Bad Love

27

Another small room, this one yellow, the windows misted by lace curtains.

Shirley Rosenblatt looked better than I had expected, propped up in a hospital bed and covered to the waist with a white comforter. Her hair was still blond, though dyed lighter, and she'd grown it out a little. Her delicate face had remained pretty.

A wicker bed tray was pushed into one corner. To one side of the bed was a cane chair and a pine dresser topped by perfume bottles. Opposite that stood a large saltwater aquarium on a teakwood base. The water bubbled silently. Gorgeous fish glided through a miniature coral reef.

Josh kissed his mother's forehead. She smiled and took hold of his hand. Her fingers barely stretched the width. The comforter dropped a couple of inches. She was wearing a flannel nightgown, buttoned to the neck and fastened with a bow. On her nightstand was a collection of pill bottles, a stack of magazines, and a coil-spring hand-grip exerciser.

Josh held onto her hand. She smiled up at him, then turned the smile on me. Gentle blue eyes. None of her children had gotten them.

Josh said, "Here's the mail. Want me to open it?"

She shook her head and reached out. He put the stack on her lap, but she left it there and continued to look at me.

"This is Dr. Delaware," he said.

I said, "Alex Delaware." But I didn't hold out my hand because I didn't want to dislodge his. "Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Rosenblatt."

"Shirley." Her voice was very weak and talking seemed a great effort, but the word came out clearly. She blinked a couple of times. Her right shoulder was lower than her left and her right eyelid bagged a bit.

She kissed Joshua's hand. Slowly, she said, "You can go, hon."

He looked at me, then back at her. "Sure?"

Nod.

"Okay, but I'm coming back in half an hour. I already let Mrs. Limberton go to lunch and I don't want you alone for too long."

"It's okay. She doesn't eat long."

"I'll make sure she stays all afternoon until I get here- probably not before seven-thirty. I have paperwork. Is that okay, or do you want to eat earlier?"

"Seven-thirty is fine, honey."

"Chinese?"

She nodded and smiled, let go of his hand.

"I can also get Thai if you want," he said. "That place on Fifty-sixth."

"Anything," she said. "As long as it's with you." She reached up with both hands and he bent for a hug.

After he straightened, she said, "Bye, sweets."

"Bye. Take care of yourself."

One final look at me, and then he was gone.

She pushed a button and propped herself up higher. Took a breath and said, "I'm blessed. Working with kids… my own turned out great."

"I'm sure it wasn't an accident."

She shrugged. The higher shoulder made it all the way through the gesture. "I don't know… so much is chance."

She pointed to the cane chair.

I pulled it up close and sat down.

"You're a child therapist, too?"

I nodded.

She took a long time to touch her lip. Another while to tap her brow. "I think I've seen your name on articles… anxiety?"

"Years ago."

"Nice to meet you." Her voice faded. I leaned closer.

"Stroke," she said and tried to shrug again.

I said, "Josh told me."

She looked surprised, then amused. "He hasn't told many people. Protecting me. Sweet. All my kids are. But Josh lives at home, we see more of each other…"

"Where are the others?"

"Sarah's in Boston. Teaches pediatrics at Tufts. David's a biologist at the National Cancer Institute in Washington."

"Three for three," I said.

She smiled and looked at the fish tank. "Batting a thousand… Harvey liked baseball. You only met him once?"

"Yes." I told her where and when.

"Harvey," she said, savoring the word, "was the nicest man I've ever known. My mother used to say don't marry for looks or money, both can disappear fast, so marry for nice."

"Good advice."

"Are you married?"

"Not yet."

"Do you have someone?"

"Yes. And she's very nice."

"Good." She began laughing. Very little sound came out, but her face was animated. Managing to raise one hand, she touched her chest. "Forget the Ph.D. I'm just a Jewish mother."

"Maybe the two aren't all that different."

"No. They are. Therapists don't judge, right? Or at least we pretend we don't. Mothers are always judging."

She tried to lift an envelope from the mail stack. Got hold of a corner and fumbled.

"Tell me," she said, letting go, "about my husband."

