The checks from his parents came regularly, every month, and he was on partial disability, so he wasn’t hurting for money. Harold Gerber was just hurting for life, wondering if he was fated to drag his corpse through the world for maybe another fifty years, acting like a goddamn maniac and really wanting the whole fucking globe to blow up-the sooner the better.
That Sunday morning, driving down to Gerber’s place in Greenwich Village, Delaney said to Boone, “I feel guilty about making you work this weekend. Rebecca probably thinks I’m a slave driver.”
“Nah,” Boone said.
“She’s used to my working crazy hours. I guess every detective’s wife is.”
“Jason volunteered to come along, but weekends are the only chance he gets to spend some time with his sons. That’s important, so I told him to stay home today. When the new guys come in, we should all be able to keep reasonable hours.
Did you find out anything about this Gerber?”
“Nothing. Suarez’s men hadn’t gotten around to him yet.
So all we have is what Doctor Diane put in her report: He’s thirty-seven, a Vietnam veteran with a lot of medals and a lot of problems. Gets into fights.”
“Another Ronald Bellsey?”
“Not exactly,” Boone said.
“This Gerber sometimes attacks strangers for no apparent reason. And once he put his fist through a plateglass window and ended up in St. Vincent’s Emergency where they stitched him up.”
“That’s nice,” Delaney said.
“An angry young man.” -Something like that,” Boone agreed.
Harold Gerber lived in a rundown tenement on Seventh Avenue South, around the corner from Carmine Street. The windows of the first two floors were covered with tin, and the stoop was clotted with garbage. The faigade of the six-story building was chipped, stained with rust, defaced with graffiti.
Inspecting this dump, Delaney and Boone had the same reaction: How could anyone living there afford an uptown shrink?
“Maybe he doesn’t pay rent,” Delaney suggested.
“See that empty lot next door? Some developer’s assembling a parcel.
Once he gets the remaining tenants out, he’ll demolish that wreck and have enough spare feet to put up a luxury highrise.”
“Could be,” Boone said.
“Right now it looks Re a Roach Motel.”
In the littered vestibule they discovered all the mailboxes had been jimmied open. The intercom had been wrenched from the wall to dangle suspended from its wires. The front door had been pried open so often that now it couldn’t be closed. The odor of rot and urine was gagging.
“Jesus!” Boone said.
“Let’s get in and out of here fast.”
“Have we got an apartment number for him?”
“No. We’ll have to bang on doors.”
They cautiously climbed a tilted wooden stairway, the loose banister carved and hacked. More graffiti on the damp plaster walls. The doors on the first two floors were nailed shut. They began knocking on third-floor doors. No answers.
No sounds of habitation.
They got an answer on the fourth floor.
“Go away,” a woman screamed, “or I’ll call the cops.”
“Lady, we are the cops,” Boone shouted back.
“We’re looking for Harold Gerber. What apartment?”
“Never heard of him.”
They went up to the fifth, stepping over piles of broken laths and crumbling plaster. They found two more occupied apartments, but no doors were unlocked, and no one knew Harold Gerber-they said.
Finally, on the sixth floor, they banged on the chipped door of the rear apartment.
“Who is it?” a man yelled.
“New York Police Department. We’re looking for Harold Gerber.”
“What for?” Delaney and Boone looked at each other.
“It’s about Doctor Simon Ellerbee,” Boone said.
“A few questions.”
They heard the sounds of bolts sliding back. The door was opened on a thick chain. They saw a slice of a man clad in a turtleneck sweater and pwd mackinaw.
“ID?” he said in a hoarse voice.
The Sergeant held up his shield. The chain was slipped, the door was opened.
“Welcome to the Taj Mahal,” the man said.
“Keep your coats on if you don’t want to freeze your ass off.”
They stepped in and looked around.
It. was a slough, and obviously the occupant had done nothing to make it even marginally livable. Clothing and possessions were piled helterskelter on the cot, a single rickety bureau, on the floor. The scummy sink was piled with unwashed dishes. the two-burner stove thick with grease. It was so cold that the inside of the window was coated with a skim of ice.
The toilet’s in the hall,” the man said, grinning.
“But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
J Harold Gerber?” Boone asked.
“Yeah.”
I “May we sit down, please?” Delaney asked.
“I’m worn out from that climb.
