“It doesn’t happen too often,” he said, “but it does happen.
The threat is always there. Back in 1981 four psychiatrists were murdered by their patients in a six-week period. Scary.
There are a lot of reasons for it. Psychoanalysis can be a very painful experience -worse than a root canal job, believe me!
The therapist probes and probes. The patient resists. That guy behind the desk is trying to get him to reveal awful things that have been kept buried for years. Sometimes the patient attacks the doctor for hurting him. That’s one reason. Another is that the patient fears the therapist is learning too much, peering into the patient’s secret soul.”
“I’m telling you this in confidence,” Delaney said sternly, “because it hasn’t been released to the press. After Ellerbee was dead, the killer rolled him over and hit him two or more times in the eyes with a ball peen hammer. One of my assistants suggested it might have been an attempt to blind the doctor because he saw, or was seeing, too much. What do you think of that theory?”
“Very perceptive. And quite possible. I think that most assaults on therapists are made by out-and-out psychotics. In fact, most of the attacks are made in prisons and hospital wards for the criminally insane. Still, a number do occur in the offices of high-priced Park Avenue shrinks. What’s worse, the psychiatrist’s family is sometimes threatened and occasionally attacked.”
“Could you estimate the percentage of therapists who have been assaulted by patients?”
“I can give you a guess. Between one-quarter and onethird. Just a guess.”
“Have you ever been attacked, doctor?”
“Once. A man came at me with a hunting knife.”
“How do you handle something like that?”
“I pack a handgun. You’d be surprised at how many psychiatrists do. Or keep it in the top drawer of their desk.
Usually slow, soft talk can defuse a dangerous situation-but not always.”
“Why did the guy come at you with a knife?”
“We were at the breaking point in his therapy. He had a lech for his fifteen-year-old daughter and couldn’t or wouldn’t acknowledge it. But he was taking her clothes to prostitutes and making them dress like the daughter. Sad, sad, sad.”
“Did he finally admit it?” Delaney asked, fascinated.
“Eventually. I thought he was coming along fine; we were talking it out. But then, about three weeks later, he left my office, went home, and blew his brains out with a shotgun. I don’t think of that case very often-not more than two or three times a day.”
“Jesus,” Delaney said wonderingly. “How can you stand that kind of pressure?”
“How can a man do open-heart surgery? You go in, pray, and hope for the best. Oh, there’s another reason patients sometimes assault their therapists. It involves a type of transference. The analysand may have been an abused child or hate his parents for one reason or another. He transfers his hostility to the therapist, who is making him dredge up his anger and talk about it. The doctor becomes the abusive parent. Conversely, the patient may identify with the aggressive parent and try to treat the psychiatrist as a helpless child. As I told you, there are many reasons patients might attack their therapists. And to confuse you further, I should add that some assaults have been made for no discernible reason at all.”
“But the main point,” Delaney insisted, “is that murderous attacks on psychiatrists are not all that uncommon, and it’s very possible that Doctor Ellerbee was killed by one of his patients.”
“It’s possible,” Walden agreed.
Then, when Delaney saw the doctor glance at his watch, he said, “I should warn you, I may bother you again if I need the benefit of your advice.”
“Anytime. You keep buying me steak and I’m all yours.”
They rose from the table and shook hands.
“Thank you,” Delaney said. “You’ve been a big help.”
“I have?” Dr. Murray Walden said, stroking his bald pate.
“That’s nice. One final word of caution. If you’re thinking of questioning Ellerbee’s patients, don’t come on strong. Play it very lowkey.
Speak softly. These people feel threatened enough without being leaned on by a stranger.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Of course,” Walden said thoughtfully, “there may be some from whom you’ll get the best results by coming on strong, shouting and browbeating them.”
“My God!” Edward X. Delaney cried. “Isn’t there anything definite in your business?”
“Definitely not,” Walden said.
The three sat in the study, hunched forward, intent.
“All right, Jason,” Delaney said, “you go first.”
The black officer flipped through his pocket notebook to find the pages he wanted. “The widow lady is clean as far as those Brewster calls go. She did phone the Manhattan garage at the time she says she did. Ditto the call later to Doctor Samuelson. The phone company’s got a record. I talked to the Brewster cop who took her call when she asked about an accident involving her husband’s car. He says she wasn’t hysterical, but she sounded worried and anxious. So much for that.
