The third call was from my other potential client. "This is Vernon Crockwell calling, Donald, at eight-twenty-five a.m. Friday. Please contact me at your earliest convenience. Larry Bierly has been shot and seriously injured, and the police apparently regard me as a potential or actual suspect. They are on their way here to interrogate me now. I don't know which is more harmful to my reputation, Donald, the police being seen entering my office or my being seen at the police station.
"Donald, I've been in touch with my attorney, Norris Jackacky,
and he has repeated to me his opinion that in spite of your misguided and ultimately futile lifestyle you are the most capable private investigator in Albany. You can probably take some satisfaction in knowing that you've got me over a barrel, and I'm in no position to hold your deviant sexuality over you. We can discuss sexuality later, if you prefer. In any case, please call me at my office to discuss this more urgent matter at your earliest convenience. Thank you."
I had a quick flash of Crockwell "over a barrel," where he was "in no position" to hold my deviant sexuality over me. Could he be ... ? No, almost certainly that wasn't it. Arch-homophobes did occasionally turn out to be homosexual psychopaths. There had been at least one gay-bashing congressman caught with a call boy, and countless reactionary men of the cloth who couldn't keep their hands off hitchhikers or altar boys. And of course there had been J. Edgar Hoover railing against the commie-homo menace whenever he wasn't off-duty with Clyde Tolson rhumbaing in a darling cocktail dress at the Stork Club.
But for Crockwell to have devoted his entire professional life to the relentless exorcism of gay men's sexuality while he was secretly gay himself wouldn't have been just sick, it would have been monstrous. Not that some gay men—Roy Cohn, probably Hoover—weren't monstrous. It was always a possibility. As was deeply repressed homosexuality that sometimes surfaced in the form of horrified fascination with gay sex and the urge to stamp it out. But that was getting into realms beyond me—in most cases probably beyond anybody's sure grasp.
What did seem certain, though, was some kind of odd, powerful connection among Crockwell, Haig and Bierly—and possibly "Steven" and others—that went beyond what I knew or had overheard on the tape of Haig's and Bierly's last session with Crockwell's cure-a-fag group. If so, then what was this connection, and was it somehow getting people killed? It was time to learn more about the other members of the therapy group.
9
First I phoned a friend whose business runs credit checks and asked her to find out all she could about Paul Haig's and Larry Bierly's business and personal finances. She said she'd report back to me in a day or two.
Then I called a contact at the Department of Motor Vehicles and learned that the mud-spattered VW Rabbit was registered to Steven St. James, with an address in the town of Schuylers Landing in Greene County. I noted this and retrieved St. James's residential phone number from what used to be called, descriptively, New York Telephone but now is called—as if it were a nasal decongestant—NYNEX.
Fifteen minutes after leaving a message, I got a callback from a psychotherapist friend in Westmere who specialized in actual sexual dysfunction. As I suspected, she was familiar with Crockwell's practice; she had even treated a few of his alumni. I learned that unlike open-ended groups whose members came and went at various times, Crockwell's was a set one-year program that included both group therapy and individualized aversion therapy. He always had three groups going, each meeting once a week at different times. One old group ended and one new group formed every four months. This way, men who had queued up to be de-queered would never have to wait too long to get started. (Lesbians wishing to be un-dyked were referred to a similar program run by a colleague of Crockwell's in Schenectady; my therapist friend, a lesbian, informed me that the
Schenectady program included not only group and aversion therapy but also hairstyling and makeup tips.)
Then I got out the list Bierly had provided me—and whose accuracy Crockwell had, in effect, confirmed—of the ten men in the previous calendar year's therapy group. The first two men on the list were Haig, now deceased, and Bierly, unconscious in the hospital. Two others were known to be dead, Bierly had told me: Gary Moe and Nelson Bowkar had fallen ill with AIDS-related infections soon after the group had concluded in December and both had died in early February, a double suicide. Bierly had heard later that the two had secretly been lovers while in the Crockwell therapy group—it's where they met—and they had remained in the group because nineteen-year-old Bowkar's family had begged him to stay, and twenty-year-old Moe's evangelical church had paid his $8,200 per annum nonrefundable fee to Crockwell, and Moe didn't want the congregation to think its money had been wasted. Bierly said there had been nothing suspicious about the suicide; Bowkar and Moe left anguished, profusely apologetic notes to their families and jumped off the I-90 Hudson River bridge together.
