Compulsion

7

Tuesday, June 25, 2002

I talked with Anderson before leaving my loft in the morning and learned that Billy was still at large. I had a couple hours before my 1:00 p.m. meeting with Julia, so I headed to Mass General for my third visit with Lilly Cunningham.

I expected to see her doing better, but she looked worse. Her skin was even paler than before. Her breathing was erratic. As her eyes followed me in from the doorway, she squinted to bring me into focus.

I pulled an armchair to the side of the bed and sat down. Above me, to the right of the window, the IV tree had grown new branches. A total of five hanging bottles and plastic bags dripped into the central line running into Lilly's subclavian vein. I looked at her leg, still suspended midair, and saw that another serpentine incision had been cut into the flesh to help her abscess drain.

"It's in my heart," she said weakly.

I knew she was talking about the infection having traveled to her heart, probably to the pericardial sac that surrounds it or to the valves deep inside its chambers. But I heard her words in another way, too. Because it was also true that the psychological trauma which had caused her to inject herself with dirt had reached the center of her being, the emotional toxin pumped now with the blood to every tissue, sparing only her central nervous system, walled off as it is by that baffle of membranes known as the blood-brain barrier. The lines of conflict were at last clearly drawn: Whatever had happened to Lilly as a girl had finally laid siege to the kingdom of her body, leaving the soul, and its own miraculous ability to heal, as her last defense-and my greatest ally.

I noted that, during my three meetings with Lilly, she had never had any visitors. Patients with Munchausen's often end up isolated; family and friends become enraged when they learn they have been caring for a person who has made herself sick. A wave of sadness-and, strangely, embarrassment-swept over me. The thought of Lilly suffering so terribly, without a hand to hold, made me want to reach out to her even more.

"The sadness and shame you feel is hers, not yours" the voice at the back of my mind whispered. "Help her own it."

"The last time I came to see you," I said, "you told me how frightened you were of being alone. Where does that fear come from, do you think?"

She cleared her throat. "Probably from losing my father," she said. She closed her eyes and slowly reopened them. "I haven't stopped missing him. I've thought of him every day since I was six."

"There are people you love today?" I said.

"Yes, of course. My husband. My mom and grandparents. A few good friends."

I leaned closer. I decided to gamble that Lilly's fear of being alone would translate into an even more imposing fear of death. "This is a very important moment, Lilly," I said quietly. "The infection is overwhelming your defenses. You could die. And that means saying good-bye to your husband and your mother and each of your friends. It means being completely and utterly alone." She seemed to be listening to me. "The only way to stay with the people you love is to open up to them, to let the truth flow. If you do that, I think all the stress you're under will start to fade away and your body will start to heal itself."

She looked away and shook her head. Several seconds passed. I sat still. Nearly a minute more went by. I was ready to gamble again by telling Lilly that I knew she had injected herself with dirt. But, of a sudden, she turned back toward me. Her eyes had filled with tears. "I did this," she whispered.

"Tell me what you mean," I said.

"I used a needle to inject… I caused the infection. I did this to myself."

I nodded. "I understand," I said.

She started to cry.

"I understand," I said again. I waited while she dried her eyes. "Can you tell me why you did it?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said. "I'm so ashamed."

"But she does know. Ask about the shame" the voice said.

"Is there something that happens to you around the time you inject yourself? Are there memories that bother you?"

She didn't hesitate this time. "I do it," she said, "when I feel filthy. I do it to punish myself."

"And what makes you feel filthy?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said, almost inaudibly.

"I'll never tell anyone," I promised.

She looked into my eyes, seeming to decide whether she could truly trust me. "I have bad thoughts," she said finally. "Terrible thoughts."

"Tell me about them."

She closed her eyes and stayed silent.

"Lilly, you have to let the truth out. You can't tie up your immune system any longer. You need it in order to stay with people you care about."

"I think…" She stopped herself.

"They don't want to lose you," I said. "They don't want to have to say good-bye."

"I think about my grandfather."

"What about him?" I asked. "What are the thoughts, exactly?"

"I think of myself… with him." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Touching him. Him touching me."

"Were you ever close with your grandfather in that way? Physically?"

"Never." She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. "That's the strangest part." She looked at me. "I'm certain he never did anything like that." Her face was a portrait of confusion. "It feels so awful thinking that way about him."

"And thinking that way is what makes you want to inject yourself," I said.

"I would do it right now, if I could," she said. "It would make me feel so much better."

"To punish yourself," I said.

"Yes. The thoughts would stop."

So there it was, the pathogen attacking Lilly's heart. It had taken on the life of a bacterium, but it had been born in Lilly's psyche. Her guilt-and her infection-stemmed from her sexual feelings for the man who had taken care of her after her father's death. The only question that remained was what had cultivated that desire. Had she been the victim of sexual abuse she later repressed? Or could there be another explanation? "You have to be willing to feel all the pain without using a needle to chase it away," I said. "If you're brave enough to do that, then your stress will start to evaporate. The infection won't have a chance of winning. It won't be able to hide from your immune system."

"I want to try," she said. "Really, I do."

"Good."

