Compulsion

by Keith Ablow

  James stopped me midsentence. "We don't have a lot of time together," he said. "We shouldn't waste it talking about some conquest of yours. May I ask you a specific question, so we can begin, in earnest?"

  I stopped jawing and nodded my head.

  "When was the first time," he said, "that you thought of killing yourself?"

  I sat there, stunned, looking at the gnomish, eighty-one-year-old man seated across from me, wearing a seersucker suit and two silver and turquoise cuff bracelets. "When was the first time I thought of killing myself?" I echoed.

  He looked at his watch. Then he winked at me and smiled warmly, even lovingly. "C'mon, Frank," he said. "Give it up. What have you got to lose?"

  And I did. Just like that. Such were the man's gifts. I told him that the first time I thought of ending it all was when I was nine years old. I had taken a beating from my father, and I had gone upstairs to my room and thrown a pair of jeans, my baseball glove, and a favorite model airplane into a duffel bag. Then I had walked downstairs, stopping in the tiny foyer outside the kitchen. A short staircase led to the front door.

  My father saw me and walked out of the kitchen. "Going somewhere?" he asked.

  I summoned all the nerve I could and stared up at him. "Good-bye," I said.

  "What do you think you're doing?" he said.

  "Don't look for me," I said, shaking with fear. "I'm not coming back." Translation: Tell me you're sorry, and that you want me to stay, and that everything will be different if I do.

  He laughed at me. "So, go," he said. "You want to be a big shot? You don't want to live here? Take off." He walked back into the kitchen.

  I glanced at my mother, cooking dinner. All the years she had stood idly by as my father meted out his brutality could have been overshadowed if she had had enough courage to come to me at that moment. But she didn't make a move, didn't say a word.

  In truth, I had nowhere to go. I was nine. I had never felt as helpless. I dropped my suitcase, ran to my room, and started to cry. And I came up with a plan to wait until my parents were asleep, then use my father's belt as a noose to hang myself from a hook on the bathroom door.

  Thinking about two things had kept me on the planet. The first was my best friend, Anthony, who sat behind me in homeroom and had an uncanny ability to finish my sentences. The second was my two-year-old turtle, Seymour, who surely would perish if left alone with my mother and father.

  I wiped the mist from my face and took a deep breath of Atlantic air. The night seemed even chillier than before. I reached into my pocket and took out my flask. I unscrewed the cap, brought the metal to my lips, and swallowed a mouthful.

  By the time the ferry reached Nantucket Sound, with Martha's Vineyard off to my right and the lighthouse at Cape Pogue just visible on Chappaquiddick Island, I had downed about a third of the scotch. More went as we slipped between the jetties that protect the channel into Nantucket Harbor. And once we had powered past Brant Point light, headed toward the wharf, the flask was empty. I held it up to the moonlight and focused on the monogram engraved in the sterling, pregnant with my father's "G" in its center. I rubbed it a few times with my thumb, picturing him standing outside the kitchen, telling me to leave if I wanted to. Then I tossed it into the waves.

  I checked into the Breakers, walked over to my suite. Fresh flowers and a bottle of Merlot had been left for me, courtesy of the management. Fortunately, I was already feeling guilty about my drinking. I put the bottle in the hallway, just outside my door.

  I hadn't been in the room fifteen minutes when North Anderson called from the lobby. He said he wanted to talk. I told him I'd be right down.

  We walked over to the hotel's Brant Point Grill for a late dinner. From our table we had a sweeping view of the harbor and a good view of the rest of the dining room. Both of them were a little too pretty and made me uneasy. Looking at the tanned, well-dressed, bejeweled patrons, I wondered how the community was coping with a murderer at large. "Has the local paper covered the Bishop case?" I asked Anderson.

  "I hear the Boston Globe's working on a long piece," he said. "But they've treated it like a car theft on the island. There was a two-paragraph story buried in the Inquirer & Mirror."

  "See no evil, hear no evil," I said. "Funny thing how that doesn't seem to make it disappear."

