The 1st Deadly Sin (13 page)

Dr. Sanford Ferguson, a bachelor, was a big man, made bigger by creaseless tweed suits worn with chain-looped vests. He was broad through the shoulders and broad through the chest. He was not corpulent but his thighs were as big around as another man’s waist, and his arms were meaty and strong.

No one doubted his cleverness. At parties he could relate endless jokes that had the company helpless with laughter. He knew many dialects perfectly and, in his cups, could do an admirable soft-shoe clog. He was much in demand as an after-dinner speaker at meetings of professional associations. He was an ineffectual but enthusiastic golfer. He sang a sweet baritone. He could make a souffle. And, unknown to everyone (including his older spinster sister), he kept a mistress: a middle-aged colored lady he loved and by whom he had fathered three sons.

He was also, Delaney knew, an experienced and cynical police surgeon. Violent death did not dismay him, and he was not often fooled by the obvious. In “natural deaths” he sniffed out arsenic. In “accidental deaths” he would pry out the fatal wound in a corpus of splinters.

“Here’s your rye,” he said, handing the highball to Delaney. “Now sit there and keep your mouth shut, and let me read and digest.”

It was after midnight. They were in the living room of Ferguson’s apartment on Murray Hill. The spinster sister had greeted Delaney and then disappeared, presumably to bed. The doctor had mixed a rye highball for his guest and poured a hefty brandy for himself in a water tumbler.

Delaney sat quietly in an armchair pinned with an antimacassar. Dr. Ferguson sat on a spindly chair at a fine Queen Anne lowboy. His bulk threatened to crush chair and table. His wool tie was pulled wide, shirt collar open: wiry hair sprang free.

“That was a nice cut-’em-up tonight,” he remarked, peering at the documents in the file Delaney had handed over. “A truck driver comes home from work. Greenwich Village. He finds his wife, he says, on the kitchen floor. Her head’s in the oven. The room’s full of gas. He opens the window. She’s dead. I can attest to that. She was depressed, the truck driver says. She often threatened suicide, he says. Well…maybe. We’ll see. We’ll see.”

“Who’s handling it?” Delaney asked.

“Sam Rosoff. Assault and Homicide South. You know him?”

“Yes. An old-timer. Good man.”

“He surely is, Edward. He spotted the cigar stub in the ashtray on the kitchen table. A cold butt, but the saliva still wet. What would you have done?”

“Ask you to search for a skull contusion beneath the dead woman’s hair and start looking for the truck driver’s girl friend.”

Dr. Ferguson laughed. “Edward, you’re wonderful. That’s exactly what Rosoff suggested. I found the contusion. Right now he’s out looking for the girlfriend. Do you miss detective work?”

“Yes.”

“You were the best,” Ferguson said, “until you decided to become Commissioner. Now shut up, lad, and let me read.” Silence.

“Oh-ho,” Ferguson said. “My old friend Bernardi.”

“You know him?” Delaney asked, surprised.

“I do indeed.”

“What do you think of him?”

“As a physician? Excellent. As a man? A prick. No more talk.”

Silence.

“Do you know any of the others?” Delaney asked finally. “The specialists he brought in?”

“I know two of the five—the neurologist and the radiologist. They’re among the best in the city. This must be costing you a fortune. If the other three are as talented, your wife is in good hands. I can check. Now be quiet.”

Silence.

“Oh well,” Ferguson shrugged, still reading, “kidney stones. That’s not so bad.”

“You’ve had cases?”

“All the time. Mostly men, of course. You know who get ’em? Cab drivers. They’re bouncing around on their ass all day.”

“What about my wife?”

“Well, listen, Edward, it could be diet, it could be stress. There’s so much we don’t know.”

“My wife eats sensibly, rarely takes a drink, and she’s the most—most serene woman I’ve ever met.”

“Is she? Let me finish reading.”

He went through all the reports intently, going back occasionally to check reports he had already finished. He didn’t even glance at the X-rays. Finally he shoved back from the table, poured himself another huge brandy, freshed the Captain’s highball.

“Well?” Delaney asked.

“Edward,” Ferguson said, frowning, “don’t bring me in. Or anyone else. Bernardi is a bombastic, opinionated, egotistical shit. But as I said, he’s a good sawbones. On your wife’s case he’s done everything exactly right. He’s tried everything except surgery—correct?”

