The Fourth Deadly Sin

"NO."

"You keep in shape?"

"I sure do," Bellsey boasted.

"Jog five miles twice a week.

Lift iron. Go to a health club once a week for a three-hour workout on the machines. What the hell has all this got to do with Ellerbee's murder?"

"Just asking," Jason said equably.

"You're wasting my time," Bellsey said.

"Anything else?"

"I think that's all," Delaney said.

"For now. Have a nice dinner, Mr. Bellsey."

There were other people in the elevator; they didn't talk.

But when they got into Jason's car, Sergeant Boone said, "A real sweetheart. How did you pick up on the boxing, Jose?"

"He looks like a pug. The way he stands and moves."

"We'll have to get into the trunk of that Cadillac," Delaney said.

"The ball peen. And let's try to talk to the wife when he's not around."

"You think he could be it?" Boone asked.

"Our best bet yet," Delaney said.

"A guy with a sheet, a short fuse, and he's a brawler. I think we better take a very close look at Mr. Bellsey."

That night, after dinner, he wanted to write out reports of the questioning of L. Vincent Symington and Ronald J. Bellsey. But Monica said firmly that she had to make a start on addressing Christmas cards, so he deferred to her wishes.

She sat in his swivel chair behind his desk in the study. As she worked, adding a short personal note to each card, he slumped in one of the worn club chairs, nursing a small Rum.

He told her about Symington and Bellsey.

When he finished, she said definitely, "It was Bellsey. He's the one who did it."

Delaney laughed softly.

"Why do you say that?"

"He sounds like a dreadful man."

"Oh, he is a dreadful man-but that doesn't make him a killer."

She went back to her Christmas cards. A soft cone of light shone down from a green student lamp on the desk. Delaney sat in dimness, staring with love and gratitude at the woman who brightened his life.

He saw her pursed lips as she wrote out her holiday greetings, dark eyes gleaming. Her glossy black hair was gathered in back with a gold barrette.

Strong face, strong woman. He thought of what his life would be like, sitting alone in that shadowed room, without her warm presence, and a small groan escaped him.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, without looking up.

He didn't tell her. Instead, he said, "Did you ever work a jigsaw puzzle?"

"When I was a kid."

"Me, too. Remember how you spilled all the pieces out of the box onto a tabletop, hoping none of them was missing.

Then you turned all the pieces picture-side up and looked for the four pieces with two straight edges. Those were the corners of the picture.

After you had those, you put together all the pieces with one straight edge to form the frame. Then you gradually filled in the picture."

She looked up at him.

"The Ellerbee case is a jigsaw puzzle?"

"Sort of."

"And you know what the picture is going to be?"

"No," he said with a tight smile, "but I see some straight edges."

Sunday was the best day of the week for Harold Gerber. He didn't have to see anyone; he didn't have to talk to anyone. He bought his Sunday Times on Saturday night, along with a couple of six-packs. The paper, the beer, and two pro football games on TV filled up his Sundays. He never left the house.

Gerber had lost a lot of weight in Vietnam and never put it back on. He had lost a lot of things there, including his appetite. So on Sunday morning he usually had some juice, a piece of toast and two cups of coffee with sugar and cream. That carried him through to evening, when he might heat up a frozen dinner that came in a cardboard box and tasted like the container.

For some reason, on Sundays he never got out the photographs and looked at them again. All those guys-grinning, scowling, laughing, mugging it up for the camera. Some of the photos were autographed, just like Gerber had autographed some of the shots they took of him. A family album…

It fed his fury since he couldn't comprehend it himself, Gerber could appreciate why other people were unable to understand the way he felt and why he did the things he did. Gerber couldn't figure it out, and no one else could either.

Doc Simon was coming close, really beginning to pin it down, but now Ellerbee was dead, and Gerber wasn't about to start all over again with another therapist. He had tried two before he found Ellerbee, but they had turned out to be bullshit artists, and Gerber knew after a few sessions that they weren't going to do him a damned bit of good.

Dr. Simon Ellerbee was different. No bullshit there. He went right in with a sharp scalpel, and all that blood didn't daunt him. He was tearing Harold Gerber apart and putting him back together again. But then Doc Simon got himself scragged and Gerber was alone again, with no one but ghosts for company.

The checks from his parents came regularly, every month, and he was on partial disability, so he wasn't hurting for money. Harold Gerber was just hurting for life, wondering if he was fated to drag his corpse through the world for maybe another fifty years, acting like a goddamn maniac and really wanting the whole fucking globe to blow up-the sooner the better.

That Sunday morning, driving down to Gerber's place in Greenwich Village, Delaney said to Boone, "I feel guilty about making you work this weekend. Rebecca probably thinks I'm a slave driver."

"Nah," Boone said.

"She's used to my working crazy hours. I guess every detective's wife is."

"Jason volunteered to come along, but weekends are the only chance he gets to spend some time with his sons. That's important, so I told him to stay home today. When the new guys come in, we should all be able to keep reasonable hours.

Did you find out anything about this Gerber?"

"Nothing. Suarez's men hadn't gotten around to him yet.

So all we have is what Doctor Diane put in her report: He's thirty-seven, a Vietnam veteran with a lot of medals and a lot of problems. Gets into fights."

"Another Ronald Bellsey?"

"Not exactly," Boone said.

"This Gerber sometimes attacks strangers for no apparent reason. And once he put his fist through a plate-glass window and ended up in St.

Vincent's Emergency where they stitched him up."

