“The rooms downstairs are more formal than this,” she said with a half-smile. “And neater. But Simon and I spent most of our evenings here.
It’s a good place to unwind. Let me have your coats, gentlemen. May I bring you something-coffee, a drink?” They both politely declined.
She seated them in soft armchairs, then pulled up a ladderback chair with a cane seat to face them. She sat primly, spine straight, chin lifted, head held high.
“Julie–!” she started, then: “Doctor Samuelson approves of my cooperating with you, but I must say I am not absolutely certain I am doing the right thing. The conflict is between my desire to see my husband’s murderer caught and at the same time protect the confidentiality of his patients.”
“Doctor Ellerbee,” Delaney said, “I assure you that anything you tell us will be top secret as far as we’re concerned.”
“Well …” she said, “I suppose that’s as much as I can hope for. One other thing: The patients I have selected as potential assailants are only six out of a great many more.”
“We’ve got to start somewhere, ma’am,” Boone said. “It’s impossible for us to run alibi checks on them all.”
“I realize that,” she said sharply. “I’m just warning you that my judgment may be faulty. After all, they were my husband’s patients, not mine. So I’m going by his files and what he told me. It’s quite possible -probable, in fact-that the six people I’ve selected are completely innocent, and the guilty person is the one I’ve passed over.”
“Believe me,” Delaney said, “we’re not immediately and automatically going to consider your selections to be suspects.
They’ll be thoroughly investigated, and if we believe them to be innocent, we’ll move on to others in your husband’s caseload. Don’t feel you are condemning these people simply by giving us their names. There’s more to a homicide investigation than that.”
“Well, that makes me feel a little better. Remember, psychotherapy is not an exact science-it is an uncertain art.
Two skilled, experienced therapists examining the same patient could very likely come up with two opposing diagnoses.
You have only to read the opinions of psychiatrists testifying in court cases to realize that.”
“We used to call them alienists,” Delaney said. “Usually they confused a trial more than they helped.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” she said with a wan smile. “Objective criteria are hard to recognize in this field. Well, having said all that, let me show you what I’ve done.”
She rose, went over to a small Sheraton-styled desk, came back with two pages of typescript.
“Six patients,” she told them. “Four men, two women. I’ve given you their names, ages, addresses. I’ve written a short paragraph on each, using my husband’s notes and what he told me about them. Although I’ve listed their major problems, I haven’t given you definitive labelsschizoid, psychotic, manic-depressive, or whatever. They were not my patients, and I refuse to attempt a diagnosis. Now let me get started.”
She donned a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses.
Curiously, these old-fashioned spectacles softened her chiseled features, gave her face a whimsical charm.
“I should warn you,” she said, “I have listed these people in no particular order. That is, the first mentioned is not, in my opinion, necessarily the most dangerous. All six, I believe, have the potential for violence. I won’t read everything I’ve written-just give you a very brief synopsis … “Number One: Ronald J. Bellsey, forty-three. He saw my husband three times a week. Apparently a violent man with a history of uncontrollable outbursts of anger. Ronald first consulted my husband after injuring his wife in a brutal attack. At least he had sense enough to realize he was ill and needed help.
“Number Two: Isaac Kane, twenty-eight. He was one of my husband’s charity patients, treated once a week at a free clinic. Isaac is what they call an idiot savant, although I hate that term. He is far from being an idiot, but he is retarded.
Isaac does absolutely wonderful landscapes in pastel chalk.
Very professional work. But he has, on occasion, attacked workers and other patients at the clinic.
“Number Three: Sylvia Mae Otherton, forty-six. She saw my husband twice a week, but frequently made panic calls.
Sylvia suffers from heavy anxieties, ranging from agoraphobia to a hatred of bearded men. On the few occasions when she ventured out in public, she made vicious and unprovoked attacks against men with beards.”
“Was your husband bearded, ma’am?” Boone asked.
“No, he was not. Number Four: L. Vincent Symington, fifty-one. Apparently his problem is a very deep and pervasive paranoia. Vince frequently struck back at people he believed were persecuting him, including his aged mother and father.
He saw my husband three times a week.
