'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 amp;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.
