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 cock-sucking son of a bitch,” he said tonelessly. “You motherfucking 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 man—worth 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.
“You—what’s your name? Delehanty?”
“Delaney.”
“I like you, 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, façades free of graffiti, and a line of naked ginkgo trees waited for spring.
“Now this is something like,” Delaney said approvingly, “Little Old New York. O. Henry lived somewhere around here, didn’t he?”
“East of here, sir,” Boone said. “In the Gramercy Park area. The bar
where he drank is still in business.”
“In your drinking days, Sergeant, did you ever fall into McSorley’s Old Ale House?”
“I fell into every bar in the city.”
“Miss it?” Delaney asked curiously.
“Oh, God, yes! Every day of my life. You remember the highs; you don’t remember wetting the bed.”
“How long have you been dry now—four years?”
“About. But dipsos don’t count years; you take it day by day.”
“I guess,” Delaney said, sighing. “My old man owned a saloon on Third Avenue—did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t,” Boone said, interested. “When was this?”
“Oh, hell, a long time ago. I worked behind the stick on afternoons when I was going to night school. I saw my share of boozers. Maybe that’s why I never went off the deep end—although I do my share, as you well know. Enough of this. What have you got on Joan Yesell?”
“One of Suarez’s boys checked her out. Lives with her widowed mother. Works as a legal secretary in a big law firm up on Park. Takes home a nice buck. Never been married. Those three suicide attempts Doctor Diane mentioned proved out in emergency room records. She claims that on the evening Ellerbee was killed she was home all night. Got back from work around six o’clock and never went out. Her mother confirms.”
“All right,” Delaney said, “let’s go through the drill again. The last time—I hope.”
The ornate wood molding in the vestibule had been painted a hellish orange.
“Look at this,” Delaney said, rapping it with a knuckle. “Probably eighteen coats of paint on there. You strip it down and there’s beautiful walnut or cherry underneath. You can’t buy molding like that anymore. Someone did a lousy restoration job.”
There were two names opposite the bell for apartment 3-C: Mrs. Blanche Yesell and J. Yesell.
“The mother gets the title and full first name,” Delaney noted. “The daughter rates an initial.”
Boone identified himself on the intercom. A moment later the door lock buzzed and they entered. The interior was clean, smelling faintly of disinfectant, but the colors of the walls and carpeting were garish. The only decorative touch was a plastic dwarf in a rattan planter.
The ponderous woman waiting outside the closed door of apartment 3-C eyed them suspiciously.
“I am Mrs. Blanche Yesell,” she announced in a hard voice, “and you don’t look like policemen to me.”
Sergeant Boone silently proffered his ID. She had wire-rimmed pince-nez hanging from her thick neck on a black silk cord. She clamped the spectacles onto her heavy nose and inspected the shield and identification card carefully while they inspected her.
The blue-rinsed hair was pyramided like a beehive. Her features were coarse and masculine. (Later, Boone was to say, “She looks like a truck driver in drag.”) She had wide shoulders, a deep bosom, and awesome hips. All in all, a formidable woman with meaty hands and big feet shod in no-nonsense shoes.
“Is this about Doctor Ellerbee?” she demanded, handing Boone’s ID back to him.
“Yes, ma’am. This gentleman is Edward Delaney, and we’d like to—”
“I don’t want my Joan bothered,” Mrs. Yesell interrupted. “Hasn’t the poor girl been through enough? She’s already told you everything she knows. More questions will just upset her. I won’t stand for it.”
“Mrs. Yesell,” Delaney said mildly, “I assure you we have no desire to upset your daughter. But we are investigating a brutal murder, and I know that you and your daughter want to do everything you can to help bring the vile perpetrator to justice.”
Bemused by this flossy language, the Sergeant shot Delaney an amazed glance, but the plushy rhetoric seemed to mollify Mrs. Yesell.
“Well, of course,” she said, sniffing, “I and my Joan want to do everything we can to aid the forces of law and order.”
“Splendid,” Delaney said, beaming. “Just a few questions then, and we’ll be finished and gone before you can say Jack Robinson.”
“I used to know a man named Jack Robinson,” she said with a girlish titter.
A certified nut, Sergeant Boone thought.
She opened the door and led the way into the apartment. As overstuffed as she was: velvets and chintz and tassels and lace and ormolu, and whatnots, all in stunning profusion. Plus two sleepy black cats as plump as hassocks.
“Perky and Yum-Yum,” Mrs. Yesell said, gesturing proudly. “Aren’t they cunning? Let me have your coats, gentlemen, and you make yourselves comfortable.”
They perched gingerly on the edge of an ornate, pseudo-Victorian loveseat and waited until Mrs. Yesell had seated herself opposite them in a heavily brocaded tub chair complete with antimacassar.
“Now then,” she said, leaning forward, “how may I help you?”
