their education and training were different. As I understand it, she specializes in children’s problems and runs group therapy sessions for parents. He was your classical analyst. Not strictly Freudian, but analytically oriented. You’ve got to understand that there are dozens of therapeutic techniques. The psychiatrist may select one and never deviate or he may gradually develop a mix of his own that he feels yields the best results. This is a very personal business. I really don’t know exactly how Ellerbee worked.”
“By the way,” Delaney said when the waitress presented the bill, “this lunch is on me.”
“Never doubted it for a minute,” Walden said cheerily.
“You said before that most of Ellerbee’s patients were probably ordinary people. You think any of them are capable of violence? I mean against the analyst.”
Dr. Walden sat back, took a silver cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket, and snapped it open.
“It doesn’t happen too often,” he said, “but it does happen.
The threat is always there. Back in 1981 four psychiatrists were murdered by their patients in a six-week period. Scary.
There are a lot of reasons for it. Psychoanalysis can be a very painful experience -worse than a root canal job, believe me!
The therapist probes and probes. The patient resists. That guy behind the desk is trying to get him to reveal awful things that have been kept buried for years. Sometimes the patient attacks the doctor for hurting him. That’s one reason. Another is that the patient fears the therapist is learning too much, peering into the patient’s secret soul.”
“I’m telling you this in confidence,” Delaney said sternly, “because it hasn’t been released to the press. After Ellerbee was dead, the killer rolled him over and hit him two or more times in the eyes with a ball peen hammer. One of my assistants suggested it might have been an attempt to blind the doctor because he saw, or was seeing, too much. What do you think of that theory?”
“Very perceptive. And quite possible. I think that most assaults on therapists are made by out-and-out psychotics. In fact, most of the attacks are made in prisons and hospital wards for the criminally insane. Still, a number do occur in the offices of high-priced Park Avenue shrinks. What’s worse, the psychiatrist’s family is sometimes threatened and occasionally attacked.”
“Could you estimate the percentage of therapists who have been assaulted by patients?”
“I can give you a guess. Between one-quarter and onethird. Just a guess.”
“Have you ever been attacked, doctor?”
“Once. A man came at me with a hunting knife.”
“How do you handle something like that?”
“I pack a handgun. You’d be surprised at how many psychiatrists do. Or keep it in the top drawer of their desk.
Usually slow, soft talk can defuse a dangerous situation-but not always.”
“Why did the guy come at you with a knife?”
“We were at the breaking point in his therapy. He had a lech for his fifteen-year-old daughter and couldn’t or wouldn’t acknowledge it. But he was taking her clothes to prostitutes and making them dress like the daughter. Sad, sad, sad.”
“Did he finally admit it?” Delaney asked, fascinated.
“Eventually. I thought he was coming along fine; we were talking it out. But then, about three weeks later, he left my office, went home, and blew his brains out with a shotgun. I don’t think of that case very often-not more than two or three times a day.”
“Jesus,” Delaney said wonderingly. “How can you stand that kind of pressure?”
“How can a man do open-heart surgery? You go in, pray, and hope for the best. Oh, there’s another reason patients sometimes assault their therapists. It involves a type of transference. The analysand may have been an abused child or hate his parents for one reason or another. He transfers his hostility to the therapist, who is making him dredge up his anger and talk
“By the way,” Delaney said when the waitress presented the bill, “this lunch is on me.”
“Never doubted it for a minute,” Walden said cheerily.
“You said before that most of Ellerbee’s patients were probably ordinary people. You think any of them are capable of violence? I mean against the analyst.”
Dr. Walden sat back, took a silver cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket, and snapped it open.
“It doesn’t happen too often,” he said, “but it does happen.
The threat is always there. Back in 1981 four psychiatrists were murdered by their patients in a six-week period. Scary.
There are a lot of reasons for it. Psychoanalysis can be a very painful experience -worse than a root canal job, believe me!
The therapist probes and probes. The patient resists. That guy behind the desk is trying to get him to reveal awful things that have been kept buried for years. Sometimes the patient attacks the doctor for hurting him. That’s one reason. Another is that the patient fears the therapist is learning too much, peering into the patient’s secret soul.”
“I’m telling you this in confidence,” Delaney said sternly, “because it hasn’t been released to the press. After Ellerbee was dead, the killer rolled him over and hit him two or more times in the eyes with a ball peen hammer. One of my assistants suggested it might have been an attempt to blind the doctor because he saw, or was seeing, too much. What do you think of that theory?”
“Very perceptive. And quite possible. I think that most assaults on therapists are made by out-and-out psychotics. In fact, most of the attacks are made in prisons and hospital wards for the criminally insane. Still, a number do occur in the offices of high-priced Park Avenue shrinks. What’s worse, the psychiatrist’s family is sometimes threatened and occasionally attacked.”
“Could you estimate the percentage of therapists who have been assaulted by patients?”
“I can give you a guess. Between one-quarter and onethird. Just a guess.”
“Have you ever been attacked, doctor?”
“Once. A man came at me with a hunting knife.”
“How do you handle something like that?”
“I pack a handgun. You’d be surprised at how many psychiatrists do. Or keep it in the top drawer of their desk.
Usually slow, soft talk can defuse a dangerous situation-but not always.”
“Why did the guy come at you with a knife?”
“We were at the breaking point in his therapy. He had a lech for his fifteen-year-old daughter and couldn’t or wouldn’t acknowledge it. But he was taking her clothes to prostitutes and making them dress like the daughter. Sad, sad, sad.”
“Did he finally admit it?” Delaney asked, fascinated.
“Eventually. I thought he was coming along fine; we were talking it out. But then, about three weeks later, he left my office, went home, and blew his brains out with a shotgun. I don’t think of that case very often-not more than two or three times a day.”
“Jesus,” Delaney said wonderingly. “How can you stand that kind of pressure?”
“How can a man do open-heart surgery? You go in, pray, and hope for the best. Oh, there’s another reason patients sometimes assault their therapists. It involves a type of transference. The analysand may have been an abused child or hate his parents for one reason or another. He transfers his hostility to the therapist, who is making him dredge up his anger and talk
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