"That's nice," Delaney said.

"An angry young man." -Something like that," Boone agreed.

Harold Gerber lived in a run-down tenement on Seventh Avenue South, around the corner from Carmine Street. The windows of the first two floors were covered with tin, and the stoop was clotted with garbage.

The faigade of the six-story building was chipped, stained with rust, defaced with graffiti.

Inspecting this dump, Delaney and Boone had the same reaction: How could anyone living there afford an uptown shrink?

"Maybe he doesn't pay rent," Delaney suggested.

"See that empty lot next door? Some developer's assembling a parcel.

Once he gets the remaining tenants out, he'll demolish that wreck and have enough spare feet to put up a luxury highrise."

"Could be," Boone said.

"Right now it looks Re a Roach Motel."

In the littered vestibule they discovered all the mailboxes had been jimmied open. The intercom had been wrenched from the wall to dangle suspended from its wires. The front door had been pried open so often that now it couldn't be closed. The odor of rot and urine was gagging.

"Jesus!" Boone said.

"Let's get in and out of here fast."

"Have we got an apartment number for him?"

"No. We'll have to bang on doors."

They cautiously climbed a tilted wooden stairway, the loose banister carved and hacked. More graffiti on the damp plaster walls. The doors on the first two floors were nailed shut. They began knocking on third-floor doors. No answers.

No sounds of habitation.

They got an answer on the fourth floor.

"Go away," a woman screamed, "or I'll call the cops."

"Lady, we are the cops," Boone shouted back.

"We're looking for Harold Gerber. What apartment?"

"Never heard of him."

They went up to the fifth, stepping over piles of broken laths and crumbling plaster. They found two more occupied apartments, but no doors were unlocked, and no one knew Harold Gerber-they said.

Finally, on the sixth floor, they banged on the chipped door of the rear apartment.

"Who is it?" a man yelled.

"New York Police Department. We're looking for Harold Gerber."

"What for?" Delaney and Boone looked at each other.

"It's about Doctor Simon Ellerbee," Boone said.

"A few questions."

They heard the sounds of bolts sliding back. The door was opened on a thick chain. They saw a slice of a man clad in a turtleneck sweater and pwd mackinaw.

"ID?" he said in a hoarse voice.

The Sergeant held up his shield. The chain was slipped, the door was opened.

"Welcome to the Taj Mahal," the man said.

"Keep your coats on if you don't want to freeze your ass off."

They stepped in and looked around.

It. was a slough, and obviously the occupant had done nothing to make it even marginally livable. Clothing and possessions were piled helterskelter on the cot, a single rickety bureau, on the floor. The scummy sink was piled with unwashed dishes. the two-burner stove thick with grease. It was so cold that the inside of the window was coated with a skim of ice.

The toilet's in the hall," the man said, grinning.

"But I wouldn't recommend it."

J Harold Gerber?" Boone asked.

"Yeah."

I "May we sit down, please?" Delaney asked.

"I'm worn out from that climb.

My name is Delaney and this is Sergeant Abner Boone." Sergeant…"

Gerber said in his gravelly voice.

"I was a sergeant once. Then I got busted."

He threw clothing off the cot, removed a six-pack from one spindly chair, and lifted a small black-and-white TV set from another.

"We still got electricity and water," he said, "but no heat.

The fucking landlord is freezing us out. Take it easy when you sit down; the legs are loose."

They gingerly eased onto the chairs. Gerber sat on the cot.

"You think I did it?" he said with a cracked grin.

"Did what?" Boone said.

"Fragged Doc Ellerbee."

"Did you?" Delaney asked.

"Shit, no. But I could have." -Why?" Boone said.

"Why would you want to kill him?"

"Who needs a reason? You like my home?"

"It's a shithouse," Delaney told him.

Gerber laughed.

"Yeah, just the way I want it. When they tear this joint down, I'm going to look for another place just like it. A buddy of mine-he lives in Idaho-came back from Nam and tried to pick up his life. He gave it six months and couldn't hack it. So he took off all his clothes, every stitch, and walked bare-ass naked into the woods without a thing-no weapons, no watch, no matches- absolutely nothing. Well, Manhattan is my woods. I like living like this."

"What happened to him?" Delaney said.

"Your buddy."

"A ranger came across him a couple of years later. He was wearing clothes and moccasins made out of animal skins. His hair and beard were long and matted. He had built himself a lean-to and planted some wild stuff he found growing in the woods that he could eat. Made a bow and arrows. Set traps.

Had plenty of meat. He was doing great. Never saw anyone, never talked to anyone. I wish I had the balls to do something like that."

They stared at him, seeing a lean, hollowed face shadowed by a three-day beard. The skin was pasty white, nose bony, eyes brightly wild. Uncombed hair spiked out from under a black beret. Gerber moved jerkily, gestures short and broken.

The sweater and mackinaw hung loosely on his lank frame.

Even his fingers seemed skeletal, the nails gnawed away. And on his feet, heavy boots.

"You wear those boots all the time?" Boone said.

"These? Sure. They're fleece-lined. I even sleep in them.

I'd lose toes if I didn't."

"How long did you know Doctor Ellerbee?" Delaney asked.

"I don't want to talk about that," Gerber said.

"You don't want to help us find his killer?" Boone said.

"So he's dead," Gerber said, shrugging.

"Half the guys I've known in my life are dead."

"He didn't die of old age," Delaney said grimly.

"And he didn't die in an accident or in a war. Someone deliberately bashed in his skull."

