When a Stranger Knocks

By Bruce Forester

A young, blond-haired woman stabbed with a knife in her chest and bleeding to death is desperately trying to get to Dr. Mort Yvars, a psychiatrist who specializes in treating violence-prone patients. Fortunately, across the street she spots the light to his office still burning. She must rally her remaining breaths to hand him the three blood-drenched diaries that contain the identity of her killer. Will she make it to his office before death overtakes her? Who is she, and why is she a target for murder? Morts odyssey takes him to the most powerful and famous men in the world, eventually bringing him to England to confront a member of the royal family. A fast paced suspenseful mystery with incredible twists and turns . When a Stranger Knocks is the second in a fourteen-part mystery series featuring Mort and Millie, a humorous, loving, clever couple who themselves are constantly fighting their own inner demons. Will Morts fears win out, or will he be able to overcome them to stop the bloodshed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481755351

Bruce Forester

BRUCE FORESTER, M.D., is a psychiatrist in private practice in New York City. He is the author of five previous novels: In Strict Confidence, Signs and Omens, Fatal Memory, Blood Fever, Bleedout. He has also published numerous professional articles covering topics from physician burnout to the psychological toll on cancer patients undergoing radiotherapy to transsexualism and its treatment in group therapy. He is a graduate of Dartmouth College and received his medical degree from Columbia University. A veteran of the US navy he lives with his wife and two golden retrievers in Westchester County, New York. Visit website @www.bruceforester.com or www.authorshouse.com

Book preview

PROLOGUE

TUESDAY, MAY 17, 11:17 P.M.

She staggered across the deserted street, her tremulous hands clutching three thick notebooks against her blood-drenched chest. The wetness dripped from her torn nightgown onto the dark pavement below.

She had to find his apartment. Speak to him. Show him what she had written in those books. The rest would be up to him.

She stepped over the curb and faced the large prewar apartment house. Suddenly a wave of nausea shot through her. She took a deep breath. She could not afford to let anything deter her from her goal, her final mission.

The light from the halogen street lamps cascaded over her. Shit, she thought, which apartment is his? Her girlfriend Kathy had pointed it out to her when she started seeing him. Since then, she must have passed by his place hundreds of times. Kathy said he was kind. Very caring. That he went out of his way to help. Once she even contemplated going to him herself. Perhaps she should have. Possibly then tonight would not have happened. But she hadn’t gone. Tonight did happen. Nothing else mattered.

She approached the entranceway, a blur of brick and mortar. She blinked once and then again, trying to get her eyes to focus. She couldn’t. They wouldn’t. She was rapidly losing strength. She was having trouble breathing.

What if she did find his office? What were the odds that he’d still be there? She had no idea what time it was but realized that it had to be after ten. That was when her last guest had left. Kathy mentioned that she had group ending at 10:30 twice a week, each Tuesday and Thursday. Perhaps she’d be in luck. Maybe tonight would be one of those nights when he worked even after his patients had left, doing billing, whatever. All she could do was hope. Pray he’d be in. Pray her strength would last so she’d have the time she needed to talk to him. To give him her detailed notes.

Where was the doorman? He’d see the urgency of her situation. He’d lead her to his office. Shit, where was he? Her eyes darted in all directions. She knew that his, in stark contrast to hers, was a gloved building. She had intentionally chosen an apartment in a gloveless building. More privacy. Less questions. Less confusion. Kathy worried about the safety factor. However, to her, privacy always took precedent. That was until tonight. Until the serrated knife plunged into her rib cage.

She looked through the door. Nothing. There was nobody in the lobby.

She called out weakly. No answer. She cried out again. Again, no response. Damn it, she thought, he must be on a break.

Slowly she summoned her remaining strength, pushed open the heavy wrought iron door, and edged her way into the well-appointed lobby. She had to find the doctor’s apartment. But how? Where was it? Suddenly, it hit her. Doctors usually had their offices on the first floor. She hoped his would be found there. She had to hope it would. She had no time to search for the list buildings displayed of all of their tenants.

She stared down the hall. It looked like a light was coming from under one of the doors near the bank of elevators. Slowly she began walking toward the light. Her breaths were coming in short painful gasps, her legs wobbling with each step.