I began, including the other murders but leaving out the savagery. When I reached the part about "bad love" and my revenge theory, her eyes started blinking rapidly and I was afraid I'd caused some sort of stress reaction. But when I paused, she said, "Go on," and as I did, she seemed to sit up straighter and taller, and a cool, analytic light sharpened her eyes.

The therapist in her driving out the patient.

I'd been there. Now I was on the couch, opening myself up to this tiny, crippled woman.

When I was finished, she looked at the dresser and said, "Open that middle drawer and take out the file."

I found a black-and-white marbled box with a snap latch resting atop neatly folded sweaters. As I started to hand it to her, she said, "Open it."

I sat down beside her and unlatched the box. Inside were documents, a thick sheaf of them. On top was Harvey Rosenblatt's medical license.

"Go on," she said.

I began leafing. Psychiatric board certification. Internship and residency papers. A certificate from the Robert Evanston Hale Psychoanalytic Institute in Manhattan. Another from Southwick Hospital. A six-year-old letter from the dean of the NYU medical school reaffirming Rosenblatt's appointment as associate clinical professor of psychiatry. An honorable discharge from the Navy, where he'd served as a flight surgeon aboard an aircraft carrier. A couple of life insurance policies, one issued by the American Psychiatric Association. So he had been a member- the absence of an obituary was probably due to shame about suicide. As I came to his last will and testament, Shirley Rosenblatt looked away.

Death certificate. Burial forms.

I heard her say, "Should be next."

Next was a stapled collection of photocopied sheets. The face sheet was white. Handwritten on it was "Investig. Info."

I removed it from the box. She sank back against the pillows and I saw that she was breathing hard. When I began to read, she closed her eyes.

Page two was a police report. The writer was one Detective Salvatore J. Giordano, 19th Precinct, Borough of Manhattan, City of New York. In his opinion, and supported by subsequently entered Medical Examiner's Report, Case #1453331, Deceased Victim Rosenblatt, H. A., white male, age 59, expired as the consequence of a rapid downward descent from diagrammed window B, master bedroom, of said address on E. 67 St., and subsequent extreme bodily contact with pavement in front of said address.

Descent process was most probably self-induced, as D. Victim's blood alcohol was not elevated and there is no lab evidence of drug-induced accident and no signs of coerced egress enforced on Deceased Victim on the part of another as well as no skidmarks on the carpeting of said address or defense marks on window sills, and, in summary, no evidence of the presence of any other individual at said address. Of further note is the presence of Drinking Glass A (see diagram) and Apparatus B (see diagram) conforming to method operandus of the "East Side Burglar."

An aerial diagram at the bottom of the page illustrated the locations of doors, windows, and furniture in the room where Harvey Rosenblatt had spent his last moments.

A bed, two nightstands, two dressers- one marked "Low," the other "High"- a television set, something marked "antique," and a magazine rack. On one of the nightstands were written "Glass A" and "Apparatus B (lockpicks, files, and keys)." Arrows marked the window from which the psychiatrist had leaped.

The next paragraph identified the apartment as an eighth-floor, five-room unit in a co-op building. At the time of Rosenblatt's jump, the owners and sole occupants, Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm J. Rulerad, he a banker, she an attorney, were away in Europe on a three-week vacation. Neither had ever met deceased Victim Rosenblatt and both witnesses state unequivocally that they have no idea how D.V. gained ingress to said domicile. However, the burglary apparatus recovered from a bathroom of said domicile indicates Breaking and Entering, and the fact that the day doorman, Mr. William P. O'Donnell, states he never saw D. Victim enter the building's main lobby, indicates a stealthy ingress by D. Victim. Furthermore, Drinking Glass A, subsequently identified by Mrs. Rulerad as coming from her kitchen, was full of a dark liquid, subsequently identified as Diet Pepsi-Cola, a drink favored by Mrs. M. Rulerad, and this is in conformity with the method operandus of three prior B and E burglaries within a six-block radius, previously attributed to the "East Side Burglar," in which soft drinks were displayed in a partially drunk status. Though D. Victim's wife denies a criminal history on the part of D. Victim, who she says was a psychiatrist, physical evidence indicates a "secret life" on the part of D. Victim and a possible motive: guilt over said secret life due to D. Victim being a psychiatrist and outward "solid citizen" and finally coming to grips with this unrespectable secret.

