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.”

“ 'In view of the specific details of this case,' ” I said.