The light was growing closer. Brighter. Please God, let it be the doctor’s office!

Finally she reached the light. In the middle of the door she saw a brass nameplate. She sighed in relief. She had found his office. Now she had to hope that he was not one of those doctors who left the lights on long after he went home at night to discourage would-be burglars from breaking and entering.

She fumbled for the bell and feebly pressed it. Please God, let him be in! He had better be! She had no one else to turn to, no one else to trust. No time left for anything.

Please let him be willing to help! Kathy said he always was. She had to hope that her friend was right. That Dr. Mort Yvars would indeed be willing to find her killer.

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CHAPTER 1

TUESDAY, MAY 17, 11:29 P.M.

Yvars, seated behind his mahogany desk, had just finished putting away his notes from the evening’s group therapy session when he thought he heard a faint sound. It must be Max playing with his keys. He often wondered how Max passed the time. His ten to six shift had to be incredibly boring.

He heard the thud again. This time louder. He knew it couldn’t be the bell. The sound was different. Besides, the bell had been broken, and he didn’t think the electrician had come to fix it. Neither could it be a patient. The hour was too late. Mort lifted his muscular frame from the leather chair and walked toward the noise. Then he heard it again. A thumping sound pressing against his front door. Who could it be? Max would have notified him on the intercom if someone was there to see him. Maybe it was Max himself at the door. Yes, that was probably what it was. He saw my light on, Mort thought, and his boredom got the best of him. He’s probably out there wanting to chat.

Mort opened the door and stood momentarily frozen. Standing in front of him was a tall, thin young woman in a torn blood-soaked nightgown. Before he could utter a word she collapsed, three notebooks scattering in all directions.

Dr. Yvars, she panted, you must help me! I have to talk to you.

Mort dragged her limp body into his office. He then closed the door. He raced to the phone on his desk and punched in 911.

Please hang up. Don’t call anyone, she uttered weakly.

I must. You need immediate help or you’ll bleed to death.

It’s too late. She coughed up several large clumps of blood.

I can’t just let you die, Yvars replied. This is Dr. Yvars, he said into the telephone. I’m at 201 West Eighty-Eighth Street. A woman is bleeding to death in my office. Send a paramedic unit over immediately. He quickly hung up the phone.

It’s no use. I’ll be dead before they get here.

Mort bent down and gently held her bloody hand. I have some gauze in my back room. I should be able to stop some of the bleeding, buy some time. Wentworth Hospital is only a few minutes from here. You’ll be okay.

Where are my three notebooks? she whispered. Get them!

Mort glanced around the blood-spattered beige carpet, lifted himself up, and retrieved two of them.

There’s another one someplace, she murmured.

I’ll find it later. Right now I have to stop the bleeding.

I beg you not to. I’m dying. I know that. So do you. Kathy Styles told me you were a good listener. Hear me out. I need you to find my killer.

I’m a doctor. That’s for the police to do, Mort said, pressing his right hand firmly against the large gaping wound under her right breast.

No. Not the police. Not the FBI. Kathy told me that you … She paused to catch her breath. The room was starting to spin. That you specialize in treating violent patients.

I do, but what has that to do with you? Mort paused. Did one of my patients stab you? he asked.

I doubt it. I don’t think anybody I know other than Kathy would ever go to a psychiatrist. It’s your knowledge of human nature I need.

She began feeling a wave of nausea again. This time more forceful. She vomited once. Then again. Will you help?

Yes, Mort reluctantly replied. If I can, I will.

All you need to know to find my killer is written in my three notebooks. she gasped.

Mort spotted the third one next to his magazine rack.

Put them in a safe place for now. Read them later. You’ll know what to do.

Mort stood up, took the three notebooks, and put them on the top shelf of the nearby closet. He then returned to her side.

Promise me one thing, she said.

What’s that?

Don’t hand those notebooks over to the police!

I have to, Mort replied.

Please don’t or you’ll get yourself killed as well, she replied weakly.

Then the room began a sickening whirl. She tried mouthing another sentence, another word. She couldn’t. Her breaths were becoming more rapid, less regular. The room was becoming darker. Then nothing.

