precinct. We'll crosscheck the lists and see if we have anything.'
'And if you don't?'
He shrugged. 'We'll keep plugging. Every murder in the series has revealed more. Eventually we'll get her.'
'Edward, if you find out who it is-what then?'
'Depends. Do we have enough evidence for an arrest? For an indictment?'
'You won't, uh…'
He looked at her, smiling slightly.
'Go in with guns blazing and cut her down? No, dear, we won't do that. I don't believe this woman will be armed. With a gun, that is. I think she'll come along quietly. Almost with relief.'
'Then what? I mean, if you have enough evidence for an arrest and an indictment? What will happen to her then?'
He filled their coffee cups from the pewter pot.
'Depends,' he said again. 'If she gets a smart lawyer, he'll probably try to plead insanity. Seems to me that slitting the throats of six strangers is pretty good prima facie evidence of insanity. But even if she's adjudged capable of standing trial and is convicted, she'll get off with the minimum.'
'Edward! Why? After what she's done?'
'Because she's a woman.'
'You're joking?'
'I'm not joking. Want me to quote the numbers to you? I don't need Thomas Handry's research. The judicial system in this country is about fifty years behind the times as far as equality between men and women goes. Almost invariably females will receive lighter sentences than males for identical or comparable crimes. And when it comes to homicide, juries and judges seem to have a built-in bias that works in favor of women. They can literally get away with murder.'
'But surely not the Hotel Ripper?'
'Don't be too sure of that. A good defense attorney will put her on the stand dressed in something conservative and black with a white Peter Pan collar. She'll speak in a low, trembling voice and dab at her eyes with a balled-up Kleenex. Remember when we were first arguing about whether the Hotel Ripper could be a woman, and you asked people at one of your meetings? All the men said a woman couldn't commit crimes like that and all the women said she could. Well, an experienced defense lawyer knows that, even if he doesn't know why. If he's got a female client accused of homicide, he'll try to get an all-male jury. Most of the men in this country still have a completely false concept of women's sensibilities. They think women are inherently incapable of killing. So they vote Not Guilty. That's why I think there should be an ECA.'
'An ECA?'
'Sure,' he said innocently. 'To go along with the ERA, the Equal Rights Amendment. ECA, the Equal Conviction Amendment.'
'Bastard,' she said, kicking him under the table.
They walked home slowly through the warm, sticky summer night.
'Edward,' Monica said, 'back there in the restaurant you said you thought the killer would surrender quietly, with relief. Why relief?'
'I think she's getting tired,' Delaney said, and explained to his wife why he believed that. 'Also, Dr. Ho thinks that emotional stress could be triggering an Addisonian crisis. It all ties in: a sick woman coming to the end of her rope.'
'Then you believe she is sick?'
'Physically, not mentally. She knows the difference between right and wrong. But the laws regarding insanity and culpability are so screwed-up that it's impossible to predict how a judge or jury might decide. They could say she's usually sane but killed in moments of overwhelming madness. Temporary insanity. It's really not important. Well, it is important, but it's not the concern of cops. Our only job is to stop her.'
'Good luck tomorrow morning,' Monica said faintly. 'Will you call me?'
He took her arm.
'If you want me to,' he said.
Edward X. Delaney slept well that night. In the morning he was amused to find himself dressing with special care for the meeting at Midtown Precinct North.
'Like I was going to a wedding,' he mentioned to Monica. 'Or a funeral.'
He wore a three-piece suit of navy blue tropical worsted, a white shirt with starched collar, a wide cravat of maroon rep. His wife tucked a foulard square into the breast pocket of his jacket, one flowered edge showing. Delaney poked the silk down the moment he was out of the house.
As many men as possible crowded into the conference room upstairs at Midtown Precinct North. Lieutenant Crane, Sergeant Broderick, Boone, Bentley, Delaney, and Thorsen got the chairs. The others stood against the walls. Men milled about in the corridor outside, waiting for news. Good or bad.
'Okay, Tom,' Sergeant Boone said to Broderick, 'it's all yours.'
'What I got here first,' the detective sergeant said, 'is an alphabetical list of female victims of Addison's living in Manhattan. Sixteen names.'
'Right,' Lieutenant Wilson T. Crane said, shuffling through the stack of typed lists in front of him. 'What I have is a list of females who work or reside in Manhattan and who, one way or another, have access to a schedule of hotel conventions. Let's go…'
'First name,' Broderick said, 'is Alzanas. A-l-z-a-n-a-s. Marie. That's Marie Alzanas.'
Lieutenant Crane pored over his list, flipped a page.
'No,' he said, 'haven't got her. Next?'
'Carson, Elizabeth J. That's C-a-r-s-o-n.'
'Carson, Carson, Carson… I've got a Muriel Carson.'
'No good. This one is Elizabeth J. Next name is Domani, Doris. That's D-o-m-a-n-i.'
'No, no Domani.'
'Edwards, Marilyn B. E-d-w-a-r-d-s.'
'No Marilyn B. Edwards.'
The roll call of names continued slowly. The other men in the room were silent. The men in the hallway had quieted. They could hear noises from downstairs, the occasional sound of a siren starting up. But their part of the building seemed hushed, waiting…
'Jackson,' Sergeant Broderick intoned. 'Grace T. Jackson. J-a-c-k-s-o-n.'
'No Grace T. Jackson,' Lieutenant Crane said. 'Next?'
'Kohler. K-o-h-l-e-r. First name Zoe. Z-o-e. That's Zoe Kohler.'
Crane's finger ran down the page. Stopped. He looked up.
'Got her,' he said. 'Zoe Kohler.'
A sigh like a wind in the room. Men slumped, expressionless. They lighted cigarettes.
'All right,' Sergeant Boone said, 'finish the list. There may be more than one.'
They waited quietly, patiently, while Sergeant Broderick completed his list of names. Zoe Kohler was the only name duplicated on Crane's convention schedule access list.
'Zoe Kohler,' Delaney said. 'Where did you find her, Broderick?'
'She bought a medical ID bracelet for Addison's disease and an emergency kit at a pharmacy on Twenty-third Street.'
'Crane?' the Chief asked.
'We've got her listed at the Hotel Granger on Madison and Forty-sixth Street. Access to the hotel trade magazine that publishes the convention schedule every week.'
They stared at each other, looks going around the room, no one wanting to speak.
'Sergeant,' Delaney said to Abner Boone, 'is Johnson down at Midtown South?'
'If he's not there, one of his guys will be. The phone is manned.'
'Give him a call. Ask if the Hotel Granger, Madison and Forty-sixth, is on the list of tear gas customers.'
They all listened as Boone made the call. He asked the man at the other end to check the list for the Hotel Granger. He heard the reply, grunted his thanks, hung up. He looked around at the waiting men.