Next came a half page follow-up by Detective Giordano, dated a week later:

Case#1453331, Rosenblatt, H. Requested permission from D. Victim's wife to search home premises on E. 65 St. due to search for evidence related to D. Victim's death. Said search effected 4/17/85 at 3:23 P.M. to 5:17 P.M. in company of Det. B. Wildebrandt and Officer J. McGovern. Home and office premises of D. Victim searched in presence of D. Victim's wife, Shirley Rosenblatt. No contraband from previous "East Side Burglaries" found. Permission requested to read D. Victim's psychiatric files for possible patient/fence connection, refused by S. Rosenblatt. Will consult with Chief of Dets. A. M. Talisiani.

The following page was typed on a different machine and signed by Detective Lewis S. Jackson, 19th Precinct. The date was four weeks later.

Conf. on Det. Giordano's case,#1453331, H. A. Rosenblatt. Det. Giordano on med. leave. D. Victim's wife, Shirley Rosenblatt, and son, Joshua Rosenblatt, requested meeting to review case. Wanting "progress" report. Met with them at Pcnct. Told of disposition. Very angry, said they were "deceived" as to purpose of home search. Son stated he is an attorney, knows "people." He and mother convinced hom., not sui. Stated D.V. not depressed, never depressed, not "criminal." Further stated "there was some sort of setup." Further stated D.V. had talked to wife, prior to death, about "upsetting case that could be related to what happened to my dad," but when asked for details, said he didn't know because D.V. was psychiatrist and kept secrets because of "ethics." When told nothing more could be done based on available evidence, son became even more irate and threatened to "go above you to get some action." Conversation reported to Chief of Dets. A. M. Talisiani.

The final two pages consisted of a letter on heavy white bond, dated one and a half months later.

COMSAC INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES

513 Fifth Avenue

Suite 3463

New York, NY 10110

June 30, 1985

Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt

c/o J. Rosenblatt, Esq.

Schechter, Mohl, and Trimmer

500 Fifth Avenue

Suite 3300

New York, NY 10110

Dear Dr. Rosenblatt:

Pursuant to your request, we have reviewed data and materials relevant to the unfortunate death of your husband, including but not limited to detailed inspection of all case reports, forensic reports, and laboratory analyses. We have also interviewed police personnel involved in this case.

Personal inspection of the premises where aforesaid unfortunate death took place was not fully accomplished because the owners of the apartment in question, Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm J. Rulerad, did not grant permission to our staff to enter and inspect. However, we do feel that we have accrued enough data with which to evaluate your case and we regret to inform you that we see no reason to doubt the conclusions of the police department in this matter. Furthermore, in view of the specific details of this case, we do not advise any further investigation into this matter.

Please feel free to get in touch if there are any questions concerning this matter.

Respectfully yours,

Robert D. Sugrue

Senior Investigator and Supervisor

INVOICE FOR SERVICES RENDERED

Twenty-two (22) hours at Sixty-Five (65) Dollars per Hour: $1430.00

Minus 10% Professional Discount to Schechter, Mohl, and Trimmer, Attys: $1287.00

Please Remit This Sum

I put down the file.

Shirley Rosenblatt's eyes were wide open and moist.

"The second death," she said. "Like killing him again." Shake of head. "Four years… but it's still- that's why Josh is so angry. No resolution. Now, you come…"

"I'm-"

"No." She managed to place a finger over her mouth. Dropped it and smiled. "Good. The truth outs."

Wider smile, a different meaning behind it.

"Harvey as a burglar," she said. "It's almost funny. And I'm not in prolonged denial. I lived with him for thirty-one years."

Sounding resolute, but she looked to me for confirmation, anyway.

I nodded.

She shook her head. "So how did he get in that apartment, right? That's what they kept asking me, and I didn't know what to tell them."

"He was lured there," I said. "Probably under the guise of a patient call. Someone he thought he could help."

