Shock To The System

by Shock To The System (lit)

  I tried Crockwell and got his machine. It was just past two in the afternoon, so I didn't know if he had been led off to jail or if he was busy attaching electrodes to the limbs or genitalia of his current patients.

  Again, I started to dial Phyllis Haig's number but couldn't quite make myself hit the final digit.

  I did reach Al Finnerty, who said he'd heard from the hospital that Larry Bierly was improving steadily. Bierly was barely con­scious but still too drugged up to be interviewed. The doctors had told Finnerty maybe Bierly could talk and make sense in a day or so. Then, presumably, he might be able to identify his attacker, or, if he got a look but it wasn't anybody he knew, he could at least provide a description. Finnerty asked me how I was coming with my own inquiries. I said I still hadn't learned much of coher­ent substance, which was an awkward but true fact.

  Grey Oliveira was short and muscular in the conservative dark suit and gaudy multicolored tie that somebody had decreed must be worn by men under fifty working in offices that year. He had a well-sculpted Mediterranean face, oldtime-matinee-idol wavy black hair, and big liquid gray eyes it was hard not to gaze into in a more than businesslike way. Despite a certain awkward salty ache I was feeling, I was sure I hadn't given anything away when—about sixty seconds after I walked up to him—Oliveira said, "You're gay, aren't you?"

  "I am. What tipped you off? Was it the spitcurl or the Barbie lunch box?"

  "Just something about the way you were looking at me. Or not looking at me. Or looking at me and looking as if you'd be a lot more comfortable if you were looking at somebody else. It's my eyes, I know. Gay men and straight women find my eyes hyp­notic. This goes way back—to infancy, as a matter of fact. My parents were the first ones to be smitten. I was named after my eyes, as a matter of fact. And these eyes have done extremely well for me over the years."

  "I'll bet."

  "Only up to a point, though. People don't tend to come back for seconds. The problem is, I've got bedroom eyes but a dick the size of a thimble."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  He laughed once and shook his head. "Hey, can't you tell when somebody's pulling your leg? Sheesh." He winked at me and raised his glass of beer.

  I said, "Are you bisexual? Or are the straight women whose gaze is sucked into your limpid pools not so lucky as all those gay men?"

  "One of them is," he said, gazing at me. "I'm married. In fact— hey, why am I telling you this? You wanted to talk about Paul Haig's suicide. That's why we're meeting like this. And here I am instead regaling you with the raunchy details of my sex life."

  "I haven't heard any raunchy details," I said, "and I guess I

  don't need to. But the general outline of your sex life does inter­est me. I'm trying to get a clearer picture of Crockwell and his therapy groups, especially the one you were in."

  "Oh, you don't want to talk about my dick, then?"

  "No." All around us other men were drinking draft beer and palavering about the young baseball season, and the market, and the legislative session, and how Clinton was in trouble and how he deserved it because he was a wuss and a liar and a phony: the boomers devouring one of their own.

  Oliveira said, "Don't get me wrong. I'm all talk. I'm a happily married man. For me, as the song goes, there's no fiddle-dee-dee. In fact, you might say, I'm twice faithful, doubly married. Do you know what I'm talking about, Strachey?"

  "I haven't got a clue."

  "I've got both a wife and a boyfriend," he said, and sipped his beer. My bottle of Molson arrived and I imbibed from it. "Up in Saratoga, we are tres civilized. None of your bourgeois narrow-mindedness in our hip precincts. I love my wife and I like my fuck buddy, and I need what they both have to offer—her com­fort and security and good home, and his stiff one. It's a full life."

  "I guess it could be."

  He grinned. "I might sound a little flippant about my cozy arrangement, but don't misunderstand me. I really am lucky. Annette is the love of my life and I couldn't live without her. My boyfriend is in a similar situation and it all works. Both of us get to keep the marriages we value, and so do our wives, who are cool with the deal. They know exactly where we are and who we're with when we're not home—a claim most wives are unable to make about their husbands. And it's all AIDS-proof too, a closed circle no virus can penetrate—unless it turns out AIDS can be picked up through overexposure to the sheets at Stan and Ellie's Mountain View Motel on Route 9- Then I'm in trouble."

