Mothers are always judging.”
She tried to lift an envelope from the mail stack. Got hold of a corner and fumbled.
“Tell me,” she said, letting go, “about my husband.”
I began, including the other murders but leaving out the savagery.
When I reached the part about “bad love” and my revenge theory, her eyes started blinking rapidly and I was afraid I’d caused some sort of stress reaction. But when I paused, she said, “Go on,” and as I did, she seemed to sit up straighter and taller, and a cool, analytic light sharpened her eyes.
The therapist in her driving out the patient.
I’d been there. Now I was on the couch, opening myself up to this tiny, crippled woman.
When I was finished, she looked at the dresser and said, “Open that middle drawer and take out the file.”
I found a black-and-white marbled box with a snap latch resting atop neatly folded sweaters. As I started to hand it to her, she said, “Open it.”
I sat down beside her and unlatched the box. Inside were documents, a thick sheaf of them. On top was Harvey Rosenblatt’s medical license.
“Go on,” she said.
I began leafing. Psychiatric board certification. Internship and residency papers. A certificate from the Robert Evanston Hale Psychoanalytic Institute in Manhattan. Another from Southwick Hospital. A six-year-old letter from the dean of the NYU medical school reaffirming Rosenblatt’s appointment as associate clinical professor of psychiatry. An honorable discharge from the Navy, where he’d served as a flight surgeon aboard an aircraft carrier. A couple of life insurance policies, one issued by the American Psychiatric Association. So he had been a member–the absence of an obituary was probably due to shame about suicide. As I came to his last will and testament, Shirley Rosenblatt looked away.
Death certificate. Burial forms.
I heard her say, “Should be next.”
Next was a stapled collection of photocopied sheets. The face sheet was white.
Handwritten on it was “Investig. Info.”
I removed it from the box. She sank back against the pillows and I saw that she was breathing hard. When I began to read, she closed her eyes.
Page two was a police report. The writer was one Detective Salvatore J.
Giordano, 19th Precinct, Borough of Manhattan, City of New York. In his opinion, and supported by subsequently entered Medical Examiner’s Report, Case #1453331, Deceased Victim Ro- senblatt, H. A white male, age 59, expired as the consequence of a rapid downward descent from diagrammed window B, master bedroom, of said address on E. 67
St and subsequent extreme bodily contact with pavement in front of said address.
Descent process was most probably self-induced, as D. Victim’s blood alcohol was not elevated and there is no lab evidence of drug-induced accident and no signs of coerced egress enforced on Deceased Victim on the part of another as well as no skidmarks on the carpeting of said address or defense marks on window sills, and, in summary, no evidence of the presence of any other individual at said address. Of further note is the presence of Drinking Glass A (see diagram) and Apparatus B (see diagram) conforming to method operandus of the “East Side Burglar.”
An aerial diagram at the bottom of the page illustrated the locations of doors, windows, and furniture in the room where Harvey Rosenblatt had spent his last moments.
A bed, two nightstands, two dressers–one marked “Low,” the other “High”–a television set, something marked “antique,” and a magazine rack. On one of the nightstands were written “Glass A” and “Apparatus B (lockpicks, files, and keys).” Arrows marked the window from which the psychiatrist had leaped.
The next paragraph identified the apartment as an eighthfloor, five-room unit in a co-op building. At the time of Rosenblatt’s jump, the owners and sole occupants, Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm J. Rulerad, he a banker, she an attorney, were away in Europe on a three-week vacation.
Neither had ever met deceased Victim Rosenblatt and both witnesses state unequivocally that they have no idea how D.V. gained ingress to said domicile. However, the burglary apparatus recovered from a bathroom of said domicile indicates Breaking and Entering, and the fact that the day doorman, Mr. William P. O’Donnell, states he never saw D.