The 1st Deadly Sin (22 page)

Delaney replaced the reports in their folders, and put all the Operation Lombard file in a small safe in the corner of the study. As he well knew, an experienced “can man” could be into that in one minute flat. And two inexperienced thieves could carry it out between them to sledge it open later.

His eyes were sandy and his bones ached. It was almost seven a.m. He dumped the cold coffee, went upstairs, undressed and rolled into bed. Something was nagging at his mind, something he had read in the Operation Lombard reports. But that had happened to him frequently: a lead sensed but not recognized. It didn’t worry him; he tried not to think about it.

He knew from experience that it would come to him eventually, sliding into his mind like a remembered name or a tune recalled. He set the alarm for eight-thirty, closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

He arrived at the precinct house a little after nine a.m. The Desk Sergeant was a policewoman, the second of her rank in New York to be assigned to such duty. He went over to the log with her, and asked questions. She was a tall, powerfully built woman with what he termed to himself, without knowing why, a
thunderous
body. In truth, he was intimidated by her, but could not deny her efficiency. The book was in order; nothing had been neglected that could have been done—a sad, sad list of drunks, missing persons, beaten wives, stolen welfare checks, mistreated children, burglaries, Peeping Toms, prostitutes, dying oldsters, homosexuals, breaking-and-entering, exhibitionists…People. But the moon was full, and Delaney knew what that meant.

He climbed the creaking wooden steps to his office and, on the landing, met Detective Lieutenant Jeri Fernandez who was, or had been, in command of detectives assigned to the 251st. “Morning, Captain,” Fernandez said glumly.

“Good morning, lieutenant,” Delaney said. He looked at the man sympathetically. “Having a rough time, aren’t you?”

“Oh shit!” Fernandez burst out. “Half my men are gone already. The others will be gone within a week. Okay, that’s one thing. But the paper work! All our open cases have to be transferred to the proper unit covering this precinct. Jesus, it’s a mess.”

“What did you get?”

“I drew a Safe, Loft and Truck Division in midtown,” Fernandez said disgustedly. “It covers four precincts including the Garment Center. How does that grab you? I’m second in command, and we’ll be getting dicks from all over Manhattan. It’ll take us at least a year to set up our snitches. What great brain dreamed up this idea?”

Delaney knew how Fernandez felt. The man was a conscientious, efficient, but unimaginative detective. He had done a good job in the 251st, training his men, being hard when he had to be hard and soft when he had to be soft. Now they were breaking up his crew and farming them out to specialized divisions. And Fernandez himself would now be number two man under a detective captain. He had a right to his anger.

“I would have guessed Broughton would have grabbed you for Operation Lombard,” Delaney said.

“Not me,” Fernandez said with a sour grin. “I ain’t white enough.”

They nodded and separated. Delaney went on to his office, marveling how quickly a man’s prejudices and record spread throughout the Department. More fool Broughton, he thought; Fernandez could have been a big help. Unimaginative he might have been, but when it came to dull, foot-flattening routine, he was excellent. The important thing was to know how to use men, to take advantage of their particular talents and the best in them.

The moment he was at his desk he called the hospital. The head floor nurse told him his wife was down in the lab, having more X-ray plates taken, but she was doing “as well as can be expected.” Trying to conceal his distaste for that particular phrase, Delaney thanked her and said he’d call later.

Then he called Dr. Sanford Ferguson and, unexpectedly, was put through to him immediately at his office.

“That you, Edward?”

“Yes. Can we get together?”

“How’s Barbara?”

“Doing as well as can be expected.”

“I seem to recognize the words. Is it about Barbara you want to see me?”

“No. The Lombard homicide.”

“Oh? I was glad to hear you hadn’t retired. Now it’s an indefinite leave of absence.”

“News travels fast.”

“It was on the Telex about ten minutes ago. Edward, what’s this about Lombard? I thought Broughton was handling it.”

“He is. But I want to see you, to talk to you. Can you make it?”

“Well…” Ferguson was cautious, and Delaney didn’t blame him. “Look, I’ve got to go up to 34th Street today. It’s my sister’s birthday, and I want to get her something. At Macy’s. Any suggestions?”

“When in doubt, a gift certificate.”

