"I wasn't going to tell you this," she said, "but I think I will."
He stopped what he was doing, turned to face her.
"Tell me what?" he said.
"I asked people I met if they thought the Hotel Ripper could be a woman. My own little survey of public opinion. I asked six people: three men and three women. All the men said the killer couldn't possibly be a woman, and all the women I asked said it could be a woman. Isn't that odd?"
"Interesting," he said. "But I don't know what it means-do you?"
"Not exactly. Except that men seem to have a higher opinion of women than women do of themselves."
He went to shower. He brushed his teeth, pulled on his pajamas. He came out, turned off the overhead light in the bedroom. Monica was reading by the bedlamp. He got into his bed, pulled up the blanket. He lay awake, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
"Why would a woman do such a thing?" he asked, turning his head to look at her.
She put down her book. "I thought you weren't interested in motives."
"Surely I didn't say that. I said I wasn't interested in causes. There's a difference. Every cop is interested in motives. Has to be. That's what helps solve cases. Not the underlying psychological or social causes, but the immediate motive. A man can kill from greed. That's important to a cop. What caused the greed is of little consequence. What immediate motive could a woman have for a series of homicides like this? Revenge? She mutilates their genitals. Could she have been a rape victim?"
"Could be," Monica said promptly. "It's reason enough. But it doesn't even have to be rape. Maybe she's been used by men all her life. Maybe they've just screwed her and deserted her. Made her feel like a thing. Without value. So she's getting back at them."
"Yes," he said, "that listens; it's a possibility. There's something sexual involved here, and I don't know what it is. Could she be an out-and-out sadist?"
"No," Monica said, "I don't think so. Physical sadism amongst women isn't all that common. And sadists prefer slow suffering to quick death."
"Emotional?" he said. "Could it be that? She's been jilted by a man. Betrayed. The woman scorned…"
"Mmm…" his wife said, considering. "No, I don't believe that. A woman might be terribly hurt by one man, but I can't believe she'd try to restore her self-esteem by killing strangers. I think your first idea is right: it's something sexual."
"It could be fear," he said. "Fear of sex with a man."
She looked at him, puzzled.
"I don't follow," she said. "If the killer is afraid of sex, she wouldn't go willingly to the hotel rooms of strange men."
"She might," he said. "To be attracted by what we dread is a very human emotion. Then, when she gets there, fear conquers desire."
"Edward, you make her sound a very complex woman."
"I think she is."
He went back to staring at the ceiling.
"There's another possibility," he said in a low voice.
"What's that?"
"She simply enjoys killing. Enjoys it."
"Oh Edward, I can't believe that."
"Because you can't feel it. Any more than you can believe that some people derive pleasure from being whipped. But such things exist."
"I suppose so," she said in a small voice. "Well, there's a fine selection of motives for you. Which do you suspect it is?"
He was silent for a brief time. Then…
"What I suspect is that it is not a single motive, but a combination of things. We rarely act for one reason. It's usually: a mixture. Can you give me one reason why the Son of Sam did what he did? So I think this killer is driven by several motives."
"The poor woman," Monica said sadly.
"Poor woman?" he said. "You sympathize with her? Feel sorry for her?"
"Of course," she said. "Don't you?"
He had wanted to play a more active role in the investigation, and during the last two weeks of May he got his chance.
All the squad officers involved in the case came to him. They knew Deputy Commissioner Thorsen was in command, transmitting his orders through Sergeant Boone, but they sought out Edward X. Delaney for advice and counsel. They knew his record and experience. And he was retired brass; there was nothing to fear from him…
"Chief," Detective Aaron Johnson said, "I got the word out to all my snitches, but there's not a whisper of any tear gas being peddled on the street."
"Any burglaries of army posts, police stations, or National Guard armories? Any rip-offs of chemical factories?"
"Negative," Johnson said. "Thefts of weapons and high explosives, but no record of anyone lifting tear gas in cans, cartridges, generators, or whatever. The problem here, Chief, is that the Lab Services Section can't swear the stuff was Chemical Mace. But if it was carried in a pocket-size aerosol dispenser, it probably was. So where do we go from here?"
"Find out who makes it and who packages it. Get a list of distributors and wholesalers. Trace it to retailers in this area. Slavin says it's against the law for a New Yorker to buy the stuff, but it must be available to law enforcement agencies for riot control and so forth. Maybe prisons and private security companies can legally buy it. Maybe even a bank guard or night watchman can carry it-I don't know. Find out, and try to get a line on every can that came into this area in the past year."
"Gotcha," Johnson said.
"Chief," Sergeant Thomas K. Broderick said, "look at this…"
He dangled a small, sealed plastic bag in front of Delaney. The Chief inspected it curiously. Inside the bag was a half-inch of gleaming knife blade tip. On the upper half was part of the groove designed to facilitate opening the blade with a fingernail.
"That's it?" Delaney asked.
"That's it," Broderick said. "Fresh from Bergdorfer's slashed throat. We got a break on this one, Chief. Most pocket knives in this country are made with blades of high-grade carbon steel. The lab says this little mother is drop-forged Swedish stainless steel. How about that!"
"Beautiful," the Chief said. "Did you trace it?"
Broderick took a knife from his pocket and handed it to the Chief. It had bright red plastic handles bearing the crest of Switzerland.
"Called a Swiss Army Knife," the detective said. "Or sometimes Swiss Army Officers' Knives. They come in at least eight different sizes. The largest is practically a pocket tool kit. This is a medium-sized one. Open the big blade."
Obediently, Delaney folded back the largest blade. The two men bent over the knife, comparing the whole blade with the tip in the plastic bag.
"Looks like it," the Chief said.
"Identical," Broderick assured him. "The lab checked it out. But where do we go from here? These knives are sold in every good cutlery and hardware store in the city. And just to make the cheese more binding, they're also sold through mail order. Dead end."
"No," Delaney said, "not yet. Start with midtown Manhattan. Say from Thirty-fourth Street to Fifty-ninth Street, river to river. Make a list of every store in that area that carries this knife. The chances are good the killer will try to replace her broken knife with a new one just like it. Have your men visit every store and talk to the clerks. We want the name and address of everyone who buys a knife like this."
"How is the clerk going to do that? If the customer pays cash?"
"Uh… the clerks should tell the customer he wants the name and address for a free mail order catalogue the store is sending out. If the customer doesn't go for that scam and refuses to give name and address, the clerk should take a good look and then call you and give the description. Leave your phone number at every store; maybe they can stall the customer long enough for you or one of your men to get there. Tell the clerks to watch especially for young women, five-five to five-seven. Got it?"
"Got it," Broderick said. "But what if we come up with bupkes?"
"Then we'll do the same thing in all of Manhattan," Delaney said without humor. "And then we'll start on Brooklyn and the Bronx."