by Keith Ablow
I nodded at the court. "Who are they?" I asked.
Anderson squinted at the players. "Garret, the older son," he said. "I don't know the other guy."
"Garret's not in shock anymore," I said.
"The games must go on," Anderson quipped. We parked and started toward the house. When we were still several feet from the front door, it opened. An attractive woman, about twenty-five, with a velvet complexion and long brown hair pulled into a ponytail, stood in the doorway. She was wearing a pained expression and a short linen dress that hugged her everywhere it should, showing off a Victoria 's Secret figure. Her chestnut eyes were bloodshot, as if she'd been up all night.
"Captain Anderson," she said. Her voice was surprisingly warm.
"Good afternoon, Claire," North said. "How are you holding up?"
She shrugged.
"This is Dr. Frank Clevenger, from Boston. I called Mr. Bishop earlier about bringing him by."
"Of course." She extended her hand. "Doctor," she said, summoning an especially cordial tone, "I'm Claire Buckley."
I reached out and shook her hand. Her skin was as soft as a child's. I noticed she wore a channel-set diamond pinkie ring and a Cartier love bracelet, the bangle style with screw heads around it. The bracelet alone runs almost four grand. I knew because I'd bought one for Kathy before she got sick and our lives went bad. Claire Buckley was very well paid, for a nanny. "I'm sorry to hear what happened," I said.
She nodded, stepped aside. "Come in."
The interior of the house was impressive, in an intentional way. The ceilings were twelve feet high, with smooth, whitewashed beams. The furniture was perfectly arranged, overstuffed and covered in woven fabrics that wouldn't last a single summer of careless living. The walls were hung with oil paintings of beaches and ships and whaling scenes, most of them American, a few of them French, all of them very valuable. Walking through the great room, I noticed one canvas by Robert Salmon and another by Maurice Prendergast, each of them worth millions, and each forever fixing in time a moment of Nature's magnificence. What ruined them for me were the showy brass plaques affixed to the frames and engraved with the artists' names.
"It's like a museum," North said under his breath.
Claire Buckley brought us to the door of Darwin Bishop's study. He was seated in a high-back, tufted leather chair, in front of a long, Mission-style desk, staring out French doors that looked toward the pool, tennis court, and ocean. He wore a crisp white button-down and pleated khakis. "I don't have a preference whether you haul them to Palm Beach or Myopia," he was saying, in a regal voice that left no hint of his roots in Brooklyn. "Keep them stabled right there in Greenwich, if you like. Packer can play them at White Birch. I'm obviously out of commission for now." He noticed us and motioned for us to come in.
We hesitated at the door.
"Go ahead," Claire said. "He'll be right with you." She turned and walked away.
We took seats on a couch to one side of the room, opposite two armchairs.
Bishop swiveled in his chair and watched us while he finished his call. He was a striking man. His hair was silver and swept straight back, revealing a prominent brow that sheltered eyes the gray-blue of steel. His skin was perfectly bronzed. I could see from his wide shoulders, muscular forearms, and thick wrists that he was still, at fifty-four, physically powerful.
I took in the rest of the room. An Oriental carpet of subtle green, rose, and beige hues covered the floor. Recessed shelving, painted high-gloss white, ran along two walls, each shelf lined with leatherbound volumes that looked as though they had never been opened. A round table of burled walnut, with claw feet, held a dozen or more silver-framed family photographs. One showed Bishop and two boys racing a sleek sailboat. Another showed Bishop in black tie, arm-in-arm with a radiantly beautiful, younger woman with black hair who I took to be his wife Julia. In a third photograph Bishop was decked out in jodhpurs and riding boots, astride a sinewy horse, pointing a polo mallet toward the horizon.
Bishop had obviously been discussing where to stable his polo ponies on the phone moments before. The Palm Beach Polo Club and Myopia Hunt Club were hubs of the sport. Gary Packer, partner of legendary media mogul Rupert Murdoch, was one of its patron saints.
I noted that none of the photos on the table was of Bishop's baby girls.