  Anderson nodded. "People use all kinds of escapes. You know that. This island, the way of life here-it's definitely one of them. To be honest, that's the reason I signed on as chief of police. I didn't think I'd be working another murder case the rest of my career. And I would never have missed it." He leaned a little closer. "For you, escaping still seems to mean booze."

  I realized I must have had scotch on my breath. "Just a slip, you know? It happens."

  "No, I don't." he said. "I don't know how it happens that you'd risk everything you've built over the last two years. Because I remember where your head was after the Lucas case. I wasn't sure you'd make it back." He looked away. "Maybe I was wrong bringing you on board."

  I squinted at him. "Excuse me?"

  The waitress had walked up to our table. I reluctantly focused on the menu and put in my order. Anderson did the same.

  "Listen," he said, as soon as she had left. "I needed help, so I pushed you to get involved. But you might have had it right when you turned me down." He looked at me like a physician about to diagnose something incurable. "You may not be able to do this work anymore. It tears you up too much."

  "Didn't you just tell me on the phone last night that they'd have to shake you loose from this case to shake me loose?" I said.

  "I'm letting you off the hook," he said. "Think about it and let me know."

  "I don't need to think about it," I said. "I'm into this too deep to back off."

  He nodded unconvincingly.

  "I won't touch the crap. All right?"

  "Sure," he said.

  I was feeling leaned on, so I leaned back. "Maybe my drinking isn't really the issue here," I said.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You're getting pressure from the mayor. You've got a nice job. You want to keep it. So I slip, and you say I'm down for the count. You make everyone happy."

  "Like who?" Anderson bristled.

  I shrugged. "Like the mayor and Darwin Bishop." Having said those words, I wished I could have stuffed them back inside me. I knew Anderson was just trying to help me. "I didn't…" I started.

  He was already on his feet. "Hey, fuck you," he said, barely keeping his voice down.

  "I didn't mean that," I said. "And I didn't start this whole thing."

  The muscles in Anderson 's jaw were tight, his expression telegraphing he was barely in control, but he managed to sit down. "All I want," he said, "is to solve this case without it ruining your life or mine. So when I see you starting to get close to a suspect's wife…"

  "Is that what this is all about?" I said.

  "Let me finish." He lowered his voice. "When I see you getting close with Julia, then starting to dive back into a bottle, I worry whether your vision is getting cloudy. Because I'm depending on it. Is there something strange about that? Or did you forget that her son and husband are the two lead suspects in this case?"

  "There's nothing strange about it," I admitted. "I understand."

  "Good." Anderson drank his entire ice water without a breath. He put the glass down with the decisiveness of a judge ruling on a case. He looked around the dining room self-consciously. "You're set for a second interview with Darwin Bishop tomorrow," he said.

  I was a little surprised Bishop had consented to it. "What did he say, exactly?"

  "Whatever he said, he didn't say it to me. I only got as far as Claire Buckley. She handles Bishop's schedule."

  "I guess she handles a lot of things."

  "No question about it," Anderson said with a wink. "Sal Ferraro, my private investigator friend, the one who tracked down Bishop's hotel and travel receipts, tells me they've got another trip planned next month.
July in Paris. Bishop reserved a very pricey suite, for one full week, at the George V, right near the Champs Elysees."

  "Why wouldn't they book two rooms?" I said. "Just for appearances?"

  Anderson smiled. "Why did Gary Hart pose for a photograph on Monkey Business! Why did Clinton use the Oval Office?"

  "Good questions. I guess it seemed worth the risk at the time. Or it seemed about time to self-destruct."

  "Exactly. That was my point about you and Julia," he said.

  "Point made," I said, hoping that would be enough to get him off the topic.

  He seemed satisfied. "Are you going to tell Darwin about Billy having contacted you?" he asked.

  I thought about that. Strictly speaking, it was Bishop's right to know-not only because the information involved his son, but also because Billy's tone at the end of our call meant Darwin Bishop's own safety and that of other family members could be at risk. "I have to tell him," I said. "Until we're absolutely certain who the murderer is, I don't want to keep anyone's secrets."

