about Pygmalion and Galatea.”
Boone laughed. “Blame it on crossword puzzles. You pick up a lot of useless information.”
“Funny thing,” Delaney said, “but just last night I was talking to Monica about the fact that so many beautiful women make a career out of just being beautiful. But from what Samuelson said, Simon was the one who convinced Diane she had a brain in addition to looks.”
I think the good doctor is in love with her.”
“That wouldn’t be hard. But what chance would he have?
Did you see the photos of Ellerbee in the file? A big, handsome guy. Samuelson looks like a gnome compared to him.”
“Maybe that’s why he snuffed him,” Boone said.
“You really think that?”
“No. Do you?” I can’t see it,” Delaney said. “But there’s a hell of a lot I can’t see about this thing. For instance, I asked Samuelson if Simon had fits of silence or outbursts of anger. Now that was an almost word-for-word quote from Diane. She said her husband was a lovely man, but occasionally had fits of silence and outbursts of anger. Samuelson, supposedly a close friend, says he never noticed anything like that.”
“Maybe he thought it was of no consequence, or maybe he was trying to protect the memory of a dead friend.”
“Right now, I’d say we can scratch Diane and Samuelson,” Delaney said, “unless Parnell or Jason can come up with something. That leaves the victim’s patients as our best bet.
Will you call the widow and set up a meet to get the list of possibles from her?”
“Sure. I also better check in with Suarez’s crew and find out how many of the patients they’ve already tossed.”
“Right. You know, so far this whole thing is smoke-you realize that, don’t you?”
“No doubt about that.”
“Nothing hard,” Delaney said fretfully, “nothing definite.
It’s really the worst part of a case-the opening, when everything is mush.”
“No great hurry to clear it,” the Sergeant said. “Is there?”
Delaney didn’t want to tell him there was-that it had to be closed by the end of the year if Deputy Thorsen wanted that third star for Michael Suarez, but the Sergeant was a sharp man and probably aware of the Departmental politics involved.
“I’d just like to tidy it up fast,” he said casually, “or admit failure and get back to my routine. Can you drop me?”
“Of course,” Boone said, “if I can get that clunker started.”
The Sergeant was driving his personal car, an old, spavined Buick he had bought at a city auction of towed-away cars. But the wheels turned, and he delivered Delaney to his brownstone.
“Give you a call, sir,” he said, “as soon as I set up something with Doctor Diane.”
“Good enough,” Delaney said. “And brief Suarez on our talk with Samuelson.
I promised to keep him in the picture.”
Monica was in the living room, watching a women’s talk show on television.
“What’s the topic this morning?” Delaney inquired pleasantly. “Premature ejaculation?”
“Very funny,” Monica said. “How did you make out with Samuelson?”
He was tempted to tell her about the doctor’s comments about the Ellerbees’ Pygmalion-Galatea relationship, but he didn’t mention it, fearing it would sound like gloating.
“We got nothing you can hang your hat on,” he said. “Just general background stuff. I’ll tell you about it tonight.”
He went into his study, sat at his desk, and wrote out a full report on the interrogation of Dr. Julius K. Samuelson, doing his best to recall the psychiatrist’s exact words.
There was something in that interview that disturbed him, but he could not for the life of him think of what it was. He read over his report of the questioning, and still could not pinpoint it. But he was convinced something was there.
His vague disquiet was characteristic of the entire case, he decided. So far, the investigation of the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee was all obscure overtones and subtle shadings. The
Boone laughed. “Blame it on crossword puzzles. You pick up a lot of useless information.”
“Funny thing,” Delaney said, “but just last night I was talking to Monica about the fact that so many beautiful women make a career out of just being beautiful. But from what Samuelson said, Simon was the one who convinced Diane she had a brain in addition to looks.”
I think the good doctor is in love with her.”
“That wouldn’t be hard. But what chance would he have?
Did you see the photos of Ellerbee in the file? A big, handsome guy. Samuelson looks like a gnome compared to him.”
“Maybe that’s why he snuffed him,” Boone said.
“You really think that?”
“No. Do you?” I can’t see it,” Delaney said. “But there’s a hell of a lot I can’t see about this thing. For instance, I asked Samuelson if Simon had fits of silence or outbursts of anger. Now that was an almost word-for-word quote from Diane. She said her husband was a lovely man, but occasionally had fits of silence and outbursts of anger. Samuelson, supposedly a close friend, says he never noticed anything like that.”
“Maybe he thought it was of no consequence, or maybe he was trying to protect the memory of a dead friend.”
“Right now, I’d say we can scratch Diane and Samuelson,” Delaney said, “unless Parnell or Jason can come up with something. That leaves the victim’s patients as our best bet.
Will you call the widow and set up a meet to get the list of possibles from her?”
“Sure. I also better check in with Suarez’s crew and find out how many of the patients they’ve already tossed.”
“Right. You know, so far this whole thing is smoke-you realize that, don’t you?”
“No doubt about that.”
“Nothing hard,” Delaney said fretfully, “nothing definite.
It’s really the worst part of a case-the opening, when everything is mush.”
“No great hurry to clear it,” the Sergeant said. “Is there?”
Delaney didn’t want to tell him there was-that it had to be closed by the end of the year if Deputy Thorsen wanted that third star for Michael Suarez, but the Sergeant was a sharp man and probably aware of the Departmental politics involved.
“I’d just like to tidy it up fast,” he said casually, “or admit failure and get back to my routine. Can you drop me?”
“Of course,” Boone said, “if I can get that clunker started.”
The Sergeant was driving his personal car, an old, spavined Buick he had bought at a city auction of towed-away cars. But the wheels turned, and he delivered Delaney to his brownstone.
“Give you a call, sir,” he said, “as soon as I set up something with Doctor Diane.”
“Good enough,” Delaney said. “And brief Suarez on our talk with Samuelson.
I promised to keep him in the picture.”
Monica was in the living room, watching a women’s talk show on television.
“What’s the topic this morning?” Delaney inquired pleasantly. “Premature ejaculation?”
“Very funny,” Monica said. “How did you make out with Samuelson?”
He was tempted to tell her about the doctor’s comments about the Ellerbees’ Pygmalion-Galatea relationship, but he didn’t mention it, fearing it would sound like gloating.
“We got nothing you can hang your hat on,” he said. “Just general background stuff. I’ll tell you about it tonight.”
He went into his study, sat at his desk, and wrote out a full report on the interrogation of Dr. Julius K. Samuelson, doing his best to recall the psychiatrist’s exact words.
There was something in that interview that disturbed him, but he could not for the life of him think of what it was. He read over his report of the questioning, and still could not pinpoint it. But he was convinced something was there.
His vague disquiet was characteristic of the entire case, he decided. So far, the investigation of the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee was all obscure overtones and subtle shadings. The
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