What interested him was that Samuelson had made his argument for the inviolability of Ellerbee’s files as president of the Greater New York Psychiatric Association. He was, in effect, a professional upholding professional ethics.
But Samuelson was also a witness involved in a murder case and a friend of the victim. Nowhere in his correspondence did he state his personal views about investigating Ellerbee’s patients to find the killer.
Even more intriguing, the opinions of Dr. Diane Ellerbee on the subject were never mentioned. Granted that the lady was a psychologist, not a psychiatrist, still the absence of her objection suggested that she was willing to see her husband’s patients interrogated.
Delaney pushed the papers away and leaned back in his swivel chair, hands clasped behind his head. He admitted to an unreasonable impatience with lawyers and doctors. In his long career as a detective, they had too often obstructed, sometimes stymied, his investigations. He recalled he had spoken about it to his first wife, Barbara.
“Goddamn it! How can a guy become a lawyer, doctor—or even an undertaker, for that matter. All three are making a living on other people’s miseries—isn’t that so? I mean, they only get paid when other people are in a legal bind, sick, or dead.”
She had looked at him steadily. “You’re a cop, Edward,” she said. “That’s the way you make your living, isn’t it?”
He stared at her, then laughed contritely. “You’re so right,” he said, “and I’m an idiot.”
But still, lawyers and doctors weren’t his favorite people. “Carrion birds,” he called them.
Closer inspection of Ellerbee’s appointment book proved more rewarding. It was an annual ledger, and, starting at the first of the year, Delaney attempted to list the name of every patient who had consulted the doctor. He used a long, yellow legal pad which he ruled into neat columns, writing in names, frequency of visits, and canceled appointments.
It was an arduous task, and when he finished, more than an hour later, he peered at the yellow pages through his reading glasses and wasn’t sure what in hell he had.
Some patients consulted Ellerbee at irregular intervals. Some every two or three months. Some once a month. Some every two weeks. Some weekly. Many twice or thrice a week. Two patients five times a week!
In addition, a few patients’ names appeared in the appointment book one or two times and then disappeared. And there were entries that read simply: “Clinic.” The doctor’s hours were generally from 7:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.M., five days a week. But sometimes he worked later, and sometimes he worked Saturdays.
No wonder the whole month of August was lined through and marked exultantly: VACATION!
Delaney knew from other reports that Dr. Simon had charged a hundred dollars for a forty-five-minute session. A break of fifteen minutes to recuperate, then on to the next patient. Dr. Diane Ellerbee charged seventy-five dollars for the same period.
He did some rough figuring. Assuming fifty consultations a week for both Dr. Simon and Dr. Diane Ellerbee, the two were hauling in an annual take of about $420,000. A sweet sum, but it didn’t completely explain the townhouse, the Brewster country home, the three cars.
But the victim had been the son of Henry Ellerbee, who owned a nice chunk of Manhattan. Maybe Daddy was coming up with an allowance or there was a trust involved. And maybe Dr. Diane was independently wealthy. Delaney knew nothing about her background.
He remembered an old detective, Alberto Di Lucca, a pasta fiend, who had taught him a lot. That was years ago, and Big Al and he were working Little Italy. One day they were strolling up Mott Street, picking their teeth after too much linguine with white clam sauce at Umberto’s, and Delaney expressed sympathy for the shabbily dressed people he saw around him.
“They look like they haven’t got a pot to piss in,” he said.
Big Al laughed. “You think so, do you? See the old gink leaning in the doorway of that bakery across the street? You could read the News through his pants, they’re so thin. Well, he owns that bakery, which just shits money. I also happen to know he owns three mil of AT&T.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not,” Di Lucca said, shaking his head. “Don’t judge by appearances, kiddo. You never know.”
Big Al had been right. When it came to money, you never knew. A beggar could be a millionaire, and a dude hosting a party of eight at Lutèce could be teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.
So maybe the Drs. Ellerbee had sources of income Suarez’s men hadn’t gotten around to investigating. Another hole that had to be plugged.
Edward X. Delaney liked Michael Ramon Suarez, liked his wife, liked his children and his home. But so far the Acting Chief of Detectives’s investigation had been a disaster.
It offended Delaney’s sense of order. He realized that he and his two assistants would really have to start from scratch.
He finished the warm dregs of his ale, then went into the kitchen to set the table. He hoped Monica wouldn’t forget the buttermilk biscuits.
6
“EDWARD X. DELANEY HERE,” he said.
There was an amused grunt. “And Doctor Murray Walden here,” a raspy voice said. “Thorsen told me you’d be calling. What can I do for you, Delaney?”
“An hour of your time?”
“I’d rather lend you money—and I don’t even know you. I suppose you want it today?”
“If possible, doctor.”
There was a silence for a moment, then: “Tell you what—I’ve got to come uptown for a hearing. It’s supposed to adjourn at one o’clock, which means it’ll break up around two, which means I’ll be so hungry I won’t be able to see straight. This business of yours—can we talk about it over lunch?”
