Richard Stevenson - Shock to the system

"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?"

"Of course not! That is perfectly absurd."

"Who is Steven St. James?" I said.

More shallow breathing. Then: "I have no idea. Steven who?"

"Vernon, for someone in your line of work, where sincerity- or at least the impression of sincerity-must count for a lot, you're a terrible liar." When this got no response except what sounded like a little mewing sound, I said, "I take it you have no alibi for last night when Bierly was shot, it being Thursday. Just like the night Paul Haig died."

"That's correct, unfortunately. No, I don't."

"One of three likely conclusions can be drawn from the fact, Vernon, that bad things happen to good people from one of your therapy groups on Thursday nights when you are, you say, alone in your office. One conclusion could be, it's a funny coincidence. A second, more interesting conclusion might be, you did it killed Paul Haig, shot Larry Bierly, and tossed the gun used to shoot Paul in the garbage bin behind your building."

"Oh, no. My Lord, how could I ever do such things! And how could I be so stupid that I'd throw the gun away in my own trash?"

"I don't know, Vernon. Psychology is your department. Maybe you were distraught and you panicked. Of course, a third obvious conclusion would be, somebody who knows your schedule is setting you up-committing a crime or crimes on Thursday night and then sending the letter and the tape to the police to implicate you, knowing you're alibiless, and throwing the gun in your dumpster for the police to find."

"Yes, yes, exactly. But who? Before he was shot, Donald, I thought it was probably Larry Bierly who was, as you term it, setting me up. But now it seems to be someone else entirely."

"Why did you think it was Bierly?"

"Well, Larry was-angry with me."

"Oh, that's a good reason."

"I mean," Crockwell said, "Larry was both so angry at himself for continuing treatment for as long as he did, and so angry at me for providing a therapy that he had lost faith in, that eventually he became totally consumed with hatred for me-unhinged, I must say, acting out uncontrollably."

"How do you know that? What did he say or do?"

Crockwell said nothing.

"Vernon?"

After a quarter-minute of labored breathing, he said, "Will you help me or won't you?"

"I don't know. I need to know more before I decide. What's the deal with you and Haig and Bierly? There's something you're not telling me."

No reply.

"You said that until yesterday you thought Bierly might be setting you up. Do you also think he killed Paul Haig?"

"I don't know."

"How does Steven St. James fit into this?"

"I don't know."

"Vernon, for a man on his knees begging for mercy, you're doing little of substance to gain my confidence."

"I'm offering you money," he whined, "and I'm not withholding any information that bears directly on the matter at hand. Can't you grasp that, Donald?"