"Now I want you to tell me, Donald," Crockwell said, as if he were the school principal and I had been sent to his office, "who it is you represent in your investigation of Paul Haig's suicide. Are you working for a member of Paul's family, Donald?"
"I'm sorry, Vernon, but I can't tell you that," I said, and he peered at me stonily. "But what I can tell you, Vernon, is that I've spoken with two people independently who knew Paul quite well and doubt that he committed suicide. He seemed to have been anxious over some work problems a little earlier, but he'd
been on an antidepressant for several weeks before his death and by at least two accounts was feeling relatively chipper. The coroner's verdict appears to have been the result of a too cursory, perhaps even slipshod, investigation."
"I see, I see." He screwed up his face and shifted uneasily.
"And since Paul was a client of yours, Vernon, it seemed to make sense for me to cover all the bases and get your input on his emotional makeup, if you wouldn't mind helping me out on this. Paul was your client as recently as eight months ago, I'm told. I realize that patient-therapist confidentiality is sacrosanct in your profession, Vernon. I respect that. It's important in mine too. But since Paul is deceased, would it be possible for you to contribute to my investigation of his death by revealing to me the nature of the mental problems that first brought Paul to you as a client?"
It occurred to me as I said this that it wasn't just morbid curiosity that had brought me to Crockwell, or any real hope that he might immediately shed light on Paul Haig's death; what I most wanted was to poke at Crockwell with a stick and see if he'd try to snap off my leg with his powerful jaws. He didn't, but he bristled a little, and said, "If you're an investigator worth your salt, Donald, I'm sure you know perfectly well why Paul Haig was my patient. I work with the sexually dysfunctional."
"You mean gay people."
"Yes."
"And Paul had come to be de-queered."
"Made whole, brought into sync with nature, yes. Please don't bait me, Donald. It was no trouble for me to find out that in addition to being a private investigator you are a well-known gay libber around Albany. If you would like my opinion on Paul's emotional state as it might relate to his death, I will give it to you. But I'm not going to waste my time and yours debating aspects of the human personality you obviously know nothing about." He sat looking smug, though not quite 100 percent certain I wouldn't lunge at him. He kept one hand out of sight at all times below the desk—though if he had an alarm button down there, or a firearm,
or a little squeeze toy that might suddenly go "Fuh-wee-too, fuh-wee-too," I had no way of knowing.
I said, "It is Paul Haig's death I'd like your views on, Vernon, but I want you to realize that I am quite willing to be convinced that I am a freak of nature. I always try to keep an open mind about that. Do you have scientific studies showing that your theories are correct and the results of your therapy beneficial?"
Still keeping his hand out of sight, Crockwell said, "Yes, innumerable studies have been completed, Donald. And the human testimony is voluminous and incontrovertible. Tens of thousands of formerly sexually damaged men and women who have found wholeness and fulfillment through therapies such as mine have even organized socially and politically. They call themselves the ex-gay movement. I'm sure a man of the world like yourself, Donald, must have heard of it."
"Yes, I've heard about 'ex-gays,' Vernon. I've also read about the ex-ex-gay movement, made up of people who claim therapy such as yours is a pathetic snare and a delusion. They say ex-gays are people who live out their lives and try to behave in a way that denies their deepest and truest natures, and that people who remain in the ex-gay movement are either vegetables or liars."
Crockwell had undoubtedly heard all this before and appeared unfazed by it, though still cautious enough to keep his trigger finger poised. He said, "I have no need, Donald, to debate this matter further with you. You claim to have an open mind, but it's obvious that you do not. I would like to point out to you, however, that nature does not produce homosexuals. Why would it? Nature produces heterosexual males and females capable of mating and with an impulse to do so. In the sexual maturation process, something goes awry in some people. But this unnatural sexuality can be corrected. Are you old enough, Donald, to remember the song 'A-doin' a-what comes naturally'?"
I looked at him, not sure I was hearing what I was hearing. I said, "I've heard it. It's from Annie Get Your Gun."
