"Number Two: Isaac Kane, twenty-eight. He was one of my husband's charity patients, treated once a week at a free clinic. Isaac is what they call an idiot savant, although I hate that term. He is far from being an idiot, but he is retarded.

Isaac does absolutely wonderful landscapes in pastel chalk.

Very professional work. But he has, on occasion, attacked workers and other patients at the clinic.

"Number Three: Sylvia Mae Otherton, forty-six. She saw my husband twice a week, but frequently made panic calls.

Sylvia suffers from heavy anxieties, ranging from agoraphobia to a hatred of bearded men. On the few occasions when she ventured out in public, she made vicious and unprovoked attacks against men with beards."

"Was your husband bearded, ma'am?" Boone asked.

"No, he was not. Number Four: L. Vincent Symington, fifty-one.

Apparently his problem is a very deep and pervasive paranoia. Vince frequently struck back at people he believed were persecuting him, including his aged mother and father.

He saw my husband three times a week.

"Number Five: Joan Yesell, thirty-five. She is a very withdrawn, depressed young woman who lives with her widowed mother. Joan has a history of three suicide attempts, which is one of the reasons I have included her. Suicide, when tried unsuccessfully so often, often develops into homicidal mania.

"And finally, Harold Gerber, thirty-seven. He served in Vietnam and won several medals for exceptional valor. Harold apparently suffers intensely from guilt-not only for those he killed in the war, but because he came back alive when so many of his friends died. His guilt is manifested in barroom brawls and physical attacks on strangers he thinks have insulted him.

"And that's all I have. You'll find more details in this typed report.

Do you have any questions?"

Delaney and Boone looked at each other.

"Just one thing, doctor," Delaney said. "Could you tell us if any of the six was being treated with drugs."

"No," she said immediately. "None of them. My husband did not believe in psychotropic drugs. He said they only masked symptoms but did nothing to reveal or treat the cause of the illness. Incidentally, I hold the same opinion, but I am not a fanatic on the subject as my husband was. I occasionally use drugs in my practice-but only when the physical health of the patient warrants it."

"Are you licensed to prescribe drugs?" Delaney asked.

She gave him a hard stare. "No," she said, "but my husband was."

"But of course," Boone said hastily, "it's possible that any of the six could be using drugs on their own."

"It's possible," Dr. Ellerbee said in her loud, assertive voice. "It's possible of anyone. Which of you gets this report?"

"Ma'am," Delaney said softly, "you have just the one copy?"

"That's correct. I made no carbon."

"You wouldn't happen to have a copying machine in your office, would you?

It would help a great deal if both Sergeant Boone and I had copies.

Speed things up."

"There's a copier in my husband's outer office," she said, rising.

"It'll just take a minute."

"We'll come along if you don't mind," Delaney said, and both men stood up.

She looked at them. "If you're thinking about my safety, I thank you-but there's no need, I assure you. I have lived in this house since Simon died. There are people here during the day, but I'm alone at night. It doesn't frighten me. I won't let it frighten me. This is my home."

"If you'll allow us," Delaney said stubbornly, "we'll still come along.

It'll give us a chance to see the scene-to see where it happened."

"If you wish," she said tonelessly.

She took a ring of keys from the desk drawer, then led the way down the hall. She unlocked the door of her husband's office and turned on the light.

The floor of the receptionist's room was bare boards.

"I had the carpeting taken up and thrown out," she said. "It was stained, and I didn't wish to have it cleaned."

"Have you decided what to do with this space, ma'am?" Boone asked.

"No," she said shortly. "I haven't thought about it."

She went over to the copier in the corner and switched it on. While she was making a duplicate of her report, they looked about.

There was little to see. The outer office was identical in size and shape to the one on the second floor. It was aseptically furnished with steel desk, chairs, filing cabinet. There was no indication it had been the scene of murderous frenzy.

Dr. Ellerbee turned off the copier, handed each of them her two-page report.

"I wouldn't care to have this circulated," she said sternly.

"It won't be," Delaney assured her. "Doctor, would you mind if we took a quick look into your husband's office?"

"What for?"

"Standard operating procedure," he said. "To try to learn more about your husband. Sometimes seeing where a victim lived and where he worked gives a good indication of the kind of man he was."

She shrugged, obviously not believing him, but not caring.

"Help yourself," she said, gesturing toward the inner door.

She sat at the receptionist's desk while they went into Dr. Simon Ellerbee's private office. Boone switched on the overhead light.

A severe, rigorous room, almost austere. No pictures on the white walls.

No decorations. No objects d'art, memorabilia, or personal touches. The room was defined by its lacks.

Even the black leather patient's couch was as sterile as a hospital gurney.

"Cold," Boone said in a low voice.

"You wanted a handle on the guy," Delaney said. "Here's a piece of it:

He was organized, logical, emotionless. Notice how all the straight edges are parallel or at right angles? A very precise, disciplined man.

Can you imagine spending maybe twelve hours a day in a cell like this?

Let's go; it gives me the willies."

They reclaimed their coats and hats from the sitting room, thanked Dr.

Diane Ellerbee for her assistance, and said they'd keep her informed of the progress of the investigation.

"I warn you," Delaney said, smiling, "we may call on you for more help."

"Of course," she said. "Anytime." She seemed tired.

Out on the street, walking slowly to the car, Boone said, "Ballsy lady.

Most women would have gone somewhere else to live or asked a friend to stay awhile after something like that happened."

"Mmm," Delaney said. "She claims she's not frightened and I believe her.

By the way, did you notice how she referred to those patients by their first names? I wonder if all shrinks do that. It reminds me of the way cops talk to suspects to bring them down."

"I thought it was just to-you know-to show how sympathetic you are."

"Maybe. But using a suspect's first name diminishes him, robs him of his dignity. It proves that you're in a position of authority. You call a Mafia chief Tony when he's used to being called Mr. Anthony Gelesco and it makes him feel like a twobit punk or a pushcart peddler. Well, all that's smoke and getting us nowhere. Tomorrow morning check to see if Chief Suarez's men have talked to any of those six patients. We better start with their whereabouts at the time of the homicide."

"Even if Suarez's guys have talked to them, you'll still want them double-checked, won't you, sir?"

"Of course. As far as I'm concerned, this investigation is just starting. And get hold of Jason Two; see how he's coming along on the biographies. I'd like him to finish up as soon as possible; we're going to need his help knocking on doors."

Sergeant Boone drove Delaney home. Outside the brownstone, before Delaney got out of the car, Boone said, "What did you think of Doctor Diane's selections, sir? They all seem like possibles to me."

"Could be. You know, when I talked to Doc Walden, he tried to convince me that most people who go to psychotherapists aren't nuts or crazies or weirdos; they're just poor unfortunates with king-size emotional hangups. But all these people on Doctor Diane's list sound like half-decks. Good night, Sergeant."