“Number Five: Joan Yesell, thirty-five. She is a very withdrawn, depressed young woman who lives with her widowed mother. Joan has a history of three suicide attempts, which is one of the reasons I have included her. Suicide, when tried unsuccessfully so often, often develops into homicidal mania.
“And finally, Harold Gerber, thirty-seven. He served in Vietnam and won several medals for exceptional valor. Harold apparently suffers intensely from guilt-not only for those he killed in the war, but because he came back alive when so many of his friends died. His guilt is manifested in barroom brawls and physical attacks on strangers he thinks have insulted him.
“And that’s all I have. You’ll find more details in this typed report. Do you have any questions?”
Delaney and Boone looked at each other.
“Just one thing, doctor,” Delaney said. “Could you tell us if any of the six was being treated with drugs.”
“No,” she said immediately. “None of them. My husband did not believe in psychotropic drugs. He said they only masked symptoms but did nothing to reveal or treat the cause of the illness. Incidentally, I hold the same opinion, but I am not a fanatic on the subject as my husband was. I occasionally use drugs in my practice-but only when the physical health of the patient warrants it.”
“Are you licensed to prescribe drugs?” Delaney asked.
She gave him a hard stare. “No,” she said, “but my husband was.”
“But of course,” Boone said hastily, “it’s possible that any of the six could be using drugs on their own.”
“It’s possible,” Dr. Ellerbee said in her loud, assertive voice. “It’s possible of anyone. Which of you gets this report?”
“Ma’am,” Delaney said softly, “you have just the one copy?”
“That’s correct. I made no carbon.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a copying machine in your office, would you?
It would help a great deal if both Sergeant Boone and I had copies. Speed things up.”
“There’s a copier in my husband’s outer office,” she said, rising. “It’ll just take a minute.”
“We’ll come along if you don’t mind,” Delaney said, and both men stood up.
She looked at them. “If you’re thinking about my safety, I thank you-but there’s no need, I assure you. I have lived in this house since Simon died. There are people here during the day, but I’m alone at night. It doesn’t frighten me. I won’t let it frighten me. This is my home.”
“If you’ll allow us,” Delaney said stubbornly, “we’ll still come along. It’ll give us a chance to see the scene-to see where it happened.”
“If you wish,” she said tonelessly.
She took a ring of keys from the desk drawer, then led the way down the hall. She unlocked the door of her husband’s office and turned on the light.
The floor of the receptionist’s room was bare boards.
“I had the carpeting taken up and thrown out,” she said. “It was stained, and I didn’t wish to have it cleaned.”
“Have you decided what to do with this space, ma’am?” Boone asked.
“No,” she said shortly. “I haven’t thought about it.”
She went over to the copier in the corner and switched it on. While she was making a duplicate of her report, they looked about.
There was little to see. The outer office was identical in size and shape to the one on the second floor. It was aseptically furnished with steel desk, chairs, filing cabinet. There was no indication it had been the scene of murderous frenzy.
Dr. Ellerbee turned off the copier, handed each of them her two-page report.
“I wouldn’t care to have this circulated,” she said sternly.
“It won’t be,” Delaney assured her. “Doctor, would you mind if we took a quick look into your husband’s office?”
“What for?”
“Standard operating procedure,” he said. “To try to learn more about your husband. Sometimes seeing where a victim lived and where he worked gives a good indication of the kind of man he was.”
She shrugged, obviously not believing him, but not caring.
“Help yourself,” she said, gesturing toward the inner door.
She sat at the receptionist’s desk while they went into Dr. Simon Ellerbee’s private office. Boone switched on the overhead light.
A severe, rigorous room, almost austere. No pictures on the white walls. No decorations. No objects d’art, memorabilia, or personal touches. The room was defined by its lacks.
Even the black leather patient’s couch was as sterile as a hospital gurney.
“Cold,” Boone said in a low voice.
“You wanted a handle on the guy,” Delaney said. “Here’s a piece of it: He was organized, logical, emotionless. Notice how all the straight edges are parallel or at right angles? A very precise, disciplined man. Can you imagine spending maybe twelve hours a day in a cell like this?
Let’s go; it gives me the willies.”