Then, just for fun, I dropped by that Manhattan garage to ask when the lady claimed her car on that Friday night.”
“Smart,” Delaney said, nodding.
“Well, she checked her car out at six twenty-two in the evening, which fits pretty close to her statement. No holes that I could find.”
“Nice job,” Delaney said. “Sergeant?”
Boone peered down at his own notebook. “Samuelson seems to be clean, too. Before the concert he had dinner with two friends at the Russian Tea Room. They swear he was there. He picked up the tab and paid with a credit card. I got a look at his signed check and the restaurant’s copy of his credit card bill. Everything looks kosher. Then Samuelson and his friends went to the concert.
They say he never left, which is probably true because after the concert was over, the three of them dropped by the St. Moritz for a nightcap. All this covers Ellerbee’s time of death, so I guess we can scratch Doctor Samuelson.”
Delaney didn’t say anything.
“Now, about Records …” the Sergeant continued. “I checked out Ellerbee, his widow, his father, the two receptionists, the two old dames who own the art gallery on the first floor, the part-time super who takes care of the building, and the guy who leases the top floor. The only one with a jacket is the last-the West Coast movie producer who keeps that fourth-floor apartment to use when he’s in town. His name is J. Scott Hergetson, and his sheet is minor stuff. traffic violations, committing a public nuisance-he peed on the sidewalk while drunk-and one drug bust. This disco was raided and he was pulled in with fifty other people. No big deal. Charges dropped.”
“So that’s it?” Delaney asked.
“Not all of it,” Boone said, flipping his notebook. “The ME says Ellerbee died about nine P.m. This is where all these people claim they were at that time … “Doctor Diane Ellerbee was up in Brewster, waiting for her husband to arrive.
“Henry Ellerbee was at a charity dinner at the Plaza Hotel.
I confirmed his presence there at nine o’clock.
“Doctor Samuelson was at the Carnegie Hall concert. Confirmed.
“One of the receptionists was home watching television with her mother. Mommy says yes, she was. Who knows?
“The other receptionist says she was shacked up with her boyfriend in his apartment. He says yes, she was. Who knows?
“The super was playing pinochle at his basement social club. The other guys in the game say yeah, he was there.
“The two ladies who run the art gallery were at a private dinner with eight other people of the Medicare set. Their presence is confirmed. Besides, the two of them are so frail I don’t think they could lift a ball peen hammer.
“The top-floor movie producer was at a film festival in the south of France. His presence there is confirmed by news reports and photographs. Scratch him.
“And that’s it.”
Delaney looked admiringly from Boone to Jason and back again. “What the hell does Suarez need me for? You two guys can break this thing on your own.
Well, here’s what I’ve got.
It isn’t much.”
He gave them a prcis of his conversation with the police psychiatrist and told them what Dr. Walden had said about the incidence of attacks on therapists by their patients.
“He guessed about one-quarter to onethird of all psychiatrists have been assaulted. Those percentages look good. After what you’ve just told me, I’m beginning to think Ellerbee’s patient list may be our best bet.”
Then he said that Walden had agreed with Boone’s theory about those hammer blows to the eyes: It could be a symbolic effort to blind the doctor.
“After he was dead?” Jason said.
“Well, Walden thinks most attacks on therapists are made by psychotics. I didn’t tell him about the two sets of unidentified footprints. That could mean there were two psychotics working together, or Ellerbee had two visitors that night at different times. Any ideas?”
Jason and Boone looked at each other, then shook their heads.
“All right,” Delaney said briskly. “Here’s where we go from here. I want to see that townhouse and I want to meet Doctor Diane Ellerbee. Maybe we can do both at the same time. Sergeant, suppose you call her right now. Tell her you’d like to see her as soon as possible, as part of the investigation into her husband’s death. Don’t mention that I’ll be with you.”
Rather than dig through the records in the cartons for Diane Ellerbee’s phone number, Boone looked it up in the Manhattan directory. He identified himself and asked to speak to the doctor. He ended by giving Delaney’s phone number. Then he hung up.
