we're organized.'
'Thanks,' Delaney said, 'but I better climb out of your hair and let you get to work. I think it would be smart if I stayed away from here as much as possible. Keep resentment to a minimum.'
'No one resents your helping out, Chief.'
Delaney smiled and waved a hand.
On his way out of Midtown North, he looked in at busy offices, squad and interrogation rooms. Most of his years of service had been spent in precinct houses older than this one, but the atmosphere was similar. The smell was identical.
He knew that most of the bustle he witnessed had nothing to do with the Hotel Ripper case; it was the daily activity of an undermanned precinct that patrolled one of the most crowded sections of Manhattan, usually the only part of New York City visited by tourists.
It would have been helpful, and probably more efficient, if the entire Hotel Ripper task force could have been accommodated in one suite of offices, or even one large bullpen. But they had to make do with the space available.
As a result, only Boone and his command squad and Slavin and his bookkeepers worked out of Midtown North. Johnson and Bentley, and their crews, were stationed in Midtown South. Broderick's men had desks in the 20th Precinct, and Lieutenant Crane's research staff had been given temporary space downtown at 1 Police Plaza.
Still, the organization creaked along, twenty-four hours a day, with three shifts of plainclothesmen and detectives turning up to keep the investigation rolling. Delaney didn't want to think about the scheduling problems involved-that was Slavin's headache.
And the paperwork! It boggled the mind. Daily reports, status updates, requests for record checks, and pleas for additional manpower were probably driving Sergeant Boone right up the wall. Delaney suspected he was sleeping on a cot in his office- when he had a chance to grab a few hours.
The Chief walked across town on 54th Street, musing on the size of the machine that had been set in motion to stop a single criminal and what it was costing the city. He didn't doubt for a moment that it was necessary, but he wondered if adding more men, and more, and more, would bring success sooner. Would doubling the task force break the case in half the time? Ridiculous.
He guessed that the size of the operation must be a matter of some pride and satisfaction to the murderer. Most mass killers had a desire for recognition of the monstrousness of their crimes. They wrote to the newspapers. They called TV and radio stations. They wanted attention, and if it came at the cost of slashed corpses and a terrorized city-so be it.
He lumbered along the city street, crowded this Saturday afternoon in spring, and looked with new eyes at the women passing by. He was as adept at observing himself as others, and he realized that his way of looking at women had changed since he became convinced that the Hotel Ripper was female.
His feelings about women had already undergone one revolution, spurred by Monica's interest in the feminist movement. But now, seeing these strange, aloof creatures striding along on a busy New York street, he was conscious of another shift in his reactions to the female sex.
He could only recognize it as a kind of wariness. It was an awareness that, for him at least, women had suddenly revealed a new, hitherto unsuspected dimension.
There was a mystery there, previously shrugged off, like most males, with the muttered comment: 'Just like a woman.' With no one, ever, defining exactly what was meant by that judgment, except that it was inevitably uttered in a condemnatory tone.
But now, attempting to analyze the mystery, he thought it might be nothing more complex than granting to women the humanity granted to men-with all its sins and virtues, ideals and depravities.
If one was willing to accord to women equality (superiority even!) in all the finer instincts and nobilities of which men were capable, was it such a wrench or so illogical to acknowledge also that they were capable of men's faults and corruptions?
It was a nice point, he decided, and one he would certainly enjoy debating with Monica. The first time he caught her in a forgiving mood…
He took an uptown bus on Third Avenue and arrived home a little before 4:00 p.m. Monica was asleep on the living room couch, a book open on her lap, reading glasses down on her nose. He smiled and closed the door quietly when he went into the kitchen.
Moving stealthily, he opened the refrigerator door and considered the possibilities. He decided on a sandwich of anchovies, egg salad, and sliced tomato on a seeded roll. Rather than eat it while leaning over the sink, he put it on a sheet of waxed paper and carried it, along with an opened beer, into the study.
While he ate and drank, he added a few additional facts to the dossier of Leonard T. Bergdorfer. Then he shuffled the files of all four victims and tried to add to his list of commonalities.
The days of the week when the crimes were committed seemed to have no connection. Nor did the precise time of day. The exact location of the hotels, other than being in midtown Manhattan, suggested no particular pattern. The victims apparently had nothing in common other than being out-of-town males.
He threw his lists aside. Perhaps, he thought, he was deceiving himself by believing there was a link between the four killings that was eluding him. Maybe because he wanted a link, he had convinced himself that one existed.
An hour later, when Monica came into the study yawning and blinking, he was still staring morosely at the papers on his desk. When she asked him what he was doing, he replied, 'Nothing.' And that, he reflected sourly, was the truth.
There were days when he wanted to be the lowliest of plainclothesmen, assigned to ringing doorbells and asking questions. Or a deskbound researcher, poring over stacks of yellowed arrest records, looking for a name, a number, anything. At least those men were doing something.
It seemed to him that his role in the Hotel Ripper case was that of the 'consultant' Boone had mentioned. He was the kindly old uncle whose advice was solicited, but who was then shunted aside while younger, more energetic men took over the legwork and the on-the-spot decision making.
He could not endure that inactivity. An investigation was precisely that: tracking, observing, studying, making a systematic examination and inquiry. A criminal investigation was a search, and he was being kept from the challenge, the excitement, the disappointments and rewards of searching.
Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen had been right; he had cop's blood; he admitted it. He could not resist the chase; it was a pleasure almost as keen as sex. Age had nothing to do with it, nor physical energy. It was the mystery that enticed; he would never be free from the lust to reveal secrets.
His opportunity for action came sooner than expected…
On Friday morning, May 16th, the Delaneys sat down to breakfast at their kitchen table. The Chief looked with astonishment at the meal Monica had prepared: kippers, scrambled eggs, baked potatoes, sauteed onions.
'What,' he wanted to know, 'have you done to justify serving a magnificent breakfast like this?'
She laughed guiltily.
'It's the last meal you'll get from me today,' she said. 'I'm going to be busy. So I thought if you start out with a solid breakfast, it might keep you from sandwiches for a few hours. You're putting on weight.'
'More of me to love,' he said complacently, and dug into his food with great enjoyment. They ate busily for a while, then he asked casually, 'What's going to keep you busy all day?'
'The American Women's Association is having a three-day convention in New York. I signed up for today's activities. Lectures and a film this morning. Then lunch. Seminars and a general discussion this afternoon. Then dinner tonight.'
'You'll take a cab home?'
'Of course.'
'Make the driver wait until you're inside the door.'
'Yes, Daddy.'
They ate awhile in silence, handing condiments back and forth. Delaney liked to put the buttered onions directly on his steaming potato, with a little coarsely ground black pepper.
'Where is the convention being held?' he asked idly. 'Which hotel?'
'The Hilton.'
He paused, holding a forkful of kipper halfway to his mouth. He gazed up in the air, over her head.