"Big deal," Gerber said.

Delaney looked at him steadily.

"You goddamned cocksucking son of a bitch," he said tonelessly.

"You mother fucking piece of shit. You wallow in your pigsty here, feeling sorry for yourself and, gosh, life is unfair, and gee, you got a raw deal, and no one knows how sensitive you are and how it all hurts, you lousy scumbag. And meanwhile, a good and decent manworth ten of the likes of you-gets burned, and you won't lift a finger to help find his murderer because you want the whole world to be as miserable as you are.

Ellerbee's biggest mistake was trying to help a turd like you. Come on, Sergeant, let's go; we don't need any help from this asshole."

There was cold silence as they began to rise warily from their chairs.

But then Harold Gerber held out a hand to stop them.

"What's your name? Delehanty?"

"Delaney."

Delaney; you're a no-bullshit guy. Doc Simon was like that, but he didn't have your gift of gab. All right, I'll play your little game.

What do you want to know?" They eased back onto the fragile chairs.

"When was the last time you saw Ellerbee?" Boone asked.

"The papers said he was killed around nine o'clock. Right?

I saw him five hours earlier, at four o'clock that Friday afternoon. My usual time. It'll be in the appointment book."

"Was he acting normally?"

"Sure.

"Notice any change in him in the last six months or a year?"

"What kind of change?"

"In his manner, the way he acted."

"No," Gerber said, "I didn't notice anything."

"Do you know any of his other patients?" Delaney asked.

"No.

"Did Ellerbee ever mention that he had been attacked or threatened by anyone?"

"No.

"Did you ever attack him?" Boone said.

"Or threaten him?"

"Now why would I want to do anything like that? The guy was trying to help me."

"Analysis is supposed to be painful," Delaney said.

"Weren't there times when you hated him?"

"Sure there were. But those were temporary things. I never hated him enough to off him. He was my only lifeline." -What are you going to do now? Find another lifeline?"

"No," Gerber said, then grinned: a death's-head.

"I'll just go on wallowing in my pigsty.","Do, you own a ball peen hammer?" Boone asked abruptly.

"No, I do not own a ball peen hammer. Okay? I'm going to have a beer.

Anyone want one?"

They both declined.. Gerber popped the tab on a can of Pabst and settled back on the cot, leaning against the clammy wall.

"How often did you see Ellerbee?" Delaney said.

"Twice a week. I'd have gone more often if I could have afforded it. He was helping me."

"When was the last time you got in trouble?"

"Ah-ha," Gerber said, showing his teeth.

"You know about that, do you?

Well, I haven't acted up in the last six months or so. Doc Simon told me if I got the urge-felt real out, you know -I could call him any hour of the day or night. I never did, but just knowing he was there was a big help."

"Where were you the Friday night he got killed?"

"Bar-hopping around the Village."

"In the rain?"

"That's right. I didn't get home until after midnight. I was in the bag."

"Do you remember where you went?"

"I have some favorite hangouts. I guess I went there."

"See anyone you know? Talk to anyone?"

"The bartenders. They'll probably remember me; I'm the world's smallest tipper-if I tip at all. Usually I stiff them.

Bartenders and waiters tend to remember things like that."

"Can you recall where you were from, say, eight o'clock to ten?"

"No, I can't."

"You better try," Boone advised.

"Make out a list of your hangouts-the ones you hit that Friday night.

There'll be another cop coming around asking questions."

"Shit," Gerber said, "I've told you guys all I know."

"I don't think so," Delaney said coldly.

"I think you're holding out on us."

"Sure I am," Gerber said in his hoarse voice.

"My deep, dark secret is that I once met Doc Simon's wife and I wanted to jump her. She's some sweet piece. Now are you satisfied?"

"You think this is all a big, fat joke, don't you?" Delaney said.

"Let me tell you what we're going to do about you, Mr. Gerber. We're going to check you out from the day you were popped to this minute.

We're going to talk to your family, relatives, friends. We'll go into your military record from A to Z. We'll even find out why you got busted from sergeant.

Then we'll talk to people in this building, your women, the bartenders, anyone you deal with. We'll question the strangers you assaulted and the doctors at St. Vincent's who stitched you up. By the time we're through, we'll know more about you than you know about yourself. So don't play cute with us, Mr. Gerber; you haven't got a secret in the world. Come on, Boone, let's go; I need some fresh air."

While they were picking their way carefully down the filthy staircase, Boone said in a low voice, "Are we really going to do all that, sir?

What you told him?"

"Hell, no," Delaney said grumpily.

"We haven't got the time."

They sat in the car a few moments, the heater coughing away, while Boone lighted a cigarette.

"You really think he's holding out?" Boone asked.

"I don't know," Delaney said, troubled.

"That session was nutsville. His moods shifted around so often and so quickly.

One minute he's cooperating, and the next he's a wiseass cracking jokes.

But remember, the man was in a dirty war and probably did his share of killing. For some guys-not all, but some-once they've killed, the others come easier until it doesn't mean a goddamn thing to them. The first is the hard one. Then it's just as mechanical as a habit. A life? What's that?"

"I feel sorry for him," Boone said.

"Sure. I do, too. But I feel sorrier for Simon Ellerbee.

We've got to ration our sympathy in this world, Sergeant; we only have so much. Listen, it's still early; why don't we skip lunch and drive up to Chelsea. Maybe we can catch Joan Yesell at home. Then we'll be finished and can take the rest of the day off."

