“Yes, sir.”
The commissioner stood there a moment, indecisive, face full of anxiety. Finally he leaned closer. “Are you sure?”
“Sure, sir?”
“Sure that it’s Brisbane.”
Custer felt a twinge of doubt, but quickly stepped down on it. The evidence was overwhelming.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he confess?”
“No, not confess—exactly—but he made a number of self-incriminating statements. I expect he’ll confess when he’s formally questioned. They always do. Serial killers, I mean. And we found incriminating evidence in his Museum office—”
“No mistake about it? Mr. Brisbane is a very prominent person.”
“No mistake about it, sir.”
Rocker scrutinized his face a moment longer. Custer stirred uneasily. He had been expecting congratulations, not the third degree.
Then the commissioner leaned still closer and lowered his voice to a slow, deliberate whisper. “Custer, all I can say is,
“I am right, sir.”
The commissioner nodded, a look of guarded relief, still mixed with anxiety, settling on his face.
Now Custer stepped respectfully into the background, letting the mayor, his aides, Collopy, and the commissioner arrange themselves before the throngs of press. A feeling like electricity, an anticipatory tingling, filled the air.
The mayor raised his hand, and a hush fell on the crowd. Custer realized the man wasn’t even permitting his aides to introduce him. He was going to handle this personally. With the election so near, he wasn’t going to let even a crumb of glory escape.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” the mayor began. “We have made an arrest in the case of the serial killer popularly known as the Surgeon. The suspect taken into custody has been identified as Roger C. Brisbane III, first vice president and general counsel of the New York Museum of Natural History.”
There was a collective gasp. Although everyone in the crowd already knew this, hearing it from the mayor made it official.
“Although it’s important to state that Mr. Brisbane must naturally be presumed innocent at this time, the evidence against him is substantial.”
There was a brief hush.
“As mayor, I made this case a top priority. All available resources were brought to bear. I therefore want to thank, first of all, the fine officers of the NYPD, Commissioner Rocker, and the men and women of the homicide division, for their tireless work on this difficult case. And I would especially like to single out Captain Sherwood Custer. As I understand it, Captain Custer not only headed the investigation, but personally solved the case. I am shocked, as many of you must be, at the most unusual twist this tragic case has taken. Many of us know Mr. Brisbane personally. Nevertheless, the commissioner has assured me in no uncertain terms that they have the right man, and I am satisfied to rely on his assurances.”
He paused.
“Dr. Collopy of the Museum would like to say a few words.”
Hearing this, Custer tensed. The director would no doubt put up a dogged defense of his own right-hand man; he’d question Custer’s police work and investigative technique, make him look bad.
Collopy stood before the microphone, rigid and correct, his arms clasped behind his back. He spoke in cool, stately, and measured tones.
“First, I wish to add my thanks to the fine men and women of the New York Police Department, the commissioner, and the mayor, for their tireless work on this tragic case. This is a sad day for the Museum, and for me personally. I wish to extend my deepest apologies to the City of New York and to the families of the victims for the heinous actions of our trusted employee.”
Custer listened with growing relief. Here, Brisbane’s own boss was practically throwing him to the wolves. So much the better. And he felt a twinge of resentment at Commissioner Rocker’s excessive concern about Brisbane, which, it seemed, even his own boss didn’t share.
Collopy stepped back, and the mayor returned to the microphone. “I will now take questions,” he said.
There was a roar, a rippling flurry of hands through the crowd. The mayor’s spokesperson, Mary Hill, stepped forward to manage the questioning.
Custer looked toward the crowd. The unpleasant memory of Smithback’s hangdog visage flitted across his mind, and he was glad not to see it among the sea of faces.
Mary Hill had called on someone, and Custer heard the shouted question. “Why did he do it? Was he really trying to prolong his life?”
The mayor shook his head. “I cannot speculate on motive at this time.”
“This is a question for Captain Custer!” a voice shouted. “How did you know it was Brisbane? What was the smoking gun?”
Custer stepped forward, once again gathering his face into a mask of stolidity. “A derby hat, umbrella, and black suit,” he said, significantly, and paused. “The so-called Surgeon, when he went out to stalk his victims, was
