The second incident was more serious. Blank had been in a bar, The Parrot on Third Avenue, and was allegedly solicited by a middle-aged homosexual. Blank, according to testimony of witnesses, thereupon hit the man twice, breaking his jaw with the second blow. While the man was helpless on the floor, Blank had kicked him repeatedly in the groin until he was dragged away and the police were called. The homosexual refused to sign a complaint, Blank’s lawyer appeared, and apparently the injured man signed a release.
The same officer, Detective first grade Ronald A. Blankenship, had handled both beefs. His language, in his reports, was official, clear, concise, colorless, and implied no judgments.
Delaney read through the file slowly, then read it through again. He got up to mix another rye highball and then, standing at his desk, read it through a third time. He took off his glasses, began to pace about his chilly study, carrying his drink, sipping occasionally. Once or twice he came back behind his desk to stare at the Daniel Blank manila folder, but he didn’t open the file again.
Several years previously, when he had been a Detective lieutenant, he had contributed two articles to the Department’s monthly magazine. The first monograph was entitled “Common Sense and the New Detective.” It was a very basic, down-to-earth analysis of how the great majority of crimes are solved: good judgment based on physical evidence and experience-the ability to put two and two together and come up with four, not three or five. It was hardly a revolutionary argument.
The second article, entitled “Hunch, Instinct, and the New Detective,” occasioned a little more comment. Delaney argued that in spite of the great advances in laboratory analysis, the forensic sciences, computerized records and probability percentages, the new detective disregarded his hunches and instinct at his peril, for frequently they were not a sudden brainstorm, but were the result of observation of physical evidence and experience of which the detective might not even be consciously aware. But stewing in his subconscious, a rational and reasonable conclusion was reached, thrust into his conscious thought, and should never be allowed to wither unexplored, since it was, in many cases, as logical and empirical as common sense.
(Delaney had prepared a third article for the series. This dealt with his theory of an “adversary concept” in which he explored the Dostoevskian relationship between detective and criminal. It was an abstruse examination of the “sensual” (Delaney’s word) affinity between hunter and hunted, of how, in certain cases, it was necessary for the detective to penetrate and assume the physical body, spirit, and soul of the criminal in order to bring him to justice. This treatise, at Barbara’s gentle persuasion, Delaney did not submit for publication.)
Now, thinking over the facts included in the Daniel Blank file, Captain Delaney acknowledged he was halfway between common sense and instinct. Intelligence and experience convinced him that the man involved in the two incidents described was worth investigating further.
The salient point in the second incident was the raw savagery Blank had displayed. A normal man-well, an average man-might have handled the homosexual’s first advance by merely smiling and shaking his head, or moving down the bar, or even leaving The Parrot. The violence displayed by Blank was excessive. Protesting too much?
The first incident-the case of the injured dog-owner-might not be as innocent as it appeared in Detective Blankenship’s report. It was true that the witness, the doorman-what was his name? Delaney looked it up. Charles Lipsky-it was true that Lipsky stated that Blank had been struck with a folded newspaper before pushing his assailant. But witnesses can be bribed; it was hardly an uncommon occurrence. Even if Lipsky had told the truth, Delaney was amazed at how this incident fit into a pattern he had learned from experience; men prone to violence, men too ready to use their fists, their feet, even their teeth, somehow became involved in situations that were obviously not their fault, and yet resulted in injury or death to their antagonist.
Delaney called Monica Gilbert.
“Monica? Edward. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. I hope I didn’t wake the children.”
“Oh no. That takes more than a phone ring. What is it?”
“Would you mind looking at your card file and see if you have anything on a man named Blank. Daniel G. He lives on East Eighty-third Street.”
“Just a minute.”
He waited patiently. He heard her moving about. Then she was back on the phone.
“Blank, Daniel G.,” she read. “Arrested twice for speeding. Guilty and fined. Do you want the make of car and license number?”
“Please.”
He took notes as she gave him the information.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Edward, is it-anything?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. It’s interesting. That’s about all I can say right now. I’ll know more tomorrow.”
“Will you call?”
“Yes, if you want me to.”
“Please do.”
“All right. Sleep well.”
“Thank you. You, too.”
Two arrests for speeding. Not in itself significant, but within the pattern. The choice of car was similarly meaningful. Delaney was glad Daniel Blank didn’t drive a Volkswagen.
He called Thomas Handry at the newspaper office. He had left for home. He called him at home. No answer. He called Detective Lieutenant Jeri Fernandez at his office. Fernandez had gone home. Delaney felt a sudden surge of anger at these people who couldn’t be reached when he needed them. Then he realized how childish that was, and calmed down.
He found Fernandez’ home phone number in the back of his pocket notebook where he had carefully listed home phone numbers of all sergeants and higher ranks in the 251st Precinct. Fernandez lived in Brooklyn. A child answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Is Detective Fernandez there, please?”
“Just a minute. Daddy, it’s for you!” the child screamed. In the background Delaney could hear music, shouts, loud laughter, the thump of heavy dancing. Finally Fernandez came to the phone.
“Hello?”
“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”
“Oh. Howrya, Captain?”
“Lieutenant, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. Sounds like you’re having a party.”
“Yeah, it’s the wife’s birthday, and we have some people in.”
“I won’t keep you long. Lieutenant, when you were at the Two-five-one, you had a dick one named Blankenship. Right?”
“Sure. Ronnie. Good man.”
“What did he look like? I can’t seem to remember him.”
“Sure you do, Captain. A real tall guy. About six-three or four. Skinny as a rail. We called him ‘Scarecrow.’ Remember now?”
“Oh yes. A big Adam’s apple?”
“That’s the guy.”
“What happened to him?”
“He drew an Assault-Homicide Squad over on the West Side. I think it’s up in the Sixties-Seventies-Eighties-around there. I know it takes in the Twentieth Precinct. Listen, I got his home phone number somewhere. Would that help?”
“It certainly would.”
“Hang on a minute.”
It was almost five minutes, but eventually Fernandez was back with Blankenship’s phone number. Delaney thanked him. Fernandez seemed to want to talk more, but the Captain cut him short.
He dialed Blankenship’s home phone. A woman answered. In the background Delaney could hear an infant wailing loudly. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Blankenship?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Delaney, Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Depart-”
“What’s happened? What’s happened to Ronnie? Is he all right? Is he hurt? What-”
“No, no, Mrs. Blankenship,” he said hurriedly, soothing her fears. “As far as I know, your husband is perfectly all right.”