Mort felt for her pulse. There wasn’t any. He began cardiac message. Hang in there!

Suddenly the door flew open. Max rushed in, followed by two heavyset men in white. The two paramedics began working on her, attempting to revive her.

Five minutes later the taller of the two faced Mort. It’s no use. Her pupils are fixed and dilated.

Mort stared at the blood-soaked lifeless figure sprawled on the carpet.

Are you the doctor who called 911? the shorter of the two asked as he took out a pad and pen from his jacket pocket.

Yes. I’m Mort Yvars.

What do you know about her?

Nothing, Mort replied helplessly.

Why was she here? the taller one asked.

Yvars hesitated before replying. Should he heed the words of a dying woman or tell them what she said? He decided he’d best acquiesce to her plea. I don’t know. I never saw her before.

Where’d she live? the shorter one asked.

I’m not sure, but she was near death when she got here. I have to believe that she couldn’t have walked very far. She must live close by.

What was her name? the taller one asked.

I don’t know. She knocked on my door. I let her in and called 911, and within minutes she arrested. I was trying to resuscitate her when you got here.

Jim, the shorter one began, call the Twentieth Precinct. Tell them to come to 201 West Eighty-Eighth apartment 1F. We have a DOA.

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CHAPTER 2

WEDNESDAY, MAY 18, 12:47 A.M.

Mort, are you okay? What happened? Millie asked, standing in the entranceway to their apartment.

Mort, his hands trembling, related the events that had transpired.

Where’s Detective Feldman now? Millie asked.

Across the street from my office. They traced her path of blood. It led right to her apartment. He’s probably over there now. He ordered the attendant to take her body to the medical examiner.

Are you sure you’re all right? You look green.

Mort took a deep breath and feigned a smile. I’m shook up. That’s all. Really I’m fine.

Millie rubbed her thin fingers through Mort’s thick brown hair. Forgive me for worrying, but it’s not every night that you call to tell me about a stranger who comes to your office after being stabbed several times and then drops dead. It’s scary. I love you. I worry about you.

You have nothing to worry about. I wasn’t murdered. She was.

That’s not what I’m worried about. I know you better than you think. Perhaps better than you know yourself. I’m afraid you’ll meddle. Get involved. End up like her.

Mort kissed Millie on her cheek. I’ll be fine. We’ll grow old together. You’ll see.

Mort, you haven’t answered my question!

I didn’t realize you’d asked one, Mort said with a sheepish grin.

Well, are you going to?

Am I going to what?

Search for her killer.

Mort didn’t respond.

I knew it. You are going to put your two cents in. Get killed. I’ll be widowed, Millie replied.

I have to. She pleaded with me. If a client came to you, you’d do the same. I know you would.

Millie couldn’t say anything. Mort was right. She would. She sighed. She’d have to hope that Mort knew what he was doing. She had no other choice.

Did you make any progress in court today? Mort asked.

Yes. We should be ready to start jury selection tomorrow.

What’s Benson’s read on your chances?

He’s optimistic that we’ll finally get Tucci. Greg’s confident that the witnesses he’s lined up will convince the jury of Tucci’s guilt.

I read in the Times that Benson’s been approved by the White House. Not bad, Millie. Your first job out of law school and not only are you working for the Manhattan district attorney but the district attorney who has been chosen by the president to become his new attorney general. Quite impressive.

What are you doing? a curious Millie asked.

I almost forgot about those notebooks. I have to go back to my office where I left them. I will be back in 15 minutes. Mort walked back into their apartment carrying the notebooks twenty minutes later.

"What is in those blood covered notebooks,? Millie asked.

I don’t know. She gave them to me. She told me that everything I’d need to know in order to find her killer I’d find written in these three books, Mort replied, placing all three on top of a file folder on his desk.

Millie reached over, grabbed one of the three books, and opened it.

Has her blood covered her writing? Mort asked.

Millie said nothing. Her eyes were fixated on the writings. She quickly turned the page. Then another. Then a third.

I’ve never seen you at a loss for words. What’s she written? Mort asked.