“Well, he tried antibiotics. They didn’t work.”

“No, they wouldn’t on kidney stones. But they didn’t locate
that
until they got her in the hospital for sensitive plates, and then the trouble passing urine started. That’s recent, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Only in the last four or five days.”

“Well, then…”

“You recommend surgery?” Delaney asked in a dead voice. Ferguson whirled on him. “I recommend nothing,” he said sharply. “It’s not my case. But you’ve got no choice.”

“That’s what he said.”

“He was right. Bite the bullet, m’lad.”

“What are her chances?”

“You want betting odds, do you? With surgery, very good indeed.”

“And without?”

“Forget it.”

“It’s not fair,” Delaney cried furiously.

Ferguson looked at him strangely. “What the fuck is?” he asked.

They stared at each other a long moment. Then Ferguson went back to the table, flipped through the X-rays, selected one and held it up to the light of a tilted desk lamp. “Kidney,” he muttered. “Yes, yes.”

“What is it, doctor?”

“He told you and I told you: calculus in the kidneys, commonly known as stones.”

“That’s not what I meant. Something’s bothering you.” Ferguson looked at him. “You son of a bitch,” he said softly. “You should never have left the detective division. I’ve never met anyone as—as
attuned
to people as you are.”

“What is it?” Delaney repeated.

“It’s nothing. Nothing I can explain. A hunch. You have them, don’t you?”

“All the time.”

“It’s little things that don’t quite add up. Maybe there’s a rational explanation. The recent hysterectomy. The fever and chills that have been going on since then. But only recently the headaches, nausea, lumbar pain, and now the difficulty passing urine. It all adds up to kidney stones, but the
sequence
of symptoms is wrong. With kidney stones, pain at pissing usually comes from the start. And sometimes it’s bad enough to drive you right up a wall. No record of that here. Yet the plates show…You tell me she’s not under stress?”

“She is not.”

“Every case I’ve had is driven, trying to do too much, bedeviled by time, rushing around, biting fingernails and screaming at the waitress when the coffee is cold. Is that Barbara?”

“No. She’s totally opposite. Calm.”

“You can’t tell. We never know. Still…” He sighed. “Edward, have you ever heard of Proteus infection?”

“Bernardi mentioned it to me.”

Ferguson actually staggered back a step, as if he had been struck a blow on the chest. “He
mentioned
it to you?” he demanded. “When was this?”

“About three weeks ago, when he first told me Barbara should go into the hospital for tests. He just mentioned it and said he wanted to do some reading on it. But he didn’t say anything about it today. Should I have asked him?”

“Jesus Christ,” Ferguson said bitterly. “No, you shouldn’t have asked him. If he wanted to tell you, he would have.”

“You’ve treated cases?”

“Proteus? Oh yes, I have indeed. Three in twenty years. Mr. Proteus is a devil.”

“What happened to them?”

“The three? Two responded to antibiotics and were smoking and drinking themselves to death within forty-eight hours.”

“And the third?”

Ferguson came over, gripped Delaney by the right arm, and almost lifted him to his feet. The Captain had forgotten how strong he was.

“Go have your wife’s kidney stones cut out,” the doctor said brutally. “She’ll either live or die. Which is true for all of us. No way out, m’lad.”

Delaney took a deep breath.

“All right, doctor,” he said. “Thank you for your time and your—your patience. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Bother?” Ferguson said gruffly. “Idiot.”

He walked Delaney to the door. “I might just stop by to see Barbara,” he said casually. “Just as a friend of the family.”

“Yes,” Delaney nodded dumbly. “Please do that. She doesn’t want any visitors, but I know she’ll be glad to see you.”

In the foyer Ferguson took Delaney by the shoulders and turned him to the light.

“Have you been sleeping okay, Edward?” he demanded. “Not too well.”

“Don’t take pills. Take a stiff shot. Brandy is best. Or a glass of port. Or a bottle of stout just before you get into bed.”

“Yes. All right. Thank you. I will.”

They shook hands.

“Oh wait,” Ferguson said. “You forgot your papers. I’ll get the file for you.”

But when he returned, Delaney had gone.

