“That’s a lot of guesswork.”
“But it fits. When Hanson left, the doctor slipped out and fixed him so he couldn’t talk. Then he had to come back and get rid of Carol. He made it look like some maniac did the job, then he stopped by to see Mrs. Hanson, and took a ride to Connecticut. Now his problems are solved. He’s sitting pretty and the police are running their asses off searching for some unknown nut.”
“I can’t buy it,” Angeli said. “You’re trying to build a murder case without a shred of concrete evidence.”
“What do you call ‘concrete’?” McGreavy asked. “We’ve got two corpses. One of them is a pregnant lady who worked for Stevens. The other is one of his patients, murdered a block from his office. He’s coming to him for treatment because he’s a homosexual. When I asked to listen to his tapes, he wouldn’t let me. Why? Who is Dr. Stevens protecting? I asked him if anyone could have broken into his office looking for something. Then maybe we could have cooked up a nice theory that Carol caught them and they tortured her to try to find out where this mysterious something was. But guess what? There is no mysterious something. His tapes aren’t worth a tinker’s damn to anybody. He had no drugs in the office. No money. So we’re looking for some goddam maniac. Right? Except that I won’t buy it. I think we’re looking for Dr. Judd Stevens.”
“I think you’re out to nail him,” said Angeli quietly.
McGreavy’s face flushed with anger. “Because he’s as guilty as hell.”
“Are you going to arrest him?”
“I’m going to give Dr. Stevens some rope,” McGreavy said. “And while he’s hanging himself, I’m going to be digging into every little skeleton in his closet. When I nail him, he’s going to stay nailed.” McGreavy turned and walked out.
Angeli looked after him thoughtfully. If he did nothing, there was a good chance that McGreavy would try to railroad Dr. Stevens. He could not let that happen. He made a mental note to speak to Captain Bertelli in the morning.
Chapter Four
THE MORNING NEWSPAPERS headlined the sensational torture murder of Carol Roberts. Judd was tempted to have his telephone exchange call his patients and cancel his appointments for the day. He had not gone to bed, and his eyes felt heavy and gritty. But when he reviewed the list of patients, he decided that two of them would be desperate if he canceled; three of them would be badly upset; the others could be handled. He decided it was better to continue with his normal routine, partly for his patients’ sake, and partly because it was good therapy for him to try to keep his mind off what had happened.
Judd arrived at his office early, but already the corridor was crowded with newspaper and television reporters and photographers. He refused to let them in or to make a statement, and finally managed to get rid of them. He opened the door to his inner office slowly, filled with trepidation. But the blood-stained rug had been removed and everything else had been put back in place. The office looked normal. Except that Carol would never walk in here again, smiling and full of life.
Judd heard the outer door open. His first patient had arrived.
Harrison Burke was a distinguished-looking silver-haired man who looked like the prototype of a big business executive, which he was: a vice-president of the International Steel Corporation. When Judd had first seen Burke, he had wondered whether the executive had created his stereotyped image, or whether the image had created the executive. Some day he would write a book on face values; a doctor’s bedside manner, a lawyer’s flamboyance in a courtroom, an actress’ face and figure—these were the universal currencies of acceptance: the surface image rather than the basic values.
Burke lay down on the couch, and Judd turned his attention to him. Burke had been sent to Judd by Dr. Peter Hadley two months ago. It had taken Judd ten minutes to ascertain that Harrison Burke was a paranoiac with tendencies toward homicide. The morning headlines had been full of a murder that had taken place in this office the night before, but Burke never mentioned it. That was typical of his condition. He was totally immersed in himself.