Read this page yourself. You won’t believe it, Millie replied.

Mort seized one of the two remaining notebooks and flipped it open. The writing was clearly visible. There was no evidence of blood. He began reading, his eyes bulging with each passage. He quickly glanced at a second page and then a third. This is a sex journal! he finally blurted out.

I’d say. It’s far raunchier than the grossest X-rated porn movie you ever forced me to watch.

Mort closed the book and placed it back on his desk.

I can’t see how this filth can help you find her killer. She’s written a diary of trash, Millie said.

Mort paced the carpet for a few moments before replying. Exactly. Total filth. Sadomasochistic sex. Anal sex. Positions I can’t even visualize. Every type of sex act imaginable and then some.

And this supposedly is all you need to find her killer? Millie asked in disbelief.

That’s what she said, Mort replied.

For the next fifteen minutes Mort and Millie flipped through many of the pages in the three notebooks. Finally Millie said, A complete account of her sex acts. Day by day. Hour by hour. But who are these disgusting perverts?

Mort paused before replying, I don’t know, but I looked into her eyes. I heard her plea. She meant what she said.

That might very well be true, but you don’t have any leads. You’re at a dead end. Mort, give these diaries to Detective Feldman. Let him figure out who killed her. You’re a psychiatrist, not a detective. Let Feldman do his job. You concentrate on yours.

I can’t. I promised her I’d do all I could to find out who murdered her.

Mort walked into the back room.

"What are you doing now?’ Millie asked following closely behind.

Photocopying each of the pages in all three notebooks on our color copier. I’ll give Feldman the originals. I’ll keep the copies. This way he can’t accuse me of obstructing justice.

And you’ll still be able to hunt down her killer, right? Millie asked sarcastically.

Exactly. Now come on. I need your help. We’ve got a lot of pages to copy.

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CHAPTER 3

WEDNESDAY, MAY 18, 2:17 A.M.

Mort and Millie slipped between the two policemen guarding the entrance to the dead woman’s third floor apartment and stepped around the yellow police line. Where’s Detective Feldman? Yvars asked. One of the cops pointed to the bedroom.

Millie glanced around the living room. She certainly lived well, she whispered to Mort. The entire room was colored in soft cream white with moldings decorating the ceilings and bordering a fireplace. Two rose-printed chintz armchairs faced each other, and the same rose printed chintz was on the draperies that hung on both of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

A lot of money went into decorating this place, she softly said. Mort nodded his head in agreement.

Millie’s eyes took in the Chippendale sofa and the pair of English Regency chairs at the far corner of the room and commented, Mort, this is what I consider tastefully done.

They entered the bedroom. The four-poster bed was covered with a narrow pink and green striped bedspread. She also was quite tidy, Millie said, gazing at the carefully folded pink blanket at the foot of the bed. Her eyes took in a beautiful, small white porcelain dish with a pink rose painted on it, lying on a small Sheraton table beside the bed. The walls were blanketed with roses, roses, roses. Chintz, chintz, chintz. The entire apartment reeks of an English country house, Mort replied.

Mort commented that it seemed odd that there wasn’t a single book in the bedroom. I guess she was too busy to read, he said.

Millie looked at him with a disapproving gaze. A tall, dark-featured middle-aged man approached them. Mort Yvars, he began, shaking the psychiatrist’s hand. It’s been a long time.

Hello, Gabe, Yvars replied. Do you remember Millie?

Of course, Feldman smiled. I’ve followed your career. He gazed into her hazel eyes. I read in yesterday’s Post that you’re assisting Benson with the Tucci case. We thought we had him nailed several times. Each time he walked. I hope you get him this time.

Benson has put together a great case. We feel confident, Millie said.

I hope you have better luck than we did when Duffy was the district attorney.

Yvars handed the three notebooks to the well-dressed detective.

What gives? Feldman asked as he began thumbing through the first of the three diaries. Why did she come to see you? Was she a patient of yours?

No. I never saw her until tonight. I don’t even know her name. Do you?

Beth Perry, Feldman replied. She often had coffee with one of her neighbors. He said she was very social, that she always seemed to be entertaining. He paused momentarily. Why did she give you these notebooks?