That left six. Grey Oliveira was married, lived in Saratoga, and was described by Bierly as one of the more stable and rational members of the group, but hard to take on account of his sarcasm. Bierly called Roland Stover, of Albany, a guilt-ridden religious zealot and "fucked-up something awful." LeVon Monroe and Walter Tidlow, also of Albany, were best buddies, Bierly said, and he suspected that they were more than that. Eugene Cebulka, of East Greenbush, was a nice guy, Bierly said, and generally sensible and with a good grip on reality; Bierly wasn't sure why he had stayed in the group.
Bierly had described Dean Moody as "a lunatic." Moody had initiated a lawsuit against his parents, Hal and Loretta Moody of Cobleskill, alleging that through their recklessness—Loretta's emotional closeness to her son and Hal's emotional distracted-ness and uninvolvement—they had turned Dean into a wretched homosexual. This one I had read about in the Times Union earlier
in the year, when the Moodys, all three of them, had been scheduled to appear on Montel. Now I was sorry I hadn't tuned in.
Bierly I didn't need to track down, and luckily the others from the therapy group were listed in area phone books. Conveniently, and probably more than that, Monroe and Tidlow shared both a number and an address on Allen Street. Only one group alumnus was at home when I called; Walter Tidlow said his "roommate" LeVon would be home at lunchtime and they would be willing to discuss Crockwell vis a vis Haig vis a vis Bierly if I wanted to drop by. He also offered lunch; I hadn't yet accepted anybody else's offer to foot my expenses, and I happily took Tidlow up on his offer of free food.
I phoned Crockwell at his office and got his machine. Finnerty and Colson were probably going at him. If Crockwell had stuck to his schedule, he'd have been alone in his office Thursday night when Bierly was being shot, and therefore alibiless. Which meant Crockwell was in trouble whether he had shot Bierly or—as now seemed more and more likely to me—not. Crockwell's accustomed method of assassination was subtler. The tape someone in the group had made and sent to the cops showed that Crockwell could lose control. But losing control when provoked was one thing, and premeditated murder (Haig) and attempted murder (Bierly) was far more dire. It was easy, though, for me to keep an open mind on this point. I had next to nothing to close it around.
Not enough time had passed for Steven St. James to get back to Schuylers Landing, so I didn't phone him. Anyway, what else could I say to him? St. James was scared to death of something, and calling him up and making vague ominous noises would only spook him more. I figured I'd drive down there over the weekend. The Hudson Valley in May actually looked the way Church and Cole and the other local romantic painters of the last century had imagined it, dramatic and dreamy, with De Millean sunsets and enormous blue vistas that made people look tiny but lucky to be alive for a wistful little spell in the Empire State.
I almost returned Phyllis Haig's drunken call of the night before, but couldn't quite make myself dial the number. She
would put her foot down and give me a piece of her mind and tell me a thing or two about manners whenever she got hold
of me, but that would have to wait.
Tidlow and Monroe shared the top floor of a tidy, well-kept two-family house on South Allen Street. The stairs up to it were carpeted in Astroturf and the inside of the apartment was stuffed with antimacassared Victorian-style reproductions and shelf upon shelf of carefully arranged and recently dusted glass bric-a-brac. It wouldn't have surprised me if Amanda Wingfield had sashayed into view.
Instead, I found two hospitable men in their mid-thirties who had laid a lovely table and served me Campbell's tomato soup, always a way to this man's heart, and a plate of Ritz crackers with butter. This was washed down with Price Chopper cola. It's easy to tut-tut at the cuisine of the lower middle classes, but I had a feeling Tidlow and Monroe could have eaten better if they hadn't each spent $8,200 the previous year on Vernon Crockwell's de-sodomization program. Or maybe they served this food because they liked it. I know I did.