"I appreciate that, Pedro," Bishop said, finishing up. "We'll get through it." He hung up, stood, and walked over to us. He looked even more imposing on his feet than he had seated at the desk. He had to be six foot two, maybe six three. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "Win Bishop," he said, extending his hand. "You would be Dr. Clevenger."
We shook hands, if you can call it that. He put nothing into his grip, as if he were a Lord offering the rare chance to touch him.
"I'm sorry for your loss," I said.
He took one of the armchairs across from Anderson and me. "We'll get through it," he said again.
A few uncomfortable moments passed, with Bishop looking straight at us, showing no sign that he would speak another word, his expression that of a hitter waiting for a pitch to cross the plate. It occurred to me that Win Bishop had grown very comfortable wielding power over people.
"It's probably best I leave Dr. Clevenger here to interview…" Anderson started.
Bishop held up a hand. "An apology. With all the planning it took to make it happen, I neglected to bring you up to speed: Billy is no longer here."
"Not here?" Anderson said. "Where is he?"
"I arranged for his admission to the Payne Whitney psychiatric unit, in Manhattan," Bishop said. He looked at me. "They tell me it's a well-regarded place. Part of Cornell."
"It is," I said. "What was your hope in admitting him there?"
Before Bishop could answer, a baby's shrill cry-presumably that of his surviving twin girl, Tess-drifted into the room.
Bishop grimaced.
"Coming, sweetheart," Claire Buckley called out, from somewhere not too far away. I heard her footsteps on the staircase as she headed up.
Bishop stood, strode over to the door, and closed it. Then he sat opposite us again, crossing his legs. He was wearing no socks, and I couldn't help staring at his ankle, decorated with a crudely tattooed green-black peace sign. " Vietnam," he said, answering the question that must have been showing on my face. He didn't give me any time for a follow-up. "Let me be clear about Billy," he said. "My wife and I feel we have done everything possible to salvage a very damaged young man. After Officer Anderson informed me of the autopsy results, I had to face reality. Billy can never live with us again. I have to keep my family safe. I have another infant to think about."
"I understand," I said.
Anderson leaned forward in his seat. "The D.A. will see the admission to Payne Whitney as a strategy to avoid your son's arrest."
"The state can order Billy back to Massachusetts to stand trial, if it wishes to do so," Bishop responded.
"Unless I'm misreading something," Anderson said, "that's exactly what will happen. A court order for his extradition can be issued within hours."
Bishop nodded. "I can't control that," he said. "It would be a waste of resources, however. The D.A. will never prove Billy is responsible for his sister's death. There were five people at home the night my daughter was murdered. Any one of us could be the killer." He paused. "And none of us will be testifying."
So much for Darwin Bishop's open-door policy. I glanced at Anderson.
"I hope you'll cooperate with my officers searching the house later today," Anderson said. "We'll need to look for anything that could be relevant to your daughter's death."
"Any time you like," Bishop answered. "I assure you, you'll find nothing."
"The tube of plastic sealant, for instance," Anderson pushed.
"My guess on that," Bishop responded, "is that your crime lab will find that everyone in the house has touched it at one time or another."
"By chance, or design?" Anderson said.
Bi
shop didn't answer.
I didn't want the meeting to degenerate into confrontation. "What would you like to see happen to Billy?" I asked Bishop.
"It isn't about what I'd like to see. As his father, I'll see to it that he remains at Payne Whitney-or an equivalent facility-until at least his eighteenth birthday. Thereafter, I can create a very structured and safe environment for him in the community."
I thought back to the "watch house" on the road leading to the Bishop estate. "House arrest?" I asked, taking the edge off the words with a half-smile.
"If that's what it takes," Bishop said. "But not this house."
It suddenly registered fully with me that I was sitting with a man who had lost his infant daughter to murder. I wasn't seeing much in the way of rage-or grief. "You still want to be supportive of Billy," I led.
"Certainly."
"Even after hearing the autopsy results," I said.