Mort repeated all that had happened since the blood-drenched young woman knocked on his front door four and a half hours earlier. When he finished Feldman asked, What was her friend’s name again?

Kathy Styles.

I need her records.

I can’t give them to you. You know they’re confidential. However, I’ll call your office later with her address and phone number.

I’ll talk to her. I’ll find out what, if anything, she knows. Feldman skimmed several pages in each of the notebooks. Ten minutes passed in silence. Finally the detective looked up. This is really raunchy stuff. It’s quite a turn on.

I’d say, Mort beamed. She knew how to give head.

You two are disgusting, Millie said.

She was a hooker. Obviously well paid, but a whore nevertheless, Feldman replied.

Millie’s face turned scarlet. How dare you talk about that poor dead woman like that? How can you be so certain that she was a prostitute? Isn’t it equally as possible that her detailed accounts of her sexual life were confined to whoever her boyfriend was at the time? Why couldn’t she simply have just loved sex? She stared at Mort. Some women do, you know! Some even more so than men. How come that makes them a tramp? When men are oversexed they are thought of as studs.

Feldman, don’t get Millie going! Do you think one of the men the victim wrote about is her killer? Mort asked the bleary-eyed detective.

That’s rushing it a bit. Who knows?

What’s your next step? Mort asked.

Tomorrow we’ll start carefully going over her diaries. Hopefully we’ll come up with some names. We also found her checkbook and credit cards. We’ll contact her bank. We should get some information that way.

And if not?

Forensics is still in the bathroom collecting fingerprints, hair, blood, and skin fragments. Judging by the mess in the bathroom it’s likely she struggled, ripped some of the perp’s hair or skin. Maybe even cut him with her fingernails. We’ll do a DNA analysis.

Anything else? Mort continued prodding.

We’ll also talk to her neighbors. Find out who her other friends were besides the Styles woman. Where she worked. Who she hung out with when she wasn’t … Feldman eyed Millie and stopped in mid-sentence. We’ll do whatever has to be done. We’ll get a lead; we usually do.

When Millie and I entered the apartment I looked at the front door. It didn’t seem as if any damage was done to either the door frame or the lock itself, Mort said.

There wasn’t. There’s no evidence of a forced entry. The perp entered without any problem. Either Beth Perry was expecting him and left the door unlocked or he had a key to her apartment. Either way it’s a good bet he was someone she knew quite well. Feldman looked at his watch. Let’s get out of here. I have a busy day ahead.

They were at the elevator when Feldman suddenly turned to Mort. Thanks for your help tonight. It brought back to mind the case we worked on together several years ago. You were incredibly helpful in our eventually nabbing that serial killer. However, I also remember your style. You were a loose cannon. I never knew what you were up to. You were always going it alone. You never clued me in as to what was going on. I know I can’t keep you from getting involved in this investigation. In fact, I’m sure you will. But you’d better not run rampant as you did the last time. I won’t tolerate any action on your part whatsoever unless you first get my okay. Directly from me. Not from my assistant. Not from anyone but me personally. Otherwise, I’ll have your ass. I’ll have you arrested for obstructing justice. Have I made myself clear?

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CHAPTER 4

WEDNESDAY, MAY 18, 9:42 A.M.

Millie, dressed in a dark blue suit, turned in her chair and nervously glanced at the noisy crowd overflowing the large eleventh-floor courtroom in the Supreme Court building, a relic from a bygone era. It stood out like a sore thumb, as it was now sandwiched between two high-rise ultra-modern glass and concrete courthouses on Centre Street.

Good morning, the tall imposing figure said as he sat down alongside her.

Our case has certainly stirred up lots of interest. I’ve never tried a case with so much media attention, Millie said.

You’ll get used to it, Greg Benson replied.

Millie stared at Manhattan’s handsome district attorney. You look tired. Are you feeling okay?

Benson quickly gulped down two large glasses of water and refilled his glass before responding. I’m fine.

Did you have time for your checkup yesterday? Millie asked.

Yes. Dr. Rizzo said my diabetes insipidus is well controlled.

You’ve never explained to me what your medical problem means.