"Sounds good to me. Let's go."

Joan Yesell lived on West 24th Street, in a staid block of almost identical brownstones. It was a pleasingly clean street, garbage tucked away in lidded cans, the gutters swept. Windows were washed, faqades free of graffiti, and a line of naked ginkgo trees waited for spring.

"Now this is something like," Delaney said approvingly, "Little Old New York. 0. Henry lived somewhere around here, didn't he?"

"East of here, sir," Boone said.

"In the Gramercy Park area. The bar where he drank is still in business."

"in your drinking days, Sergeant, did you ever fall into Mcsorley's Old Ale House?"

"I fell into every bar in the city."

"Miss it?" Delaney asked curiously.

"Oh, God, yes! Every day of my life. You remember the highs; you don't remember wetting the bed."

"How long have you been dry now-four years?"

"About. But dipsos don't count years; you take it day by day."

"I guess," Delaney said, sighing.

"My old man owned a saloon on Third Avenue-did you know that?"

"No, I didn't," Boone said, interested.

"When was this?"

"Oh, hell, a long time ago. I worked behind the stick on afternoons when I was going to night school. I saw my share of boozers. Maybe that's why I never went off the deep end -although I do my share, as you well know.

Enough of this.

What have you got on Joan Yesell?"

"One of Suarez's boys checked her out. Lives with her widowed mother.

Works as a legal secretary in a big law firm up on Park. Takes home a nice buck. Never been married.

Those three suicide attempts Doctor Diane mentioned proved out in emergency room records. She claims that on the evening Ellerbee was killed she was home all night. Got back from work around six o'clock and never went out. Her mother confirms."

"All right," Delaney said, "let's go through the drill again.

The last time-I hope."

The ornate wood molding in the vestibule had been painted a hellish orange.

"Look at this," Delaney said, rapping it with a knuckle.

"Probably eighteen coats of paint on there. You strip it down and there's beautiful walnut or cherry underneath. You can't buy molding like that anymore. Someone did a lousy restoration job."

There were two names opposite the bell for apartment 3-C: Mrs. Blanche Yesell and J. Yesell.

"The mother gets the title and full first name," Delaney noted.

"The daughter rates an initial."

Boone identified himself on the intercom. A moment later the door lock buzzed and they entered. The interior was clean, smelling faintly of disinfectant, but the colors of the walls and carpeting were garish. The only decorative touch was a plastic dwarf in a rattan planter.

The ponderous woman waiting outside the closed door of apartment 3-C eyed them suspiciously.

"I am Mrs. Blanche Yesell," she announced in a hard voice, "and you don't look like policemen to me."

Sergeant Boone silently proffered his ID. She had wire-rimmed pince-nez hanging from her thick neck on a black silk cord. She clamped the spectacles onto her heavy nose and inspected the shield and identification card carefully while they inspected her.

The blue-rinsed hair was pyramided like a beehive. Her features were coarse and masculine. (Later, Boone was to say, "She looks like a truck driver in drag.") She had wide shoulders, a deep bosom, and awesome hips. All in all, a formidable woman with meaty hands and big feet shod in nononsense shoes.

"Is this about Doctor Ellerbee?" she demanded, handing Boone's ID back to him.

"Yes, ma'am. This gentleman is Edward Delaney, and we'd Re to-2' "I don't want my Joan bothered," Mrs. Yesell interrupted.

"Hasn't the poor girl been through enough? She's already told you everything she knows. More questions will just upset her.

I won't stand for it."

"Mrs. Yesell," Delaney said mildly, "I assure you we have no desire to upset your daughter. But we are investigating a brutal murder, and I know that you and your daughter want to do everything you can to help bring the vile perpetrator to justice." Bemused by this flossy language, the Sergeant shot Delaney an amazed glance, but the plushy rhetoric seemed to mollify Mrs. Yesell.

"Well, of course," she said, sniffing, "I and my Joan want to do everything we can to aid the forces of law and order."

"Splendid," Delaney said, beaming.

"Just a few questions then, and we'll be finished and gone before you can say Jack Robinson."

"I used to know a man named Jack Robinson," she said with a girlish titter.

A certified nut, Sergeant Boone thought.

She opened the door and led the way into the apartment.

As overstuffed as she was: velvets and chintz and tassels and lace and ormolu, and whatnots, all in stunning profusion. Plus two sleepy black cats as plump as hassocks.

"Perky and Yum-Yum," Mrs. Yesell said, gesturing proudly.

"Aren't they cunning? Let me have your coats, gentlemen, and you make yourselves comfortable."

They perched gingerly on the edge of an ornate, pseudovictorian love seat and waited until Mrs. Yesell had seated herself opposite them in a heavily brocaded tub chair complete with antimacassar.

"Now then," she said, leaning forward, "how may I help you?"

They looked at each other, then back at her.

"Ma'am," Sergeant Boone said softly, "it's your daughter we came to talk to. She's home?"

"Well, she's home, but she's lying down right now, resting, and I wouldn't care to disturb her. Besides, I'm sure I can answer all your questions."

"I'm afraid not," Delaney said brusquely.

"Your daughter is the one we came to see. If we can't question her today, we'll have to return again until we can."

She glared at him, but he would not be cowed.

"Oh, very well," she said.

"But it's really quite unnecessary. Oh, Joan!" si7e caroled.

"Visitors!"

Right on cue, and much too promptly for one who had been lying down, resting, Joan Yesell entered from the bedroom with a timid smile. The men stood to be introduced.

