J.C. ale and Bushmill’s Black Label-if the bartender knows you.”
“Well, can you meet me there at two-thirty? I figure the lunch crowd will be cleared out by then and we’ll be able to get a table and talk.”
“Sounds fine. Thank you, doctor.”
“You’ll have no trouble spotting me,” Walden said cheerfully. “I’ll be the only guy in the place with no hair.”
He wasn’t joking. When Delaney walked through the bar into the back room of Eamonn Doran’s and looked around, he spotted a lean man seated alone at a table for two. The guy’s pate was completely naked. A black mustache, no larger than a typewriter brush, didn’t make up for it.
“Doctor Walden?” he asked.
“Edward X. Delaney?” the man said, rising and holding out a hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Sit. I just ordered two of those J.C. ales you mentioned. Okay?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
Seated, they inspected each other. Walden suddenly grinned, displaying a mouthful of teeth too good to be true.
Then he ran a palm over his shiny scalp.
“Yul Brynner or Telly Savalas I’m not,” he said. “But I had so little fringe left, I figured the hell with it and shaved it all off.”
“A rug?”
Delaney suggested.
“Nah, who needs it? A sign of insecurity. I’m happy with a head of skin. People remember me.”
The waitress brought their ales and menus. The police psychiatrist peered at his digital wristwatch, bringing it up close to his eyes.
“I promised you an hour,” he said, “and that’s what you’re going to get; no more, no less. So let’s order right now and start talking.”
“Suits me,” Delaney said. “I’ll have the sliced steak rare with home fries and a side order of tomatoes and onions.”
“Make that two, please,” Walden told the waitress. “Now then,” he said to Delaney, “what’s this all about? Thorsen sounded antsy.”
“It’s about the murder of Doctor Simon Ellerbee. Did you know the man?”
“We weren’t personal friends, but I met him two or three times professionally.”
“What was your take?”
“Very, very talented. A gifted man. Heavy thinker. The last time I met him, I got the feeling he had problems-but who hasn’t?”
“Problems? Any idea what kind?”
“No. But he was quiet and broody. Not as outgoing as the other times I met him. But maybe he’d just had a bad day. We all do.”
“It must be a strain dealing with, uh, disturbed people every day.”
“Disturbed people?” Dr. Walden said, showing his teeth again. “You weren’t about to say ‘nuts,’ or ‘crazies,’ or ‘whackos,’ were you?”
“Yes,” Delaney admitted, “I was.”
“Tell me something,” Walden said as the waitress set down their food, “have you ever felt guilt, depression, grief, panic, fear, or hatred?”
Delaney looked at him. “Sure I have.”
The psychiatrist nodded. “You have, I have, everyone has.
Laymen think psychotherapists deal with raving lunatics. Actually, the huge majority of our patients are very ordinary people who are experiencing those same emotions you’ve felt-but to an exaggerated degree. So exaggerated that they can’t cope. That’s why, if they’ve got the money, they go to a therapist. But nuts and crazies and whackos they’re not.”
“You think most of Ellerbee’s patients were like that-essentially ordinary people?”
“Well, I haven’t seen his files,” Dr. Walden said cautiously, “but I’d almost bet on it. Oh, sure, he might have had some heavy cases schizoids, patients with psychosexual dysfunctions, multiple personalities: exotic stuff like that. But I’d guess that most of his caseload consisted of the kind of people I just described: the ones with emotional traumata they couldn’t handle by themselves.”
“Tell me something, doctor,” Delaney said. “Simon Ellerbee was a psychiatrist, and his wife-his widow-is a psychologist. What’s the difference?”
“He had an MD degree; his widow doesn’t. And I expect
“Well, can you meet me there at two-thirty? I figure the lunch crowd will be cleared out by then and we’ll be able to get a table and talk.”
“Sounds fine. Thank you, doctor.”
“You’ll have no trouble spotting me,” Walden said cheerfully. “I’ll be the only guy in the place with no hair.”
He wasn’t joking. When Delaney walked through the bar into the back room of Eamonn Doran’s and looked around, he spotted a lean man seated alone at a table for two. The guy’s pate was completely naked. A black mustache, no larger than a typewriter brush, didn’t make up for it.
“Doctor Walden?” he asked.
“Edward X. Delaney?” the man said, rising and holding out a hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Sit. I just ordered two of those J.C. ales you mentioned. Okay?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
Seated, they inspected each other. Walden suddenly grinned, displaying a mouthful of teeth too good to be true.
Then he ran a palm over his shiny scalp.
“Yul Brynner or Telly Savalas I’m not,” he said. “But I had so little fringe left, I figured the hell with it and shaved it all off.”
“A rug?”
Delaney suggested.
“Nah, who needs it? A sign of insecurity. I’m happy with a head of skin. People remember me.”
The waitress brought their ales and menus. The police psychiatrist peered at his digital wristwatch, bringing it up close to his eyes.
“I promised you an hour,” he said, “and that’s what you’re going to get; no more, no less. So let’s order right now and start talking.”
“Suits me,” Delaney said. “I’ll have the sliced steak rare with home fries and a side order of tomatoes and onions.”
“Make that two, please,” Walden told the waitress. “Now then,” he said to Delaney, “what’s this all about? Thorsen sounded antsy.”
“It’s about the murder of Doctor Simon Ellerbee. Did you know the man?”
“We weren’t personal friends, but I met him two or three times professionally.”
“What was your take?”
“Very, very talented. A gifted man. Heavy thinker. The last time I met him, I got the feeling he had problems-but who hasn’t?”
“Problems? Any idea what kind?”
“No. But he was quiet and broody. Not as outgoing as the other times I met him. But maybe he’d just had a bad day. We all do.”
“It must be a strain dealing with, uh, disturbed people every day.”
“Disturbed people?” Dr. Walden said, showing his teeth again. “You weren’t about to say ‘nuts,’ or ‘crazies,’ or ‘whackos,’ were you?”
“Yes,” Delaney admitted, “I was.”
“Tell me something,” Walden said as the waitress set down their food, “have you ever felt guilt, depression, grief, panic, fear, or hatred?”
Delaney looked at him. “Sure I have.”
The psychiatrist nodded. “You have, I have, everyone has.
Laymen think psychotherapists deal with raving lunatics. Actually, the huge majority of our patients are very ordinary people who are experiencing those same emotions you’ve felt-but to an exaggerated degree. So exaggerated that they can’t cope. That’s why, if they’ve got the money, they go to a therapist. But nuts and crazies and whackos they’re not.”
“You think most of Ellerbee’s patients were like that-essentially ordinary people?”
“Well, I haven’t seen his files,” Dr. Walden said cautiously, “but I’d almost bet on it. Oh, sure, he might have had some heavy cases schizoids, patients with psychosexual dysfunctions, multiple personalities: exotic stuff like that. But I’d guess that most of his caseload consisted of the kind of people I just described: the ones with emotional traumata they couldn’t handle by themselves.”
“Tell me something, doctor,” Delaney said. “Simon Ellerbee was a psychiatrist, and his wife-his widow-is a psychologist. What’s the difference?”
“He had an MD degree; his widow doesn’t. And I expect
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