He said nothing more, just looked at me as if he had delivered the clincher in his argument and it would be foolhardy of me to
attempt any reply. I said, "Vernon, I've heard of psychologists going to Freud for their theoretical underpinnings, or to Adler or Sullivan or Erik Erikson. But Irving Berlin? This is a first."
"You're missing the point, Donald. A long time ago you decided to miss the point, and there's nothing I can do about that— unless, of course, you decide that you want me to."
I was growing increasingly queasy in Crockwell's presence— and a little puzzled too. Was this magisterially patronizing but mild-mannered twit the raging monster Larry Bierly had described to me just a day earlier? The man who—when Bierly and Haig announced they were leaving Crockwell's group—purportedly screamed that they were deluded, and they'd be miserable and sorry, and that they were disturbing the group, and Haig's mother would hate him forever for being a sexual deviant? Was this a distorted impression of Bierly's, or a total lie, or what?
I said, "Vernon, one of the people I've spoken with about Paul Haig is Larry Bierly. You remember Larry, of course."
He blinked and his face both tightened and colored. "Yes, I remember Larry Bierly all too well."
"He told me that when he and Paul became lovers and left your group together, you blew up. He said you ranted and carried on and screamed that they would be very sorry for leaving and for disrupting the group. Does any of that ring a bell?"
Now Crockwell was blushing—blushing—just as Bierly had. Looking as if he were trying not to break into a stammer, or get up and rush from the room, Crockwell said, "That is a gross exaggeration, Donald—a serious, serious exaggeration of what actually transpired. Did I try to impress on Paul and Larry that they were making a terrible mistake? Of course I did. Did I lose control and act in an unprofessional manner? Absolutely not." Now his face was as red as a new Miata.
I said, "Vernon, did Larry Bierly ever threaten you in any way? Or attack you?"
Most of the blood in his body now seemed to have surged up and pushed against the front of his face. He said, "Oh, no. No attack, and no threat that I can recall."
"Bierly never threatened to kill you?"
"I'm sure I would remember if he had done that, Donald. I would have notified the police, in fact. Tell me, is it Larry Bierly who hired you to investigate Paul's death?" His breathing was shallow now, but I had no intention of performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on Crockwell. Let him die.
I said, "My client wishes to remain anonymous for now. I can neither confirm nor deny that it's Larry Bierly, or that it's anyone else, or that it's not anyone else. Sorry."
"But you're going to pursue the killer?" He brought both hands up on the desk now and folded them tightly in front of him. His respiration was still poor, and his knuckles were as white as his face was red. Not good.
"To tell you the truth, Vernon, I'm not sure that I am going to do that. I'm making some preliminary inquiries and then I'll decide if I think it's worth my client's money for me to keep spending it by digging into this. Say, did you say 'killer'? Did you ask me if I was going to pursue Paul Haig's 'killer'?"
"Why, yes."
"So you don't think Paul committed suicide? Or that his death was accidental either?"
He tensed up even more. "I—I don't know. But this seems to be a theory that's going around. That Paul Haig was murdered."
"What do you mean by 'going around'? Are you saying you heard it before I walked in here t
oday?"
"Yes," he mumbled, and nodded once.
"Who from?"
"The Albany Police Department." Now sweat broke out around his eye sockets.
"When?" I asked.
"Yesterday. They asked me to come to their office at Division Two. There was a Detective Finnerty and a Detective Colson. They—I have to tell you, it's very difficult for me to admit this, Donald—but they seemed to think Paul Haig might have been murdered. And, they seemed to think that I might have done it. They were not explicit, but the implications were clear."
"Where did they get an idea like that?"
"Someone had sent them an anonymous letter suggesting that I killed Paul. The letter was accompanied by a tape cassette of part of a therapy session of the group Paul was in. On the tape, I made some comments that could be interpreted as angry. Or perhaps even threatening."
"I thought you said your words and tone were always professional and controlled."
"Of course, absolutely. But on this one occasion, particular things I said could conceivably be misconstrued by the lay observer."
"Or by a jury, I suppose."
He didn't like the sound of that and came out with a little "Oh."
"Did they play the tape for you, Vernon?"
"Yes."