He stopped at his home to put on a heavy wool sweater under his uniform jacket. Then he walked next door to the Precinct house. There was a civilian car parked directly in front of the entrance. Inside the windshield, on the passenger’s side, a large card was displayed: PRESS.

Delaney stalked inside. There was a civilian talking to the Desk Sergeant. Both men broke off their conversation and turned when he tramped in.

“Is that your car?” he asked the man. “In front of the station?”

“Yes, that’s mine. I was—”

“You a reporter?”

“Yes. I was just—”

“Move it. You’re parked in a zone reserved for official cars only. It’s clearly marked.”

“I just wanted—”

“Sergeant,” Delaney said, “if that car isn’t moved within two minutes, issue this man a summons. If it’s still there after five minutes, call a truck and have it towed away. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now look here—” the man started.

Delaney walked by him and went up to his office. He took a black-painted three-cell flashlight from the top drawer of his file cabinet. He also slipped a short, hard rubber truncheon into his jacket pocket and hung a steel “come-along” on his gun belt.

When he came out into the chilly night again, the Press car had been reparked across the street. But the reporter was standing on the sidewalk in front of the Precinct house.

“What’s your name?” he asked angrily.

“Captain Edward X. Delaney. You want my shield number?”

“Oh…Delaney. I’ve heard about you.”

“Have you?”

“‘Iron Balls.’ Isn’t that what they call you?”

“Yes.”

The reporter stared, then suddenly laughed and held out his hand.

“The name’s Handry, Captain. Thomas Handry. Sorry about the car. You were entirely right and I was entirely wrong.”

Delaney shook his hand.

“Where you going with the flashlight, Captain?”

“Just taking a look around.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

Delaney shrugged. “If you like.”

They walked over to First Avenue, then turned north. The street was lined with stores, supermarkets, banks. Most of them had locked gates across doors and windows. All had a light burning within.

“See that?” Delaney gestured. “I sent a letter to every commercial establishment in my precinct requesting they keep at least a hundred-watt bulb burning all night. I kept after them. Now I have ninety-eight-point-two percent compliance. A simple thing, but it reduced breaking-and-entering of commercial establishments in this precinct by fourteen-point-seven percent.”

He stopped in front of a shoe repair shop that had no iron gates. Delaney tried the door. It was securely locked.

“A little unusual, isn’t it?” Handry asked, amused. “A captain making the rounds? Don’t you have foot patrolmen for that?”

“Of course. When I first took over the 251st, discipline was extremely lax. So I started unscheduled inspections, on foot, mostly at night. It worked. The men never know when or where I may turn up. They stay alert.”

“You do it every night?”

“Yes. Of course, I can’t cover the entire precinct, but I do a different five or six blocks every night. I don’t
have
to do it anymore, you understand; my men are on their toes. But it’s become a habit. I think I enjoy it. As a matter of fact, I can’t get to sleep until I’ve made my rounds. My wife says I’m like a householder who has to go around trying all the windows and doors before he goes to bed.”

A two-man squad car came purring by. The passenger officer inspected them, recognized the Captain and threw him a salute, which he returned.

Delaney tried a few more un-gated doors and then, flashlight burning, went prowling up an alleyway, the beam flickering over garbage cans and refuse heaps. Handry stayed close behind him.

They walked a few more blocks, then turned eastward toward York Avenue.

“What were you doing in my Precinct house, Handry?” the Captain asked suddenly.

“Nosing around,” the reporter said. “I’m working on an article. Or rather a series of articles.”

“On what?”

“Why a man wants to become a policeman, and what happens to him after he does.”

“Again?” Delaney sighed. “It’s been done a dozen times.”

“I know. And it’s going to be done again, by me. The first piece is on requirements, screening, examination, and all that. The second will be on the Academy and probationary training. Now I’m trying to find out what happens to a man after he’s assigned, and all the different directions he can go. You were originally in the detective division, weren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Homicide, wasn’t it?”

“For a while.”

“They still talk about you, about some of your cases.”

“Do they?”

“Why did you switch to patrol, Captain?”

“I wanted administrative experience,” Delaney said shortly.

This time Handry sighed. He was a slender, dapper young man who looked more like an insurance salesman than a reporter. His suit was carefully pressed, shoes shined, narrow-brim hat exactly squared on his head. He wore a vest. He moved with a light-footed eagerness.