Bad Love (39 page)

The door closed. Josh frowned.

“Don’t worry?” he said. “I went to school to learn how to worry.”

Another small room, this one yellow, the windows misted by lace curtains.

Shirley Rosenblatt looked better than I had expected, propped up in a hospital bed and covered to the waist with a white comforter. Her hair was still blond, though dyed lighter, and she’d grown it out a little. Her delicate face had remained pretty.

A wicker bed tray was pushed into one corner. To one side of the bed was a cane chair and a pine dresser topped by perfume bottles. Opposite that stood a large saltwater aquarium on a teakwood base. The water bubbled silently. Gorgeous fish glided through a miniature coral reef.

Josh kissed his mother’s forehead. She smiled and took hold of his hand. Her fingers barely stretched the width. The comforter dropped a couple of inches. She was wearing a flannel nightgown, buttoned to the neck and fastened with a bow. On her nightstand was a collection of pill bottles, a stack of magazines, and a coil-spring hand-grip exerciser.

Josh held onto her hand. She smiled up at him, then turned the smile on me. Gentle blue eyes. None of her children had gotten them.

Josh said, “Here’s the mail. Want me to open it?”

She shook her head and reached out. He put the stack on her lap, but she left it there and continued to look at me.

“This is Dr. Delaware,” he said.

I said, “Alex Delaware.” But I didn’t hold out my hand because I didn’t want to dislodge his. “Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Rosenblatt.”

“Shirley.” Her voice was very weak and talking seemed a great effort, but the word came out clearly. She blinked a couple of times. Her right shoulder was lower than her left and her right eyelid bagged a bit.

She kissed Joshua’s hand. Slowly, she said, “You can go, hon.”

He looked at me, then back at her. “Sure?”

Nod.

“Okay, but I’m coming back in half an hour. I already let Mrs. Limberton go to lunch and I don’t want you alone for too long.”

“It’s okay. She doesn’t eat long.”

“I’ll make sure she stays all afternoon until I get here — probably not before seven-thirty. I have paperwork. Is that okay, or do you want to eat earlier?”

“Seven-thirty is fine, honey.”

“Chinese?”

She nodded and smiled, let go of his hand.

“I can also get Thai if you want,” he said. “That place on Fifty-sixth.”

“Anything,” she said. “As long as it’s with you.” She reached up with both hands and he bent for a hug.

After he straightened, she said, “Bye, sweets.”

“Bye. Take care of yourself.”

One final look at me, and then he was gone.

She pushed a button and propped herself up higher. Took a breath and said, “I’m blessed. Working with kids . . . my own turned out great.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t an accident.”

She shrugged. The higher shoulder made it all the way through the gesture. “I don’t know . . . so much is chance.”

She pointed to the cane chair.

I pulled it up close and sat down.

“You’re a child therapist, too?”

I nodded.

She took a long time to touch her lip. Another while to tap her brow. “I think I’ve seen your name on articles . . . anxiety?”

“Years ago.”

“Nice to meet you.” Her voice faded. I leaned closer.

“Stroke,” she said and tried to shrug again.

I said, “Josh told me.”

She looked surprised, then amused. “He hasn’t told many people. Protecting me. Sweet. All my kids are. But Josh lives at home, we see more of each other . . .”

“Where are the others?”

“Sarah’s in Boston. Teaches pediatrics at Tufts. David’s a biologist at the National Cancer Institute in Washington.”

“Three for three,” I said.

She smiled and looked at the fish tank. “Batting a thousand . . . Harvey liked baseball. You only met him once?”

“Yes.” I told her where and when.

“Harvey,” she said, savoring the word, “was the nicest man I’ve ever known.
My
mother used to say don’t marry for looks or money, both can disappear fast, so marry for nice.”

“Good advice.”

“Are you married?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you have someone?”

“Yes. And she’s very nice.”

“Good.” She began laughing. Very little sound came out, but her face was animated. Managing to raise one hand, she touched her chest. “Forget the Ph.D. I’m just a Jewish mother.”

“Maybe the two aren’t all that different.”

“No. They are. Therapists don’t judge, right? Or at least we pretend we don’t. 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 Rosenblatt, 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 eighth-floor, 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. Victim enter the building’s main lobby, indicates a stealthy ingress by D. Victim. Furthermore, Drinking Glass A, subsequently identified by Mrs. Rulerad as coming from her kitchen, was full of a dark liquid, subsequently identified as Diet Pepsi-Cola, a drink favored by Mrs. M. Rulerad, and this is in conformity with the method operandus of three prior B and E burglaries within a six-block radius, previously attributed to the “East Side Burglar,” in which soft drinks were displayed in a partially drunk status. Though D. Victim’s wife denies a criminal history on the part of D. Victim, who she says was a psychiatrist, physical evidence indicates a “secret life” on the part of D. Victim and a possible motive: guilt over said secret life due to D. Victim being a psychiatrist and outward “solid citizen” and finally coming to grips with this unrespectable secret.