“Won’t work. I know her. She wants something personal.”

“A silk scarf. That’s what I always buy for Barbara. She’s got enough silk scarves to make a parachute.”

“Good idea. Well then, how about lunch?”

“Fine.”

“I know a good chop house near Macy’s. Do you like mutton chops?”

“Hate them.”

“Idiot. That heavy, gamy taste…nothing like it.”

“Can I get a broiled kidney?”

“Of course.”

“Then let’s have lunch at your chop house.”

“Good. You get there at twelve-thirty. I’ll be finished shopping by then and will be there before you. Ask the head waiter for my table. He knows me. It will be in the bar, not the main dining room. All right?”

“Of course. Thank you.”

“For what? I haven’t done anything for you yet.”

“You will.”

“Will I? In that case you’re paying for the lunch.”

“Done,” Captain Edward X. Delaney said.

Ferguson gave him the address of the chop house and they hung up.

“Oysters!” Ferguson boomed happily. “I definitely recommend the oysters. The horse-radish is freshly ground. Then I’ll have the mutton chop.”

“Very good, sir,” the waiter said.

“Oysters for me also,” Delaney nodded. “Then I’ll have the broiled kidney. What comes with that?”

“Home-fries and salad, sir.”

“Skip the potatoes, please. Just the salad. Oil and vinegar.”

“I’ll have everything,” Ferguson cried, and drained half his martini.

“What did you buy your sister?” Delaney asked.

“A silk scarf. What else? Come on, Edward, what’s this all about? You’re on leave of absence.”

“Do you really want to know?”

Dr. Sanford Ferguson was suddenly sober and quiet. He stared at Delaney a long moment. “No,” he said finally. “I really don’t want to know. Except…will my name be brought into it?”

“I swear to you—no.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

Their oysters were brought, and they looked down at them, beaming. They went through the business with the horse-radish sauce and the hot stuff. They swallowed, looked at each other, groaned with pleasure.

“All right,” Ferguson said. “What do you want?”

“About your report on the Lombard—”

“How did you get my report?”

Delaney looked at him steadily. “You said you didn’t want to know.”

“That’s right; I don’t. All right, what about the report?”

“I have a few questions.” Delaney took a short list out of his side pocket, put it on the cloth before him, donned his heavy glasses, consulted it, then leaned toward Ferguson.

“Doctor,” he said earnestly, “your official reports are most complete. I don’t deny it. But they’re couched in medical language. As they should be, of course,” he added hastily. “So?”

“I have some questions about what your medical terms mean.”

“Edward, you’re jiving me.”

“Well…really what the significance is.”

“That’s better,” Ferguson smiled. “You can read a PM as well as a third-year medical student.”

“Yes. Also, I happen to know, doctor, that you include in your official reports only that which you objectively observe and which could be substantiated by any other capable surgeon doing the identical post-mortem. I also know that in an autopsy—in
any
investigation—there are impressions, feelings, hunches—call them what you like—that can never be part of an official report because the physical evidence doesn’t exist. And its those impressions, feelings and hunches that I want from you.”

Ferguson slipped a dipped oyster into his mouth, swallowed, rolled his eyes.

“You’re a bastard, Edward,” he said amiably. “You really are a bastard. You’ll use anyone, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Delaney nodded. “I’ll use anyone. Any time.”

“Let’s start from word one,” Ferguson said, busily stirring his oyster sauce. “Let’s start with head wounds. Much experience?”

“No. Not much.”

“Edward, the human skull and the human brain are tougher beyond your comprehension. Ever read a detective novel or see a movie where a man has a single bullet fired into his head and dies instantly? Practically impossible. I’ve had cases of victims with five bullets in their heads who lived. They were vegetables, true, but they lived. Three years ago I had a would-be suicide who fired a bullet at his head with a low calibre revolver. Twenty-two, I think. The slug bounced off his skull and hit the ceiling. Literally. Commit suicide by firing a bullet into your temple? Forget it. The slug could pass completely through, come out the other side, and you still wouldn’t be dead. You might live hours, weeks, or years. Maybe you couldn’t talk, or move, or control your bowels, but you’d be alive. How are your oysters, Edward?”