Then the daughter took a straight-back chair and sat with hands clasped in her lap, ankles demurely crossed.

"Miss Yesell," Boone started, "we know how the murder of Doctor Simon Ellerbee must have shocked you."

"My Joan was devastated," Mrs. Yesell said.

"Just devastated." Another one! Delaney thought.

Boone continued: "But I'm sure you appreciate our need to talk to all his patients in the investigation of his death. Could you tell us the last time you saw Doctor Simon?"

"On Wednesday afternoon," the mother said promptly.

"The Wednesday before he died. At one o'clock."

The Sergeant sighed.

"Mrs. Yesell, these questions are addressed to your daughter. It would be best if she answered."

"On Wednesday afternoon," Joan Yesell said.

"The Wednesday before he died.

At one o'clock."

Her voice was so low, tentative, that they strained to hear.

She kept her head down, staring at her clasped hands.

"That was the usual time for your appointment?"

"Yes.

"How often did you see Doctor Simon?"

"Twice a week."

"And how long had you been consulting him?"

"Four years."

"Three," Mrs. Yesell said firmly.

"It's been three years, dear."

"Three years," the daughter said faintly.

"About."

"Did Doctor Ellerbee ever mention to you that he had been attacked or threatened by any of his patients?"

"No." Then she raised her head to look at them with faraway eyes.

"Once he was mugged while he was walking to his garage late at night, but that happened years ago."

"Miss Yesell," Delaney said, "I have a question you may feel is too personal to answer. If you prefer not to reply, we'll understand completely.

Why were you going to Doctor Ellerbee?"

She didn't answer at once. The clasped hands began to twist, "I don't see -- 2' Mrs. Yesell began, but then her daughter spoke.

"I was depressed," she said slowly.

"Very depressed. I attempted suicide.

You probably know about that."

"And you feel Doctor Simon was helping you?"

She came briefly alive.

"Oh, yes! So much!"

She could not, in all kindness, be called an attractive young woman. Not ugly, but grayly plain. Mousy hair and a pinched face devoid of makeup.

She lacked her mother's bold presence and seemed daunted by the older woman's assertiveness.

Her clothing was monochromatic: sweater, skirt, hose, shoes-all of a dull beige. Her complexion had the same cast.

She looked, if not unwell, sluggish and beaten. Even her movements had an invalid's languor; her thin body was without shape or vigor.

"Miss Yesell," Boone said, "did you notice any change in Doctor Simon recently? In his manner toward you or in his personality?"

"No "I Mrs. Blanche Yesell said.

"No change."

"Madam," Delaney thundered, "will you allow your daughter to answer our questions -please." Joan Yesell hesitated.

"Perhaps," she said finally. "The last year or so.

He seemed-oh, I don't know exactly. Happier, I think. Yes, he seemed happier. More-more lighthearted. He joked."

"And he had never joked before?"

"No."

"You have stated," Boone said, "that on the night Ellerbee was killed, you returned home directly from work and never went out again until the following day. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

Delaney turned to Mrs. Yesell with a bleak smile.

"Now is your chance, ma'am," he said.

"Can you confirm your daughter's presence here that night?"

"Of course."

"Did you have any visitors, see any neighbors, make or receive any phone calls that night?"

"No, we did not," she said decisively.

"Just the two of us were here."

"Read? Watched television?"

"We played two-handed bridge."

"Oh?" Delaney said, rising to his feet.

"And who won?"

"Mama," Joan Yesell said in her wispy voice.

"Mama always wins."

They thanked the ladies politely for their help, reclaimed coats and hats, and left. They didn't speak until they were back in the car.

"I can understand why the daughter's depressed," Delaney remarked.

"Yeah," Boone said.

"The old lady's a dragon."

"She is that," Delaney agreed.

"The only time the daughter contradicted her was about Ellerbee's manner changing. The mother said no."

"How the hell would she know?" Boone said.

"She wasn't seeing him twice a week."

"Exactly," Delaney said.

"Could you drop me uptown, Sergeant? Let's call it a day."

Just before Delaney got out of the car in front of his brownstone, Boone said, "If you had to make a wild guess, sir, which of the six would you pick as the perp?"

"Oh, I don't know," Delaney said thoughtfully.

"Maybe Ronald Bellsey. But only because I don't like the guy. Who's your choice?"

"Harold Gerber-for the same reason. We're probably both wrong."

Delaney grunted.

"Probably. Too bad. there's not a butler involved. See you tomorrow morning, Sergeant. Give my best to Rebecca."

Monica was in the kitchen, cutting up chicken wings. She had four prepared bowls before her: Dijon mustard, Worcestershire sauce, chicken broth, flavored bread crumbs. She looked up when he came in, and he bent to kiss her cheek.

"Just one sandwich," he pleaded.

"I haven't had a thing all day, and we're not eating for hours. One sandwich won't spoil my appetite."

"All right, Edward. Just one."

He rummaged through the refrigerator, saying, "I really deserve this.

I've had a hard day. Did you know that psychiatrists have a very high suicide rate? The highest of all doctors except ophthalmologists."

He was standing at the sink, but turned to face her, sandwich clamped in one big hand, a glass of beer in the other.

"Don't tell me you think Doctor Ellerbee crushed in his own skull with a hammer?"

"No, I just mentioned it because I'm beginning to understand what shrinks go through. No wonder they need a month a year to recharge their batteries. These patients of Ellerbee's are wild ones. It's hard to get a handle on them. They don't live in my world."

