A Shock to the System - Stevenson Richard. Страница 10

matters. It would be purely professional—a business transaction, much as either of us might conduct with an accountant or a dry-cleaning establishment."

Crockwell reached down to where his hand had been earlier, but instead of coming up with a pistol or a rubber ducky, he produced a checkbook.

I 'm amazed you actually met with Crockwell," Timmy said. "Wasn't that premature?"

"You thought it was a good idea last night."

"I did?"

"You were a little groggy."

We were at the dining-room table at the house on Crow Street. He'd brought home a Vieille Ferme 1991 and had grilled a nice slab of bluefish, and I was responsible for the salad and the Tater Tots.

"You aren't actually considering taking that madman's money, are you? You've had some reprehensible clients over the years, but surely Crockwell is beyond the pale."

"I'm not going to take anybody's money until I've got a clearer picture of what the possibilities are in this. For one thing, I want to talk to the cops and see what they've got. Phyllis Haig, Larry Bierly, and Crockwell have all fed me stories that have their dubious aspects. I'm especially mystified over conflicting accounts of threats that Bierly and/or Haig may have made against Crockwell, and vice versa, and a possible assault by Bierly on Crockwell. In those areas, all three of them are antsy and unconvincing."

"Maybe the tape will clear some of that up. Will the cops let you hear it?"

"They will if they think I can be helpful. Otherwise they'll poke me in both eyes with sticks and leave me standing in the middle of Washington Avenue during the morning rush."

"You've survived worse from the Albany Police Department."

"I have to admit I'd love to take Crockwell's money, but I'd also like to see him put out of business. And if a homicide charge, however false, accomplished that—hey, it must all be part of a larger plan. Let his missus, who's a Sunday-school teacher in Loudonville, he says, till the Crockwell fields for a year or two while he goes somewhere and gets deprogrammed."

Timmy gave me his never-entered-the-priesthood-but-still-a-Jesuit-at-heart look. "I don't think you mean that."

"Of course I do."

"Don, Crockwell is a dangerous quack and should be exposed as such. And an enlightened public should scorn and discredit him and make it clear to one and all he's bad, not good, for the health of anybody's mind and soul. And I certainly hope that you don't accept a nickel of his soiled pelf. But being wrongly accused of taking a life is a fate nobody deserves."

"Look, if he didn't do it, the chances are slight that he'd actually be convicted and sentenced and hung by his thumbs."

"Sure, slight."

"Timothy, if there is any such thing as evil in what passes for the civilized world, this guy represents it. He's a kind of Men-gele's-pale-shadow for the nineties, performing weird experiments on people's sexuality for the sake of an ancient, barbaric prejudice. Should fate suddenly turn around and perform a weird experiment on Vernon Crockwell's reputation—well, it's all in the game."

"Are you really talking about fate, or fate with a little nudge from you?"

"I'll just follow the question where it leads. You know me. Pass the Tots, please."

"Yes, that is the way you operate, usually. And it's one of the things I most admire about you, when I do." He passed the mooshed-potato balls. "How does Crockwell do whatever it is he does to his clients? Is it the talking cure, or aversion therapy, or what?"

"I didn't ask and I'm not sure I want to know. Group therapy

is part of it—I've got a list of the eight other men in Haig's and Bierly's group—but I got the impression from Bierly there's more to it than that. Crockwell's suite had one big conference-type room that I saw. There were a number of closed doors, too, but I don't know who or what was lurking behind them."

"Crockwell gave you a list of his clients? Isn't that unethical— or even illegal?"

"He couldn't, he said, even though he's convinced, probably rightly, that someone in the group is out to get him—nail him as a murderer, whether he is one or not. At my suggestion, though, Crockwell was willing to sit quietly and examine his white knuckles while I phoned Larry Bierly, who was happy to provide me with the names and biographical sketches of each of the group members. Two others besides Haig are dead, it turns out—a double-suicide leap from the Patroon Bridge in February that was witnessed by six motorists and doesn't look suspicious, just sickening. It sounds like a kind of indirect murder. Anyway, Bierly said that all or most of the seven surviving group members probably considered Crockwell capable of actual murder and would be willing to testify to that effect, giving examples of his behavior that led them to this harsh opinion."

"I remember reading about the bridge suicide. What a horror Crockwell is—true-believerism at its most destructive."

"Crockwell, of course, affects the stance that all the group members except two adored him. And since Paul Haig is dead, Bierly is his prime suspect for secretly taping a therapy session and sending the tape to the cops. It was funny, though. I had to drag it out of Crockwell that Bierly was logically the culprit if the others in the therapy group were Crockwell's diehard fans. He gets very uncomfortable when Bierly's name comes up and seems to hate to have to think about him at all."

"Did you tell Crockwell that Bierly is trying to hire you to pin the supposed murder on Crockwell?"

"That didn't come up, no. Nor did I tell Crockwell that Phyllis Haig wants to hire me to pin the supposed murder on Bierly."

"This is getting complicated, Donald. What if this entire crew is

nothing more than an extended nest of paranoiacs and revenge seekers? Can you afford to spend a lot of time mucking about in this with no payoff either in the form of justice or cash?"

"Somebody will pay me—there's no reason to be concerned about that. Offers keep pouring in. It wouldn't surprise me if Jerry Falwell called up and wanted me to verify that on the night he died Paul Haig was seen leaving the Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge on Route 9W with Hillary Clinton. If I can show that Haig wasn't murdered, Crockwell can pay me. If I can show that Haig was murdered and Crockwell did it, Bierly can pay me. If I show that Haig was murdered and Bierly did it, then Phyllis Haig can pay me. As I see it, it's a no-lose situation."

Bypassing the jar of tartar sauce I'd brought out to improve the Taters, Timmy squeezed some more lemon on his remaining savories and said, "With the people you've described to me who are involved in this, Don, a no-lose situation sounds out of the question. I've got a feeling about all of this that's not good."

"I'll just have to be at my nimblest," I said. "Like this—"and proceeded to juggle three Tater Tots, Barnum & Bailey-style, until two landed in my lap and one in Timmy's wineglass.

Mum, poker-faced Detective Lieutenant Al Finnerty had taken over the APD homicide unit after longtime head Ned Bowman's surprise early retirement and relocation to semirural Tennessee. This followed an incident at a Democratic Party hotel-ballroom fundraiser where Bowman's presumably speculative but overly jocular description of the mayor's mistress's genitalia was overheard by His Honor, who had stepped behind a column momentarily to zip up his fly.

And just as Bowman had been one of the public loudmouths of Albany, always ready with a crude opinion or a piece of nasty advice for citizens who fit into categories he didn't like—"fairies" headed his long list—Finnerty was one of the city's officers who was almost pathologically closemouthed. He had learned too well that whatever his views on public or private matters, large or small, the nineties comprised a decade for never, ever expressing any of them.