Keith Ablow - Compulsion

She started toward the door.

"Don't leave," I said.

She stopped, but didn't turn back to me. "You're the one who left," she said. She started walking again.

"It's late," I said. "At least let me drive you."

She pulled open the door and slammed it behind her.

Saturday, June 29, 2002

I paced the loft for a few minutes, careful to avoid stepping close to the liquor cabinet, deciding whether to run after Julia. I stayed put. Barely. Whether she had lied to me or not, seen into my soul or not, I was finally starting to believe in my heart what North Anderson had been telling me all along. I couldn't see the case clearly with her dominating my line of vision.

I picked up the phone and dialed Anderson at home. I wanted to update him on how Julia had responded. He answered after one ring. " Anderson."

"It's Frank," I said.

"I'm glad you called," he said. "Things are getting ugly all of a sudden."

"How so?" I said.

"Mayor Keene called me about an hour ago. He wants me in his office first thing tomorrow. I think he's gonna let me go-or at least threaten to."

"Let you go?" I said.

"District Attorney Harrigan and Captain O'Donnell figure they've made their arrest," he said. "They want everyone to line up behind them. They know I'll stick out like a sore thumb."

"Jesus," I said. "Is this Keene guy really just a front man for Bishop?"

"Worse than that," Anderson said. "He'd do the same dirty work for any one of twenty of his campaign contributors. I should have thrown him a grand myself." He paused. "I'm worried Bishop might have passed that photograph of Julia and me to him. He mentioned being concerned about my 'sense of propriety.' "

"They'd blackmail you?" I said. "Maybe you should wear a frigging wire when you go in there."

"I don't particularly want to start a federal case right now, literally or figuratively. What I want is to get you in to see Billy one more time, then get you in front of some reporters here and in Boston. I think you should go public with your doubts about his guilt-provided you still have them after the interview."

"When can I see Billy?" I asked.

"I've got you scheduled for three a.m. Billy will be in a holding cell. Friends of mine are working the front desk and prisoner intake tonight. You're all approved for a face-to-face with him."

"I'll be there," I said. "But what about you? What's your plan for tomorrow morning?"

"I can't say it's exactly great timing to hit the unemployment rolls," Anderson said. "Not with another baby on the way."

"No." I wanted to give Anderson permission to back off and let me take the heat. "Why don't you keep a low profile? Let me go public with what I think. Tell them you can't control me anymore. You could even fire me, if that looks better. I'll just keep moving ahead. I'm sure Billy's defense attorney will call me as a witness, anyhow."

"I guess I could back off at this point," he said. "Trouble is, I'm not in the mood. So I'm going to tell Keene something slightly different."

"What's that?"

"I'm going to tell him that you and I have worked cases every bit as tough as this one, in much tougher places, like Baltimore, that we've met men who make him and Darwin Bishop and O'Donnell and Harrigan look like dimestore thugs, and that, thank you very much, sir, Frank Clevenger and I like our odds of coming out on top of this case a lot better than we like yours. Have a nice fucking day."

I smiled. "I don't think that's going to save your job," I said.

"I have more important things to keep," he said. "My self-respect, for instance. Like I said, I've got a baby on the way."

"I'm with you," I said.

"Never doubted it," he said. "Three a.m. with Billy. You're all set up."

I tried for a little more sleep, but ended up lying in bed, fully clothed, thinking. Billy was about to stand trial for murder and attempted murder, even when no one in the Bishop household could be entirely excluded as a suspect. Beyond Darwin Bishop, a shadow of doubt still hung over Garret, Claire, and, whether I liked it or not, Julia.

I continued to worry that Tess Bishop's life was dangling from a thread-partly because of her medical condition, partly because she had been poisoned right under the spotlight of the investigation into Brooke's death. Her attempted murder, together with my stabbing, proved that whatever motive was driving the murderer, it fueled violence even when the risk of detection was high. He (or she) was driven to kill. That irresistible impulse wouldn't go away with Billy's arrest or his conviction. It wouldn't disappear until the desired goal had been achieved.

The clock read 2:26 a.m. The Suffolk County House of Corrections was only a fifteen-minute drive from my loft. I pictured Billy being dragged into that place in handcuffs and leg irons, being tossed into a cold cell for the first of many nights until he stood trial. The advice I had given him when he had called me, to surrender and let the justice system work, would probably seem absurd to him now.

Maybe he had had the right idea, after all-to run away from odds stacked so high it would take a miracle for North and me to beat them.

A flash of paranoia again invaded my restored goodwill toward Anderson. I would be leaving my loft in the early hours of the morning, driving to Boston, parking somewhere near the jail, then walking a deserted street to the entrance. If Anderson were behind my assault at Mass General, if he really hadn't gotten over Julia… "Stop ranting," I said aloud. I forced my mind to abandon that train of thought, but the mood of caution stayed with me, probably because my radar screen was tuned to a sensitivity that would twist even the most benign set of data into proof of an invasion.

I actually fell asleep for about fifteen minutes, which left me feeling more tired rather than less, and did something very bad to my back, the middle of which felt as if a clamp had been applied to the base of my right rib cage and tightened until my diaphragm ballooned up into my chest cavity.

I pulled myself out of bed and struggled into the kitchen. I gulped down a glass of milk to calm my stomach, so I could tolerate another couple Motrin. I swallowed them, then gritted my teeth and stretched a little to each side, which nearly brought me to my knees before it started to bring me down to a tolerable level of pain.

I got in my truck and headed toward Boston. Route 1 was empty, and I flew over the Tobin Bridge, around the curves of Storrow Drive, and off the exit ramp to the Suffolk County House of Corrections.

Boston 's Big Dig construction had chewed up most of the parking near the place. The rest was reserved for Corrections Department personnel. I took a spot about five blocks away. I felt for my pistol, then realized I had left it back at the loft. Great timing.

I got out of the truck and walked, more quickly than I would have in daylight, checking around me now and again. I smiled to think what Laura Mossberg would have to say about my behavior-more evidence of post-traumatic stress disorder, my condition having deteriorated after being jumped.

A homeless man stepped into my path about a block from the front door of the jail. His face was covered with a couple days of beard, his eyes were bloodshot, and his breath stunk of alcohol. "You have my money," he barked.

I took a step back. That had to be the most interesting way I'd been asked for a handout in my life. I told him so, reaching into my pocket, watching his hands to make sure they didn't disappear into his clothing and reappear with a weapon.

"You gotta be different," he said. "Everybody's heard it all these days."

We weren't more than a quarter mile from MGH. "I guess you could grab a coffee and head in for a detox," I said.