So they took the suspect in again, but this time, on Delaney’s urging, they brought in a priest to talk to him. Within an hour they had a complete confession. Well…that was what one man did when he thought he was alone and unobserved.
It was the spastic twitch, the uncontrollable tic that Captain Delaney had an eye for. He wanted to know what tunes the suspect whistled, the foods he ate, how his home was decorated. Was he married, unmarried, thrice-married? Did he beat his dog or beat his wife? All these things told. And, of course, what he did when he thought he was alone.
The “big things” Captain Delaney told his men-things like a man’s job, religion, politics, and the way he talked at cocktail parties-these were a facade he created to hold back a hostile world. Hidden were the vital things. The duty of the cop, when necessary, was to peek around the front at the secret urges and driven acts.
“Doctor will see you now,” the receptionist smiled at him.
Delaney nodded, gripped his hat, marched into the doctor’s office. He ignored the hostile stares of the patients who had, obviously, been waiting longer than he.
Dr. Louis Bernardi rose from behind his desk, holding out a plump, ringed hand.
“Captain,” he said. “Always a pleasure.”
“Doctor,” Delaney said. “Good to see you again. You’re looking well.”
Bernardi caressed the bulged grey flannel waistcoat, straining at its tarnished silver buttons which, Barbara Delaney had told her husband, the doctor had revealed to her were antique Roman coins.
“It’s my wife’s cooking,” Bernardi shrugged, smiling. “What can I do? He-he! Sit down, sit down. Mrs. Delaney is dressing. She will be ready to leave soon. But we shall have time for a little chat.”
A chat? Delaney assumed men had a talk or a discussion. That “chat” was Bernardi. The Captain consulted a police surgeon; Bernardi was his wife’s physician, had been for thirty years. He had seen her through two successful pregnancies, nursed her through a bad bout of hepatitis, and had recommended and seen to her recovery from a hysterectomy only two months previously.
He was a round man, beautifully shaved. He was soft and, if not unctuous, he was at least a smooth article. The black silk suit put forth a sheen; the shoes bore a dulled gleam. He was not perfumed, but he exuded an odor of self-satisfaction.
Contradicting all this were the man’s eyes: hard, bright. They were shrewd little chips of quartz. His glance never wavered; his toneless stare could bring a nurse to tears.
Delaney did not like the man. He did not, for a moment, doubt Bernardi’s professional competence. But he mistrusted the tailored plumpness, the secret smile, the long strands of oily hair slicked across a balding pate. He was particularly incensed by the doctor’s mustache: a thin, carefully clipped line of black imprinted on the upper lip as if marked by a felt-tipped pen.
The Captain knew he amused Bernardi. That did not bother him. He knew he amused many people: superiors in the Department, peers, the uniformed men of his command. Newspapermen. Investigators. Doctors of sociology and criminal pathology. He amused them all. His wife and children. He knew. But on occasion Dr. Bernardi had made no effort to conceal his amusement. Delaney could not forgive him that. “I hope you have good news for me, doctor.”
Bernardi spread his hands in a bland gesture: the dealer who has just been detected selling a ruptured camel.
“Regrettably, I do not. Captain, your wife has not responded to the antibiotics. As I told her, my first instinctive impression was of a low-grade infection. Persistent and of some duration. It accounts for the temperature.”
“What kind of infection?”
Again the gesture: hands spread wide and lifted, palms outward.
“That I do not know. Tests show nothing. Nothing on X-rays. No tumor, so far as I am able to determine. But still, apparently, an infection. What do you think of that?”
“I don’t like it,” Delaney said stonily.
“Nor do I,” Bernardi nodded. “First of all, your wife is ill. That is of most importance. Second, it is a defeat for me. What is this infection? I do not know. It is an embarrassment.”
An “embarrassment,” Delaney thought angrily. What kind of a thing was that to say? The man didn’t know how to use the king’s English. Was he an Italian, a Lebanese, a Greek, a Syrian, an Arabian? What the hell was he?
“Finally,” Dr. Bernardi said, consulting the file open on his desk, “let us consider the fever. It has been approximately six weeks since your wife’s first visit complaining of, quote, ‘Fever and sudden chills.’ Unquote. On that first visit, a temperature a bit above normal. Nothing unusual. Pills for a cold, the flu, a virus-whatever you want to call it. No effect. Another visit. Temperature up. Not a great increase, but appreciable. Then antibiotics. Now, third visit and temperature is up again. The sudden chills continue. It worries me.”
“Well, it worries her and it worries me,” Delaney said stoutly.
“Of course,” Bernardi soothed. “And now she finds many loose hairs in her comb. This is undoubtedly the result of the fever. Nothing serious, but still…And you are aware of the rash on the insides of her thighs and forearms?”
“Yes.”
“Again, undoubtedly the result of the fever stemming from the infection. I have prescribed an ointment. Not a cure, but it will take the itch away.”
“She looks so healthy.”
“You are seeing the fever, Captain! Don’t believe the blush of health. Those bright eyes and rosy cheeks. He! It is the infection.”
“What infection?” Delaney cried furiously. “What the hell is it? Is it cancer?”
Bernardi’s eyes glittered.
“At this stage, I would guess no. Have you ever heard of a Proteus infection, Captain?”
“No. I never have. What is it?”
“I will not speak of it now. I must do some reading on it. You think we doctors know everything? But there is too much. There are young physicians today who cannot recognize (because they have never treated) typhus, small pox or poliomyelitis. But that is by the by.”
“Doctor,” Delaney said, wearied by all this lubricous talk, “let’s get down to it. What do we do now. What are our options?”
Dr. Bernardi leaned back in his swivel chair, placed his two forefingers together, pressed them against his plump lips. He regarded Delaney for a long moment.
“You know, Captain,” he said with some malevolence, “I admire you. Your wife is obviously ill, and yet you say ‘What do we do’ and ‘What are our options.’ That is admirable.”
“Doctor…”
“Very well.” Bernardi sat forward sharply and slapped the file on his desk. “You have three options. One: I can attempt to reduce the fever, to overcome this mysterious infection, by heavier doses of antibiotics or with drugs I have not yet tried. I do not recommend this out of the hospital; the side effects can be alarming. Two: Your wife can enter a hospital for five days to a week for a series of tests much more thorough than I can possibly administer in this office. I would call in other men. Specialists. Neurologists. Gynecologists. Even dermatologists. This would be expensive.”
He paused, looking at the Captain expectantly.
“All right, doctor,” Delaney said patiently. “What’s the third choice?”
Bernardi looked at him tenderly.
“Perhaps you would prefer another physician,” he said softly. “Since I have failed.”
Delaney sighed, knowing his wife’s faith in this oleaginous man.
“We’ll go for the tests. In the hospital. You’ll arrange it?”
“Of course.”
“A private room.”
“That will not be necessary, Captain. It is only for tests.”