He arrived at Midtown Precinct North a little after 3:30 p.m. Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen was already present, and Delaney met with him and Abner Boone in the sergeant's office. Thorsen told them of the results of his meeting with the police brass.
"You got everything you wanted, Edward," he said. "I'll hold a press conference tomorrow. The official line will be that new leads are enlarging the investigation-which is true-and we are now looking for either a female or male perpetrator. Nothing will be released about the killer switching to a strawberry blond wig."
"Good," Boone said. "They picked up more blond hairs when they vacuumed Bergdorfer's suite at the Cameron Arms. What about the knife blade tip? And the Mace?"
"We'll keep those under wraps for the time being," Thorsen said. "We can't shoot our wad all at once. If the screams for action become too loud, we'll give them the investigation into the knife, and later into the tear gas. The PR guys were insistent on that. It looks like a long job of work, and we've got to hold something back to prove we're making progress."
Delaney and Boone both sighed, the Machiavellian manipulations of public relations beyond their ken.
"Edward," Thorsen went on, "we're keeping a lid on your involvement in the case for the time being."
"Keep it on forever as far as I'm concerned."
"Sergeant, all inquiries from the media will be referred to me. I will be the sole, repeat, sole spokesman for the Department on this case. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Make certain your men understand it, too. I don't want any unauthorized statements to the press, and if I catch anyone leaking inside information, he'll find himself guarding vacant lots in the South Bronx so fast he won't know what hit him. Now… I don't suppose you have any great revelations to report, do you?"
"No, sir," Boone said, "nothing new. We're just getting organized on the knife and tear gas jobs. Lieutenant Crane's research hasn't turned up anything."
"I have something," Delaney said, and they looked at him.
He told them of his belief that the killer had prior knowledge of the location and dates of conventions held in midtown Manhattan. He listed the sources of such information and showed them the hotel trade magazine he had been given by Eddie Holzer.
"It's got to be someone connected with the hotel or convention business in some way," he argued. "We'll have to compile a list of everyone in the city who has access to the convention schedule."
Thorsen was aghast.
"My God, Edward!" he burst out. "That could be thousands of people!"
"Hundreds, certainly," Delaney said stonily. "But it's got to be done. Sergeant?"
"I guess so," Boone said glumly. "You want men and women listed?"
"Yes," Delaney said, nodding. "Just to cover ourselves. No use in doing the job twice. What do you figure-twenty or thirty more detectives?"
"At least," the sergeant said.
Thorsen groaned. "All right," he said finally, "you'll get them. Who's going to handle it?"
"I'll get it organized and rolling," Sergeant Boone said. "We better call in Slavin on the scheduling."
Delaney left them discussing the exact number of men needed and the office space that would be required. He walked uptown from the precinct house until he found a telephone booth in working order.
He called Thomas Handry.
He told the reporter there would be a press conference held at police headquarters the following day. An expanded investigation would be announced and it would be stated that the killer could be either a man or a woman. Delaney said nothing about the blond wig, the knife blade tip, or the Chemical Mace.
"So?" Handry said. "What's so new and exciting? An expanded investigation-big deal."
"What's new and exciting," Delaney explained patiently, "is that actually the investigation is zeroing in on a female killer."
A moment of silence…
"So that research convinced you?" Handry said. "And you convinced them?"
"Half-convinced," Delaney said. "Some of them still think I'm blowing smoke."
He then went over the evidence that had persuaded him the Hotel Ripper was female. He ended by telling Handry that the; timing of the homicides matched a woman's menstrual periods.
"Crazy," the reporter said. "You're sure about all this?"
"Sure I'm sure. I'm giving you this stuff in advance of the press conference for background, not for publication. I owe you one. Also, I thought you might want to prepare by digging out old stories on women killers."
"I already have," Handry said. "It wasn't hard to figure how; your mind was working. I started looking into the history of mass murders. A series of homicides in which the killer is a stranger to the victims. One criminologist calls them 'multicides.'"
"Multicides," Delaney repeated. "That's a new one on me. Good name. What did you find?"
"Since 1900, there have been about twenty-five cases in the United States, with the number of victims ranging from seven to more than thirty. The scary thing is that more than half of those twenty-five cases have occurred since 1960. In other words, the incidence of multicides is increasing. More and more mass killings by strangers."
"Yes," Delaney said, "I was aware of that."
"And I've got bad news for you, Chief."
"What's that?"
"Of those twenty-five cases of multicide since 1900, only one was committed by a woman."
"Oh?" Delaney said. "Did they catch her?"
"No," Handry said.
Monica came out of the bathroom, hair in curlers, face cold-creamed, a strap of her nightgown held up with a safety pin.
"The Creature from Outer Space," she announced cheerfully.
He looked at her with a vacant smile. He had started to undress. Doffed his dark cheviot jacket and vest, after first removing watch and chain from waistcoat pockets. The clumpy gold chain had been his grandfather's. At one end was a hunter that had belonged to his father and had stopped fifty years ago. Twenty minutes to noon. Or midnight.
At the other end of the chain was a jeweled miniature of his detective's badge, given to him by his wife on his retirement.
Vest and jacket hung away, he seated himself heavily on the edge of his bed. He started to unlace his ankle-high shoes of black kangaroo leather, polished to a high gloss. He was seated there, one shoe dangling from his big hands, when Monica came out of the bathroom.
He watched her climb into bed. She propped pillows against the headboard, sat up with blanket and sheet pulled to her waist.
She donned her Benjamin Franklin glasses, picked up a book from the bedside table.
"What did you eat today?" she demanded, peering at him over her glasses.
"Not much," he lied effortlessly. "After that mighty breakfast this morning, I didn't need much. Skipped lunch. Had a sandwich and a beer tonight."
"One sandwich?"
"Just one."
"What kind?"
"Sliced turkey, cole slaw, lettuce and tomato on rye. With Russian dressing."
"That would do it," she said, nodding. "No wonder you look so remote."
"Remote?" he said. "Do I?"
He bent to unlace his other shoe and slide it off. He peeled away his heavy wool socks. Comfortable shoes and thick socks: secrets of a street cop's success.
When he straightened up, he saw that Monica was still staring at him.
"How is the case going?" she asked quietly.
"All right. It's really in the early stages. Just beginning to move."
"Everyone's talking about the Hotel Ripper. At the meetings today, it came up again and again. In informal conversations, I mean; not in lectures. Edward, people make jokes and laugh, but they're really frightened."
"Of course," he said. "Who wouldn't be?"
"You still think it's a woman?"
"Yes."
He stood, began to take off tie and shirt. Still she had not opened her book. She watched him empty his trouser pockets onto the bureau top.