"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 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 about it. The doctor becomes the abusive parent.

Conversely, the patient may identify with the aggressive parent and try to treat the psychiatrist as a helpless child. As I told you, there are many reasons patients might attack their therapists. And to confuse you further, I should add that some assaults have been made for no discernible reason at all."

"But the main point," Delaney insisted, "is that murderous attacks on psychiatrists are not all that uncommon, and it's very possible that Doctor Ellerbee was killed by one of his patients."

"It's possible," Walden agreed.

Then, when Delaney saw the doctor glance at his watch, he said, "I should warn you, I may bother you again if I need the benefit of your advice."

"Anytime. You keep buying me steak and I'm all yours."

They rose from the table and shook hands.

"Thank you," Delaney said. "You've been a big help."

"I have?" Dr. Murray Walden said, stroking his bald pate.

"That's nice. One final word of caution. If you're thinking of questioning Ellerbee's patients, don't come on strong. Play it very lowkey.

Speak softly. These people feel threatened enough without being leaned on by a stranger."

"I'll remember that."