"Who made the recording? Did you, Vernon?"
"Oh, no, no, Donald. That would be unethical without first obtaining the permission of the patients. No, the recording must have been secretly made by one of the members of the therapy group."
"Uh-huh. Maybe one of the members whose opinion of your ideas and methods fell off at some point. Were there others in the group besides Paul Haig and Larry Bierly who ended up considering you a demented crackpot?"
With effort—I could all but hear his sphincter grinding—he said, "I wouldn't know. All the members of that group have moved on. I haven't been in touch with any of them. It's always possible one or two of the ten men in the group were insufficiently motivated and later slipped back to their unnatural ways. And instead of blaming themselves, they blamed me. That can happen."
"I'll bet it does. Did the cops give you a copy of the tape?"
"No."
"Did they ask you for an alibi for the night Paul died?"
He loosened up just enough to slump in his seat. "Yes, they did."
"Did you have one?"
"No."
"Too bad."
"I'm here alone Thursday nights, Donald, often until after midnight. I go over my notes of the past week and transfer them into my computer. Those solitary Thursday nights in this office are extremely valuable to me and I protect them—cherish them, I can say. So regrettably I have no alibi for the night of Paul's death."
"Well, what the cops have is little to go on. Unless something more solid turns up, it's not at all likely they'll charge you with anything, Vernon. They're just fishing around. So, did you kill Paul Haig?"
He slumped some more and said quietly, "Of course not." Then, the strain of it all showing again, he gave me a funny, embarrassed look and said, with obvious effort, "My attorney, Norris Jackacky, tells me that you are quite capable, Donald."
"Thank you."
"Although a police investigation would end up clearing me of any role in Paul Haig's death—if word went around that I was even a suspect in a former patient's murder, the harm to my reputation would be incalculable. Faith and confidence are the coin of the realm for a psychotherapist."
"Oh, I thought it was seventy-five or a hundred or a hundred and fifty dollars an hour."
"You're being facetious and I'm sure you know what I'm saying, Donald. If doubts about my character circulate, my effectiveness could be compromised, even wiped out. And my wife, my family—we could be ruined! I can't let that happen." He looked at me grimly, and before he said it, I heard it coming. "If your other client decides not to pursue the investigation of Paul Haig's death, Donald, I would like to retain you to carry on the investigation on my behalf. I can pay you whatever the other client would have paid, or more if that's necessary. It may feel somewhat odd to you to be working for me. But the arrangement would be independent of our positions on sexual and other
matters. It would be purely professional—a business transaction, much as either of us might conduct with an accountant or a dry-cleaning establishment."
Crockwell reached down to where his hand had been earlier, but instead of coming up with a pistol or a rubber ducky, he produced a checkbook.
5
I 'm amazed you actually met with Crockwell," Timmy said. "Wasn't that premature?"
"You thought it was a good idea last night."
"I did?"
"You were a little groggy."
We were at the dining-room table at the house on Crow Street. He'd brought home a Vieille Ferme 1991 and had grilled a nice slab of bluefish, and I was responsible for the salad and the Tater Tots.
"You aren't actually considering taking that madman's money, are you? You've had some reprehensible clients over the years, but surely Crockwell is beyond the pale."
"I'm not going to take anybody's money until I've got a clearer picture of what the possibilities are in this. For one thing, I want to talk to the cops and see what they've got. Phyllis Haig, Larry Bierly, and Crockwell have all fed me stories that have their dubious aspects. I'm especially mystified over conflicting accounts of threats that Bierly and/or Haig may have made against Crockwell, and vice versa, and a possible assault by Bierly on Crockwell. In those areas, all three of them are antsy and unconvincing."
"Maybe the tape will clear some of that up. Will the cops let you hear it?"
"They will if they think I can be helpful. Otherwise they'll poke me in both eyes with sticks and leave me standing in the middle of Washington Avenue during the morning rush."
"You've survived worse from the Albany Police Department."