My name is Delaney and this is Sergeant Abner Boone.” Sergeant …”
Gerber said in his gravelly voice.
“I was a sergeant once. Then I got busted.”
He threw clothing off the cot, removed a six-pack from one spindly chair, and lifted a small black-and-white TV set from another.
“We still got electricity and water,” he said, “but no heat.
The fucking landlord is freezing us out. Take it easy when you sit down; the legs are loose.”
They gingerly eased onto the chairs. Gerber sat on the cot.
“You think I did it?” he said with a cracked grin.
“Did what?” Boone said.
“Fragged Doc Ellerbee.”
“Did you?” Delaney asked.
“Shit, no. But I could have.” -Why?” Boone said.
“Why would you want to kill him?”
“Who needs a reason? You like my home?”
“It’s a shithouse,” Delaney told him.
Gerber laughed.
“Yeah, just the way I want it. When they tear this joint down, I’m going to look for another place just like it. A buddy of mine-he lives in Idaho-came back from Nam and tried to pick up his life. He gave it six months and couldn’t hack it. So he took off all his clothes, every stitch, and walked bare-ass naked into the woods without a thing-no weapons, no watch, no matches-absolutely nothing. Well, Manhattan is my woods. I like living like this.”
“What happened to him?” Delaney said.
“Your buddy.”
“A ranger came across him a couple of years later. He was wearing clothes and moccasins made out of animal skins. His hair and beard were long and matted. He had built himself a lean-to and planted some wild stuff he found growing in the woods that he could eat. Made a bow and arrows. Set traps.
Had plenty of meat. He was doing great. Never saw anyone, never talked to anyone. I wish I had the balls to do something like that.”
They stared at him, seeing a lean, hollowed face shadowed by a three-day beard. The skin was pasty white, nose bony, eyes brightly wild. Uncombed hair spiked out from under a black beret. Gerber moved jerkily, gestures short and broken.
The sweater and mackinaw hung loosely on his lank frame.
Even his fingers seemed skeletal, the nails gnawed away. And on his feet, heavy boots.
“You wear those boots all the time?” Boone said.
“These? Sure. They’re fleece-lined. I even sleep in them.
I’d lose toes if I didn’t.”
“How long did you know Doctor Ellerbee?” Delaney asked.
“I don’t want to talk about that,” Gerber said.
“You don’t want to help us find his killer?” Boone said.
“So he’s dead,” Gerber said, shrugging.
“Half the guys I’ve known in my life are dead.”
“He didn’t die of old age,” Delaney said grimly.
“And he didn’t die in an accident or in a war. Someone deliberately bashed in his skull.”
“Big deal,” Gerber said.
Delaney looked at him steadily.
“You goddamned cocksucking son of a bitch,” he said tonelessly.
“You mother fucking piece of shit. You wallow in your pigsty here, feeling sorry for yourself and, gosh, life is unfair, and gee, you got a raw deal, and no one knows how sensitive you are and how it all hurts, you lousy scumbag. And meanwhile, a good and decent manworth ten of the likes of you-gets burned, and you won’t lift a finger to help find his murderer because you want the whole world to be as miserable as you are. Ellerbee’s biggest mistake was trying to help a turd like you. Come on, Sergeant, let’s go; we don’t need any help from this asshole.”
There was cold silence as they began to rise warily from their chairs. But then Harold Gerber held out a hand to stop them.
“What’s your name? Delehanty?”
“Delaney.”
Delaney; you’re a no-bullshit guy. Doc Simon was like that, but he didn’t have your gift of gab. All right, I’ll play your little game. What do you want to know?” They eased back onto the fragile chairs.
“When was the last time you saw Ellerbee?” Boone asked.
“The papers said he was killed around nine o’clock. Right?
I saw him five hours earlier, at four o’clock that Friday afternoon. My usual time. It’ll be in the appointment book.”
“Was he acting normally?”
“Sure.
“Notice any change in him in the last six months or a year?”
“What kind of change?”
“In his manner, the way he acted.”
“No,” Gerber said, “I didn’t notice anything.”
“Do you know any of his other patients?” Delaney asked.
“No.
“Did Ellerbee ever mention that he had been attacked or threatened by anyone?”
“No.
“Did you ever attack him?” Boone said.
“Or threaten him?”
