"Well?" Delaney demanded. "What do you think of the investigation so far?"
Boone drew a deep breath. "I don't like to put the knock on anyone," he said hesitantly, "but it appears to me that Chief Suarez hasn't been riding herd on his guys. For instance, in her statement Dr. Diane Ellerbee says she called Dr. Julius Samuelson about one-fifteen in the morning. The guy who's supposed to check it out goes to Samuelson and asks, "Did Dr. Diane call you at one-fifteent And Samuelson says, "Yes, she did." Now what kind of garbage is that? Maybe the two of them were in it together and protecting each other's ass. She says she called from their Brewster home.
That's a toll call to Manhattan. So why didn't someone check phone company records to make sure the call was actually made?"
"Right!" Jason T. Jason said loudly. "Ditto her call to the Ellerbees' garage. The night attendant says, "Yeah, she called,' but no one checked to make sure the call was made from Brewster. Sloppy, sloppy work."
"I concur," Delaney said approvingly. "And Samuelson said he was at a concert in Carnegie Hall when Ellerbee was offed. But I didn't see a damned thing in those four cartons that shows anyone checked that out.
Was he at the concert with someone or was he alone? And if he was alone, did anyone see him there? Does he have a ticket stub? Can the Carnegie Hall people place him there that night? Chief Suarez said he had more or less eliminated the widow and Samuelson as suspects. Bullshit! We've got a way to go before I'll clear them. Don't blame Suarez; he's got a zillion other things on his mind besides this Ellerbee kill. But I agree; so far it's been a half-ass investigation."
"So?" Boone said. "Where do we go from here?"
"Jason," Delaney said, pointing a thick forefinger at him, "you take the widow. Check out those two calls she says she made from Brewster. And while you're at it, talk to the Brewster cop she says she phoned to ask if there was a highway accident. Make sure she did call, and ask the cop how she sounded. Was she hysterical, cool, angry-whatever. Boone, you take Samuelson and his alibi. See if you can find out if anyone can actually place him at Carnegie Hall at the time Ellerbee was killed."
"You think the widow and Samuelson might be lying?" Jason said.
"Oh, Jesus," Delaney said. "I lie, you lie, Boone lies, everyone lies.
It's part of the human condition. Mostly it's innocent stuff-just to help us all get through life a little easier. But in this case we've got a stiff on our hands. Yes, the widow and Samuelson might be lying-even if they're not the perps. Maybe they have other reasons. Let's find out."
"What do you plan on doing, sir?" Sergeant Boone asked curiously.
"Me? I want to study those statements about the hassle Dr. Samuelson had with the Department's legal eagles. The argument was about the doctor-patient relationship, which is supposed to be sacred under the law. Ha-ha. But here we have a case where a doctor has been knocked off and the Crime Scene Unit guys grabbed his appointment book. So now we know the names of his patients, but Samuelson claimed the files were confidential. The Department's attorneys said not so; a murder was committed and the public good required that patients be questioned. As I understand it, they came to a compromise. The patients can be investigated, but they cannot be questioned unless they agree to it, because the questioning might involve their illness-the reason they were consulting Ellerbee in the first place. It's a nice legal point, and could keep a platoon of lawyers busy for a year.
But as things stand now, we can check the whereabouts of every patient at the time of Ellerbee's death, but we can't question the patients or examine their files unless they agree to it. Now isn't that as fucked up as a Chinese fire drill?"
"You think the patients will agree to answer questions?" Boone said.
"I think if one of his patients chilled Ellerbee, he or she will agree to be questioned, figuring that if they refuse, they'll be automatically suspected by the cops."
"Oh, wow," Jason Two said, laughing. "You figure crazies can reason like that?"
"First of all we don't know yet just how nutty his patients are. Second, you can be a complete whackc, and still be able to think as rationally as any so-called normal man or woman. I remember a guy we racked up who was a computer whiz. I mean a genius. All his work involved mathematical logic. But he had one quirk: He liked to rape little girls. Except for that, he was an intellectual giant. So don't get the idea that all of Ellerbee's patients are dummies."
"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.