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Authors: Lawrence Sanders
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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
“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
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