"Harvey," she said softly. She closed her eyes. Opened them. "The police kept saying suicide. Over and over… Because Harvey was a psychiatrist, one of them- the chief of detectives- Talisiani- told me everyone knew psychiatrists had a high suicide rate. Then he told me to consider myself lucky that they weren't pursuing it further. That if they did, everything would come out."

" 'In view of the specific details of this case,' " I said.

"That's the private one, right? Comsac. At least the police were a lot more… direct. Talisiani told me if we made waves Harvey's name would be dragged through the slime. The whole family would be permanently coated with "slime.' He seemed offended that we didn't want him to close the case. As if we were criminals. Everyone made us feel that way… and now you're coming and telling me we were right."

She managed to press her palms together. "Thank you."

She slumped back on the pillow and breathed hard through dry lips. Tears filled her eyes, overflowed, and began draining down her cheeks. I wiped them with a tissue. Her lower body still hadn't moved.

"I'm so sad," she whispered. "Thinking about it, again… picturing it. But I'm glad you've come. You've… validated me- us. I'm only sorry you have to go through this pain. You really think it's something to do with Andres?"

"I do."

"Harvey never said anything."

I said, "The upsetting case Josh told Detective Jackson about-"

"A few weeks before…" Two deep breaths. "We were lunching, Harvey and I. We had lunch almost every day. He was upset. He was rarely upset- such an even man… he said it was a case. A patient he'd just talked to, he'd found it very disillusioning."

She turned toward me and her face was quaking.

"Disillusioned about Andres?" I said.

"He didn't mention Andres's name… didn't give me any details."

"Nothing at all?"

"Harvey and I never talked about cases. We made that rule right at the beginning of our marriage… two therapists… it's so easy to slip. You tell yourself it's… okay, it's professional consultation. And then you let loose more details than you need to. And then names slip out… and then you're talking about patients to your therapist friends at cocktail parties." She shook her head. "Rules are best."

"But Harvey must have told you something to make you suspect a connection to his death."

"No," she said sadly. "We really didn't suspect… we were just… grasping. Looking for anything out of the ordinary. So the police would see Harvey didn't… the whole thing was so… psychotic. Harvey in a stranger's apartment."

Remembered shame colored her face.

I said, "The owners of the apartment- the Rulerads. Harvey didn't know them?"

"They were mean people. Cold. I called the wife and begged her to let the private detective in to look. I even apologized- for what I don't know. She told me I was lucky she wasn't suing me for Harvey's break-in and hung up."

She closed her eyes for a long time and didn't move. I wondered if she'd fallen asleep.

Then she said, "Harvey was so affected… by this patient. That's what made me suspect. Cases never got to him. To be disillusioned… Andres? It doesn't make sense."

"De Bosch was his teacher, wasn't he? If Harvey learned something terrible about him, that could have disillusioned him."

Slow, sad nod.

I said, "How close was their relationship?"

"Teacher and student close. Harvey admired Andres, though he thought he was a little… authoritarian."

"Authoritarian in what way?"

"Dogmatic- when he was convinced he was right. Harvey thought it ironic, since Andres had fought so hard against the Nazis… wrote so passionately for democracy… yet his personal style could be so…"

"Dictatorial?"

"At times. But Harvey still admired him. For who he was, what he'd done. Saving those French children from the Vichy government, his work on child development. And he was a good teacher. Once in a while I sat in on seminars. Andres holding court- like a don. He could talk for hours and keep you interested… lots of jokes. Tying everything in with punchlines. Sometimes he brought children in from the wards. He had a gift- they opened up to him."

"What about Katarina?" I said. "Harvey told me she sat in, too."

"She did… just a child, herself- a teenager, but she spoke up as if she was a peer. And now she's… and those other people- how can this be!"

"Sometimes authoritarianism can go too far," I said.

Her cheeks shook. Then her mouth turned up in a tiny, disturbing smile. "Yes, I suppose nothing's what it seems, is it? Patients have been telling me that for thirty years and I've been nodding and saying, yes, I know… I really didn't know…"

"Did you ever go back into Harvey's files? To try to figure which patient had upset him?"

Long stare. Guilty nod.

