“Proteus,” he sang happily. “A Greek sea-god who could change his appearance at will. You should be interested in that, Captain. A million different shapes and disguises at will. That would complicate a policeman’s task, would it not? He!”
Delaney grunted disgustedly. Bernardi paid no heed.
“And so the name was given to this particular infection. An infection is not an illness-but we needn’t go into that. Suffice to say that Proteus infection frequently takes on the shape, appearance, form, and symptoms of a dozen other infections and illnesses. Very difficult to diagnose.”
“Rare?” Delaney asked.
“Proteus rare?” the doctor said, eyebrows rising. “I would say no. But not too common. The literature is not extensive That is what I was researching this morning, and why I did not return your calls. I was reading everything I could find on Proteus.”
“What causes it?” Delaney asked, trying to keep the hatred out of his voice, to be as clinical and unemotional as this macaroni.
“I told you. Bacillus Proteus. B. Proteus. It exists in all of us. Usually in the intestinal tract. We have all kinds of good and bad little animalcules squiggling around inside us, you know. Sometimes, usually following an abdominal operation, B. Proteus goes on a rampage. Breaks loose. Sometimes in the urinary tract or in a specific organ. Rarely in the blood stream itself. The usual symptoms are high fever, chills, headaches, sometimes nausea. Which are-as I am certain you are aware-the symptoms of a dozen other infections. Proteus also causes certain changes in the blood, difficult to determine definitely. The recommended treatment for this infection is the employment of antibiotics.”
“You tried that.”
“True. But I assure you, Captain, I did not go through the entire spectrum. These so-called ‘wonder drugs’ are not all that wonderful. One of them may stifle a particular bacillus. At the same time it encourages the growth of another, more virulent bacillus. The antibiotics are not to be used lightly. In your wife’s case, I believe the Proteus infection was triggered by her hysterectomy. But all the symptoms pointed to kidney stones, and there was nothing in the tests or plates to discourage that diagnosis. When Dr. Spencer got in there, we realized one kidney had to be removed. Had to. You understand?” Delaney didn’t answer.
“We saw there were still pockets of infection, small and scattered, that could not be removed by surgery. Now we must start again, hoping the main source of infection has been eliminated and we can clear up the remaining pockets with antibiotics.”
“Hoping, doctor?”
“Yes. Hoping, Captain.”
The two men stared at each other.
“She’s dying, isn’t she, doctor?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“No. You wouldn’t.”
He dragged to his feet, stumbled from the room.
Now I am the killer, Bacillus Proteus. I am in my wife’s kidneys. I am…
He went back to the precinct house in hard afternoon sunlight. He thought he would be with her. He did not think he ought or should be with her, but that he would. He knew he could not attend her, for as long as it took, and still function efficiently as Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department. On his old portable he typed out a letter to Deputy Inspector Ivar Thorsen, Patrol Division, asking immediate retirement. He filled out the “Request for Retirement” form and told Thorsen, in a personal note, that the request was due to his wife’s illness. He asked his old friend to expedite the retirement papers. He sealed, stamped the envelope, walked down to the corner postbox and mailed it. Then he returned to his home and rolled onto his bed without undressing.
He slept for perhaps three minutes or eight hours. The brilliant ringing of the bedside phone brought him instantly awake. “Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”
“Edward, this is Ferguson. Did you talk to Bernardi?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Edward.”
“Thank you.”
“The antibiotics might work. The main source of the infection is gone.”
“I know.”
“Edward, I woke you up.”
“That’s all right.”
“I thought you might want to know.”
“Know what?”
“The Lombard homicide. It wasn’t a hammer.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know. The skull penetration was about three to four inches deep. It was like a tapered cone. The outside hole, the entrance, was about an inch in diameter. Then it tapered down to a sharp point. Like a spike. Do you want a copy of my report?”
“No. I’ve retired.”
“What?”
“It’s not my concern. I filed my retirement papers.”
“Oh, Jesus. Edward, you can’t. It’s your life.”
“I know.”
Delaney hung up. Then he lay awake.
3
Three days later Captain Delaney received the telephone call he had been expecting: the assistant to Deputy Inspector Thorsen asked if he could meet with Thorsen that afternoon at four o’clock. Delaney went downtown via subway, wearing his uniform.
“Go right in, Captain,” Thorsen’s pretty secretary said when he gave his name. “They’re expecting you.”
Wondering who “they” might be, Delaney knocked once and pushed open the heavy oak door to Thorsen’s office. The two men seated in leather club chairs rose to their feet, and the Deputy Inspector came forward smiling.
Ivar Thorsen was Delaney’s “rabbi” in the Department. The term was current police slang for a superior officer or high official in city government who liked an officer personally, took an interest in his career, and generally guided and eased his advancement in rank. When a “rabbi” moved upward in the hierarchy, sooner or later his protege moved upward also.
Deputy Inspector Ivar Thorsen, a man in his late 50s, was called “The Admiral” by his subordinates, and it was easy to see why. Of relatively short stature, his body was slender and stringy, but all muscle and tendon; he bounced as he walked. His skin was fair and unblemished, features classically Nordic but without softness. His pale blue eyes could be distressingly piercing. The white hair seemed never combed but rigorously brushed until it hugged tightly the shape of his head from a leftside part that showed pink scalp.
He shook Delaney’s hand, then turned to the other man in the room.
“Edward, I think you know Inspector Johnson.”
“I surely do. Good to see you, inspector.”
“Likewise, Edward,” the grinning black Buddha said. He extended a huge hand. “How you been?”
“Can’t complain. Well…I can, but no one will listen.”
“I know, I know,” the big man chuckled, and his heavy belly moved up and down. “Wish we could get together more often, but they keep me chained to those damned computers, and I don’t get uptown as often as I’d like.”
“I read your analysis of arrest and conviction percentages.”
“You did?” Johnson exclaimed with genuine pleasure. “You must be the only cop in town who did.”
“Wait a minute, Ben,” Thorsen protested. “I read it.”
“The hell,” the black scoffed. “You started it maybe, and read the last paragraph.”
“I swear I read every word.”
“I give you five-to-one you didn’t-and I can ask questions to prove it.”
“I’ll take that bet.”
“Misdemeanor,” Delaney said promptly. “I can place you both under arrest. Gambling laws.”
“Not so,” Johnson shook his great head. “The courts have held a private wager between two gentlemen cannot be prosecuted under anti-gambling statutes. See Harbiner v. the City of New York
“See Plessy v. Novick,” Delaney retorted. “The court held a private unpaid wager between two persons cannot be a matter for judicial decision only because the wager itself was illegal.”