"A policeman shouldn't have nerves, I guess. But things have been moving a little too fast for me in this case."
"Just how good is his alibi?" Gallison asked.
"Iron-plated," Fenton said. "And of course it isn't his alibi in a strict sense, because he didn't even present it to us. It's an alibi we'll have to force him to accept as absolute proof that he couldn't have done it, because we want him to walk out of here without hallucinating when we release him. Otherwise someone might get the idea that this is a side wing of Bellevue. We've done our best so far to create that impression anyway."
"You mean—you think he may be ... a psycho?"
"Yes—and no," Fenton said.
"That's sure enlightening. Gets right back to what you just said about medical diagnosis. Maybe you should have been a psychiatrist, Joe."
"Maybe I'd better explain. He's not only a very brilliant writer of true-fact crime articles for the better magazines, with the stress placed on juvenile delinquency—he happens to be pretty much of a confirmed alcoholic. The wild binge kind—once in every three or four weeks he loses a week-end. Completely, goes absolutely blotto."
"Like in that Jackson novel that made such a big splash about twelve or fifteen years ago, you mean? I remember the movie even better than I do the book, but I read the book—"
"We seem to be very literary today," Fenton said. "Everywhere we turn in this case we come up against famous novels, or big-name writers or major movies or guys with a grievance against female editors. I suppose that's only to be expected—considering what kind of murder it was and where it took place. But it's hard to understand why so much of it has to drift our way in a single day. To answer your question—yes, he's the Lost Week-End kind of heavy drinker."
"Then why did you say 'yes—and no,' when I asked you if he was a psycho?"