“Sure we can,” Delaney said, preferring not to.
“Delaney—that’s Irish. Right?”
“Yes.”
“You like Irish food?” the psychiatrist asked.
“Some of it,” Delaney said cautiously. “I’m allergic to corned beef and cabbage.”
“Who isn’t?” Walden said. “There’s an Irish pub on the East Side—Eamonn Doran’s. You know it?”
“Know it and love it. They’ve got J.C. ale and Bushmill’s Black Label—if the bartender knows you.”
“Well, can you meet me there at two-thirty? I figure the lunch crowd will be cleared out by then and we’ll be able to get a table and talk.”
“Sounds fine. Thank you, doctor.”
“You’ll have no trouble spotting me,” Walden said cheerfully. “I’ll be the only guy in the place with no hair.”
He wasn’t joking. When Delaney walked through the bar into the back room of Eamonn Doran’s and looked around, he spotted a lean man seated alone at a table for two. The guy’s pate was completely naked. A black mustache, no larger than a typewriter brush, didn’t make up for it.
“Doctor Walden?” he asked.
“Edward X. Delaney?” the man said, rising and holding out a hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Sit. I just ordered two of those J.C. ales you mentioned. Okay?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
Seated, they inspected each other. Walden suddenly grinned, displaying a mouthful of teeth too good to be true. Then he ran a palm over his shiny scalp.
“Yul Brynner or Telly Savalas I’m not,” he said. “But I had so little fringe left, I figured the hell with it and shaved it all off.”
“A rug?” Delaney suggested.
“Nah, who needs it? A sign of insecurity. I’m happy with a head of skin. People remember me.”
The waitress brought their ales and menus. The police psychiatrist peered at his digital wristwatch, bringing it up close to his eyes.
“I promised you an hour,” he said, “and that’s what you’re going to get; no more, no less. So let’s order right now and start talking.”
“Suits me,” Delaney said. “I’ll have the sliced steak rare with homefries and a side order of tomatoes and onions.”
“Make that two, pl
ease,” Walden told the waitress. “Now then,” he said to Delaney, “what’s this all about? Thorsen sounded antsy.”
“It’s about the murder of Doctor Simon Ellerbee. Did you know the man?”
“We weren’t personal friends, but I met him two or three times professionally.”
“What was your take?”
“Very, very talented. A gifted man. Heavy thinker. The last time I met him, I got the feeling he had problems—but who hasn’t?”
“Problems? Any idea what kind?”
“No. But he was quiet and broody. Not as outgoing as the other times I met him. But maybe he’d just had a bad day. We all do.”
“It must be a strain dealing with, uh, disturbed people every day.”
“Disturbed people?” Dr. Walden said, showing his teeth again. “You weren’t about to say ‘nuts,’ or ‘crazies,’ or ‘whackos,’ were you?”
“Yes,” Delaney admitted, “I was.”
“Tell me something,” Walden said as the waitress set down their food, “have you ever felt guilt, depression, grief, panic, fear, or hatred?”
Delaney looked at him. “Sure I have.”
The psychiatrist nodded. “You have, I have, everyone has. Laymen think psychotherapists deal with raving lunatics. Actually, the huge majority of our patients are very ordinary people who are experiencing those same emotions you’ve felt—but to an exaggerated degree. So exaggerated that they can’t cope. That’s why, if they’ve got the money, they go to a therapist. But nuts and crazies and whackos they’re not.”
“You think most of Ellerbee’s patients were like that—essentially ordinary people?”
“Well, I haven’t seen his files,” Dr. Walden said cautiously, “but I’d almost bet on it. Oh, sure, he might have had some heavy cases—schizoids, patients with psychosexual dysfunctions, multiple personalities: exotic stuff like that. But I’d guess that most of his caseload consisted of the kind of people I just described: the ones with emotional traumata they couldn’t handle by themselves.”
“Tell me something, doctor,” Delaney said. “Simon Ellerbee was a psychiatrist, and his wife—his widow—is a psychologist. What’s the difference?”
“He had an MD degree; his widow doesn’t. And I expect their education and training were different. As I understand it, she specializes in children’s problems and runs group therapy sessions for parents. He was your classical analyst. Not strictly Freudian, but analytically oriented. You’ve got to understand that there are dozens of therapeutic techniques. The psychiatrist may select one and never deviate or he may gradually develop a mix of his own that he feels yields the best results. This is a very personal business. I really don’t know exactly how Ellerbee worked.”
“By the way,” Delaney said when the waitress presented the bill, “this lunch is on me.”
“Never doubted it for a minute,” Walden said cheerily.
“You said before that most of Ellerbee’s patients were probably ordinary people. You think any of them are capable of violence? I mean against the analyst.”
Dr. Walden sat back, took a silver cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket, and snapped it open.
“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 one-third. 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 low-key. 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.
7
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.”
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