When Boone finished, Jason said, “Whoa-ee! Those people-doesn’t sound like their elevators go to the top floor.”
“They’re a little meshugenah,” Delaney admitted.
“Sometimes they make sense and sometimes they’re way out in left field. Our problem is going to be separating what’s real from what’s part of their never-never world. I don’t see how we can do anything but let them blabber and then try to figure the meaning later. I’ll have to warn the new people about that when they come in Monday morning.”
“Sir,” Boone said, “how are you going to handle those guys-assign one to each of the patients?”
“That was my first plan, and maybe it would work if we were covering punks and small-time hoods. But these subjects are mostly educated and intelligent, even if their brains rattle a little. I think we’ll get better results if each detective has a chance to talk to three or four of the patients. And then select the one he feels he can work with best. You know how sometimes a witness will clam up with one dick and then spill his guts to another because he feels the second guy is more simpatico. We’ll try to pair detective and subject so it’ll do us the most good.”
They talked for another hour, discussing how they would organize the investigation so detectives wouldn’t be duplicating each other’s work unless a double-check was deemed necessary Deianey decided that Boone and Jason would each be responsible for scheduling and supervising three detectives. The two of them would then submit daily reports to Delaney on the activities of their squads.
“I expect a certain amount of confusion at first,” he told them, “but I want the two of you to coordinate your planning as much as possible. I’ll keep the files, which will be open to all of you. Just tell your guys to put everything in their reports, no matter how stupid or meaningless they might think it. And the first thing I want done is to have these six patients run through Records. If they’re as violent as Doctor Diane seems to think, some of them should have sheets.”
The-_aded ideas awhile longer, then Delaney glanced up at the walnut-cased regulator on the wall, a relic from a demolished railroad station.
“Getting late,” he said.
“Why don’t the three of us try Ronald J. Bellsey again-just walk in on him without warning. He should be home by now. Jason, we’ll take your car and you can drop us back here.”
On the drive south, Delaney remembered to ask Jason Two if he and his family would like to come for Thanksgiving Day dinner.
“Thank you, sir,” the officer said, “but we’ve already signed on with Juanita’s parents. They’re making a big deal out of it, and the kids and the old folks would kill me if I canceled.”
“Don’t even consider it,” Delaney said.
“We’ll make it an.other time. Your boys should see their grandparents as often as possible. I wish I could see more of my grandchildren.”
They double-parked in front of Bellsey’s highrise. Boone flashed his ID and asked the doorman to keep an eye on their car. There was no house phone; the lobby attendant explained they’d have to use the intercom. In addition, they were told to stand in front of a small, ceiling-mounted television camera that would relay their picture via closed circuit to a monitor in Bellsey’s foyer.
“Cute gimmick,” Delaney said.
“First time I’ve been on TV,” Jason said, grinning.
“Should I do a buckand-wing or something?”
Boone spoke softly to Bellsey on the intercom, then held up his shield before the camera’s eye.
“Apartment 2407,” he reported to the others.
“He said to come up, but he didn’t sound too happy about it.” In the elevator, Delaney said to Jason, “Don’t be bashful about chiming in when we question this guy. Let’s overwhelm him with muscle.”
The door of Apartment 2407 was jerked open by a stocky, red-faced man wearing a rugged sport jacket and whipcord slacks. Behind him, a smallish, graying woman stood in the foyer archway, hands clasped, peering at them timidly.
“I suppose this is about Ellerbee,” Bellsey burst out angrily.
“I already talked to the cops about that.”
“We know you did, Mr. Bellsey,” Boone said.
“That was just a preliminary questioning. Unfortunately, you’re involved in a murder investigation, and we–”
“What do you mean I’m involved?” Bellsey demanded, his voice rising. “Jesus Christ, I was just one of his patients! I don’t know a damned thing about how he got killed.”
“Mr. Bellsey,” Delaney said stonily, “are you going to keep us standing out here in the hallway while you shout at us and the neighbors get an earful?”
“Screw the neighbors! I don’t see why I have to be harassed like this.”
Jason T. Jason shoved his big bulk forward.
“No one’s harassing you,” he said quietly.
“Just a few questions and we’ll be out of your hair.”
