Keith Ablow - Compulsion

I didn't respond, which Billy and I both understood to be my answer.

Something went out of Billy's eyes, something I hadn't fully seen until it was gone-his faith in me. What I couldn't know was whether it was anything more than the faith of a sociopath who had counted on me never to break ranks with him. He stood up. "Leave," he said, obviously trying to control himself. His hands balled up into fists.

"Billy-"

"Please," he said, the muscles in his arms twitching.

I stood up. "Think about what I suggested," I said. "It's the right thing to do." I walked past him and out of his room.

When I went to sleep, just before 3:00 A.M., lights were still burning in the main house. At 3:45 a.m. someone knocked on my front door. For some reason I assumed it would be Julia, up worrying about Billy, wanting to talk things through. I pulled myself out of bed, pulled on my jeans, and went to let her in. But when I looked through the glass door, I saw Billy standing there. For the first time, seeing him made me picture where my Browning Baby handgun was tucked away-in the nightstand drawer. I opened the door.

"I didn't want this to wait until the morning," he said, sounding apologetic.

"It is morning," I said with a wink.

"Right," he said. "I guess it is."

I thought about inviting him in, but thought again. "What's up?"

He looked straight at me. "I didn't kill any cat."

"Okay…" I said.

"But I'll go to that Riggs place."

I nodded. One step at a time, I thought to myself. Part of me was glad Billy was at least shamed enough by destroying a defenseless animal to deny having done it. If he went through with treatment, he could take the step of admitting what he had done later. "What changed your mind?"

"Garret."

"Garret?" I said.

"We talked-really talked-for the first time," Billy said. "About being adopted and living with Darwin and the beatings and everything. How I got the worst of it." He shrugged. "Garret feels like he let me down."

Maybe it had taken another crisis to start another phase of healing for the Bishops-this one a healing of the divide between Garret and Billy. "I'm glad for you," I said. "Both of you. It would be wonderful if you ended up being close."

"I told him what you wanted me to do, and he said I should do it. He asked me to do it. For him."

I would have preferred Billy fully accept that he needed help. But I wasn't going to turn down the gift from Garret. "I'll set it up," I said.

"Good," he said. He looked away, then back at me, almost shyly.

"What?" I asked.

"Would you take me there? To Riggs?" he said. "You know the doctor who runs it. If you were hanging out nearby, he might let you visit me during the first week or two."

"Sure," I said.

"That was Garret's idea, too. So if it's asking too much, or…"

"It's a great idea," I said.

Monday, July 22, 2002

By 9:30 a.m., Ed Shapiro had cleared Billy for a July 25 admission to Riggs, cutting the usual four-month waiting list to four days. It pays to have friends in quiet places.

Garret and Billy actually took a turn making breakfast for Julia, Candace, and me, whipping up waffles and sliced fruit like the pros do. I had to remind myself again of Billy's pathology in order to see past the goodwill filling the house to all the hard work it would take to keep Billy safe.

We planned to charter a sailboat and spend a lazy day together as a family. I stopped back at the cottage to grab a few things. A large manila envelope was sitting in the woven straw basket that hung next to my door. I picked it up and saw that it had been sent by Dr. Laura Mossberg from Payne Whitney, postmarked July 18.1 figured she had finally sent along one of the old medical records on Billy I had asked her for.

I opened the envelope on my way into the cottage, then sat down on the couch to read the cover letter:

Dr. Clevenger:

Herewith, records of urologic care rendered Mr. Darwin Bishop, which only reached my desk today. I would normally be prohibited from sharing these materials with you, but your visit to the unit was preceded by Mr. and Mrs. Bishop signing our standard (and blanket) release covering all family medical records at Cornell Medical Center/Payne Whitney Clinic. I do not know if the enclosed materials would have had any bearing on your investigation.

Unfortunately, I have not received prior treatment records for Billy Bishop from other facilities.

I would be happy to hear from you in the future.

All good, Laura Mossberg

P.S. I have also enclosed a copy of I Don't Want to Talk About It, a very good book on men and trauma. I hope you won't take offense (and that you might even take the time to read it).

I smiled. Talk about not giving up on a patient. And I wasn't even paying her. I started to read through the packet of medical records. Two pages in, I stopped short on a form marked "Screening Assessment Tool." My pulse moved into my temples as I read the first paragraph:

Mr. Darwin Bishop, a 50-year-old, married, Caucasian male, father of two adopted boys, presents for bilateral vasectomy. The patient informs us that his wife is supportive and that his decision is based on a long-held philosophical position that "it isn't fair to bring children into a world like this one." Mr. Bishop states that his perspective took shape during his experiences in Vietnam, on which he refuses to elaborate. He has held his belief for many years and rates his likelihood of changing his perspective and wishing to father biological children at zero percent.

The form was signed by Paisley Marshall, MD, and dated April 15, 1999, about two years before Brooke and Tess Bishop were conceived.

My mind raced from one fact to the next, almost in disbelief. Darwin Bishop was infertile. Brooke and Tess Bishop were not his biological daughters. Julia had had an affair and become pregnant with the twins.

I flipped page after page, half-expecting to see a note describing Bishop's change of heart about the procedure, but instead stopped on a surgical note dated May 12, 1999:

Patient reaffirms desire for complete sterilization. All risks described, including infection, allergic reaction to medications, pain, bleeding.

Patient declines cross-over procedure. Patient received local anesthetic 0.5% Marcaine with epinephrine and Versed to induce calm.

Vital signs stable at onset of procedure.

At surgery, normal appearing bilateral spermatic cords and vas deferens were dissected free, segmental resections performed, and the ends ligated with 3-0 vicryl suture and sealed with Hyfrecator.

Bishop's having declined a cross-over procedure, a more complicated vasectomy that can be reversed, meant his infertility would be permanent.

Suddenly, Julia's explanation about the letter Claire Buckley had found sounded even more incredible. Her therapist Marion Eisenstadt obviously hadn't been the intended recipient. Julia had written the letter to her lover. The father of her children.

The investigation into Brooke's murder hadn't simply failed to ferret out a romantic partner of Julia's. We had neglected to interview the twins' biological father-a potential suspect.

I thought of trying to reach North Anderson, but knew he would be in Paris for the next ten days, spending a seemingly well-earned vacation with Tina. And I wasn't sure I needed his help. I didn't have a shred of evidence, nor any real suspicion, that Darwin Bishop had been wrongly charged with Brooke's murder. My doubts centered on Julia; she had lied to me and left me in the dark. Her character was again in question.

I had a job to do, but this time it was for me to do alone: to find out exactly who I had fallen in love with.

I remember the rest of that day in snapshots: the sun-soaked vistas of Vineyard Sound, Julia's surreal beauty, Candace's quiet grace, Billy and Garret working the sails and rudder together, a strong breeze blowing the hair off their foreheads, making them look younger, stronger, more handsome than I had ever seen them. The scenes would have made perfect postcards, which should have made me wonder whether the serenity was real or staged. But my focus was on the big lie-Julia's lie. I turned it around in my mind, trying to find an angle that would allow me to explain it away, to excuse it without further inquiry. I was that in love with her.