Bishop didn't hesitate. "Billy isn't evil," he said. "He's ill. And he has good reason to be ill. He's a victim himself."
That vision fit with everything I believe about violent people. Yet Bishop's evenhandedness, in the wake of his daughter's death, bothered me. He seemed detached rather than empathetic. "Do you mind if I ask a few questions about Billy?" I asked.
"Not at all," Bishop said.
"You mentioned Billy was damaged when you adopted him. In what way?"
"I don't know how much Captain Anderson has shared with you," Bishop said.
"I like to hear things myself," I said.
"Very well. We adopted Billy from an orphanage in Moscow at age six. That was ten years ago. He had a history of severe psychological trauma."
"What had happened to him?" I asked.
"His parents were murdered," Bishop said flatly.
"How?" North asked.
"Each of them was shot once in the head, execution style. Billy was found with their corpses, in the family's apartment."
"Was the case solved?" North asked.
"I'm not sure it was ever investigated," Bishop answered. "We're talking about a time of tremendous upheaval over there-government corruption, organized crime influence. The police were busier collecting protection money from business owners than protecting the good citizens of Moscow." He cleared his throat. "I'm certain the orphanage only added insult to injury. When Billy first arrived in the States, he was badly bruised and malnourished. He weighed thirty-four pounds."
"And emotionally?" I asked.
"Seemingly a very gentle, fragile child. Terrified of loud noises, new places, new people. Even me. The biggest problem he had was with nightmares. He would wake up hysterical. His sleep has never really stabilized." Bishop laced his fingers together. "Some of that might be due to a problem he's had with bedwetting."
I thought back to Carl Rossetti's wager, at Cafe Positano in East Boston, that Billy would turn out to have the full triad of risk factors for psychopathy-cruelty to animals, firesetting, and bedwetting. "How did he do over time?" I asked.
"His fear certainly receded," Bishop said. "Unfortunately, in its place came aggression. He would strike out at me and his mother, unpredictably. We wondered for a time whether he was angry with us for bringing him to this country-or for trying to replace his natural parents. But his destructiveness was never exclusively focused on Julia and me. It attached itself to almost anything: property, animals, even himself."
"Cutting himself?" I asked.
"Yes. And he would bite himself," Bishop said. "He also had a rather nasty habit of pulling out his hair. The self-abuse stopped; the violence toward others never did."
"Has Billy been treated by a psychiatrist?" I asked.
"More than a few. He's been admitted to half a dozen psychiatric units, starting with the first problems he had hurting neighborhood pets at age nine."
"And has he had a steady psychiatrist outside the hospital?"
Bishop shook his head. "The Department of Youth Services tried to make outpatient care a condition of Billy's release on several occasions. He would comply with the letter of the law-ten sessions, fifteen, whatever it took to get out and stay out of detention centers. Then he'd utterly refuse to go to the clinics. If we forced him, he would sit in silence the entire hour. There was a brief trial on Prozac after he tried to set fire to the house. But, if anything, the medication seemed to make him more impulsive."
I studied Bishop a few moments. He looked as staged as his surroundings. Elegant and unflappable. Maybe a little confrontation, I thought, wouldn't be such a bad idea, after all. It might wring a little emotion out of him. Guilt. Anger. Anything. "Why did you make the mistake of adopting Billy in the first place? Foreign adoptions are notorious for trouble, even without a catastrophic personal history like his."
He didn't take issue with the word mistake. "I had had a very positive experience with my first adoption, of Garret. I was building a company in Russia, having extraordinary success," he said. "I wanted to give something back. I'm sure I underestimated the emotional hurdles in Billy's way."
I noticed that Bishop spoke of the adoptions as if he had undertaken them alone. "The adoptions were both your idea," I ventured.
"Yes," he said. "I like the idea of leveling the playing field for people with odds stacked heavily against them. Especially young people. Especially children."
"And how did your wife Julia feel about Billy joining the family?" I asked.
"She was supportive," he said.
"Sounds like a long way from ecstatic," I pressed.