Bellsey looked up at the big cop.
“Shit!” he said disgustedly.
“Well, come on in then. I want you to know you’re interrupting our dinner.” He turned to the woman.
“Lama, you get back to the kitchen; this has nothing to do with you.”
The woman scurried away.
“Your wife?” Delaney asked as the three men entered the apartment.
“Yeah,” Bellsey said.
“Leave her out of this.”
He didn’t offer to take their coats and made no effort to get them seated. So they all remained standing in a tight little group.
“I’m Sergeant Boone and these men are Delaney and Jason. Your full name is Ronald J. Bellsey?”
“That’s right. The J. is for James in case you’re interested.”
“When was the last time you saw Doctor Ellerbee?”
“On Thursday afternoon, the day before he was killed.
Don’t tell me you didn’t get that from his appointment book.
Or is that expecting too much brains from cops?”
“Be nice, Mr. Bellsey,” Delaney said softly.
“You get snotty with us and you’ll be answering our questions at the precinct house and waiting a long, long time for your dinner.
Is that what you want?”
He glowered at them.
Bellsey was heavy through the shoulders and chest. His neck was short and thick, supporting a squarish head topped with an ill-fitting toupee. He stood leaning belligerently forward, pugnacious jaw thrust out, hands balled into fists.
“Mr. Bellsey,” Boone said, “You claim you were home on the night Ellerbee was killed.” -That’s right.”
“All night?”
“Yeah. I got home around seven and didn’t go out of the house until Saturday. Ask my wife; she’ll tell you.”
“Did you have any visitors Friday evening? See any neighbors? Make or receive any phone calls?”
“No.
“Do you have a police record, Mr. Bellsey?” Delaney asked.
“We’ll check, of course, but it would be smart if you told us first.”
Bellsey opened his mouth to speak, then shut it with a click of teeth. He hesitated, then tried again.
I was never really arrested,” he said grudgingly.
“Not formally, I mean. But I got into trouble a few times. I don’t know what’s on my record.”
“What kind of trouble?” Jason asked.
“Fights. I was defending myself.”
“How many times?”
“Once. Or twice.”
“Or maybe more?”
“Maybe. I don’t remember.”
“Ever get in a fight with Doctor Ellerbee?” Boone asked.
“Ever attack him?”
“Shit, no! He was my doctor. A decent guy. I liked him.”
“How long had you been seeing him?”
“About two years.”
“You own a car?” Delaney asked suddenly.
Bellsey looked at him, puzzled.
“Sure.”
“What kind?”
“Last year’s Cadillac.”
“Where do you keep it?”
“In the basement. We have an underground garage.”
“You ever do any repairs on it yourself?”
“Sometimes. Minor stuff.”
“You own tools?”
“Some.
“Where do you keep those?”
“In the trunk of the car.”
Delaney glanced at Boone.
“Mr. Bellsey,” the Sergeant said, “did Ellerbee ever mention to you that he had been attacked or threatened by a patient?”
“No.
“Did you know any of his other patients?”
“No’ “Did you notice any change recently in his manner or personality?”
“No, he was just the same.”
“What’s ‘the same’?” Jason asked.
“What kind of a man was he?”
“Calm, cool, and collected. Never blew his stack. Never raised his voice.
A real put-together guy. I cursed him out once, and he never held it against me.”
“Why did you curse him out?”
“I don’t remember.”
“When you went -out shopping today,” Boone said, “what did you wear?”
“What did I wear?” Bellsey said, bewildered.
“I wore a rainhat and a lined trenchcoat.”
“Galoshes? Boots?”
“No. A pair of rubbers.”
“You work for a wholesale butcher?” Delaney said.
“That’s right.”
“What do you do-slice salami?”
“Christ, no! I’m the manager. Production manager.”
“You oversee the butchers, loaders, drivers-is that it?”
“Yes.
“YOU must deal with some rough guys.”
“They think they are,” Bellsey said grimly.
“But they shape up or ship out.”
“You ever do any boxing?” Jason Two asked.
“Some. When I was in the navy. Middleweight.”
“Never professionally?”
“NO.”
“You keep in shape?”
“I sure do,” Bellsey boasted.
“Jog five miles twice a week.
