The 1st Deadly Sin (17 page)

Ferguson was silent a moment, then…“Infected?”

“That’s what Spencer told me. Bernardi observed the operation but I can’t get hold of him.”

“The prick. As soon as I get to a phone I’ll try to find out what the hell is going on. Where can I reach you.”

“The precinct house probably. We’ll have to re-shuffle schedules and figure out how many uniformed men we can spare for door-to-door questioning. They’re taking our detectives away.”

“I heard. Edward, I’ll call if I learn anything. If I don’t call, it means I haven’t been able to reach Spencer or Bernardi.” Delaney nodded. Dr. Ferguson climbed into the back of the ambulance, and it went whining away. Lt. Dorfman was moving toward him, but the deputy commissioner came out of the darkness and clamped a hand on Delaney’s elbow. The Captain didn’t like to be touched; he tugged his arm gently away.

“Delaney?”

“Yes sir.”

“My name’s Broughton. B-r-o-u-g-h-t-o-n. I guess we never met.”

They had, but Delaney didn’t mention it. The two officers shook hands. Broughton, a thick, shapeless man, motioned Delaney toward the black limousine. He opened the back door, waved Delaney in, climbed in beside him.

“Go get a coffee, Jack,” he commanded the uniformed driver.

Then they were alone. Broughton offered a cigar but Delaney shook his head. The deputy lighted up furiously, the end of the cigar flaring, the car filling with harsh smoke.

“It’s a piece of shit,” he said angrily. “Why the hell can’t we get Havana cigars? We’re defeating Communism by smoking horse shit? What kind of insanity is that?”

He sat back, staring out the window at the sidewalk where someone had chalked an outline around the corpse before it was removed.

“A lot of flak on this one, Captain,” Broughton said loudly. “A
lot
of flak. The Commissioner cancelled a speech in Kansas City—Kansas
City
, for Chrissakes—and is flying back. You probably saw the Mayor’s aide. His Honor is on our ass already. And don’t think the fucking governor won’t get in the act. You know this Lombard—the guy who got hisself killed?”

“I read his statements in the newspapers and I saw him on television.”

“Yeah, he got the publicity. So you know what we’re up against. ‘Crime in the streets…no law and order…hoodlums and muggers running wild…shake up the police department…the Commissioner should resign…’ You know. The shithead was running for Mayor. Now he’s knocked off, and if we don’t pull someone in, it proves he was right. You understand how serious this is, Captain.”

“I consider every homicide serious.”

“Well…yeah…sure. But the politics involved. You understand that?”

“Yes sir.”

“All right. That’s one thing. Now the other thing…This killing couldn’t have happened at a worst time. You get the Commissioner’s memo about precinct detectives?”

“Memorandum four six seven dash B dated eight October; subject: Detective division, reorganization of? Yes sir, I received it.”

Broughton laughed shortly. “I heard about you, Delaney. Yeah, that’s the memo.” He belched suddenly, a ripe, liquid sound. He didn’t excuse himself, but scratched in his crotch. “All right, we’re pulling all the detectives out of the precinct houses. You’re next on the list. You got the notification?”

“Yes.”

“Starts on Monday. All detectives will be organized in special units—homicide-, burglary and larceny, truck thefts, hotel thefts, and so on. Uniformed officers will make the first investigation of a crime. You’re going to give your cops a crash course on what to look for. It’s all spelled out in a manual you’ll be getting. The investigating officers file a report. If it’s a major theft, say, involving more than $1,500 in money or goods, the detective unit takes over. If it’s a minor crime, say b-and-e or a mugging, the patrolman does what he can or reports it unsolvable. We tried it out in two test precincts, and we think it’s going to work. What do you think?”

“I don’t like it,” Delaney said promptly. “It takes detectives out of the precincts and out of the neighborhoods. Sometimes they make their best busts just by knowing the neighborhood—who’s missing, new hoods who have shown up, who’s been flashing a roll. And of course they all have their neighborhood informers. Now, as I understand it, one specialized detective unit might be covering as many as four or five precincts. I like the idea of uniformed men getting experience in investigation work. They’ll like that. They’ll be functioning like detectives—which is what most of them thought police work was all about, instead of taking old people to hospitals and settling family squabbles. But while they’re investigating and making out that preliminary report, they’re off the beat, and I’ll have less men on patrol and visible. I don’t like that.”

