(This is a continuation from last week's Over 60 column in which Mort, a patient of mine, called me from jail and asked me to come to the police station, get the keys to his apartment, get the telephone number of his boss and call him and tell him Mort wouldn't be in the next day. I headed over to the police station with my wife Lorraine and that is where the story picks up.)

The sergeant at the desk was busy when I introduced myself. He wasn't much impressed by the using of my "Doctor" title, either. He handed me the keys with a great show of disdain bordering on disinterest.

Lorraine and I now headed for the rooming house on 88th St. It was an old frame house that was quite dilapidated. After trying about five keys, I found the one that fit the front door. Lorraine remained in the car outside as I slowly walked up the old, creaky staircase with the dull wooden bannister.

There were four rooms at the top of the staircase. "Which is Mort's room?" I asked myself. I didn't want to start trying keys in a wrong door. I tapped on one door which had lights coming through at the bottom.

A startled young man about 25 years old grew quite agitated as I asked him, "Which is Mort's room?" He pointed to the door, but I could see he was nervous and upset.

I opened the door, entered Mort's room and closed the door behind me. I flipped the light switch to "on" and examined my surroundings. No one to say I was prying. All alone in a strange environment. I always had a bit of a nosy streak.

There were some pictures of Mort and his buddies in their cute sailor suits. There were all these souvenirs from his Coast Guard years. There was this three-dimensional picture of Jesus with the eyes that follow you. That picture shook me up, as Mort had hinted vaguely that he was Jewish.

All in all the room was not what it should be. I didn't know why, but it was a feeling I had.

I could not find the slip of paper that contained the boss' number. I spent time but it was nowhere to be found. I left without it. I had failed in my mission.

I bounded down the dark, musty staircase and into Lorraine's arms in the waiting car.

The car was a 1961 Pontiac Tempest that Lorraine brought into our marriage. We drove off quickly to return the keys to the desk sergeant.

I handed the set of keys up to him and was about to exit the station, when I returned to ask him a question I should have asked before.

"What is he in jail for? I asked.

"Sodomy," replied the desk sergeant.

Mort was a patient of mine for the next 35 years. We never discussed the incident. He faithfully kept his appointment every six months.