  "It does sound safe, if underly romantic."

  "I lost interest in romance a long time ago. I never had much luck with it."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Not with men, anyway."

  I said, "Is that why you ended up in Vernon Crockwell's ther­apy group?"

  He grimaced into his beer, then looked up at me disgustedly. He said, "I did that for Annette. I never expected it to work and I don't think she honestly expected it to either. But this was before I met Stu, and I was getting pretty antsy going without dick—the whole AIDS thing had scared me off of men com­pletely—and Annette heard about Crockwell and thought if I went to him I could get my craving for men exorcised and find peace. Get a gay-sex lobotomy or something."

  "Sounds grim."

  "You'll never know how grim it was."

  "And you met Stu while you were still in the group?"

  "I met him last summer, at a Little League game. How's that for family values?"

  "Commendable. You've got kids?"

  "Bobby, ten, and Ellen, eight. Both nice kids too."

  "And you and Stu were in the Little League bleachers and your eyes met and bells rang and violins played?"

  He said, "I told you, that's not how it works with me. I've never been in love with a man. Basically, I just like sucking cock."

  "Your life may lack romance, Grey, but not intellectual honesty, I guess."

  At this, he simply gazed at me a little sadly.

  I said, "You said on the phone you were surprised that Paul Haig had committed suicide and you thought there might be more to it than met the eye. How come?"

  He sipped his beer. "Paul wasn't the type to kill himself. He was the type who'd escape from life in easier ways."

  "Like what?"

  "Like alcohol."

  "He did have a history."

  "He was weak. Taking his own life would have required a

  degree of strength I never once saw in Paul Haig."

  "But he walked out on Crockwell," I said. "That certainly took will."

  "He followed Larry Bierly out. That's all he did. By the time they left, Larry had more sway over Paul than Crockwell did, that's all it was. Paul was a drunk and a weakling. People like that don't kill themselves. What they do is, they die slowly from their addictions and they make other people's lives miserable while they're at it."

  "You seem to know a lot about the subject, or have strong opinions about it anyway."

  "Both," he said. "My father was an alcoholic. He was a weak man who was a pathological liar and an abusive drunk. Luckily, he died when I was sixteen. My mother had thirty-six years of him, though."

  "Sorry."

  "So I don't have a lot of patience with people like Paul Haig."

  "Was Paul abusive to people?"

  He frowned, then shrugged. "I guess not—not in the usual sense of 'abusive.' But he was totally spineless. He let his mother walk all over him and run his life. It sounded like she was a drunk too, and they were each other's enablers. A very sick situation. People like that don't kill themselves. They have better ways of escaping from reality. Better for them, anyway."

  "You're the son of an alcoholic, Grey, but you drink. I take it that you can handle it."

  "Yes, as a matter of fact I can handle it. I make it a point to."

  "You talked, though, as if you thought there was something sinister about Paul's death. That it wasn't an accident."

  "I wouldn't know for sure, of course. I didn't have anything specific in mind. And boozers can be aw
fully sloppy, so it could have been accidental. But there were people who hated Paul. That I do know. Though probably not enough to kill him, if that's what we're talking about here. That's going a little far."

  I said, "Who do you have in mind?"

  He drained his beer glass but made no move to order another.

  "At least two of the guys in the therapy group hated his guts. And Paul talked in the group about other people he'd had serious run-ins with. Obviously his personality just got to some people."

  "That can happen. Though rubbing somebody the wrong way rarely leads to homicide—except among urban schoolchildren these days, but that's another story. Who were the two guys in the group who hated Paul?"

  "Roland Stover and Dean Moody. Have you talked to them yet?"

  "No. They aren't a couple, are they? Isn't Moody the one who sued his parents for making him a homosexual?"

  Oliveira grinned, apparently at the image of Stover and Moody as a couple. "Yeah, Dean's the wrathful son, but I doubt that he and Roland are dating. As far as I know, they both passed Crockwell 101 and have been certified het."

