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?”
The patrolman didn’t know, and the sergeant didn’t either.
Another possibility, Delaney was thinking, was that the killer was walking along with Lombard, the two were friends. But could the killer pull out a weapon, get behind his victim, and strike him directly from the rear without Lombard turning in alarm, dodging, or trying to ward off the blow?
The sticking point was still the suddenness of the attack and the fact that Lombard, a big, muscular man, had apparently offered no resistance, had allowed the killer to come up on him from behind.
Delaney stopped a moment and reflected; he was racing ahead too fast. Perhaps the killer didn’t approach from the rear. Perhaps he came directly toward Lombard from York Avenue. If he was well-dressed, walking swiftly like a resident of the block anxious to get home at midnight, chances are Lombard would have inspected him as he approached. And if the man looked all right, Lombard might have moved aside slightly to let him pass.
The weapon, of course, would have to be concealed. But if it was a pipe or a hammer, there were a number of ways that could be done-in a folded newspaper, under a coat carried on the arm, even in a trick package. Then, the instant after passing Lombard, the victim’s attention now on the area in front of him, the killer could bare his weapon, whirl, crush Lombard’s skull. All in an instant. Lombard would have no warning. He would topple forward, already dead. The assassin would return his weapon to its cover, and retrace his steps to York Avenue or even continue on to his own apartment, if he was a resident of the block, or to the apartment of a friend, or to a car parked for a convenient getaway.
Delaney ran through it again. The more he inspected it, the stronger it looked. It felt right. It assumed the killer approaching Lombard was a stranger to him. But if he was well-dressed, “legitimate” looking, and apparently hurrying home, it was doubtful if Lombard or anyone else would cross the street to escape attack. The Captain discarded the notion that after the murder the killer went on to his own apartment or that of a friend; he would surely guess that every resident of the block would be questioned and his whereabouts checked at the time of the slaying. No, the killer either went back toward York or escaped in a car parked nearby.