Broughton pried a fingertip roughly into one nostril, dug out some matter, rolled it into a ball between thumb and forefinger. He opened the car window and flicked it outside.

“Well, you’re going to have to live with it,” he said coldly. “At least for a year until we get some numbers and see what’s happening to our solution rates. But now this son of a bitch Lombard gets hit right in the middle of the change-over. So we have Homicide North still in existence, the new homicide unit covering your precinct, and you still got your precinct detectives. Jesus Christ, all those guys will be walking up each other’s heels, covering the same ground—and whose responsibility is it? It’s going to be as fucked up as a Chinese fire drill It is already. You got any ideas how to straighten it out?”

Delaney looked up in surprise. The final question had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that even though he had wondered about the reason for this private talk, he wasn’t prepared for the demand.

“Can you give me twenty-four hours to think it over? Maybe I can come up with something.”

“No good,” Broughton said impatiently. Right now I got to go out to the airport to pick up the Commissioner, and I got to have some suggestions on how to straighten out this mess. He’ll want action. The Mayor and every councilman will be leaning on him. And if he don’t produce, it’s probably his ass. And if it’s his ass, it’s my ass too. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“You agree that right now it’s screwed up as far as organization goes?”

“Yes.”

“Christ, you’re a regular chatterbox, ain’t you?” Broughton farted audibly and squirmed his buttocks on the car seat. “I been hearing how smart you are, Captain. Okay, here’s your chance; give me a for-instance right now.”

Delaney looked at him with distaste, recognizing the man’s crude energy but angered by his bullying, disgusted by his personal habits, sensing a personality that reeked of the jungle.

“Try a temporary horizontal organization,” he said tonelessly. “The Department, just like the army and most business corporations, is organized vertically. Responsibility and authority are vested in the man at the top, Orders come down the chain of command. Each division, precinct, unit, or whatever, has a definite assignment. But sometimes problems come up that can’t be solved by this type of organization. It’s usually a problem of limited duration that might never occur again. The Lombard homicide comes right in the middle of the reorganization of the detective division. All right, do what the army and most corporations do when they’re faced with a unique situation that doesn’t require a permanent organization. Set up a temporary task force. Call it ‘Operation Lombard,’ if you like. Appoint an overall commander. Give him full responsibility and authority to draw on any unit for personnel and equipment he needs. Detectives, patrolmen, specialists—anyone who’ll help him do the job The men are detached on a temporary basis. The whole operation r temporary. When and if Lombard’s killer is found, the task force is disbanded, and the men go back to their regular units.”

A light came into Broughton’s muddy eyes. He laughed with glee and rubbed his palms together between his knees.

“They weren’t kidding; you’re a smart son of a bitch, Delaney. I like it. And I think the Commissioner will like it. A special task force: ‘Operation Lombard.’ It’ll show we’re doing something—right? That should satisfy the Mayor and the newspapers. How long do you think it’ll take to break the Lombard thing?”

Delaney looked at him in astonishment.

“How would I know? How would anyone know? Maybe someone’s confessing right now. Maybe it’ll never be solved.”

“Jesus, don’t say that.”

“Did you ever read solution statistics on homicides? If they’re not solved within the first forty-eight hours, the solution probability drops off steeply and continues to plunge as time passes. After a month or two, solution probability is practically nil.”

Broughton nodded glumly, got out of the car, spat his cold cigar into the gutter. Delaney got out too and stood there as the uniformed driver came running up. Broughton got in the front seat alongside the driver. As the limousine pulled away, the Captain saluted gravely, but it was not returned.

Delaney stood a moment, inspecting the street. The first contingent of uniformed patrolmen from his precinct came straggling up in twos and threes, to gather about the chalked outline on the sidewalk. The Captain moved over to listen to a sergeant giving them orders.