  "I agree," Anderson said. He pressed his lips together and nodded to himself. "Does that include Julia?" he said.

  "You're relentless," I said.

  "Does it include her?" he persisted.

  I stared back at him. "Asked and answered," I said flatly.

  "Not really," he said. "But let me ask a different question." He paused: "Why haven't we talked about her as a suspect?"

  "Julia?" I said.

  "She wouldn't be the first woman to murder her child," Anderson said. "She was at home the night Brooke died, just like everyone else."

  "We haven't talked about her because neither one of us has a gut feeling she was remotely involved," I said. "We haven't talked about Billy's brother Garret, either."

  "Stay with me on Julia for a minute, okay?"

  "Sure."

  He gathered his thoughts. "Some women get depressed after they have a kid, don't they? Postpartum depression?"

  Postpartum depression, an illness that descends within six months of giving birth, affects tens of thousands of women in the United States alone. The cause isn't known. It might be hormonal, neurochemical, or psychological- or some combination of the three. "Of course," I told Anderson.

  "And women who've killed their kids have used postpartum depression as the basis for insanity pleas, haven't they?" he said.

  I knew what he was getting at, but I wasn't in the mood to admit it. "You sound like a prosecutor," I said. "Am I on trial here?"

  "Just answer me."

  "In some cases, women with postpartum depression have pled not guilty by reason of insanity after killing their babies," I allowed.

  "In a few cases, it even worked," he went on. "They successfully argued that they were so depressed they lost contact with reality."

  "I had one of the cases," I said. "A woman down in Georgia who shot her daughter and killed a neighbor's kid. The jury let her off."

  "And Julia Bishop has a psychiatric history. Depression."

  I thought back to my lunch with Julia, particularly to my worry that her lack of sleep and lack of appetite might reflect a recurrence of that depression. "What you're saying makes some sense," I said, "but-"

  "But she has pretty eyes and a great ass, and Frank Clevenger loves the ladies, especially the broken ones." He grimaced. He knew I hadn't gotten over losing Kathy to mental illness. "Sorry," he said. "Now it's my turn to apologize."

  Part of me wanted to grab Anderson by the throat, but another part of me knew he was right. I couldn't exclude Julia Bishop as a suspect in the murder of little Brooke. "Don't worry about it," I said.

  He still wouldn't let go. "Meaning what, exactly?"

  "She goes on the list," I said. "I don't think she filled Brooke's throat with plastic sealant, but I can't prove it right at this moment, okay? Satisfied?"

  "Yes." Anderson relaxed. He sat back in his chair. "Don't get me wrong. I'd be blown away if she were the one, Frank. But I've been blown away before."

  Dinner arrived. Swordfish for me, sirloin for Anderson. I thought to myself how I would love a glass of Merlot to go with the whole spread. I meditated a bit on those words. I would love a glass of Merlot. Maybe Anderson wasn't off base at all. Maybe addiction was at the heart of my romantic feelings for women, including Kathy-and Julia. Maybe it truly was the broken parts of them that attracted me, because they spoke to what was broken inside me.

  We finished dinner and made plans to meet in the hotel lobby at 10:00 a.m. the next morning. Anderson would be driving me to a ten-thirty appointment with Darwin Bishop. I offered to get myself there, but he reminded me that an official backup wasn't a terrible idea, so long as white Range Rovers were following me around.

  I headed back to my suite. The bottle of wine was waiting for me in the hallway, where I'd left it. I looked straight at it because my impulse was to look away. Then I walked into the room, quickly closed the door, and slid the dead bolt home.

  9

  Wednesday, June 26, 2002

  As soon as Anderson and I had reached Wauwinet Road, we picked up a tail-one of Bishop's Range Rovers. It followed us down the road and pulled up behind Anderson 's cruiser when he parked in the semicircle in front of the Bishop estate. "Take your time in there," Anderson said. He grinned. "Doesn't look like I'll be lonely."