Monica nodded.

"Do you think women are more sensitive than men?" he asked her.

"Sensitive?" Monica said.

"Physically, you mean? Like ticklisht."

"No, not that. Sensitive to emotions, feelings, the way people behave.

We've been asking everyone if they noticed any change recently in Doctor Ellerbee's manner. The reason is to find out if he was being threatened or blackmailed or anything like that. All the men we asked said they saw no change. But so far, three women have said yes, they noticed a change.

They don't agree on how he changed, but all three said there was a difference in his manner in the last six months. That's why I asked you if women are more sensitive to that sort of thing than men."

"Yes," Monica said, "we are."

Five hours later, when Delaney had finished bringing his files up to the minute and Monica had long since cleaned up the dinner dishes, he came out of his study and asked, "Do you know anyone who's under analysis?"

She looked up at him.

"Yes, Edward, I know two or three women who are in therapy."

"Well, will you ask them how they pay? I mean, do they fork over cash or a check after every session or does the doctor bill them by the month?

I'm just curious about how the shrink's money comes in."

"You think that has something to do with Ellerbee's murder?"

"I don't know. There's so much I don't know about this case. Like how does a psychiatrist get patients? Referrals from other doctors? Or do patients walk in off the street or use the Yellow Pages? I just don't know."

"I'll ask around," Monica promised.

"I suspect every case is different."

"I suspect the same thing," he grumbled.

"Makes it hard to figure percentages."

And, four hours later, when they were in their upstairs bedroom preparing for sleep, he said, "I haven't even looked at the Sunday Times. Was there anything on the Ellerbee case?"

"I didn't notice anything. But there's an interesting article in the magazine section about new colors for women's hair.

Would you like me to get pink streaks, Edward?"

"I'd prefer kelly green," he said.

"But suit yourself."

"Monster," she said affably and crawled into her bed.

"You know what I think?" he said.

"I think absolute craziness and absolute normality are extremes, and very few people fit into either category. Most of us suffer varying degrees of abnormality that can range from mild eccentricity to outright psychosis. Look at that article on hair coloring. I'll bet a lot of women are going to dye their hair pink or orange or purple.

That doesn't make them all whackos."

"What's your point, Edward?"

"This afternoon I said those patients we've been questioning don't live in my world. But that's not true; they do live in my world. They're just a little farther along toward craziness than I am, so I find it difficult to understand them."

"What you're saying is that we're all loonies, some more, some less."

"Yes," he said gratefully.

"That's what I mean. I've got to keep in mind that I share the patients' queerness, but to a milder degree."

She turned her head to stare at him.

"Don't be so sure of that, buster," she said, and he gave a great hoot of laughter and climbed into her bed.

I stopped at the precinct on my way over," Boone said on Monday morning.

"Talked to the Sergeant handling paperwork for Suarez's investigation.

He says the new people will be here by nine o'clock. Gave me a copy of the roster. He wasn't happy about losing them."

"No," Delaney said, "I don't imagine he would be."

"You don't think Chief Suarez will send us six dummies, do you, sir?"

Jason T. Jason asked.

"Sabotage?" Delaney said, smiling.

"No, I don't think he'll do that. Not with Deputy Thorsen looking over his shoulder.

But if any of these men don't work out, we'll ask for replacements."

"They're not all men, sir," Boone said.

"Five men and a woman. And one of the guys is a black-Robert Keisman.

You know him, Jose?"

"Oh, sure. He's a sharp cat; you won't need a replacement for him. They call him the Spoiler because for a time there he was assigned to busting bunco artists and three-card-monte games in the Times Square area. One of the guys he grabbed screamed, "You're spoiling all our fun!" and the name stuck.

You know any of the others, Sergeant?"

"I've worked with two of them. Not much flash, but they're solid enough.

Benny Calazo has been around a hundred years. He's slowing down some, but he still makes all the right moves. The other guy I know is Ross Konigsbacher.

He's a dick two. They call him Kraut. He's built like a dumpster, and maybe he likes to use his hands too much. But he's thorough; I'll say that for him. The other people I don't know."

"All right," Delaney said.

"Let's get set up for this. We're going to need more chairs in here-five more should do it."

They carried in chairs from the living room and kitchen and arranged them in a rough semicircle facing the desk in the study. They also brought in extra ashtrays.

"I was going to let them read my reports on the six patients," Delaney said, "but I decided not to. I don't want them prejudiced by my reactions to those people. We'll just give them a brief introduction, hand them their assignments, and turn them loose. I'm hoping we can get them out on the street by noon. You two decide who you want to partner first, then switch around from day to day."

The new recruits began arriving a little before 9:00 A.M. Sergeant Boone served as doorman, showing them where to hang their coats and bringing them back to the study to introduce them to Delaney and Jason Two.

By 9:15, everyone was present and Boone closed the doors. Delaney had hidden his glasses away, firmly believing wearing spectacles while issuing orders was counterproductive, being a sign of physical infirmity in a commanding officer.

"My name is Edward X. Delaney," he said in a loud, forceful voice.

"Former Captain, Commander of the Two-Five-One Precinct, and former Chief of Detectives prior to my retirement several years ago. As you probably know, I am assisting Chief Suarez in his investigation of the Ellerbee homicide.

Are you all familiar with that case?"

They nodded.

"Good," he said.

"Then I won't have to repeat the details.

By the way, you can smoke if you like."