  "What makes you say they hated Paul Haig?"

  "They said so, in the group. They hated him for being wishy-washy-about his sexuality, and for betraying the group by suck­ing Larry Bierly's dick and then leaving with him. Roland and Dean were the zealots in the group, the fanatical true believers."

  "I heard one of them is a religious nut."

  "Roland is. 'He who lieth with another man shall be put to death,' and all that. Dean was more of a secular humanist. He just thought homosexuality was sick."

  "Did either Stover or Moody ever threaten Paul?"

  He thought about this. "Not exactly," he said finally. "It was more of a general 'You'll pay for your evil, perverted ways, Paul' More of a dire warning than an actual personal threat."

  "I heard Crockwell once threatened Paul. Do you remember that?"

  "It was just before Paul and Larry walked out last summer," Oliveira said. "It was truly shocking. It was a side of Crockwell we'd never seen before. He apologized later and tried to con­vince us it was a calculated outburst. But I think he was genuinely out of control. Something Paul or Larry said just got to Crockwell and he flipped out. Two of the guys were so shaken up by it,

  when I saw them outside after the session they talked about dropping out of the group."

  "Which two said that?"

  "Gary Moe and Nelson Bowkar. But you won't be interviewing them. They're dead."

  "I heard."

  "They both had AIDS and they went off the Patroon Bridge together. You want romance in your life? There's romance for you."

  "Are you aware, Grey, of anyone ever making an audiotape of any of the therapy sessions with Crockwell?"

  "No. Did somebody?"

  "Possibly."

  He glowered. "That's pretty shitty. What's on the tape? Have you heard it?"

  "I can't discuss it, and I'm sure you understand why."

  "Sure. It's confidential. But not so confidential that some cock-sucking private eye doesn't know all about it and is going around Albany asking questions about something in people's lives they had every right to expect would be kept totally private." The big gray eyes, sultry before, were cold now.

  I said, "That's a more or less true assessment of what's happen­ing. It's all in the service, though, of clearing up the circumstances surrounding Paul Haig's death, if that's any consolation. And of shedding light on the attempt on the life of Larry Bierly last night. Did you hear about that?"

  "What? Somebody tried to kill Larry Bierly?"

  "He was shot in the Millpond Mall parking lot. He's expected to survive."

  "God, that's awful."

  "Do you know a Steven St. James?"

  "No. Should I?"

  "Not necessarily."

  "Who do they think shot Larry?"

  "There are no suspects yet."

  Oliveira said, "Ten guys started out last year in the therapy

  group we were in with Crockwell, and now three are dead and somebody tried to kill a fourth guy. You're cute, Strachey, and I'll bet you've got a nice one down there between those trim thighs. But for the kind of detective work that's needed on this case, I think they're going to have to bring in Oliver Stone."

  That one was a little hard for me to sort out, but I salvaged from it what I thought I could before saying so-long-for-now to Grey Oliveira.

  11

  I arrived back at the house on Crow Street just as Timmy ambled around the corner after a hard day at the Assem­bly.

  I said, "Think up some new ways to tax 'n' spend?"

  "I tried, I tried."

  We went inside and smooched behind closed doors, so as not to frighten the Morses, the elderly Presbyterians who lived in the townhouse next to ours and who often came out to polish the little Historical Albany Foundation plaque next to their front door. Our plaque was tarnished—fittingly Maude Morse had once told another neighbor.

  "How is Larry Bierly doing?" Timmy asked, removing his jacket and placing it carefully on a wooden hanger he kept on the foyer hatrack specifically for this purpose. His necktie went over the banister by the newel post.

  "He was improving, the last I heard. But I've got to check again with the hospital and the cops."

  "Are you still conniving to ruin Vernon Crockwell?" Timmy's glistening shoes came off and were placed side by side on the far right of the fourth step.

  "I'm still conniving to find out how and why Paul Haig died, and who shot Bierly and why. If Crockwell is mixed up in either situation, his evil mission will be destroyed. I'll be glad and so will you."

