“I remember you now,” Judd said. “The Ziffren case. You had three bullets in you; your partner was killed.”
“And I remember you,” McGreavy said. “You got the killer off.”
“What can I do for you?”
“We need some information, Doctor,” McGreavy said. He nodded to Angeli. Angeli began fumbling at the string on the package he carried.
“We’d like you to identify something for us,” McGreavy said. His voice was careful, giving nothing away.
Angeli had the package open. He held up a yellow oilskin rain slicker. “Have you ever seen this before?”
“It looks like mine,” Judd said in surprise.
“It is yours. At least your name is stenciled inside.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Where do you think we found it?” The two men were no longer casual. A subtle change had taken place in their faces.
Judd studied McGreavy a moment, then picked up a pipe from a rack on a long, low table and began to fill it with tobacco from a jar. “I think you’d better tell me what this is all about,” he said quietly.
“It’s about this raincoat, Dr. Stevens,” said McGreavy. “If it’s yours, we want to know how it got out of your possession.”
“There’s no mystery about it. It was drizzling when I came in this morning. My raincoat was at the cleaners, so I wore the yellow slicker. I keep it for fishing trips. One of my patients hadn’t brought a raincoat. It was beginning to snow pretty heavily, so I let him borrow the slicker.” He stopped, suddenly worried. “What’s happened to him?”
“Happened to who?” McGreavy asked.
“My patient—John Hanson.”
“Check,” Angeli said gently. “You hit the bull’s-eye. The reason Mr. Hanson couldn’t return the coat himself is that he’s dead.”
Judd felt a small shock go through him. “Dead?”
“Someone stuck a knife in his back,” McGreavy said.
Judd stared at him incredulously. McGreavy took the coat from Angeli and turned it around so that Judd could see the large, ugly slash in the material. The back of the coat was covered with dull, henna-colored stains. A feeling of nausea swept over Judd.
“Who would want to kill him?”
“We were hoping that you could tell us, Dr. Stevens,” said Angeli. “Who’d know better than his psychoanalyst?”
Judd shook his head helplessly. “When did it happen?”
McGreavy answered. “Eleven o’clock this morning. On Lexington Avenue, about a block from your office. A few dozen people must have seen him fall, but they were busy going home to get ready to celebrate the birth of Christ, so they let him lie there bleeding to death in the snow.”
Judd squeezed the edge of the table, his knuckles white.
“What time was Hanson here this morning?” asked Angeli.
“Ten o’clock.”
“How long do your sessions last, Doctor?”
“Fifty minutes.”
“Did he leave as soon as it was over?”
“Yes. I had another patient waiting.”
“Did Hanson go out through the reception office?”
“No. My patients come in through the reception office and leave by that door.” He indicated the private door leading to the outside corridor. “In that way they don’t meet each other.”
McGreavy nodded. “So Hanson was killed within a few minutes of the time he left here. Why was he coming to see you?”
Judd hesitated. “I’m sorry. I can’t discuss a doctor-patient relationship.”
“Someone murdered him,” McGreavy said. “You might be able to help us find his killer.”
Judd’s pipe had gone out. He took his time lighting it again.
“How long had he been coming to you?” This time it was Angeli. Police teamwork.
“Three years,” Judd said.
“What was his problem?”
Judd hesitated. He saw John Hanson as he had looked that morning; excited, smiling, eager to enjoy his new freedom. “He was a homosexual.”
“This is going to be another one of those beauties,” McGreavy said bitterly.
“Was a homosexual,” Judd said. “Hanson was cured. I told him this morning that he didn’t have to see me any more. He was ready to move back in with his family. He has—had—a wife and two children.”
“A fag with a family?” asked McGreavy.
“It happens often.”
“Maybe one of his homo playmates didn’t want to cut him loose. They got in a fight. He lost his temper and slipped a knife in his boyfriend’s back.”