Lift iron. Go to a health club once a week for a three-hour workout on the machines. What the hell has all this got to do with Ellerbee’s murder?”
“Just asking,” Jason said equably.
“You’re wasting my time,” Bellsey said.
“Anything else?”
“I think that’s all,” Delaney said.
“For now. Have a nice dinner, Mr. Bellsey.”
There were other people in the elevator; they didn’t talk.
But when they got into Jason’s car, Sergeant Boone said, “A real sweetheart. How did you pick up on the boxing, Jose?”
“He looks like a pug. The way he stands and moves.”
“We’ll have to get into the trunk of that Cadillac,” Delaney said.
“The ball peen. And let’s try to talk to the wife when he’s not around.”
“You think he could be it?” Boone asked.
“Our best bet yet,” Delaney said.
“A guy with a sheet, a short fuse, and he’s a brawler. I think we better take a very close look at Mr. Bellsey.”
That night, after dinner, he wanted to write out reports of the questioning of L. Vincent Symington and Ronald J. Bellsey. But Monica said firmly that she had to make a start on addressing Christmas cards, so he deferred to her wishes.
She sat in his swivel chair behind his desk in the study. As she worked, adding a short personal note to each card, he slumped in one of the worn club chairs, nursing a small Rum.
He told her about Symington and Bellsey.
When he finished, she said definitely, “It was Bellsey. He’s the one who did it.”
Delaney laughed softly.
“Why do you say that?”
“He sounds like a dreadful man.”
“Oh, he is a dreadful man-but that doesn’t make him a killer.”
She went back to her Christmas cards. A soft cone of light shone down from a green student lamp on the desk. Delaney sat in dimness, staring with love and gratitude at the woman who brightened his life.
He saw her pursed lips as she wrote out her holiday greetings, dark eyes gleaming. Her glossy black hair was gathered in back with a gold barrette.
Strong face, strong woman. He thought of what his life would be like, sitting alone in that shadowed room, without her warm presence, and a small groan escaped him.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, without looking up.
He didn’t tell her. Instead, he said, “Did you ever work a jigsaw puzzle?”
“When I was a kid.”
“Me, too. Remember how you spilled all the pieces out of the box onto a tabletop, hoping none of them was missing.
Then you turned all the pieces picture-side up and looked for the four pieces with two straight edges. Those were the corners of the picture. After you had those, you put together all the pieces with one straight edge to form the frame. Then you gradually filled in the picture.”
She looked up at him.
“The Ellerbee case is a jigsaw puzzle?”
“Sort of.”
“And you know what the picture is going to be?”
“No,” he said with a tight smile, “but I see some straight edges.”
Sunday was the best day of the week for Harold Gerber. He didn’t have to see anyone; he didn’t have to talk to anyone. He bought his Sunday Times on Saturday night, along with a couple of six-packs. The paper, the beer, and two pro football games on TV filled up his Sundays. He never left the house.
Gerber had lost a lot of weight in Vietnam and never put it back on. He had lost a lot of things there, including his appetite. So on Sunday morning he usually had some juice, a piece of toast and two cups of coffee with sugar and cream. That carried him through to evening, when he might heat up a frozen dinner that came in a cardboard box and tasted like the container.
For some reason, on Sundays he never got out the photographs and looked at them again. All those guys-grinning, scowling, laughing, mugging it up for the camera. Some of the photos were autographed, just like Gerber had autographed some of the shots they took of him. A family album … It fed his fury since he couldn’t comprehend it himself, Gerber could appreciate why other people were unable to understand the way he felt and why he did the things he did. Gerber couldn’t figure it out, and no one else could either.
Doc Simon was coming close, really beginning to pin it down, but now Ellerbee was dead, and Gerber wasn’t about to start all over again with another therapist. He had tried two before he found Ellerbee, but they had turned out to be bullshit artists, and Gerber knew after a few sessions that they weren’t going to do him a damned bit of good.
Dr. Simon Ellerbee was different. No bullshit there. He went right in with a sharp scalpel, and all that blood didn’t daunt him. He was tearing Harold Gerber apart and putting him back together again. But then Doc Simon got himself scragged and Gerber was alone again, with no one but ghosts for company.