Delaney read through the release again, then pushed it away from him. He took off his heavy glasses, placed them on top of the release. Then he leaned back in his swivel chair, clasped his hands behind his head, stared at the ceiling.
“I told you it wouldn’t be much help,” Handry said.
“Oh…I don’t know,” Delaney murmured dreamily. “There are some things…Fix yourself a fresh drink.”
“Thanks. You want some more rye?”
“All right. A little.”
He waited until Handry was settled back in the club chair again. Then the Captain sat up straight, put on his glasses, read the release again. He moved his glasses down on his nose, stared at Handry over the rims.
“How much do you think the Circulation Director of Javis-Bircham earns?”
“Oh, I’d guess a minimum of thirty thousand. And if it ran to fifty, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”
“That much?”
“Javis-Bircham is a big outfit. I looked it up. It’s in the top five hundred of all the corporations in the country.”
“Fifty thousand? Pretty good for a young man.”
“How old is he?” Handry asked.
“I don’t know exactly. Around thirty-five I’d guess.”
“Jesus. What does he do with his money?”
“Pays a heavy rent. Keeps an expensive car. Pays alimony. Travels, I suppose. Invests. Maybe he owns a summer home; I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know about him.”
He got up to add more ice to his drink. Then he began to wander about the room, carrying the highball.
“The computer,” he said. “What was it-AMROK II?” Handry, puzzled, said nothing.
“Want to hear something funny?” Delaney asked.
“Sure. I could use a good laugh.”
“This isn’t funny-haha; this is funny strange. I was a detective for almost twenty years before I transferred to the Patrol Division. In those twenty years I had my share of cases involving sexual aberrations, either as a primary or secondary motive. And you know, a lot of those cases-many more than could be accounted for by statistical averages-involved electronic experts, electricians, mechanics, computer programmers, bookkeepers and accountants. Men who worked with things, with machinery, with numbers. These men were rapists or Peeping Toms or flashers or child molesters or sadists or exhibitionists. This is my own experience, you understand. I have never seen any study that breaks down sex offenders according to occupation. I think I’ll suggest an analysis like that to Inspector Johnson. It might prove valuable.”
“How do you figure it?”
“I can’t. It might just be my own experience with sex offenders, too limited to be significant. But it does seem to me that men whose jobs are-are mechanized or automated, whose daily relations with people are limited, are more prone to sex aberrations than men who have frequent and varied human contacts during their working hours. Whether the sex offense is due to the nature of the man’s work, or whether the man unconsciously sought that type of work because he was already a potential sex offender and feared human contact, I can’t say. How would you like to go talk to Daniel Blank in his office?” Handry was startled. His drink slopped over the rim of the glass.
“What?” he asked incredulously. “What did you say?” Delaney started to repeat his question, but the phone on his desk shrilled loudly.
“Delaney here.”
“Edward? Thorsen. Can you talk?”
“Not very well.”
“Can you listen a moment?”
“Yes.”
“Good news. We think Broughton’s on the way out. This fourth killing did it. The Mayor and Commissioner and their top aides are meeting tonight on it.”
“I see.”
“If I hear anything more tonight, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you.”
“How are you coming?”
“So-so.”
“Got a name?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Hang in there. Things are beginning to break.”
“All right. Thank you for calling.”
He hung up, turned back to Handry. “I asked how you’d like to go talk to Daniel Blank in his office.”
“Oh sure,” Handry nodded. “Just waltz in and say, ‘Mr. Blank, Captain Edward X. Delaney of the New York Police Department thinks you axed four men to death on the east side. Would you care to make a statement?’”
“No, not like that,” Delaney said seriously. “Javis-Bircham will have a publicity or public relations department, won’t they?”
“Bound to.”
“I’d do this myself, but you have a press card and identifications man. Identify yourself. Make an appointment. The top man. When you go see him, flash your buzzer. Say that your paper is planning a series of personality profiles on young, up-and-coming executives, the-”
“Hey, wait a minute!”
“The new breed of young executives who are familiar with computers, market sampling, demographic percentages and all that shit. Ask the public relations man to suggest four or five young, progressive Javis-Bircham executives who might fit the type your paper is looking for.”
“Now see here-”
“Don’t-repeat, do not-ask for Blank by name. Just come down hard on the fact that you’re looking for a young executive familiar with the current use and future value of computers in business operations. Blank is certain to be one of the four or five men he suggests to you. Ask a few questions about each man he suggests. Then you pick Blank. See how easy it is?”
“Easy?” Handry' shook his head. “Madness! And what if the Javis-Bircham PR man checks back with the finance editor of my paper and finds out no such series of articles is planned?”
“Chances are he won’t. He’ll be happy to get the publicity for Javis-Bircham, won’t he?”
“But what if he does check? Then I’ll be out on my ass.”
“So what? You’re thinking of quitting anyway, aren’t you? So one of your problems is solved right there.”
Handry stared at him, shaking his head. “You really are a special kind of bastard,” he said in wonderment.
“Or,” Delaney went on imperturbably, “if you like, you can give the finance editor on your paper a cover story. Tell him it’s a police case-which it is-and if he asks questions, tell him it involves a big embezzlement or fraud or something like that. Don’t mention the Lombard case. He’d probably cover for you if the Javis-Bircham PR man called and say, yes, the paper was planning a series of articles on young, progressive executives. He’d do that for you, wouldn’t he?”
“Maybe.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Just one question: why the fuck should I?”
“Two answers to that. One, if Blank turns out to be the killer, you’ll be the only reporter in the world who had a personal interview with him. That’s worth something, isn’t it? Two, you want to be a poet, don’t you? Or some kind of writer other than a reporter or a rewrite man. How can you expect to be a good writer if you don’t understand people, if you don’t know what makes them tick? You’ve got to learn to get inside people, to penetrate their minds, their hearts, their souls. What an opportunity this is-to meet and talk to a man who might have slaughtered four human beings!”
Handry drained his drink in a gulp. He rose, poured himself another, stood with his back to Delaney.
“You really know how to go for the jugular, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you ever ashamed of the way you manipulate people?”
“I don’t manipulate people. Sometimes I give them the chance to do what they want to do and never had the opportunity. Will you do it, Handry?”
There was silence. The reporter took a deep breath, then blew it out. He turned to face Delaney.