He waited while a few of them lighted cigarettes. Detective Brian Estrella, a string bean of a man, took pipe and pouch from his jacket pockets and started slowly packing the tobacco.

Delaney told them that the first job of this "task force," as he called it, was to investigate six,of the victim's patients who had a history of violence. He emphasized that these people were not yet considered suspects, just subjects worth checking out in depth. Later they might have to investigate other of Ellerbee's patients.

"The first thing you'll want to do," he said, "is to run them through Records and see if any of them have sheets." He said that eventually each detective would be assigned to one patient. But for the first few days, they'd be moved around, meeting the patients, questioning them, digging into their backgrounds and personal lives.

"We're hoping," he continued, "you will each find one subject who will think you simpatico and talk a little more freely. Now let me give you a rundown on the people we're dealing with – " He was gratified to see all the detectives take out their notebooks and ballpoints.

He delivered brief summaries of the six patients.

When he finished, he turned to Boone.

"Anything to add, Sergeant?"

"Not about the people, sir; I think you've covered what we know. But the hammer…"

"I was getting to that."

Delaney told them that the murder weapon was apparently a ball peen hammer.

It had not been found, and none of the six subjects had admitted owning such a tool. He urged them to make a search for the hammer an important part of their investigation.

He also reminded them of the two sets of footprints and suggested they query the subjects as to ownership of rubbers, galoshes, boots, or any other type of foul-weather footwear.

"If you can get their shoe size," he told them, "so much the better. We have photos of the footprints. Anything else, Boone?"

"No, sir."

"Anything you want to add, Jason?"

"No, sir."

"All right," Delaney said to the others.

"Any questions?"

The female detective, Helen K. Venable, raised her hand.

"Sir," she said, "are these people all crackpots?"

There was some amused laughter, but Delaney didn't smile.

"This job is going to take patience and understanding.

Your first impression might be of a bunch of whackos, but don't underestimate them because of that. Remember, quite possibly one of them had the intelligence, resolve, and cunning to zap Doctor Ellerbee and, so far, get away with it."

Benjamin Calazo, the old gumshoe, raised a meaty hand.

"I'd like to take Isaac Kane. My brother's kid is retarded. A sweet boy, no harm in him, but like you said, he needs patience and understanding.

I've learned to deal with him, so if it's okay with you, I'd like to take on Isaac Kane."

"Fine with me," Delaney said.

"Anyone else got a preference?"

Robert Keisman, the Spoiler, spoke up: "If no one else wants him, I'll start with the Vietnam vet-what's his name?

Gerber? I can jive with those guys."

"He's all yours," Delaney said.

"Just watch your back; I think the kid can be dangerous. Any other preferences?"

There were none, so they set to work making assignments, arranging schedules, exchanging phone numbers so any of them could be reached at any hour, either directly or by leaving a message.

Boone selected Detectives Konigsbacher, Calazo, and Venable for his squad. Jason had Estrella, the pipe smoker; Keisman; and Timothy (Big Tim) Hogan, a short, blunt man as bald as a peeled egg.

Delaney impressed on all of them the need for daily reports, as complete as they could make them.

"Include everything," he told them.

"Even if it seems silly or insignificant. If you think it's important, contact Boone or Jason immediately. If you can't get hold of them, call me any hour of the day or night. Now let's get moving. The trail is getting colder by the day, and the Department wants to close out this file as soon as possible. If you need cars, backup, special equipment, or the cooperation of technical squads, just yell."

They all shook his hand and tramped out, along with Boone and Jason.

Delaney returned the extra chairs to their proper places and emptied the ashtrays. Then he called Suarez, but the Chief was in a meeting and not available.

Delaney left his name and asked that Suarez call him back.

He sat at his desk, put on his reading glasses, lighted a cigar. Working from the duty roster, from what Boone and Jason had told him, and from his own observations, he made a list of the newly assigned detectives on a pad of yellow legal paper. it went like this: Boone's squad1. Ross (Kraut) Konigsbacher. Heavy. Muscular. Blond mustache. Likes to use fists. Faint scar over left eyebrow.

2. Benjamin Calazo. Old flatfoot. White hair. Heavy hands, keratosis on backs. Picked Isaac Kane.

3. Helen K. Venable. Short. Chubby. Reddish brown hair.

Very intense. Deep voice.

Jason's squadi. Brian Estrella. Tall. Stringy. Smokes pipe.

Left-handed.

Prominent Adam's apple.

2. Robert (Spoiler) Keisman. Black. Slender. Elegant.

Packs shoulder holster. Picked Harold Gerber.

3. Timothy (Big Tim) Hogan. Stubby. Bald. Big ears.

Nicotine-stained fingers. Whiny voice.

Finished, Delaney read over the list and could visualize the new people, recognize them as individuals. He put his notes in the back of the top drawer of his desk. Comments on their performance would be added later.

Some of them might earn citations out of this.

Pushing aside the yellow pad, he searched through his file cabinet and dug out a wide worksheet pad designed for accountants. It had fourteen ruled columns and provided enough horizontal lines for what he proposed to devise: a time schedule for the night Dr. Simon Ellerbee was murdered.

He listed the names of individuals at the top of columns.

Down the left margin of the page he noted times from 4:00 P.m. on the fatal day to 1:54 A.M when the body was discovered.

This was donkeywork, he knew, but it had to be done. It would require constant reference to the reports, statements, and Dr. Ellerbee's records in his file cabinet. And all the times would be approximate.

Even the time of death, estimated at nine o'clock by the ME, could be off by an hour or more.