Bishop's hands remained folded on his lap. His voice stayed steady. "I've asked a great deal of Julia," he said. "She welcomed my son Garret into our household from the day we were married. Integrating another child after seven years was no small challenge-especially a boy with Billy's past."
"Your ex-wife didn't win custody of Garret," I said.
"She didn't sue for custody," he said.
"Why?" I asked.
"It's a complicated story. Nothing worth going into right now."
His tone of voice told me the topic was off limits. I took a mental note of his discomfort and pushed in another direction. "Who found your daughter after… the crime?" I asked.
"I did," he said, without hesitation and without emotion.
"When?"
"Friday, a little before four a.m."
"You just happened to be awake at four in the morning?" Anderson asked.
"I was reviewing financial data prior to the opening of the markets in the Far East," Bishop said.
"Did you follow the markets yesterday, as well?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
I took a more direct shot at piercing his armor. "How is it that you were able to conduct business," I said, "after finding your daughter the way you did?"
Bishop's eyes locked on mine. He didn't respond.
Anderson looked at me with an expression that telegraphed he thought I had gone too far.
I worried he was right, that I had pushed the needle into Bishop's soul and pierced something that would bleed uncontrollably. But when he finally spoke it was with the same cool certainty he had displayed throughout our meeting. "If I could pay a ransom to bring my daughter back," he said, "I would happily surrender every dollar I have. But that isn't possible. And I've worked very hard for my money. I intend to keep it." He smiled a fake smile and checked his watch. "Gentlemen," he said, "we're out of time. I promised Julia an early dinner."
"Would it be possible for Dr. Clevenger to interview Billy in New York?" Anderson asked.
Bishop's face remained a mask of affability. "To what end?" he asked.
"I could be helpful to your son if he's ultimately charged with murder," I said. "There may be issues of diminished capacity."
Diminished capacity is a legal doctrine that allows judges and juries to be more lenient with defendants who are sane at the time of their offenses, but still significantly mentally disturbed. Such defendants are sometimes convicted of lesser crimes-manslaughter or second-de
gree murder, for example, rather than first-degree murder.
"I can see how that might be of value," Bishop said. "I'll make the arrangements." He stood up. "Is there anything else I can help with?"
"Not just now," Anderson said.
We got to our feet and started out of the office. A grouping of three oil paintings mounted just inside the door caught my eye. They were portraits of three polo ponies, dressed with fancy saddles and stirrups, ankles wrapped in bright purple bindings. I stopped in front of them. I wanted to see how easily Bishop could shift from a discussion of his daughter's murder to a topic of infinitely less gravity. "Yours?" I asked him.
The transition seemed effortless for him. "Yes," he said, with real pride. "They're all mine." It was the most emotion he had shown. "I keep a string of twelve."
"Beautiful animals," Anderson said.
"They are," Bishop said.
"I've never played the game myself," I said. "I've always had it in mind to learn."
"I hope you'll be my guest, someday," Bishop said. "Perhaps Myopia. It's so close to Boston." His tone told me I shouldn't hold my breath for an invitation.
"I'd like that." I looked back at the portraits. "Are these your favorites? Of your string of twelve, I mean."
"Not really. They happened to be available for the artist."
"You haven't fallen in love with any one as opposed to another?"
Bishop smirked. "I feel the same way about each of them."
"Is it like loving a pet?" I asked. "A dog or a cat?"
"No," he said. "It's more like loving a tennis racket or a golf club."
"I'm not sure I follow," I said.
"You love them," he said, "as much as they help you win."
Claire Buckley showed us out. As we walked into the driveway, Garret Bishop and his mother happened to be walking toward the house from the tennis courts. We slowed so I could meet them.
The older Bishop boy, in white shorts and a white T-shirt, was already, at seventeen, close to six feet tall and broadly built, like his father. But where his father's gait was certain and aggressive, leading with his right shoulder like a running back, his son's was more tentative-shoulders turned inward, a slight bend in each knee, a momentary shuffle with each step.