multiple random killings, it is the task of the homicide detective to pick his way through this maze of motives and isolate those strands that will, hopefully, enable him to apprehend the murderer.
'Any questions?'
There was nothing wrong with the dinner. The chicken was crisp and tasty. The baked potatoes, with dabs of sweet butter and a bit of freshly ground pepper, were light and fluffy. The sauce for the romaine leaves was not too spicy. And there was a chilled jug of California chablis on the table.
But the meal was spoiled by Monica's mood. She was silent, morose. She picked at her food or sat motionless for long moments, fork poised over her food.
'What's wrong?' Delaney asked.
'Nothing,' she said.
They cleaned the table, sat silently over coffee and small anise biscuits.
'What's wrong?' he asked again.
'Nothing,' she said, but he saw tears welling in her eyes. He groaned, rose, bent over her. He put a meaty arm about her shoulders.
'Monica, what is it?'
'This afternoon,' she sniffled. 'It was a symposium on child abuse.'
'Jesus Christ!' he said. He pulled his chair around next to hers. He sat holding her hand.
'Edward, it was so awful,' she said. 'I thought I was prepared, but I wasn't.' 'I know.'
'They had a color film of what had been done to those kids. I wanted to die.'
'I know, I know.'
She looked at him through brimming eyes.
'I don't know how you could have endured seeing things like that for thirty years.'
'I never got used to it,' he said. 'Never. Why do you think Abner Boone cracked up and started drinking?'
She was shocked. 'Was that it?'
'Part of it. Most of it. Seeing what people are capable of. What they do to other people-and to children.'
'Do you suppose he told Rebecca? Why he started drinking?'
'I don't know. Probably not. He's ashamed of it.'
'Ashamed!' she burst out. 'Of feeling horror and revulsion and sympathy for the victims?'
'Cops aren't supposed to feel those things,' he said grimly. 'Not if it interferes with doing your job.'
'I think I need a brandy,' she said.
After the brandy, and after they had cleaned up the kitchen, they both went into the study. Monica sat behind the desk. The lefthand stack of drawers was hers, where she kept her stationery, correspondence, notepaper, appointment books, etc. She began to write letters to the children: Eddie, Jr., Liza, Mary, and Sylvia.
When she was finished, Delaney would append short notes in his hand. Usually things like: 'Hope you are well. Weather here cold but clear. How is it there?' The children called these notes 'Father's weather reports.' It was a family joke.
While Monica wrote out her long, discursive letters at the desk, Edward X. Delaney sat opposite her in the old club chair. He slowly sipped another brandy and read, for the third time, the last lecture of Albert Braun, Det. Sgt., NYPD, Ret.
What Braun had to say about motives came as no surprise. During thirty years in the Department, most of them as a detective, Delaney had worked cases in which all those motives were involved, singly or coexistent.
The problem, he decided, was one that Braun had recognized when he had made a brief reference to labels satisfying the criminologist or psychologist, but being of little value to the investigating detective.
An analogy might be made to a man confronting a wild beast in the woods. An animal that threatens him with bared fangs and raised claws.
In his laboratory, the biologist, the scientist, would be interested only in classifying the beast: family, genus, species. Its external appearance, bone structure, internal organs. Feeding and mating habits. From what previous animal forms it had evolved.
To the man in the forest, menaced, all this would be extraneous if not meaningless. All he knew was the fear, the danger, the threat.
The homicide detective was the man in the woods. The criminologist, psychologist, or sociologist was the man in the laboratory. The lab man was interested in causes. The man in the arena was interested in events.
That was one point Delaney found not sufficiently emphasized in Braun's lecture. The other disappointment was lack of any speculation on why women were conspicuously missing from the rolls of multiple killers.
Braun had made a passing reference to Martha Beck and other females who had killed many from greed. But a deep analysis of why random murderers were invariably male was missing. And since Braun's lecture had been delivered, the additional cases of the Yorkshire Ripper and the Chicago homosexual butcher had claimed headlines. Both murderers were men.
Delaney let the pages of the lecture fall into his lap. He took off his reading glasses, massaged the bridge of his nose. He rubbed his eyes wearily.
'Another brandy?' he asked his wife.
She shook her head, without looking up. He regarded her intently. In the soft light of the desk lamp, she seemed tender and womanly. Her smooth skin glowed. The light burnished her hair; there was a radiance, almost a halo.
She wrote busily, tongue poking out one cheek. She smiled as she wrote; something humorous had occurred to her, or perhaps she was just thinking of the children. She seemed to Edward X. Delaney, at that moment, to be a perfect portrait of the female presence as he conceived it. 'Monica,' he said. She looked up inquiringly.
'May I ask you a question about that child abuse symposium? I won't if it bothers you.'
'No,' she said, 'I'm all right now. What do you want to know?' 'Did they give you any statistics, national statistics, on the incidence of child abuse cases and whether they've been increasing or decreasing?'
'They had all the numbers,' she said, nodding. 'It's been increasing in the last ten years, but the speaker said that's probably because more doctors and hospitals are becoming aware of the problem and are reporting cases to the authorities. Before, they took the parents' word that the child had been injured in an accident.'
'That's probably true,' he agreed. 'Did they have any statistics that analyzed the abusers by sex? Did more men than women abuse children, or was it the other way around?'
She thought a moment.
'I don't recall any statistics about that,' she said. 'There were a lot of cases where both parents were involved. Even when only one of them was the, uh, active aggressor, the other usually condoned it or just kept silent.'
'Uh-huh,' he said. 'But when just one parent or relative was the aggressor, would it more likely be a man or a woman?'
She looked at him, trying to puzzle out what he was getting at.
'Edward, I told you, there were no statistics on that.'
'But if you had to guess, what would you guess?'
She was troubled.
'Probably women,' she admitted finally. Then she added hastily, 'But only because women have more pressures and more frustrations. I mean, they're locked up all day with a bunch of squalling kids, a house to clean, meals to prepare. While the husband has escaped all that in his office or factory. Or maybe he's just sitting in the neighborhood tavern, swilling beer.'
'Sure,' Delaney said. 'But it's your guess that at least half of all child abusers are women-and possibly a larger proportion than half?'
She stared at him, suddenly wary.
'Why are you asking these questions?' she demanded.
'Just curious,' he said.
On the morning of March 24th, Delaney walked out to buy his copy of The New York Times and pick up some fresh croissants at a French bakery on Second Avenue. By the time he got back, Monica had the kitchen table set with glasses of chilled grapefruit juice, ajar of honey, a big pot of black coffee.
They made their breakfasts, settled back. He gave her the Business Day section, began leafing through the Metropolitan Report.