"We saw about Larry getting shot on the TV this morning," Tidlow said, "and we just couldn't believe it. We never knew anybody who got shot, even though it's extremely common nowadays. American society has become so violent."
"What a tragic year it's been for Larry. First Paul commits suicide, and now this horrible incident. Our hearts go out to Larry."
"You don't think Larry shot himself, do you?" Tidlow said.
I said, "He was shot twice, once in the neck and once in the chest."
"Oh, that's right. I guess it would be hard to shoot yourself more than one time. I shouldn't have stumbled on that one. Me, who never misses Murder, She Wrote."
"Did Paul shoot himself?" Monroe asked.
"No," Tidlow said, "that was pills and liquor, like Marilyn."
I nearly asked if Marilyn was another acquaintance of theirs who had died, but caught myself. Tidlow was a balding, pleasant-faced, pale-skinned man who worked as a bookkeeper for the company that owned the Millpond Mall. He said he'd seen Bierly at the mall occasionally—as he had Paul Haig when he was alive—but hadn't spoken with him in recent weeks and had left the mall at eight p.m. on the previous night, three hours before Bierly had been shot.
Monroe was a balding, pleasant-faced black man who was a bookkeeper for the state tax department. He wore a tartan-plaid necktie and matching socks. He told me he was originally from Rome, New York, where he was named after his mother's favorite pop singer, Vaughn Monroe.
Tidlow was due at the mall at two and Monroe was on his lunch break, so I tried to move the conversation along. "Were both of you there the day last year when Paul and Larry left the therapy group?"
"Who told you LeVon and I were in that program, if you don't mind my asking?" Tidlow said.
"Larry did. I spoke with Vernon Crockwell, but he would never mention any names, if that's what you're worried about," I said.
They glanced at each other. Monroe said, "No member of the group was ever supposed to reveal to outsiders who the other group members were. It was strictly confidential. But I must say it's entirely agreeable to make an exception in your case." He gave me a sly look and winked.
"The thing of it is," Tidlow said, "we heard something about you." He gave me a sly look and winked too, and I gave them both a sly look and winked back at each of them.
"When you called," Tidlow said, more at ease now, "you said you were investigating Paul Haig dying, but you didn't say who was employing you to do this." They both looked at me with curiosity, and I saw some older, wiser version of myself looking at me with curiosity too.
I said, "I am not able to reveal to you at this point in time exactly who my client is. But I can tell you that a number of
people connected with Paul Haig consider his death suspicious. That's why I'm interested in the last therapy session that Paul and Larry took part in."
"Suspicious in what way?" Monroe said, buttered cracker poised in midair. "You mean perhaps it wasn't suicide?"
"Despite the official verdict, there's a question in some people's minds."
"Golly," Monroe said.
Tidlow said, "This is the first time I heard about that. My word."
"Paul was always a pretty unhappy camper," Monroe said. "So when I heard he committed suicide I wasn't all that shocked. Now somebody thinks—what? He was murdered?"
"Yes."
"My heavens," Tidlow said.
I said, "That's why I'd like to get your take on that last therapy session they participated in. I understand some remarks were made that some of those present regarded as threats."
"They do? Why?" Monroe asked. They both looked confused.
Tidlow said, "Whose opinion is that?"
I said, "Didn't Crockwell kind of lose it at that session? That's one account I've heard. Crockwell told Haig he'd regret leaving therapy and he'd upset his mother, and then Haig warned Crockwell not to bring his mother into it or Crockwell would be sorry, and then Crockwell said if Haig tried anything funny Crockwell would stop him dead in his tracks. Do you remember it any differently?"
Tidlow said, "That sounds right, but there was more to it. Later on, Dr. Crockwell said he was simply using a therapeutic technique to get Paul to bring his feelings out so he could talk about them, and he apologized to the other members of the group for pretending to lose his temper."
"I see. And did this explanation and apology come before or after Paul and Larry left the room?"
"It was afterwards," Monroe said. "I know because I think it was I who asked Dr. Crockwell if he was going to call up Larry
and Paul, if they really didn't come back, and apologize to them."
"What did he say?"
"He said he sure would."
I said, "Crockwell was quite the manipulative fellow."