Still, you had to start somewhere.

He started with the first column: Dr. Simon Ellerbee: 4:00 P.m.-Appointment with Harold Gerber. 5:00-Appointment with Mrs. Lola Brizio. Who is she?

Check. 6:00-Tells wife he expects late patient, but doesn't tell her who or when. Appointment not listed in book. Receptionist doesn't know who or when. Tells wife he will leave T N. Y for Brewster at 9:00. That suggests late patient at 7:00 or 8:00. 9:00-Dead.

Dr. Diane Ellerbee: 6:00-Leaves office after speaking to husband. 6:30-Departs Manhattan, driving. 8:00-Arrives Brewster home. 11:30-Calls Manhattan office. No answer. Calls twice more, times not stated. 12:00-Calls Brewster police. No report of highway accident.

Calls Manhattan garage, time not stated, learns Simon's car is still in slot. 1: 15 -Calls Dr. Samuelson.

Dr. Julius K. Samuelson: 7:00 P.m.-?-Dinner with friends at Russian Tea Room. 8:30- 11:30 -Concert at Carnegie Hall. 11:30-12:30(?)-Nightcap at St. Moritz. 1: 15 A. m.-Receives Diane's call. 1:45-Arrives 84th Street townhouse. 1: 54 -Finds body, calls 911.

When the phone rang, Delaney was startled and jagged his pen across the page.

"Chief Suarez is calling," a voice announced.

"How are you doing, Chief," Delaney asked.

"Surviving," Suarez said with a sigh.

"I hope you have some good news for me."

"I'm afraid not, Chief, but I would like to get together with you-just to keep you informed of what we're doing."

"Yes," Suarez said, "I would appreciate that."

"Would you care to drop by here, Chief? I'll be in all day and it shouldn't take long."

A hesitation.

"A bad day. So much to do. I do not expect to get uptown until this evening. Will eight or nine o'clock be too late for you?"

"Not at all. I'll be here."

"Suppose I stop at your place on my way home. I will call you first to tell you when I am leaving. Will that be satisfactory?"

"That's fine," Delaney said.

"See you tonight."

He put down the receiver, and went back to the time schedule.

Henry Ellerbee: 9:00-Charity dinner at Plaza. Presence confirmed.

Receptionist: 5:00 or 6:00?-When did she leave. Check.

Isaac Kane: 9:00-Leaves Community Center when it closes. Goes home?

Sylvia Mae Otherton: 9:00-At home alone. No confirmation.

L. Vincent Symington: 9:00-Dinner-dance at Hilton. Could have left, gone back.

Ronald J. Bellsey: 9:00-Home all night. Wife confirms.

Harold Gerber: 9:00-Bar-hopping, no recollection of where. No confirmation.

Joan Yesell: 9:00-Home all night. Mother confirms.

Delaney had just started reading over what he had written when the phone rang again. It was Boone.

"I'm in Ronald Bellsey's garage with the Kraut," he reported.

"Bellsey's Cadillac is here. I called his meat market, and he's at work all right. There's no one around. I can get into that Cadillac trunk.

I've got my picks."

He paused. Delaney thought it over.

"Where are you calling from, Sergeant?"

"A public phone in the garage."

"All right, go into the trunk. Just look it over, then call me back. If there's any trouble, I authorized you to make the break-in, and Chief Suarez and Deputy Thorsen authorized me. Don't put your ass on the line."

"There won't be any trouble," Boone assured him.

"Right now the place is deserted, and the Kraut will stand lookout."

"Call me back," Delaney repeated, and hung up.

He tried to concentrate on the time schedule, but couldn't.

When the phone rang again, he grabbed it.

"Boone again," the Sergeant said in an excited voice.

"I got in! There's a ball peen hammer in there, an old one, all greasy."

"Glom on to it," Delaney said at once.

"Get it to the techs as soon as possible. Can you relock the trunk?"

"No strain."

"Good. Bellsey will never miss his hammer for a day or two." He hung up, smiling, and went back to the schedule, satisfied that things were beginning to happen. They were making them happen.

He read over the timetable twice, paying attention to every word. Then he pushed the pad away, leaned back in his swivel chair, lighted a cigar.

What interested him even more than those half-confirmed and unconfirmed alibis was what Dr. Simon Ellerbee did the last three hours of his life.

Did the mystery patient show up and stay longer than usual? Not likely; every patient got the forty-five-minute hour.

Did Ellerbee work at his caseload while waiting for the patient to arrive?

Did he read, listen to music, watch television?

Delaney looked at his watch and thought of a sandwich.

Eat! When did the bastard eat? He told his wife he'd be leaving New York about nine o'clock. Even if he were planning on a late supper in Brewster at 10:30, that was a long time to go without food. Delaney didn't think it was humanly possible.

He retrieved the autopsy report from the file and flipped through the pages until he found what he sought. The victim had eaten about an hour before his death. Stomach. contents included boiled ham, Swiss cheese, rye bread, mustard. Ellerbee had been a man after his own heart.

So part of those three hours had been spent consuming a sandwich. Did Ellerbee go out for it? In that weather? Doubtful. He probably went down one floor to the kitchen and made himself a snack. But that wouldn't use up many minutes of that three-hour period.

The gap in the victim's time schedule bothered Delaney. It was not neat, ordered, logical-the way he liked things. Too many unanswered questions:

1. Why didn't Ellerbee tell his wife the name of the late patient and when he or she was expected?