A Shock to the System - Stevenson Richard - Страница 9

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"You're missing the point, Donald. A long time ago you decided to miss the point, and there's nothing I can do about that— unless, of course, you decide that you want me to."

I was growing increasingly queasy in Crockwell's presence— and a little puzzled too. Was this magisterially patronizing but mild-mannered twit the raging monster Larry Bierly had described to me just a day earlier? The man who—when Bierly and Haig announced they were leaving Crockwell's group—purportedly screamed that they were deluded, and they'd be miserable and sorry, and that they were disturbing the group, and Haig's mother would hate him forever for being a sexual deviant? Was this a distorted impression of Bierly's, or a total lie, or what?

I said, "Vernon, one of the people I've spoken with about Paul Haig is Larry Bierly. You remember Larry, of course."

He blinked and his face both tightened and colored. "Yes, I remember Larry Bierly all too well."

"He told me that when he and Paul became lovers and left your group together, you blew up. He said you ranted and carried on and screamed that they would be very sorry for leaving and for disrupting the group. Does any of that ring a bell?"

Now Crockwell was blushing—blushing—just as Bierly had. Looking as if he were trying not to break into a stammer, or get up and rush from the room, Crockwell said, "That is a gross exaggeration, Donald—a serious, serious exaggeration of what actually transpired. Did I try to impress on Paul and Larry that they were making a terrible mistake? Of course I did. Did I lose control and act in an unprofessional manner? Absolutely not." Now his face was as red as a new Miata.

I said, "Vernon, did Larry Bierly ever threaten you in any way? Or attack you?"

Most of the blood in his body now seemed to have surged up and pushed against the front of his face. He said, "Oh, no. No attack, and no threat that I can recall."

"Bierly never threatened to kill you?"

"I'm sure I would remember if he had done that, Donald. I would have notified the police, in fact. Tell me, is it Larry Bierly who hired you to investigate Paul's death?" His breathing was shallow now, but I had no intention of performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on Crockwell. Let him die.

I said, "My client wishes to remain anonymous for now. I can neither confirm nor deny that it's Larry Bierly, or that it's anyone else, or that it's not anyone else. Sorry."

"But you're going to pursue the killer?" He brought both hands up on the desk now and folded them tightly in front of him. His respiration was still poor, and his knuckles were as white as his face was red. Not good.

"To tell you the truth, Vernon, I'm not sure that I am going to do that. I'm making some preliminary inquiries and then I'll decide if I think it's worth my client's money for me to keep spending it by digging into this. Say, did you say 'killer'? Did you ask me if I was going to pursue Paul Haig's 'killer'?"

"Why, yes."

"So you don't think Paul committed suicide? Or that his death was accidental either?"

He tensed up even more. "I—I don't know. But this seems to be a theory that's going around. That Paul Haig was murdered."

"What do you mean by 'going around'? Are you saying you heard it before I walked in here today?"

"Yes," he mumbled, and nodded once.

"Who from?"

"The Albany Police Department." Now sweat broke out around his eye sockets.

"When?" I asked.

"Yesterday. They asked me to come to their office at Division Two. There was a Detective Finnerty and a Detective Colson. They—I have to tell you, it's very difficult for me to admit this, Donald—but they seemed to think Paul Haig might have been murdered. And, they seemed to think that I might have done it. They were not explicit, but the implications were clear."

"Where did they get an idea like that?"

"Someone had sent them an anonymous letter suggesting that I killed Paul. The letter was accompanied by a tape cassette of part of a therapy session of the group Paul was in. On the tape, I made some comments that could be interpreted as angry. Or perhaps even threatening."

"I thought you said your words and tone were always professional and controlled."

"Of course, absolutely. But on this one occasion, particular things I said could conceivably be misconstrued by the lay observer."

"Or by a jury, I suppose."

He didn't like the sound of that and came out with a little "Oh."

"Did they play the tape for you, Vernon?"

"Yes."

"Who made the recording? Did you, Vernon?"

"Oh, no, no, Donald. That would be unethical without first obtaining the permission of the patients. No, the recording must have been secretly made by one of the members of the therapy group."

"Uh-huh. Maybe one of the members whose opinion of your ideas and methods fell off at some point. Were there others in the group besides Paul Haig and Larry Bierly who ended up considering you a demented crackpot?"

With effort—I could all but hear his sphincter grinding—he said, "I wouldn't know. All the members of that group have moved on. I haven't been in touch with any of them. It's always possible one or two of the ten men in the group were insufficiently motivated and later slipped back to their unnatural ways. And instead of blaming themselves, they blamed me. That can happen."

"I'll bet it does. Did the cops give you a copy of the tape?"

"No."

"Did they ask you for an alibi for the night Paul died?"

He loosened up just enough to slump in his seat. "Yes, they did."

"Did you have one?"

"No."

"Too bad."

"I'm here alone Thursday nights, Donald, often until after midnight. I go over my notes of the past week and transfer them into my computer. Those solitary Thursday nights in this office are extremely valuable to me and I protect them—cherish them, I can say. So regrettably I have no alibi for the night of Paul's death."

"Well, what the cops have is little to go on. Unless something more solid turns up, it's not at all likely they'll charge you with anything, Vernon. They're just fishing around. So, did you kill Paul Haig?"

He slumped some more and said quietly, "Of course not." Then, the strain of it all showing again, he gave me a funny, embarrassed look and said, with obvious effort, "My attorney, Norris Jackacky, tells me that you are quite capable, Donald."

"Thank you."

"Although a police investigation would end up clearing me of any role in Paul Haig's death—if word went around that I was even a suspect in a former patient's murder, the harm to my reputation would be incalculable. Faith and confidence are the coin of the realm for a psychotherapist."

"Oh, I thought it was seventy-five or a hundred or a hundred and fifty dollars an hour."

"You're being facetious and I'm sure you know what I'm saying, Donald. If doubts about my character circulate, my effectiveness could be compromised, even wiped out. And my wife, my family—we could be ruined! I can't let that happen." He looked at me grimly, and before he said it, I heard it coming. "If your other client decides not to pursue the investigation of Paul Haig's death, Donald, I would like to retain you to carry on the investigation on my behalf. I can pay you whatever the other client would have paid, or more if that's necessary. It may feel somewhat odd to you to be working for me. But the arrangement would be independent of our positions on sexual and other

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