"We'll have to take that chance," Thorsen said tonelessly.
"Goddamnit!" Delaney exploded. "You release that stuff, and we're back to square one. Who the hell are the decoys going to look for? Without the wig and flashy clothes and bracelet, she'll look like a million other women. You're making the same stupid mistake Slavin did-talking too much."
"My responsibility is to alert possible victims," Thorsen said. "To circulate as complete a description as possible so people know who to look for. My first job is to protect the public."
"Bullshit!" Delaney said disgustedly. "Your first job is to protect the NYPD. The money men and the media are dumping all over you, so you figure to toss them a bone to prove the Department is on the job and making progress. So for the sake of your fucking public relations, you're going to jeopardize the whole goddamned investigation."
They glared at each other, eyes locked, both pressing forward aggressively. Their friendship would survive this, they knew. Their friendship wasn't at issue. It was their wills that were in conflict-and not for the first time.
Ivar Thorsen sat down again, as slowly as he had stood up. He sat on the edge of the chair. His thin fingers drummed silently on the desk. He never took his eyes from Delaney's.
"All right," he said, "there's some truth in what you say. Some truth. But you're getting your ass in an uproar because you can't or won't see the value of good public relations. I happen to believe the public's perception of the Department-the image, if that's what you want to call it-is just as important as the Department's performance. We could be the greatest hotshot cops in the world, and what the hell good would that do if we were perceived as a bunch of nincompoops, Keystone Kops jumping in the air and chasing dogs? I'm not saying the image is primary; it's not. Performance comes first, and is the foundation of the image. You want more cops on the street, don't you? You want better pay, better training, better equipment? How the hell do you expect us to ask for those things if the politicians and the public see us as a disorganized mob of hopeless bunglers?"
"I'm just saying that for the sake of keeping the press off your neck for a few days, you're making it a lot tougher to break this thing."
"Maybe," Thorsen said. "And what do you think would happen if we tried to keep this Anne Rogovich under wraps and the papers got onto it somehow? How would I explain why the public wasn't alerted to what the killer looks like and what she wears? They'd crucify us!"
"Look," Delaney said, "we can go around and around on this. We have different priorities, that's all."
"The hell we do," the Admiral said. "I want to put her down as much as you do. More. But it's an ego thing with you. Isn't that right-isn't it an ego thing?"
Delaney was silent.
"You've got tunnel vision on this case, Edward. All you can see is stopping a killer. Fine. You're a cop; that's all you're supposed to be thinking about. But there are other, uh, considerations that I've got to be aware of. And the Department's reputation is one of them. You're involved in the present. I am, too. But I've also got to think about the future."
"I still say you're fucking up the investigation," Delaney said stubbornly.
Ivar Thorsen sighed. "I don't think so. Possibly making it more difficult, but I think the benefits outweigh the risks. I may be wrong, I admit, but that's my best judgment. And that's the way it's going to be."
They were silent, still staring at each other. Finally Thorsen spoke softly…
"By the way, I happen to know we'd never have gotten onto this Anne Rogovich if you hadn't sent Bentley's men back to question if anyone remembered a man with scarred hands. That was good work."
The Chief grunted.
"Edward," the Deputy said, "you want off?"
"No," Delaney said, "I don't want off."
"What is it?" Monica said. "You've been a pain in the ass all night."
"Have I?" he said morosely. "I guess I have."
They were in their beds, both sitting up, both trying to read. The overhead light was on, and the bedside lamp. The window air conditioner was humming, and would until they agreed it was time to sleep. Then it would be turned off and the other window opened wide.
Now Monica had pushed her glasses atop her head. She had closed her book, a forefinger inserted to mark her place. She had turned toward her husband. Her words might have been challenging, but her tone was troubled and solicitous.
He told her about his run-in with Ivar Thorsen, repeating the conversation as accurately as he could. She listened in silence. When he finished, and asked, "What do you think?," she was quiet a moment longer. Then:
"You really think that's what she'll do? I mean, leave off the wig and bracelet and dress plainly?"
"Monica," he said, "this is not a stupid woman. She's no bimbo peddling her ass or a spaced-out whacko with a nose full of shit. Everything so far points to careful planning, smart reactions to unforeseen happenings, and very, very cool determination. She's going to read that description in the papers-or hear it on TV- and she's going to realize we're on to her disguise. Then she'll go in the opposite direction."
"How can you be sure it is a disguise? Maybe she dresses that way ordinarily."
"No, no. She was trying to change her appearance; I'm sure of it. First of all, a woman of her intelligence wouldn't ordinarily dress that way. Also, she knew the chances were good that someone would see her with one of the victims and remember her. So she'd want to look as different as possible from the way she does in everyday life."
"What you're saying is that in everyday life she looks like a schoolmarm or librarian-like you told Ivar?"
"Well… I'd guess she's a very ordinary looking lady. Dresses conventionally. Acts in a very conservative manner. Maybe even a dull woman. That's the way I see her. Mousy. Until she breaks out and kills."
"You make her sound schizophrenic."
"Oh no. I don't think she's that. No, she knows who she is. She can function in society and not make waves. But she's a psychopath. A walking, functioning psychopath."
"Thank you, doctor. And why does she kill?"
"Who the hell knows?" he said crossly. "She has her reasons. Maybe they wouldn't make sense to anyone else, but they make sense to her. It's a completely different kind of logic. Oh yes, crazies have a logic all their own. And it does make sense-if you accept their original premises. For instance, if you really and truly believe that the earth is flat, then it makes sense not to travel too far or you might fall off the edge. The premise is nutty, but the reasoning that follows from it is logical."
"I'd really like to know her," Monica said slowly. "I mean, talk to her. I'd like to know what's going through her mind."
"Her mind?" Delaney said. "I don't think you'd like it in there. Listen, when I was having that go-around with Ivar, he said something that bothers me. That's why I've been so grouchy all night. He said, 'It's an ego thing with you.'"
"What did he mean by that?"
"I think he was saying that this case has become a personal thing with me. That I'm out to prove that I'm smarter than the Hotel Ripper. That I can plan better, react faster, outthink her. That I'm superior to her."
"You mean you don't want a woman to get the better of you?"
"Come on! Don't get your feminist balls in an uproar. No, Ivar just meant that I see this thing as a personal challenge."
"And is he right?"
"Oh shit," he said roughly. "Who the hell has a coherent philosophy or a beautifully organized chart of beliefs that doesn't get daily scratching-outs and additions? Maybe the ego thing is part of it, but it's not all of it. There are other things."