A Shock to the System - Stevenson Richard - Страница 20

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"He was improving, the last I heard. But I've got to check again with the hospital and the cops."

"Are you still conniving to ruin Vernon Crockwell?" Timmy's glistening shoes came off and were placed side by side on the far right of the fourth step.

"I'm still conniving to find out how and why Paul Haig died, and who shot Bierly and why. If Crockwell is mixed up in either situation, his evil mission will be destroyed. I'll be glad and so will you."

"What does 'mixed up in' mean? That's the part I'm nervous about." I followed him to the kitchen, where he fixed himself a

tall, cool glass of Price Chopper seltzer. I found a Popsicle in the freezer.

"If it takes a load off your mind, Timothy, rest assured I don't plan on planting evidence in Crockwell’s office—a smoking revolver or—in Paul Haig's case, what? That's the problem with Haig's death. Even if he was somehow forced or conned into ingesting the lethal combination of Scotch and Elavil, what evidence of it can anybody come up with at this late date? He's been dead and buried for two months. And Haig's apartment, where he died, has been cleaned out and rented to someone else. So physical evidence is going to be nil."

"That does leave you in the lurch. Who's your client? Got one yet?"

"I haven't decided. But the queue still winds around the block. That won't be a problem." He gave me his look that said, I'm not rolling my eyes theatrically but I would if I were the type who did that.

I said, "I'm talking to the members of the therapy group—I've met three so far—trying to get a clearer picture of the Crockwell-Haig-Bierly constellation and any potential violence in it, and how anybody else might have fit into it in a violent way. None of the three I talked to comes down especially hard on Crockwell— not as a murder or attempted-murder suspect anyway. Their opinion of him as a therapist is poor, but that's separate. Except, I heard the tape this morning that somebody sent to the cops, and Crockwell did threaten Haig. Each threatened the other, in fact. When Haig said he was quitting the group, Crockwell threatened to bring Phyllis Haig into it, and Haig said Crockwell would be sorry if he did, and Haig would stop him, and Crockwell said if Haig interfered Crockwell would stop him dead in his tracks."

" 'Dead in his tracks'? He used those words?"

"I heard it."

"Maybe the tape was edited to make it sound like he said that."

"No, I've got corroboration from three people who were there."

"Maybe they're the ones who edited the tape and sent it in."

"All three of them? That sounds overly conspiratorial for this particular situation."

"Maybe Mrs. Haig can shed some light on whether Crockwell contacted her and how Paul reacted."

"I plan on asking her," I said, "but shedding light is not her forte." I licked off the last of the Popsicle and placed the stick in the bin Timmy had set up by the sink labeled "Waste Wood Products." I knew where the paper, glass and plastic ended up, but I was never sure what he did with the wood.

I said, "Anyway, Crockwell is sounding more and more like a quack but less and less like a cold-blooded killer, and there are two members of the group I haven't met yet who sound much more problematical. I talked to two guys who survived Crockwell and are now a cozy couple themselves—sort of Fred Mertz married to Fred Mertz—and I met with a married man from Saratoga who is preoccupied with dick and who may be the most cynical man in North America. They're very different types, but all three of them mentioned two group members, Dean Moody and Roland Stover, who are violently antigay. They'll bear looking into."

Timmy said, "Gay homophobes. They're the worst."

"Maybe. The competition is keen. And then there's this: ever hear of a Steven St. James?"

"I don't think so. Any relation to Susan?"

"Not that I know of. I found him visiting Larry Bierly in the hospital this morning. He was cagey and evasive about his relationship with Bierly, and when I brought up Crockwell's group, he panicked and fled the premises. I went after him and pressed him on his connection to Bierly and Haig and Crockwell, and before he drove away, scared and shaken, he said, 'You don't want to know.' "

"Except you do. Who do you think he is?"

"No clue. I traced his car to Schuylers Landing. I'll track him down tomorrow."

"Maybe he's Bierly's boyfriend. Or he was Haig's or something. Or both. Or Crockwell's. Or—or all of theirs."

"I'd say your Irish Catholic imagination is running away with you on that one, Timothy."

"Yes, well, from the sounds of this curious and varied crew, your New Jersey Presbyterian imagination might not be up to the task."

"Funny, somebody else made a similar observation about an hour ago. Maybe I need to be open to more baroque explanations for whatever is going on here."

Timmy said, "Or even gothic."

I reached another of the therapy group by phone. Eugene Cebulka, in East Greenbush, agreed to meet me at seven-thirty at a Chinese restaurant we both knew out on Route 20.

I was about to call the hospital and Al Finnerty when the phone rang and Vernon T. Crockwell, sounding stricken, said, "I need your help quite badly, Donald. I'll pay you whatever your highest rate is. Just please do everything you can to find out who shot Larry Bierly—and killed Paul Haig if he was murdered and that's part of whatever this horrible thing is that's happening to me."

"To you, Vernon?"

"The police have questioned me again, and now they say they've found the gun that was used to shoot Larry Bierly. They say they found it in the dumpster behind my building!"

"Uh-oh."

"Can you imagine!"

"Yep."

"Someone is doing this to me!"

"That's what it looks like, Vernon."

"It's unjust. It's just terribly unjust. Now, Donald—Norris Jackacky tells me you are a fighter for justice."

"Me and the Green Hornet—and Al D'Amato too. Is he a hero of yours, Vernon?"

"Donald, are you going to help me or not? I must know! My wife must know! Doris is beside herself with fright and revulsion that this should be happening to our family, and the poor

woman's near-hysteria is entirely justified."

I said, "I heard the tape."

"Oh. I see. So then you know that I never said anything illegal or unprofessional, strictly speaking."

"You threatened Haig. He threatened you and then you threatened to stop him dead in his tracks."

"I was speaking figuratively, as part of a therapeutic technique. I was merely trying to elicit a response. Although I do appreciate that the untrained lay observer might misunderstand."

"Vernon," I said, "you sure are full of it. You know, I'm starting to believe less and less of anything you tell me. I don't, for example, any longer consider plausible your reasons for trying to hire me. You say it's because I'm the best around. But I know and Norris Jackacky knows that there are other excellent investigators in Albany who are not homosexual, your particular bete noire. So please tell me the truth now. Why me?"

A long silence. I could hear him breathing hard. Then he said, "I'm ashamed to—what I mean to say is, I am simply unable to be as candid on some points as you might consider it appropriate for me to be. Let's just say, I have my reasons."

I said, "Are you gay yourself?"

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