly, turned to face her.
'Him?' he said. 'After what I told you, you think the murderer is a man?'
She nodded.
'Why?' he asked her curiously.
'I don't know,' she said. 'I just can't conceive of a woman doing things like that.'
'A short-bladed knife is a woman's weapon,' he told her. 'And the victims obviously weren't expecting an attack. And the killer seems to have been naked at the time of the assault.'
'But why?' she cried. 'Why would a woman do a thing like that?'
'Monica, crazies have a logic all their own. It's not our logic. What they do seems perfectly reasonable and justifiable to them. To us, it's monstrous and obscene. But to them, it makes sense. Their sense.'
He came over to sit on the edge of her bed again. They sipped their brandies. He took up her free hand, clasped it in his big paw.
'I happen to agree with you,' he said. 'At this point, knowing only what Sergeant Boone told me, I don't think it's a woman either. But you're going by your instinct and prejudices; I'm going by percentages. There have been many cases of random killings: Son of Sam, Speck, Heirens, Jack the Ripper, the Boston Strangler, the Yorkshire Ripper, Black Dahlia, the Hillside Strangler-all male killers. There have been multiple murders by women-Martha Beck in the Lonely Hearts Case, for instance. But the motive for women is almost always greed. What I'm talking about are random killings with no apparent motive. Only by men, as far as I know.'
'Could it be a man wearing a long black wig? Dressed like a woman?'
'Could be,' he said. 'There's so much in this case that has no connection with anything in my experience. It's like someone came down from outer space and offed those salesmen.'
'The poor wives,' she said sadly. 'And children.'
'Yes,' he said. He finished his brandy. 'The whole thing is a puzzle. A can of worms. I know how Boone feels. So many contradictions. So many loose ends. Finish your drink.'
Obediently, she drained the last of her brandy, handed him the empty snifter. He took the two glasses into the bathroom, rinsed them, set them in the sink to drain. He turned off the bathroom light. He came back to Monica's bedside to swoop and kiss her cheek.
'Sleep well, dear,' he said.
'After that?' she said. 'Thanks a lot.'
'You wanted to hear,' he reminded her. 'Besides, the brandy will help.'
He got into his own bed, turned off the bedside lamp.
'Get a good night's sleep,' Monica muttered drowsily. 'I love you.'
'I love you,' he said, and pulled sheet and blanket up to his chin.
He went through all the permutations and combinations in his mind: man, woman, prostitute, homosexual, transvestite. Even, he considered wildly, a transsexual. That would be something new.
He lay awake, wide-eyed, listening. He knew the moment Monica was asleep. She turned onto her side, her breathing slowed, became deeper, each exhalation accompanied by a slight whistle. It didn't annoy him any more than his own grunts and groans disturbed her.
He was awake a long time, going over Boone's account again and again. Not once did he pause to wonder why the investigation interested him, why it obsessed him. He was retired; it was really none of his business.
If his concern had been questioned, he would have replied stolidly: 'Well… two human beings have been killed. That's not right.'
He turned to peer at the bedside clock. Almost 2:30 a.m. But he couldn't let it go till tomorrow; he had to do it now.
He slid cautiously out of bed, figuring to get his robe and slippers from the closet. He was halfway across the darkened room when:
'What's wrong?' came Monica's startled voice.
'I'm sorry I woke you up,' he said.
'Well, I am up,' she said crossly. 'Where are you going?'
'Uh, I thought I'd go downstairs. There's a call I want to make.'
'Abner Boone,' she said instantly. 'You never give up, do you?'
He said nothing.
'Well, you might as well call from here,' she said. 'But you'll wake him up, too.'
'No, I won't,' Delaney said with certainty. 'He won't be sleeping.'
He sat on the edge of his bed, switched on the lamp. They both blinked in the sudden light. He picked up the phone.
'What's their number?' he asked.
She gave it to him. He dialed.
'Yes?' Boone said, picking up after the first ring. His voice was clogged, throaty.
'Edward X. Delaney here. I hope I didn't wake you, sergeant.'
'No, Chief. I thought I'd pass out, but I can't get to sleep. My brain is churning.'
'Rebecca?'
'No, sir. She'd sleep through an earthquake.'
'Sergeant, did you check into the backgrounds of the victims? The personal stuff?'
'Yes, sir. Sent a man out to Denver and Akron. If you're wondering about their homosexual records, it's nit. For both of them. No sheets, no hints, no gossip. Apparently both men were straight.'
'Yes,' Delaney said, 'I should have known you'd look into that. One more thing…'
Boone waited.