"I have to admit I'd love to take Crockwell's money, but I'd also like to see him put out of business. And if a homicide charge, however false, accomplished that—hey, it must all be part of a larger plan. Let his missus, who's a Sunday-school teacher in Loudonville, he says, till the Crockwell fields for a year or two while he goes somewhere and gets deprogrammed."
Timmy gave me his never-entered-the-priesthood-but-still-a-Jesuit-at-heart look. "I don't think you mean that."
"Of course I do."
"Don, Crockwell is a dangerous quack and should be exposed as such. And an enlightened public should scorn and discredit him and make it clear to one and all he's bad, not good, for the health of anybody's mind and soul. And I certainly hope that you don't accept a nickel of his soiled pelf. But being wrongly accused of taking a life is a fate nobody deserves."
"Look, if he didn't do it, the chances are slight that he'd actually be convicted and sentenced and hung by his thumbs."
"Sure, slight."
"Timothy, if there is any such thing as evil in what passes for the civilized world, this guy represents it. He's a kind of Men-gele's-pale-shadow for the nineties, performing weird experiments on people's sexuality for the sake of an ancient, barbaric prejudice. Should fate suddenly turn around and perform a weird experiment on Vernon Crockwell's reputation—well, it's all in the game."
"Are you really talking about fate, or fate with a little nudge from you?"
"I'll just follow the question where it leads. You know me. Pass the Tots, please."
"Yes, that is the way you operate, usually. And it's one of the things I most admire about you, when I do." He passed the mooshed-potato balls. "How does Crockwell do whatever it is he does to his clients? Is it the talking cure, or aversion therapy, or what?"
"I didn't ask and I'm not sure I want to know. Group therapy
is part of it—I've got a list of the eight other men in Haig's and Bierly's group—but I got the impression from Bierly there's more to it than that. Crockwell's suite had one big conference-type room that I saw. There were a number of closed doors, too, but I don't kno
w who or what was lurking behind them."
"Crockwell gave you a list of his clients? Isn't that unethical— or even illegal?"
"He couldn't, he said, even though he's convinced, probably rightly, that someone in the group is out to get him—nail him as a murderer, whether he is one or not. At my suggestion, though, Crockwell was willing to sit quietly and examine his white knuckles while I phoned Larry Bierly, who was happy to provide me with the names and biographical sketches of each of the group members. Two others besides Haig are dead, it turns out—a double-suicide leap from the Patroon Bridge in February that was witnessed by six motorists and doesn't look suspicious, just sickening. It sounds like a kind of indirect murder. Anyway, Bierly said that all or most of the seven surviving group members probably considered Crockwell capable of actual murder and would be willing to testify to that effect, giving examples of his behavior that led them to this harsh opinion."
"I remember reading about the bridge suicide. What a horror Crockwell is—true-believerism at its most destructive."
"Crockwell, of course, affects the stance that all the group members except two adored him. And since Paul Haig is dead, Bierly is his prime suspect for secretly taping a therapy session and sending the tape to the cops. It was funny, though. I had to drag it out of Crockwell that Bierly was logically the culprit if the others in the therapy group were Crockwell's diehard fans. He gets very uncomfortable when Bierly's name comes up and seems to hate to have to think about him at all."
"Did you tell Crockwell that Bierly is trying to hire you to pin the supposed murder on Crockwell?"
"That didn't come up, no. Nor did I tell Crockwell that Phyllis Haig wants to hire me to pin the supposed murder on Bierly."
"This is getting complicated, Donald. What if this entire crew is
nothing more than an extended nest of paranoiacs and revenge seekers? Can you afford to spend a lot of time mucking about in this with no payoff either in the form of justice or cash?"
"Somebody will pay me—there's no reason to be concerned about that. Offers keep pouring in. It wouldn't surprise me if Jerry Falwell called up and wanted me to verify that on the night he died Paul Haig was seen leaving the Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge on Route 9W with Hillary Clinton. If I can show that Haig wasn't murdered, Crockwell can pay me. If I can show that Haig was murdered and Crockwell did it, Bierly can pay me. If I show that Haig was murdered and Bierly did it, then Phyllis Haig can pay me. As I see it, it's a no-lose situation."
Shock To The System Page 4