“Now why would I want to do anything like that? The guy was trying to help me.”
“Analysis is supposed to be painful,” Delaney said.
“Weren’t there times when you hated him?”
“Sure there were. But those were temporary things. I never hated him enough to off him. He was my only lifeline.” -What are you going to do now? Find another lifeline?”
“No,” Gerber said, then grinned: a death’s-head.
“I’ll just go on wallowing in my pigsty.” ,”Do, you own a ball peen hammer?” Boone asked abruptly.
“No, I do not own a ball peen hammer. Okay? I’m going to have a beer. Anyone want one?”
They both declined. . Gerber popped the tab on a can of Pabst and settled back on the cot, leaning against the clammy wall.
“How often did you see Ellerbee?” Delaney said.
“Twice a week. I’d have gone more often if I could have afforded it. He was helping me.”
“When was the last time you got in trouble?”
“Ah-ha,” Gerber said, showing his teeth.
“You know about that, do you?
Well, I haven’t acted up in the last six months or so. Doc Simon told me if I got the urge-felt real out, you know -I could call him any hour of the day or night. I never did, but just knowing he was there was a big help.”
“Where were you the Friday night he got killed?”
“Bar-hopping around the Village.”
“In the rain?”
“That’s right. I didn’t get home until after midnight. I was in the bag.”
“Do you remember where you went?”
“I have some favorite hangouts. I guess I went there.”
“See anyone you know? Talk to anyone?”
“The bartenders. They’ll probably remember me; I’m the world’s smallest tipper-if I tip at all. Usually I stiff them.
Bartenders and waiters tend to remember things like that.”
“Can you recall where you were from, say, eight o’clock to ten?”
“No, I can’t.”
“You better try,” Boone advised.
“Make out a list of your hangouts-the ones you hit that Friday night. There’ll be another cop coming around asking questions.”
“Shit,” Gerber said, “I’ve told you guys all I know.”
“I don’t think so,” Delaney said coldly.
“I think you’re holding out on us.”
“Sure I am,” Gerber said in his hoarse voice.
“My deep, dark secret is that I once met Doc Simon’s wife and I wanted to jump her. She’s some sweet piece. Now are you satisfied?”
“You think this is all a big, fat joke, don’t you?” Delaney said.
“Let me tell you what we’re going to do about you, Mr. Gerber. We’re going to check you out from the day you were popped to this minute. We’re going to talk to your family, relatives, friends. We’ll go into your military record from A to Z. We’ll even find out why you got busted from sergeant.
Then we’ll talk to people in this building, your women, the bartenders, anyone you deal with. We’ll question the strangers you assaulted and the doctors at St. Vincent’s who stitched you up. By the time we’re through, we’ll know more about you than you know about yourself. So don’t play cute with us, Mr. Gerber; you haven’t got a secret in the world. Come on, Boone, let’s go; I need some fresh air.”
While they were picking their way carefully down the filthy staircase, Boone said in a low voice, “Are we really going to do all that, sir?
What you told him?”
“Hell, no,” Delaney said grumpily.
“We haven’t got the time.”
They sat in the car a few moments, the heater coughing away, while Boone lighted a cigarette.
“You really think he’s holding out?” Boone asked.
“I don’t know,” Delaney said, troubled.
“That session was nutsville. His moods shifted around so often and so quickly.
One minute he’s cooperating, and the next he’s a wiseass cracking jokes. But remember, the man was in a dirty war and probably did his share of killing. For some guys-not all, but some-once they’ve killed, the others come easier until it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing to them. The first is the hard one. Then it’s just as mechanical as a habit. A life? What’s that?”
“I feel sorry for him,” Boone said.
“Sure. I do, too. But I feel sorrier for Simon Ellerbee.
We’ve got to ration our sympathy in this world, Sergeant; we only have so much. Listen, it’s still early; why don’t we skip lunch and drive up to Chelsea. Maybe we can catch Joan Yesell at home. Then we’ll be finished and can take the rest of the day off.”
“Sounds good to me. Let’s go.”
Joan Yesell lived on West 24th Street, in a staid block of almost identical brownstones. It was a pleasingly clean street, garbage tucked away in lidded cans, the gutters swept. Windows were washed, faqades free of graffiti, and a line of naked ginkgo trees waited for spring.