deeper into the irrational world of Ellerbee's patients.
Hundreds of facts, rumors, and guesses had been accumulated, with more coming in every day. What detection came down to, in a case of this nature, a matter of choice.
Selection: that was the detective's secret-and the poet's.
He was bleary-eyed when Jason and Keisman arrived, providing a welcome break.
Delaney listened carefully as the Spoiler gave a complete accounting of his most recent conversation with Harold Gerber.
When the black detective finished, Delaney stared at him thoughtfully.
'What's your take?' Delaney finally asked.
'You think he was telling the truth or was it just drunken bragging?'
'Sir, I can't give you a definite answer, but I think it's a big possible. That guy is bonkers.'
'So far we've had at least ten fake confessions on the Ellerbee homicide. Suarez's men have checked them all out.
Zero, zip, zilch. Just crazies and people wanting publicity. But we've got to take this one seriously.'
'Pull him in?' Jason suggested.
'No,' Delaney said.
'If he turns out to be clean, that will be the end of Keisman's contact with him. He'll know who spilled the confession.'
'You can say that again,' the Spoiler agreed.
'And I really don't enjoy the idea of that whacko being sore at me.'
'Then you'll have to check out his confession yourself.
Find out what time he got there. Did he have an appointment?
Was he the late patient? How did he get up to Ellerbee's office: subway, bus, taxi? He knows the victim was killed with a ball peen hammer because Boone and I asked him if he owned one and he said no. So ask him where he got the hammer, and check it out. Then ask him what he did with the hammer after he killed Ellerbee, and check that out. Ask him how many times he hit the victim and how Ellerbee fell. Facedown or up?
Finally, ask him if he did anything else to the corpse. That business of the two hammer blows to the eyes was never released to the media; only the killer would know about it. I could be wrong, but I think Gerber is just blowing smoke. He may have thought about chilling Ellerbee, maybe dreamed about it, but I don't think he did it. He's so fucked-up that he'd admit kidnapping Judge Crater if it occurred to him.'
'I feel sorry for the guy,' Jason said.
'Sure,' Delaney said, 'but don't feel too sorry. Remember, he could be our pigeon. But what-interests me even more than the confession was what he wanted to do to the fat guy at the bar. Keisman, you think he meant it?'
'Absolutely,' the Spoiler said immediately.
'I'm convinced of that. If I hadn't calmed him down and got him talking about other things, he'd have jumped the guy.'
'Well, he's done it before,' Delaney said.
'The man is a walking disaster.
Jason, I think you better work on this, too.
Check out that confession both ways from the middle. Keisman, were you able to find out where Gerber was drinking the night of the murder?'
'Negative, sir. I talked to three or four bartenders who know him-they all say he's strictly bad news-but none of them can remember whether or not he came in that Friday night. After all, it was weeks ago.'
Delaney nodded, looking down at his clasped hands. He was quiet a long moment, then he spoke in a low voice without raising his eyes.
'Do me a favor, Jason. There's got to be a counseling service for Vietnam veterans somewhere in town. A therapy clinic maybe, or just a place where he can go and talk with other vets. See if you can get some help for him, will you? I hate to see that guy go down the drain. Even if he didn't zap Ellerbee, he's heading for bad trouble.'
'Yes, sir,' Jason Two said.
'I'll try.'
After they left, Delaney went back to the study and added a report on Harold Gerber's confession to his file. Another fact or fantasy to be considered. He thought it was fantasy, not because Gerber wasn't capable of murder but because Delaney just couldn't believe the Ellerbee case would break that easily and that simply.
Maybe, he admitted ruefully, he didn't want it to. It would be as disappointing as a game called off because of rain. If he was absolutely honest, he'd concede he was enjoying the investigation. Which proved there was life in the old dog yet.
Another person who was enjoying the search for Simon Ellerbee's killer was Detective Helen K. Venable. For the first time in her career she was on her own, not saddled with a male partner who insisted on giving her unwanted and unneeded advice or asked her raunchy questions about her sex life.
I Also, she felt a strong affinity for Joan Yesell. Venable was younger than the Yesell woman, but she too had a bitch of a mother, lacked a special man in her life, and sometimes felt so lonely she could cry-but not try to slash her wrists; things never got that bad.
She had talked to Joan twice, and thought they hit it off well, even though that bulldog mother was present at both meetings and kept interrupting. Venable asked the same questions that Delaney and Boone had asked, and got the same answers. She also asked a few extras.
'Joan,' she said, 'did you ever meet Simon Ellerbee's wife, Diane?'
'I met her once,' Yesell said nervously.
'While I was waiting for my appointment.'
'I hear she's stunning. Is she?'
'Oh, yes! She's beautiful.'
'In a hard sort of way,' Mrs. Blanche Yesell said.
'Oh?' the detective said, turning to the mother.
'Then you've met her, too?'
'Well… no,' Mrs. Yesell said, flustered.
'But from what my Joan says…'
'I've never seen Diane,' Venable said to the daughter.
'Can you describe her?'
'Tall,' Joan Yesell said, 'slender and very elegant. A natural blonde.
She was wearing her hair up when I met her. She looked like a queen-just lovely.'
'Humph,' Mrs. Yesell said.
'She's not so much.'
Following orders, Venable included this little byplay in her report to Boone, although she didn't think it meant a thing.
Neither did the Sergeant, who initialed the report and forwarded it to Delaney, who made no judgment but filed the report away.
On the Friday night following Thanksgiving, restless in her Flatbush apartment and bored with her mother's chittering about the latest scandal in the National Enquirer, Helen decided to drive over to Chelsea and have another talk with Joan Yesell.
She phoned first, but the line was busy and she didn't bother calling again. She got into her little Honda and headed for or New York-which was what most Brooklynites called Manhattan. She had nothing special in mind to ask Joan Yesell; it was,just a fishing expedition. And also, she was lonely.
Helen was happy to find Mrs. Yesell out. Joan seemed delighted to see the detective. She made them a pot of tea and brought out a plate of powdered doughnuts. They were comfortable with each other and chatted easily about what they had eaten for Thanksgiving dinner. Then Helen asked, 'How's the wrist coming along?'
'Better, thank you,' Joan said.
'I'm getting strength back in my fingers. I exercise by squeezing a rubber ball. The doctor said he'll take the bandage off next week, but he wants me to wear an elastic strap for a while.'