  "What does 'mixed up in' mean? That's the part I'm nervous about." I followed him to the kitchen, where he fixed himself a

  tall, cool glass of Price Chopper seltzer. I found a Popsicle in the freezer.

  "If it takes a load off your mind, Timothy, rest assured I don't plan on planting evidence in Crockwell’s office—a smoking re­volver or—in Paul Haig's case, what? That's the problem with Haig's death. Even if he was somehow forced or conned into ingesting the lethal combination of Scotch and Elavil, what evi­dence of it can anybody come up with at this late date? He's been dead and buried for two months. And Haig's apartment, where he died, has been cleaned out and rented to someone else. So physical evidence is going to be nil."

  "That does leave you in the lurch. Who's your client? Got one yet?"

  "I haven't decided. But the queue still winds around the block. That won't be a problem." He gave me his look that said, I'm not rolling my eyes theatrically but I would if I were the type who did that.

  I said, "I'm talking to the members of the therapy group—I've met three so far—trying to get a clearer picture of the Crockwell-Haig-Bierly constellation and any potential violence in it, and how anybody else might have fit into it in a violent way. None of the three I talked to comes down especially hard on Crockwell— not as a murder or attempted-murder suspect anyway. Their opinion of him as a therapist is poor, but that's separate. Except, I heard the tape this morning that somebody sent to the cops, and Crockwell did threaten Haig. Each threatened the other, in fact. When Haig said he was quitting the group, Crockwell threatened to bring Phyllis Haig into it, and Haig said Crockwell would be sorry if he did, and Haig would stop him, and Crockwell said if Haig interfered Crockwell would stop him dead in his tracks."

  " 'Dead in his tracks'? He used those words?"

  "I heard it."

  "Maybe the tape was edited to make it sound like he said that."

  "No, I've got corroboration from three people who were there."

  "Maybe they're the ones who edited the tape and sent it in."

  "All three of them? That sounds overly conspiratorial for this particular situation."

  "Maybe Mrs. Haig can shed some light on whether Crockwell contacted her and how Paul reacted."

  "I plan on asking her," I said, "but shedding light is not her forte." I licked off the last o
f the Popsicle and placed the stick in the bin Timmy had set up by the sink labeled "Waste Wood Products." I knew where the paper, glass and plastic ended up, but I was never sure what he did with the wood.

  I said, "Anyway, Crockwell is sounding more and more like a quack but less and less like a cold-blooded killer, and there are two members of the group I haven't met yet who sound much more problematical. I talked to two guys who survived Crockwell and are now a cozy couple themselves—sort of Fred Mertz mar­ried to Fred Mertz—and I met with a married man from Saratoga who is preoccupied with dick and who may be the most cynical man in North America. They're very different types, but all three of them mentioned two group members, Dean Moody and Ro­land Stover, who are violently antigay. They'll bear looking into."

  Timmy said, "Gay homophobes. They're the worst."

  "Maybe. The competition is keen. And then there's this: ever hear of a Steven St. James?"

  "I don't think so. Any relation to Susan?"

  "Not that I know of. I found him visiting Larry Bierly in the hospital this morning. He was cagey and evasive about his rela­tionship with Bierly, and when I brought up Crockwell's group, he panicked and fled the premises. I went after him and pressed him on his connection to Bierly and Haig and Crockwell, and before he drove away, scared and shaken, he said, 'You don't want to know.' "

  "Except you do. Who do you think he is?"

  "No clue. I traced his car to Schuylers Landing. I'll track him down tomorrow."

  "Maybe he's Bierly's boyfriend. Or he was Haig's or something. Or both. Or Crockwell's. Or—or all of theirs."

  "I'd say your Irish Catholic imagination is running away with you on that one, Timothy."

  "Yes, well, from the sounds of this curious and varied crew, your New Jersey Presbyterian imagination might not be up to the task."

  "Funny, somebody else made a similar observation about an hour ago. Maybe I need to be open to more baroque explana­tions for whatever is going on here."