They looked at each other, then back at her.
“Ma’am,” Sergeant Boone said softly, “it’s your daughter we came to talk to. She’s home?”
“Well, she’s home, but she’s lying down right now, resting, and I wouldn’t care to disturb her. Besides, I’m sure I can answer all your questions.”
“I’m afraid not,” Delaney said brusquely. “Your daughter is the one we came to see. If we can’t question her today, we’ll have to return again until we can.”
She glared at him, but he would not be cowed.
“Oh, very well,” she said. “But it’s really quite unnecessary. Oh, Joan!” she caroled. “Visitors!”
Right on cue, and much too promptly for one who had been lying down, resting, Joan Yesell entered from the bedroom with a timid smile. The men stood to be introduced. Then the daughter took a straight-back chair and sat with hands clasped in her lap, ankles demurely crossed.
“Miss Yesell,” Boone started, “we know how the murder of Doctor Simon Ellerbee must have shocked you.”
“My Joan was devastated,” Mrs. Yesell said. “Just devastated.”
Another one! Delaney thought.
Boone continued: “But I’m sure you appreciate our need to talk to all his patients in the investigation of his death. Could you tell us the last time you saw Doctor Simon?”
“On Wednesday afternoon,” the mother said promptly. “The Wednesday before he died. At one o’clock.”
The Sergeant sighed. “Mrs. Yesell, these questions are addressed to your daughter. It would be best if she answered.”
“On Wednesday afternoon,” Joan Yesell said. “The Wednesday before he died. At one o’clock.”
Her voice was so low, tentative, that they strained to hear. She kept her head down, staring at her clasped hands.
“That was the usual time for your appointment?”
“Yes.”
“How often did you see Doctor Simon?”
“Twice a week.”
“And how long had you been consulting him?”
“Four years.”
“Three,” Mrs. Yesell said firmly. “It’s been three years, dear.”
“Three years,” the daughter said faintly. “About.”
“Did Doctor Ellerbee ever mention to you that he had been attacked or threatened by any of his patients?”
“No.” Then she raised her head to look at them with faraway eyes. “Once he was mugged while he was walking to his garage late at night, but that happened years ago.”
“Miss Yesell,” Delaney said, “I have a question you may feel is too personal to answer. If you prefer not to reply, we’ll understand completely. Why were you going to Doctor Ellerbee?”
She didn’t answer at once. The clasped hands began to twist.
“I don’t see—” Mrs. Yesell began, but then her daughter spoke.
“I was depressed,” she said slowly. “Very depressed. I attempted suicide. You probably know about that.”
“And you feel Doctor Simon was helping you?”
She came briefly alive. “Oh, yes! So much!”
She could not, in all kindness, be called an attractive young w
oman. Not ugly, but grayly plain. Mousy hair and a pinched face devoid of makeup. She lacked her mother’s bold presence and seemed daunted by the older woman’s assertiveness.
Her clothing was monochromatic: sweater, skirt, hose, shoes—all of a dull beige. Her complexion had the same cast. She looked, if not unwell, sluggish and beaten. Even her movements had an invalid’s languor; her thin body was without shape or vigor.
“Miss Yesell,” Boone said, “did you notice any change in Doctor Simon recently? In his manner toward you or in his personality?”
“No,” Mrs. Blanche Yesell said. “No change.”
“Madam,” Delaney thundered, “will you allow your daughter to answer our questions—please.”
Joan Yesell hesitated. “Perhaps,” she said finally. “The last year or so. He seemed—oh, I don’t know exactly. Happier, I think. Yes, he seemed happier. More—more lighthearted. He joked.”
“And he had never joked before?”
“No.”
“You have stated,” Boone said, “that on the night Ellerbee was killed, you returned home directly from work and never went out again until the following day. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
Delaney turned to Mrs. Yesell with a bleak smile. “Now is your chance, ma’am,” he said. “Can you confirm your daughter’s presence here that night?”
“Of course.”
“Did you have any visitors, see any neighbors, make or receive any phone calls that night?”
“No, we did not,” she said decisively. “Just the two of us were here.”
“Read? Watched television?”
“We played two-handed bridge.”
“Oh?” Delaney said, rising to his feet. “And who won?”
“Mama,” Joan Yesell said in her wispy voice. “Mama always wins.”
They thanked the ladies politely for their help, reclaimed coats and hats, and left. They didn’t speak until they were back in the car.
“I can understand why the daughter’s depressed,” Delaney remarked.
“Yeah,” Boone said. “The old lady’s a dragon.”
“She is that,” Delaney agreed. “The only time the daughter contradicted her was about Ellerbee’s manner changing. The mother said no.”
“How the hell would she know?” Boone said. “She wasn’t seeing him twice a week.”
Fourth Deadly Sin Page 14