“Very good. Yours?”

“Marvelous. There’s only one way of committing sure suicide—instantaneous suicide—by a gunshot to the head. That’s by using a pistol or revolver of reasonably heavy calibre, say a thirty-eight at least—a rifle or shotgun would do as well, of course—put the muzzle deep into your mouth aimed at the back of your head, close your lips and teeth firmly about the barrel, pull the trigger, and splatter your brains onto the opposing wall. Some of these little oysterettes, Edward?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Now about the Lombard homicide. The entry was made from the back, low on the crown. About halfway to where the spine joins the skull. The only other spot where death might be instantaneous.”

“You think the killer had a surgeon’s knowledge?”

“Oh God, no,” Ferguson said, signaling the waiter to remove their emptied oyster plates. “Yes, to hit that spot deliberately would require a surgeon’s experience. But the victim would have to be on an operating table. No killer swinging a weapon violently could hope to hit it. It was luck. The killer’s luck, not Lombard’s luck.”

“Was death instantaneous?” Delaney asked.

“Close to it. If not instant, then within a few seconds. A half-inch to the right or left and the man might have lived for hours or weeks.”

“It was that close?”

“I told you the human skull and brain are much tougher than most people realize. Do you know how many ex-soldiers are walking around today with hunks of shrapnel in their brains? They live normally, except for occasional crushing headaches, but we can’t operate. And they’ll live out their normal lives and die from smoking too many cigarettes or eating too much cheese.”

The mutton chop, broiled kidney, and salads were served. Ferguson got his home-fries, a big plate with plenty of onions. After consultation with the head waiter, who was 343 years old, they ordered a bottle of heavy burgundy.

“To get back to Lombard,” Delaney said, digging into his broiled kidney, “was it really a circular wound?”

“Oh you’re so smart,” Ferguson said without rancor. “You’re so fucking smart. My report stated it
appeared
to be a circular penetration. But I had the impression it could have been triangular. Or even square. Look, Edward, you’ve never probed a brain penetration. You think it’s like pounding a spike into modeling clay, and then you pull out the spike and you’ve got a nice, clean perfect cavity? It’s nothing like that. The wound fills up. Brain matter presses in. There is blood. Bits of bone. Hair. All kinds of crap. And you expect me to—How’s the kidney?”

“Delicious,” Delaney said. “I’ve been here before, but I forgot how much bacon they give you.”

“The mutton chop is fine,” Ferguson said, dipping into his little dish of applesauce. “I’m really enjoying this. But about that Lombard wound…In addition to the impression I had that the opening was not necessarily circular in shape, I also had the feeling that the penetration curved downward.”

“Curved?”

“Yes. Like a limp cone. The tip of the weapon lower than the shaft. A curve. Like a hard-on just beginning to go soft. You understand?”

“Yes. But why are you so uncertain about the shape of the wound and the shape of the penetration? I know what you wrote, but what do you guess?”

“I think, I
guess
that Lombard fell forward with such force that it wrenched the weapon out of the killer’s hand. And that the killer then bent forward and twisted his tool or weapon to remove it from Lombard’s skull. If the spike was triangular or square, the twisting would result in a roughly circular shape.”

“And it would mean the weapon was valuable to the killer,” Delaney said. “He took the time to recover it. It was valuable intrinsically, or valuable because it might be traced to the killer. Murderers who use a hammer or pipe or rock usually wear gloves and leave the weapon behind.”

“Beautiful,” Dr. Ferguson said, draining his wine. “I love to listen to you think.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t a hammer,” Delaney said. “I never really believed it was.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve handled three hammer cases. In two of them the handle broke. In the third, the head snapped off.”

“So you knew how tough the human skull is? But you let me talk.”

“That’s the name of the game. Anything else?”

“What else? Nothing else. It’s all smoke. On the evidence, the penetration was circular, but it might have been triangular. It might have been square. It hit the one spot that killed the man instantly. Do I think the killer has surgical knowledge? No. It was a lucky hit.”

“Dessert?” Delaney asked.

“Just coffee for me, thanks.”

“Two coffees, please,” Delaney ordered. “Any ideas, any guesses, any wild suggestions at all as to what the weapon might have been?”