Next came a half page follow-up by Detective Giordano, dated a week later:

Case#1453331, Rosenblatt, H. Requested permission from D. Victim’s wife to search home premises on E. 65 St. due to search for evidence related to D. Victim’s death. Said search effected 4/17/85 at 3:23 P.M. to 5:17 P.M. in company of Det. B. Wildebrandt and Officer J. McGovern. Home and office premises of D. Victim searched in presence of D. Victim’s wife, Shirley Rosenblatt. No contraband from previous “East Side Burglaries” found. Permission requested to read D. Victim’s psychiatric files for possible patient/fence connection, refused by S. Rosenblatt. Will consult with Chief of Dets. A. M. Talisiani.

The following page was typed on a different machine and signed by Detective Lewis S. Jackson, 19th Precinct. The date was four weeks later.

Conf. on Det. Giordano’s case,#1453331, H. A. Rosenblatt. Det. Giordano on med. leave. D. Victim’s wife, Shirley Rosenblatt, and son, Joshua Rosenblatt, requested meeting to review case. Wanting “progress” report. Met with them at Pcnct. Told of disposition. Very angry, said they were “deceived” as to purpose of home search. Son stated he is an attorney, knows “people.” He and mother convinced hom., not sui. Stated D.V. not depressed, never depressed, not “criminal.” Further stated “there was some sort of setup.” Further stated D.V. had talked to wife, prior to death, about “upsetting case that could be related to what happened to my dad,” but when asked for details, said he didn’t know because D.V. was psychiatrist and kept secrets because of “ethics.” When told nothing more could be done based on available evidence, son became even more irate and threatened to “go above you to get some action.” Conversation reported to Chief of Dets. A. M. Talisiani.

The final two pages consisted of a letter on heavy white bond, dated one and a half months later.

COMSAC INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES

513 Fifth Avenue

Suite 3463

New York, NY 10110

June 30, 1985
Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt
c/o J. Rosenblatt, Esq.
Schechter, Mohl, and Trimmer
500 Fifth Avenue
Suite 3300
New York, NY 10110
Dear Dr. Rosenblatt:
Pursuant to your request, we have reviewed data and materials relevant to the unfortunate death of your husband, including but not limited to detailed inspection of all case reports, forensic reports, and laboratory analyses. We have also interviewed police personnel involved in this case.
Personal inspection of the premises where aforesaid unfortunate death took place was not fully accomplished because the owners of the apartment in question, Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm J. Rulerad, did not grant permission to our staff to enter and inspect. However, we do feel that we have accrued enough data with which to evaluate your case and we regret to inform you that we see no reason to doubt the conclusions of the police department in this matter. Furthermore, in view of the specific details of this case, we do not advise any further investigation into this matter.
Please feel free to get in touch if there are any questions concerning this matter.
Respectfully yours,
Robert D. Sugrue
Senior Investigator and Supervisor

INVOICE FOR SERVICES RENDERED

Twenty-two (22) hours at

Sixty-Five (65) Dollars per Hour: $1430.00

Minus 10% Professional Discount to

Schechter, Mohl, and Trimmer, Attys: $1287.00

Please Remit This Sum

I put down the file.

Shirley Rosenblatt’s eyes were wide open and moist.

“The second death,” she said. “Like killing him again.” Shake of head. “Four years . . . but it’s still — that’s why Josh is so angry. No resolution. Now, you come . . .”

“I’m—”

“No.” She managed to place a finger over her mouth. Dropped it and smiled. “Good. The truth outs.”

Wider smile, a different meaning behind it.

“Harvey as a burglar,” she said. “It’s almost funny. And I’m not in prolonged denial. I lived with him for thirty-one years.”

Sounding resolute, but she looked to me for confirmation, anyway.

I nodded.

She shook her head. “So how did he get in that apartment, right? That’s what they kept asking me, and I didn’t know what to tell them.”

“He was lured there,” I said. “Probably under the guise of a patient call. Someone he thought he could help.”

“Harvey,” she said softly. She closed her eyes. Opened them. “The police kept saying suicide. Over and over. . . . Because Harvey was a psychiatrist, one of them — the chief of detectives — Talisiani — told me everyone knew psychiatrists had a high suicide rate. Then he told me to consider myself lucky that they weren’t pursuing it further. That if they did, everything would come out.”