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.
