"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 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."