“Everyone got a flashlight?” he asked. “Okay, we spread out from here. We move slowly. Got that? slowly. We check every garbage can—” There was a groan from the massed men. “There was a pickup on this street yesterday afternoon so most of the cans should be empty. But even if they’re full, spill them out. Every can has got to be searched. After you’re through, try to kick most of the shit back in. We’re calling for another sanitation pickup today, and the cans will be clawed through again when they’re spilled into the garbage truck. Also, every area and alley, and put your light in every sewer and catch basin. This is a preliminary search. By tomorrow we’ll have some sewer and street men here to take off the manhole covers and gratings and probe the sludge. Now, what we’re looking for is anything that looks like a weapon. It could be a gun or a knife. But especially look for a club, a piece of pipe, an iron rod, a hammer, or maybe a rock with blood and matted hair on it. Anything with blood on it. And that includes a hat, clothing, a handkerchief, maybe a rag. If you’re not sure, call me. Don’t pass up anything. We do this block first. Then we cross York to the next block. Then we come back and do one block south and one block north. Got it? All right, get moving.”

Delaney watched the searchlights spread out from where the dark blood still glistened in the morning mist, He knew it had to be done, but he didn’t envy the men their task. It was possible they might find something. Possible. They would, he knew, also find gut-wrenching garbage, vomit, a dead cat, and perhaps the bloody body of an aborted baby.

By morning there would be more men doing the same thing, and more, and more. The search would spread farther and farther until it covered all his precinct and, finally, most of Manhattan.

Now he watched carefully as the men started their search. Then, suddenly, he realized his weariness had dropped away, or perhaps he was so exhausted he was numb. He clasped his hands behind his back and strolled down to the river fence. There he turned, faced toward York Avenue, and began to consider how the murder might have happened.

Lombard’s body had been found on the sidewalk almost half-way between the river and York Avenue. If indeed he had dinner with his mother, it was reasonable to assume she lived between the river and the point where the victim was found. Lombard had fallen forward toward York. Had he, about midnight, been walking toward a bus line, a subway station, or perhaps his parked car for the trip home to Brooklyn?

Pacing slowly, Delaney inspected the buildings between the river and the spot where the body was found. They were all converted brownstones and townhouses. Fronts of the town-houses were flush; there were no areas where a killer might lurk, although it was conceivable he might have been in a lobby, ostensibly inspecting bells, his back turned to passers-by. Delaney doubted that. Too much chance of being spotted by a tenant.

But the entrances to the converted brownstones were three or four steps down from the sidewalk. There were high bushes and boxes of ivy, still green, that offered some concealment for a crouching assassin. Delaney could not believe it. No killer, even if trained and wearing crepe-soled shoes, could leap from concealment, charge up three or four steps, and rush his victim from behind without making
some
noise. And Lombard would have turned to face his attacker, perhaps throw up an arm to protect himself, or make some movement to escape. Yet apparently he was struck down suddenly and without warning.

Barely moving, Delaney stared at the building fronts across the street. It was possible, he acknowledged, that the killer had waited in an outside lobby until Lombard passed on his way to York Avenue, had then come out on the sidewalk and followed him. But again, Lombard would surely have heard him or sensed his presence. And on this block at midnight, would a man as aware of street crime as Lombard allow a man to stalk him? The councilman could have run toward the traffic on York Avenue, or even dashed across the street to seek refuge in the big townhouse lobby with the doorman.

All this theorizing, of course, assumed that Lombard was a marked target, that the killer had followed him or at least been aware that he would be on this particular street at this particular time. But the suddenness and complete success of the attack were the points that interested Delaney at the moment. He retraced his steps to the river fence, turned around, and began again a slow walk toward York.

“What’s Iron Balls up to, sarge?” a uniformed patrolman asked. He was stationed at the chalked outline on the sidewalk to shoo away the curious.

The sergeant stared across the street at the slowly pacing Captain.

“Why, he’s looking for clues,” he explained blandly. “He’s sure to find a cancelled French postage stamp, or a lefthand glove with the little finger missing, or maybe a single turkey feather. Then he’ll solve the murder and make deputy inspector. What the fuck do you think he’s doing?”