"The door?" the Chief asked.
"Here's where it gets cute," Boone said. "No keyhole showing on the outside."
He explained how the new electric locks worked. The door was opened by the insertion of a coded magnetic card into an outside slot. When closed, the door locked automatically. It was even necessary to insert the card into an inside slot when exiting from the room.
"A good security system," he told Delaney. "It's cut way down on hotel B-and-E's. They don't care if you don't turn in the card when you leave because the magnetic code for the lock is changed when a guest checks out, and a new card issued. No way for a locksmith to duplicate the code."
"There must be a passcard for all the rooms," the Chief said.
"Oh sure. Held by the Security Section. The chambermaids have cards only for the rooms on the floor they service."
"Well," Delaney said grudgingly, "it sounds good, but sooner or later some wise-ass will figure out how to beat it. But the important thing is that the killer couldn't have left Wolheim's room without putting the card in the slot on the inside of the door. Have I got that right?"
"Right," Boone said, nodding. "The card had apparently been used to open the door, then it was tossed on top of a bureau. It's white plastic that would take nice prints, but it had been wiped clean."
"I told you," the Chief said with some satisfaction. "You're up against a smart apple. Any signs of a fight?"
"None," Boone reported. "The ME says Wolheim must have died almost instantly. Certainly in a second or two after his throat was ripped. Chief, I saw him. It looked like his head was ready to fall off."
Delaney took a deep breath, then a swallow of his highball. He could imagine how the victim looked; he had seen similar cases. It took awhile before you learned to look and not vomit.
"Anything taken?" he asked.
"Not as far as we could tell. He had a fat wallet. Cash and travelers checks. Credit cards. All there. A gold wristwatch worth at least one big one. A pinkie ring with a diamond as big as the Ritz. Untouched."
"Son of a bitch!" Delaney said angrily. "It doesn't make sense. Anything from routine?"
"Nothing, and we've questioned more than 200 people so far. That Hotel Pierce is a city, a city! No one remembers seeing him with anyone. His last contact was with some convention buddies. They had dinner right there in the hotel. Then his pals wanted to go down to the traps in Greenwich Village, but Wolheim split. As far as we've been able to discover, they were the last to see him alive."
"Was he married?"
"Yes. Five children. He was from Akron, Ohio. The cops out there broke the news. Rather them than me."
"I know what you mean." Delaney was silent a moment, brooding. Then: "Any connection between the two men-Puller and Wolheim?"
"We're working on that right now. It doesn't look good. As far as we can tell, they didn't even know each other, weren't related even distantly, never even met, for God's sake! Went to different schools. Served in different branches of the armed forces. If there's a connection, we haven't found it. They had nothing in common."
"Sure they did." "What's that?"
"They were both men. And in their mid-fifties."
"Well… yeah," Boone acknowledged. "But, Chief, if someone is trying to knock off every man in his mid-fifties in Manhattan, we got real trouble."
"Not every man," the Chief said. "Out-of-towners in the city for a convention, staying at a midtown hotel."
"How does that help, sir?"
"It doesn't," Delaney said. "But it's interesting. Did the Crime Scene Unit come up with anything?"
"No unidentified prints. But they took the bathroom apart again. This time there were traces of the victim's blood in the trap under the sink, so I guess the killer didn't have to take a shower. Just used the sink."
"Towel missing again?"
"That's right. But the important thing is that they found hairs. Three of them. One on the pillow near the victim's head. Two on the back of the armchair. Black hairs. Wolheim had reddish-gray hair."
"Well, my God, that's something. What did the lab men say?"
"Nylon. From a wig. Too long to be from a toupee."
Delaney blew out his breath. He stared at the sergeant. "The plot thickens," he said.
"Thickens?" Boone cried. "It curdles!"
"It could still be a hooker."
"Could be," the sergeant agreed. "Or a gay in drag. Or a transvestite. Anyway, the wig is a whole new ballgame. We've got pretty good relations with the gays these days, and they're cooperating-asking around and trying to turn up something. And of course we have some undercover guys they don't know about. And we're covering the black leather joints. Maybe it was a transvestite, and the victims didn't know it until they were in bed with a man. Some of those guys are so beautiful they could fool their mother."
Edward X. Delaney pondered awhile, frowning down into his empty highball glass.
"Well…" he said, "maybe. Was the penis cut off?"
"No."
"In all the homosexual killings I handled, the cock was hacked off."
"I talked to a sergeant in the Sex Crimes Analysis Unit, and that's what he said. But he doesn't rule out a male killer."
"I don't either."
Then the two men were silent, each looking down, busy with his own thoughts. They heard Rebecca Boone laughing in the kitchen. They heard the clash of pots and pans. Comforting domestic noises.
"Chief," Sergeant Boone said finally, "what do you think we've got here?"
Delaney looked up.
"You want me to guess? That's all I can do-guess. I'd guess it's the start of a series of random killings. Motive unknown for the moment. The more I think about it, the more reasonable it seems that your perp is a male. I never heard of a female random killer."
"You think he'll hit again?"
"I'd figure on it," Delaney advised. "If it follows the usual pattern, the periods between killings will become shorter and shorter. Not always. Look at the Yorkshire Ripper. But usually the random killer gets caught up in a frenzy, and hits faster and faster. Going by the percentages, he should kill again in about three weeks. You better cover the midtown hotels."
"How?" Boone said desperately. "With an army? And if we alert all the hotels' security sections, the word is going to get around that New York has a new Son of Sam. There goes the convention business and the tourist trade."
Edward X. Delaney looked at him without expression.
"That's not your worry, sergeant," he said tonelessly. "Your job is to nab a murderer."
"Don't you think I know that?" Boone demanded. "But you've got no idea of the pressure to keep this thing under wraps."
"I've got a very good idea," the Chief said softly. "I lived with it for thirty years."
But the sergeant would not be stopped.
"Just before I came over here," he said angrily, "I got a call from Deputy Commissioner Thorsen, and he…" His voice trailed away.
Delaney straightened up, leaned forward.
"Ivar?" he said. "Is he in on this?"
Boone nodded, somewhat shamefacedly.
"Did he tell you to brief me on the homicides?"
"He didn't exactly tell me, Chief. He called to let me know about the lieutenant who was taking over. I told him I was beat, and I was taking off. I happened to mention I was coming over here to pick up Rebecca, and he suggested it wouldn't do any harm to fill you in."
Delaney smiled grimly.
"If I did anything wrong, sir, I apologize."
"You didn't do anything wrong, sergeant. No apologies necessary."