They reclaimed their coats and hats from the sitting room, thanked Dr. Diane Ellerbee for her assistance, and said they’d keep her informed of the progress of the investigation.
“I warn you,” Delaney said, smiling, “we may call on you for more help.”
“Of course,” she said. “Anytime.” She seemed tired.
Out on the street, walking slowly to the car, Boone said, “Ballsy lady. Most women would have gone somewhere else to live or asked a friend to stay awhile after something like that happened.”
“Mmm,” Delaney said. “She claims she’s not frightened and I believe her. By the way, did you notice how she referred to those patients by their first names? I wonder if all shrinks do that. It reminds me of the way cops talk to suspects to bring them down.”
“I thought it was just to-you know-to show how sympathetic you are.”
“Maybe. But using a suspect’s first name diminishes him, robs him of his dignity. It proves that you’re in a position of authority. You call a Mafia chief Tony when he’s used to being called Mr. Anthony Gelesco and it makes him feel like a twobit punk or a pushcart peddler. Well, all that’s smoke and getting us nowhere. Tomorrow morning check to see if Chief Suarez’s men have talked to any of those six patients. We better start with their whereabouts at the time of the homicide.”
“Even if Suarez’s guys have talked to them, you’ll still want them double-checked, won’t you, sir?”
“Of course. As far as I’m concerned, this investigation is just starting. And get hold of Jason Two; see how he’s coming along on the biographies. I’d like him to finish up as soon as possible; we’re going to need his help knocking on doors.”
Sergeant Boone drove Delaney home. Outside the brownstone, before Delaney got out of the car, Boone said, “What did you think of Doctor Diane’s selections, sir? They all seem like possibles to me.”
“Could be. You know, when I talked to Doc Walden, he tried to convince me that most people who go to psychotherapists aren’t nuts or crazies or weirdos; they’re just poor unfortunates with king-size emotional hangups. But all these people on Doctor Diane’s list sound like half-decks. Good night, Sergeant.”
Monica was in the living room, working the Times crossword puzzle. She looked up as Delaney came in, peering at him over the top of her Ben Franklin glasses.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“I need something,” he said. “Maybe a tall scotch with a lot of ice and a lot of soda.”
He mixed the drinks in the kitchen and brought them back to the living room. Monica held her glass up to the light.
“You have a heavy hand with that scotch bottle, kiddo,” she said. She tried a sip. “But I forgive you. Now tell me how did it go?”
Delaney slumped in his high wing chair covered with bottlegreen leather worn glassy smooth. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and sighed.
“It went all right. She gave us a list of six possibles.”
“Then what are you so grumpy about?”
“Who says I’m grumpy?”
“I do. You’ve got that squinchy look around the eyes, and you’re gritting your teeth.”
“I am? Well, it’s not going to work.”
“What’s not going to work?”
“The investigation. My investigation. Now we’ve got six people to check out, and I have only Boone and Jason. I can’t do any legwork myself without a tin to flash. So, in effect, there are two men to investigate six suspects. Oh, it could be done if we had all the time in the world, but Thorsen wants this thing cleared up by the end of the year.”
“Only one answer to that, isn’t there? Ask Ivar for more help.”
“I don’t know how Chief Suarez would take that. He said he’d cooperate in any way he could, but I have a hunch he still sees me as competition.”
“Then instead of asking Ivar for more men, ask Suarez.
That makes him part of the team, doesn’t it? Gives him a chance to share the success if you find out who killed Simon Ellerbee.”
He stared at her reflectively. “I knew I married a great beauty,” he said. “Now I realize I also married a great brain.”
She sniffed. “You’re just finding that out? Why don’t you call Suarez right now.”
“Too late,” Delaney said. “I’ll wake up that family of his.
I’ll get hold of him first thing in the morning. Meanwhile I’ve got a little work to do. Don’t wait up for me; go to bed whenever you like.”
He rose, lumbered over to her, swooped to kiss her cheek.
Then he took his drink into the study. He closed the connecting door to the living room in case Monica wanted to watch the Johnny Carson show.
He sat at his desk, put on his heavy black-rimmed glasses, and slowly read through Dr. Diane’s two-page report. Then he read it again.