"Oh, he took the cake when it came to manipulation," Tidlow said. "But does somebody think he killed Paul? That sounds far-out."
Monroe said, "Dr. Crockwell didn't need to kill anybody in the group. He was already cutting off their whoosy-whatsis, figuratively speaking. That seemed to be good enough for him." Tidlow nodded sagely in agreement, and I did too.
I said, "You both seem to have come out of therapy with a low opinion of Vernon Crockwell. Would you care to say more on the subject?"
"To be perfectly frank," Tidlow said, "LeVon and I are both of the opinion that Dr. Crockwell is either deeply misguided or even, conceivably, a fake."
"In addition to being some kind of depraved sadist, like a monster in a Stephen King novel," Monroe said. "Let's not forget that."
I said, "But you stayed in therapy with him anyway? Or did you come to these negative conclusions later on, after the course of therapy ended?"
Tidlow said, "I stayed because my mother paid the eighty-two hundred dollars for the program in advance, and because I met LeVon there and I wanted to keep him company. I faked it, even went to all the 'private sessions'—that was Crockwell's euphemisms for the zap routines—and even managed to get a boner, if you'll excuse the expression, looking at pictures of Playboy bunnies. Even though I had to rub my weenie raw to do it. Does that answer your question?"
"That's vivid enough. What about you, LeVon? How come you stayed?"
"To prove to my ex-wife that it wouldn't help. That I was gay and nothing could be done about it. And the same goes for me—
I could get through it because Walter was there. We figured if we could survive Vernon Crockwell together, we could survive anything."
They both grinned at me across their empty soup bowls.
I said, "I guess that wasn't the effect Crockwell was after."
They chuckled. Monroe said. "On our twenty-fifth anniversary we're going to have a big dinner at the Luau Hale over in Pittsfield, where Walter's from, and make sure Crockwell is invited."
"You two seem to be as comfy and well-adjusted as most of the gay men I know," I said. "I don't suppose the same could be said of the other members of the therapy group."
"Are you going to talk to them too?" Tidlow asked.
I said yes.
"Then you'll
see for yourself. Some are compos mentis, and a couple of them are the most addlebrained people you'll ever meet in your life."
"Which ones are which?" I asked.
"Gene and Grey are compos," Monroe said, "but Roland and Dean are out in la-la land."
"Would you say either Roland or Dean is dangerously demented?"
Tidlow said, "I'd say they might be dangerous, wouldn't you, LeVon?"
"Oh, my, yes."
I said, "Both of them?" They nodded emphatically. "What makes you think they might be dangerous?"
"Well," Tidlow said, "Roland believes that homosexuals who don't repent should either be stoned to death or thrown over a cliff. And Dean thinks they should be locked up in state mental hospitals. I'd say that makes them rather dangerous."
"Especially if they got elected to something," Monroe said.
"Is either of them running for office?" I asked.
Monroe said no, he didn't think so, and I wondered if either Roland Stover or Dean Moody had found cruder outlets for their hatred of homosexuality.
I said, "To your knowledge, did any member of the therapy
group ever record one of the sessions, either openly or secretly?"
They stared at me. Monroe said, "No—why? Did somebody tape us? That would certainly be untoward."
"It's just something I'm trying to track down. Does the name Steven St. James ring a bell with either of you?"
Tidlow said, "I never heard of him. Who's he? Any relation to Susan Saint James of Kate and Allie? That was one of my favorite shows. I have all the tapes."
"I don't know yet who he is," I said, "or what his connection is to any of this. When I asked him about his involvement, he just said I didn't want to know."
"It looks like you do, though," Monroe said. "I hope when you find out, you aren't too shocked."
I said no, I hoped I wasn't.
10
Back in the office, I dialed the numbers I had for the other members of the therapy group but got only one answer. A woman at Grey Oliveira's number in Saratoga said I could reach him at work in Albany in the State Division of Housing and Community Renewal. Oliveira took my call, and when I told him I was investigating Paul Haig's death he agreed to meet me at five at a bar on Broadway. He said he too had been surprised by Haig's suicide, and he'd wondered if there hadn't been more to it.
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