"He kept tapes," she said. "He didn't like writing- arthritis- so he taped. I wouldn't let the police listen to them… protecting the patients. But later, I began playing them for myself… I gave myself an excuse. For their own good- I was responsible for them, until they found another permanent therapist. Had to call them, to notify them… so I needed to know them." Downcast eyes. "Flimsy… I listened anyway. Months of sessions, Harvey's voice… sometimes I couldn't stand it. But there was nothing that would have disillusioned him. All his patients were like old friends. He hadn't taken on any new ones for two years."

"None at all?"

She shook her head. "Harvey was an old-fashioned analyst. The couch, free association, long-term, intensive work. The same fifteen people, three to five times a week."

"Even an old patient might have told him something disillusioning."

"No," she said, "there was nothing like that in any of the sessions. And none of his old patients brought him to harm. They all loved him."

"What did you do with the tapes?"

Rather than answer, she said, "He was gentle, accepting. He helped those people. They were all crushed."

"Did you pick any of them up as patients?"

"No… I was in no shape to work. Not for a long time. Even my own patients…" She attempted another shrug. "Things fell apart for a while… so many people let down. That's why I didn't pursue his death. For my kids and for his patients- his extended family. For me. I couldn't have us dragged through the slime. Do you understand?"

"Of course." I asked her again what she'd done with the tapes.

"I destroyed them," she said, as if hearing the question for the first time. "Smashed the cassettes with a hammer… one by one… what a mess… threw it all away." She smiled. "Catharsis?"

I said, "Did Harvey attend any conventions just before his death? Any psychiatric meetings or seminars on child welfare?"

"No. Why?"

"Because professional meetings may set the killer off. Two of the other therapists were murdered at conventions. And the de Bosch symposium where I met Harvey may have triggered the killings in the first place."

"No," she said. "No, he didn't attend anything. He'd sworn off conventions. Sworn off academia. Gave up his appointment at NYU so he could concentrate on his patients and his family and getting in shape- his father had died young of a heart attack. Harvey had reached that age, confronted his own mortality. He was starting to work out. Trimming the fat from his diet and his life- that's a quote… He said he wanted to be around for me and the kids for a long, long time."

Grimacing, she lifted her hand, with effort, and let it drop upon mine. Her palm was soft and cold. Her eyes aimed at the fish tank and stayed there.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" I said. "Anything at all?"

She thought for a long time. "No… I'm sorry, I wish there was."

"Thanks for seeing me," I said. Her hand weighed a ton.

"Please let me know," she said, keeping it there. "Whatever you find."

"I will."

"How long will you be in New York?"

"I think I'll try to head back this evening."

"If you need a place to stay, you're welcome here… if you don't mind a pull-out couch."

"That's very kind," I said, "but I need to be getting back."

"Your nice woman?"

"And my home." Whatever that meant.

Grimacing, she exerted barely tangible pressure upon my hand. Giving me comfort.

We heard the door close, then footsteps. Josh came in, holding Leo, the cat. He looked at our hands and his eyebrows dipped.

"You okay?" he said to his mother.

"Yes, honey. Dr. Delaware's been helpful. It's good you brought him."

"Helpful how?"

"He validated us… about Dad."

"Great," said Josh, putting the cat down. "Meanwhile, you're not getting enough rest."

Her lower lip dropped.

"Enough exertion, Mom," he said. "Please. You have to rest."

"I'm okay, honey. Really."

I felt a small tug atop my hand, not much more than a muscle twitch. Lifting her hand and placing it on the bedcovers, I stood.

Josh walked around the other side of the bed and began straightening the covers. "You really need to rest, Mom. The doctor said rest is the most important thing."

"I know… I'm sorry… I will, Josh."

"Good."

She made a gulping sound. Tears clouded the gentle blue eyes.

"Oh, Mom," he cried out, sounding ten years old.

"It's okay, honey."

"No, no, I'm being an asshole, I'm sorry, it's been a really tough day."

"Tell me about it, baby."

"Believe me, you don't want to hear it."

"Yes, I do. Tell me."

He sat down next to her. I slipped out the door and saw myself out of the apartment.