  "I won't be long," I said. I walked to the door alone and rang the bell. I looked out toward the tennis courts and saw two men crossing the grounds on ATVs, rifles strapped to their backs. Security had obviously been beefed up around the complex.

  Half a minute later Claire Buckley greeted me, holding Tess Bishop in her arms. The infant was wrapped in a pale yellow blanket, asleep. "She was fussy," Claire said dreamily. "She wouldn't let me put her down." She moved aside. "Come in."

  I stepped into the foyer. Seeing Tess in Buckley's arms made me anxious, but I tried not to show it. I focused on Tess's delicate fingers where they curled around the edge of her blanket. Her tiny fingernails were cotton-candy pink. Her skin had the luster of silk. "She's beautiful," I said.

  Claire looked down at the baby, smiled, and nodded to herself.

  Our life stories begin to take shape very early, and completely without our consent. At five months, Tess had lost her twin sister to murder and was being nurtured, in part, by her father's mistress. She was being weaned on violence, duplicity, and danger. I wondered whether she would ever overcome her first twenty weeks on the planet. "I feel badly for her," I said automatically.

  "At least she never really knew Brooke," Claire said quietly. "It's better that way."

  I supposed that was true, but I didn't think it was Buckley's place to say it. I wanted to remind her that Tess belonged to someone else. "Do you plan to have children of your own?" I asked.

  She looked up at me, seemingly taken aback by the question. Maybe she actually felt Tess was hers, or maybe she just felt I was getting too personal. "I haven't thought that much about having kids," she said. "I'm still young. You know?"

  I had noticed. So had Darwin Bishop. Claire's youth was hard to miss. Her straight brown hair, which she had worn in a braid on my last visit, was loose this time and hung halfway to the small of her back. Her body, more visible now in shorts and a simple light blue, sleeveless blouse, had the muscle tone of a gymnast. I let my gaze linger on her face and realized that she was more than pretty; she was a natural beauty, with deep brown eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones that mixed elegance and sensuality. She had the looks of a freshly minted high school English teacher who makes half the class-the male half-daydream about being kept after school. "You're right," I said. "You have plenty of time. And you're certainly needed here."

  "I'm glad I can help. The Bishops have been wonderful to me," she said. Tess stirred in her blanket, stretching her arms so that Claire had to readjust her own. "She'll need a bottle soon. I'd better bring you to Win."

  We started toward the study. "Is Julia at home?" I asked.

  "I gave her the day off," C
laire joked.

  "Nice of you," I said flatly.

  She stiffened. "Actually, she went to the Vineyard to visit with her mother. The two of them will come back together by late afternoon." She paused. "Brooke's funeral is at five."

  "I plan to stop by," I said.

  "I'm sure the family would appreciate that," she said. "I'll be here with Tess. I think we can spare her the mood at the church."

  "Probably a good idea," I said, even though I didn't think it was the best one. I would rather have seen Tess stay close to Julia or Julia's mother.

  Darwin Bishop was working on a laptop computer when Claire and I got to the door of his study. Looking at him, I felt a surge of loathing. The intensity of the emotion took me by surprise.

  He glanced at me over half-glasses. "Please, come in," he said.

  "I'll see you on your way out," Claire said to me.

  I watched her leave with the baby, then walked into the study. I lingered a few moments on the portraits of Bishops' polo ponies, buying time to calm myself.

  "Doctor," Bishop said, motioning for me to take the seat in front of his desk. I did. He kept watching the computer screen.

  "Do you need another minute?" I asked.

  "I need another year," he said, pulling his eyes away from the screen. "Acribat Software is down forty-five percent since last March. I have a rather substantial position."

  It bothered me that Bishop was tracking his portfolio on the day of his infant daughter's funeral, but it didn't surprise me. "Sorry to hear that," I said, trying to filter the sarcasm out of my voice.

  "Not as sorry as I am." He glanced back at the screen. "Do you follow the markets?"

  "Not much," I said.

  "You're better off." He removed his glasses and focused on me for the first time. "It's a rough game. Like a lot of things in life, you don't want to get into it unless you can stand to lose. You can get hurt badly."