That’s because it’s really nothing to get excited about. For some reason my body lacks the hormone needed to regulate the amount of water in my system. I easily get dehydrated. That’s why I’m always so thirsty. That’s the reason I had those two kidney stone attacks earlier this year. As long as I remember to drink plenty of water throughout the day I’ll never get any symptoms.

Since we work together is there anything else I should know? Millie asked.

As I said as long as I drink enough water and don’t get dehydrated I’ll be fine. Otherwise I could develop more kidney stones. In the worst-case scenario I could feel tired and very lightheaded. But even if that occurred, after downing a few glasses of water I would pass the kidney stones and be fine. This used to freak me out but I have gotten used to the problem and deal with it as part of my life. It no longer is a big deal.

Benson paused. What you need is a wife. Someone to look after you. You’re such an attractive man. I can’t understand why you haven’t been able to find the right woman.

Everyone isn’t as fortunate as Mort was. Can we kindly change the subject?

Of course. I didn’t mean to pry.

I read in today’s Post about that girl who was fatally stabbed near your husband’s office last night. What made her call on Mort? Was she a patient of his? Benson asked.

No, but apparently a friend of hers had been, Millie began as she recounted what she knew about Beth Perry’s murder.

Remember when Mort helped me with one of my first cases a few years ago? I had to call him down several times. He’d tend to investigate on his own terms. I’ve worked with Feldman. He’s big on protocol. Mort had better not cross him, Benson warned.

I was with Mort when Feldman read him the riot act. My husband might like doing things his way. However, he won’t obstruct justice, especially after Feldman made it clear that he’d be arrested if he did, Millie replied, turning her head to the back of the courtroom. Jane’s been in the bathroom for more than fifteen minutes. Maybe I should see if she’s all right.

I’m sure she’s fine. I’ve known women who’ve made a career of spending lots of time in the bathroom. She’ll be back before ten, Benson replied, gently patting Millie on her tense shoulder. You once asked me why I selected you from all my assistants for such a high-profile case. I don’t think I gave you a clear answer. It has to do with your concern for others. Like your worrying about Jane. If we are going to convict Tucci, we need Jane and our other witnesses to remain in our corner. They are going to get a lot of pressure from Tucci’s men to drop their charges. I’m counting on your warm, caring, maternal personality to keep Jane and the others on board. If they bolt we won’t have a case. Tucci will get away with raping these four young women, all of whom were minors when he forced himself on them.

I didn’t realize you were worried about the witnesses.

That’s because you don’t know how Tucci and his men operate. Two years ago I charged him with leading a cocaine ring. I was sure we finally had him. Before I knew it our entire case fell apart. When the mob feels its power being threatened there’s no end to what they’ll do to gain control, Benson said.

No wonder you’ve been irritable lately. I thought it had to do with being nervous about your confirmation hearings, Millie replied.

That too. But it’s more the Tucci case. If I can present my arguments as I hope to, his attorneys will become worried, and they’ll realize he’ll likely be convicted. They’ll convince Tucci that it’s in his best interest to plea-bargain. I’m counting on Tucci to turn informant, to give us the evidence we need to indict the mob leaders we’ve been after. In return I’ll reduce the charges from a Felony B, which carries a mandatory three to twenty-five sentence to a Felony E—nonviolent rape charges without a mandatory jail sentence. If I can get to that stage, I’m sure his attorneys will persuade him to take my offer, which I will only make if he agrees to all of my conditions.

Won’t the mob kill him? Millie asked.

We’ll offer him the option of entering the Witness Protection Program.

And if he refuses?

That’s his problem.

Good morning, Mr. Benson. Hi, Millie, Jane Ferguson said as she slid her well-endowed frame into the chair between her two attorneys.

The incessant noise that had permeated the courtroom abruptly ceased as Judge Greenberg entered from his chambers.

Let’s get the bastard, Benson whispered half to himself and half to Millie and Jane.

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CHAPTER 5

WEDNESDAY, MAY 18, 12:19 P.M.

Mort savored the last mouthful of his third donut, licked the remaining chocolate from his thick fingers, and knocked on the door to apartment 3A. He’d vowed