The Fourth Deadly Sin (6 page)

“When are we going to get started on the patient list, sir?” Jason asked.

“Another thing,” Delaney said, ignoring Jason’s question.

“I saw nothing in those cartons to indicate that anyone had thought to run the victim, his widow, his father, and Dr. Samuelson through Records.”

“My God,” Boone said, “you don’t think people like that have jackets, do you?”

“No, I don’t-but you never know, do you, and it’s got to be done. Ditto the Ellerbees’ two receptionists, the old ladies who own the art gallery, and the guy who leases the apartment on the top floor. Sergeant, you do that. Run them all through Records. For the time being let’s concentrate on the people who live and work in that townhouse. Plus Samuelson and Ellerbee’s father. After we’ve cleared them, we’ll spread out to friends, acquaintances, and Ellerbee’s patients.”

They talked awhile longer, discussing how they’d divide up use of the Department car and how they’d keep in touch with each other. Delaney urged both men to call him any hour of the day or night if they had any problems or anything to report.

Then the two officers left, and Delaney returned to his study. He called Deputy Commissioner Thorsen and was put through immediately.

“All right, Ivar,” Delaney said. “We’ve started.”

“Thank God,” the Admiral said. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

“There is something,” Delaney said. “The Department has a house shrink, doesn’t it?”

“Sure,” Thorsen said. “Dr. Murray Walden. He set up alcohol and drug rehabilitation programs. And he’s got a family counseling service. A very active, innovative man.”

“Dr. Murray Walden,” Delaney repeated, jotting the name on his desk calendar. “Would you phone him and tell him to expect a call from me?”

“Of course.”

“He’ll cooperate?”

“Absolutely. Did you go through the files, Edward?”

“I did. Once.”

“See anything?”

“A lot of holes.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. You’ll plug them, won’t you?”

“That’s what I’m getting paid for. By the way, Ivar, what am I getting paid?”

“A case of Glenfiddich,” Thorsen said. “And maybe a medal from the Mayor.”

“Screw the medal,” Delaney said. “I’ll take the scotch.”

He hung up after promising the Deputy he’d keep him informed of any developments. Then he tidied up, returning the emptied sandwich platter, beer cans, and soda bottles to the kitchen.

Back in the study, he eyed the cartons of Ellerbee records with some distaste. He knew that eventually all that bumf would have to be divided logically and neatly into separate file folders. He could have told Boone or Jason to do it, but it was donkey labor, and he didn’t want their enthusiasm dulled by paperwork.

It took him five minutes to find the two documents he was looking for: the exchange of correspondence and memos between Dr. Julius K. Samuelson and the Department’s attorneys regarding the issue of doctor-patient confidentiality, and the photocopies of Dr. Simon Ellerbee’s appointment book.

After rereading the papers, Delaney was definitely convinced that their so-called compromise was ridiculous and unworkable. No way could a detective investigate a possible suspect without direct questioning. He decided to ignore the whole muddle, and if he stepped on toes and someone screamed, he’d face that problem when it arose.

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 eve 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 Lutce 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.

“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 home fries and a side order of tomatoes and onions.”

“Make that two, please,” 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.