“She’s with a patient,” he reported. “The receptionist said she’ll give the doctor my message and she’ll probably call back as soon as she’s free.”
“We’ll wait,” Delaney said. “It shouldn’t be more than forty-five minutes.
Meanwhile, there’s something else I want to know more about. Boone, do you know a dick one named Parnell? I think his first name is Charles.”
“Oh, hell, yes,” the Sergeant said, smiling. “I know him.
They call him Daddy Warbucks. He’s still on active duty.”
“That’s the guy,” Delaney said. He turned to Jason.
“You’ve got to realize that some detectives make a good career for themselves by specializing, Now this Parnell, he’s a financial whiz. You want a money picture on someone and he can come up with it. He’s got good contacts with banks, stockbrokers, credit agencies, accountants, and for all I know, the IRS. He knows how to read wills, trusts, and reports of probate.
He’s just the guy we need to get a rundown on the financial status of the deceased and his widow. Sergeant, tell Chief Suarez everything we’ve done so far-don’t leave anything out-and then ask him to have Daddy Warbucks check out the net worth of the dead guy and Doctor Diane Ellerbee.”
He paused a moment, pondering. Then: “And throw in Doctor Julius K. Samuelson for good measure. Let’s find out how fat his bank account is.”
“Will do,” Boone said, making some quick jottings in his notebook.
“Sir ” Jason T. Jason said hesitantly, “would you mind telling me the reason for this?”
“Cui bono, ” Delaney said promptly. “Who benefits? In this case, who stands to gain from the death of Simon Ellerbee? I’m not saying money was the motive here, but it might have been. It sure as hell has been in a lot of homicides where the perp turns out to be a member of the family or a beneficiary. It’s something that’s got to be checked out.”
“I’ll get on it right-” Boone started to say, but then the phone rang.
“That may be Doctor Diane,” Delaney said. “You better answer, Sergeant.” e talked briefly, then hung up and turned to them.
Six o’clock tonight,” he said. “She’ll be finished with her patients by then.”
“How did she sound?” Delaney asked.
“Furious. Trying to keep her cool. I’m not looking forward to that meeting, sir.”
“Has to be done,” Delaney said stubbornly. “The lady is said to be a real beauty-if that’s any consolation. Well, we’ve got about eight hours. Boone, why don’t you contact Suarez and get Charlie Parnell working on the financial reports. Jason, you take the car and go up to Brewster. The Ellerbees have a married couple who take care of their place.
The man does maintenance and works around the grounds.
Talk to him. He may have a toolshed or workshop on the premises.”
“Oh-ho,” Jason T. Jason said. “You want to know if he owns a ball peen hammer-right?”
“Right. And if he does, has he still got it? And if he has, you grab it.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jason said.
“And while you’re at it, get a look at the house and grounds. I’d like your take on it.”
“I’m on my way.”
“And so am I,” Boone said, as both officers rose.
“Sergeant, I’ll meet you at the Ellerbees’ townhouse at five-thirty. It’ll give us a chance to look around the neighborhood before we brace the widow.”
“I’ll be there,” Abner Boone promised.
After they left, Delaney returned to his study and looked at the cartons of files with dread. It had to be done, but he didn’t relish the task.
He set to work, dividing the records into separate folders: the victim, Dr. Diane Ellerbee, Dr. Julius Samuelson, the ME’s reports and photographs, the reports, photos, and map of the Crime Scene Unit, statements of everyone questioned.
Then he added notes of his conversation with Dr. Murray Walden, and what Sergeant Boone and Jason T. Jason had just told him.
It went faster than he had anticipated, and by 12:30 he had a satisfyingly neat stack of labeled file folders that included all the known facts concerning the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee.
It was time, he decided, for a sandwich.
He went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and inspected the possibilities. There was a single onion roll in there, hard as a rock, but it could be toasted. And there were a few slices of pork left over from a roast loin. Some German potato salad. Scallions he could slice. Maybe a wee bit of horseradish.
He slapped it all together and ate it leaning over the sink.
Monica would have been outraged, but she was gone, doing volunteer work at a local hospital. She kept nagging him about his addiction, and she was right; he was too heavy in the gut. It was hard to convince her that the Earl of Sandwich had been one of civilization’s great benefactors.