"You'll help?" she asked.

"I told you I would stay with you through this," I said. "I meant it."

I made it to Bomboa about twenty minutes before my scheduled meeting with Julia Bishop. The place was unusually busy for lunchtime, but I'm a regular there, and K. C. Hidalgo, one of the owners, offered me my usual table right by the window. I told him I'd rather he find me a quiet table toward the back, and that I'd wait for my guest at the bar.

He looked at me with concern. "The bar? That's a new perch for you."

I'd eaten enough dinners alone at Bomboa for K.C. to hear my whole life story in two-minute installments. He was a slim El Salvadorian man in his early forties, with chiseled features and a smile that would have kept his restaurant full if the food was average. But the food was some of the best in Boston, and K.C. was getting rich. He ran his fingers through his thick black hair. "I thought the bar was off limits. 'Physician, heal thyself,' and all that."

"I'm drinking my usual brew," I said. "Coffee."

"Then my place is your place." He walked me to the bar and caught the attention of the bartender. "Coffee for the doctor," he said.

"You're taking good care of me," I said.

"Somebody ought to do it twenty-four, seven, dude," he said. "Somebody much prettier than me." He slapped me on the back. " 'Cause, let's face it, you don't have a great track record taking care of yourself." He smiled that smile, then headed back to his post near the door.

The bar was about twenty-five feet long, with every variety of alcohol stocked against a mirrored back. I could see my reflection, framed by bottles of gin and scotch and vodka. I didn't like the picture. But that didn't stop me from quietly asking for a Sambuca on the side when the bartender brought me my coffee.

He never came back, disappearing into the kitchen a few minutes, then tidying up the sink a few minutes more. I wondered whether I had whispered my order so softly that he had missed it. I was reluctant to approach him more openly for the booze, so I sat tight.

I was finishing off the last of my coffee when I caught Julia Bishop's reflection in the mirror. My heart started racing like a schoolboy's. She was wearing a whisper-thin, off-the-shoulder black cashmere sweater and hip-hugging tight black pants that flared slightly at the bottoms. Black sandals with three-inch heels made her look taller than I remembered her, like she had stepped out of the pages of Vogue. I glanced around the room and watched heads turning, including K.C.'s.

She walked up to me. "I'm glad you were able to see me," she said.

"Not a problem," I said, already adrift in that azure haze I had experienced the first time I met her. Julia's presence was so absorbing, in fact, that I felt removed in some measure from myself and heard my own words as I spoke them, almost as an echo.

"I don't think I've slept ten hours since Brooke… And now, with Billy missing." She pressed her lips together to keep from breaking down.

The perfume Julia was wearing was more intoxicating than Sambuca. "We'll talk through everything," I said. "They're holding a table for us toward the back. It's quieter."

We moved to the table. Julia ordered a bottle of sparkling water. She said she had no appetite, which was understandable. But taken together with her sleeplessness, it made me worry she might be slipping into another depression. I ordered a few appetizers, to satisfy the waiter.

"I couldn't tell you much when you visited the house," she started, "but there's a lot you need to know about Billy. I think some of it will be critical when he goes to trial. Someone needs to make the judge aware of what he's been through."

"Anything you can tell me would be appreciated," I said.

"I'm sure my husband filled you in on Billy's background in Russia."

Listening to her use the words my husband bothered me. "He did. He told Captain Anderson and me about Billy witnessing the murder of his biological parents, then suffering abuse at the orphanage."

She seemed pained by what she was about to disclose. "What I doubt Darwin would have shared with you is how much trauma Billy has suffered since his arrival in this country."

"He didn't share any of that," I said.

She swallowed hard. " Darwin isn't the man you might think. He's very intelligent. He can be remarkably charming. But he's also very controlling. And he can be cruel."

I decided not to offer up the fact that Billy had shown me the welts on his back. I wanted to hear from Julia firsthand whether she believed Darwin Bishop was physically abusive. "Cruel, in what way?" I said.

"His demands on the boys are extreme," she said. "He expects them to be perfect-in school, athletics, at home. He interprets any emotion other than pride and self-confidence as a sign of weakness." She shook her head. "My son, Garret, is competing in a tennis tournament today, completely against his will," she said. "He pleaded with his father to let him drop out. He's beside himself about the baby, of course. And he's worried about Billy having left the hospital. Win wouldn't hear of him not playing."

"Garret wouldn't defy him?"

"Never," she said. "That's a difference between Garret and Billy. Garret wouldn't risk Darwin 's temper."

"Tell me about his temper."

She dropped her gaze. "I called you because I sensed you were an extraordinary person, Frank. But this still isn't easy to talk about."

"Nothing shocks me anymore," I said.

She looked deep into my eyes-into me. "Why is that?"

"I've seen people at their worst, doing terrible things." Telling her about my pain felt like giving it to her, relieving myself of it.

She kept looking into my eyes as she nodded, her posture and expression inviting me to say more, to empty myself into her.

"I left forensics years ago," I said. "I wasn't doing well." That was as much as I wanted to yield, and Julia seemed to know it.

She took a deep breath. "I've always believed people appear in our lives when we need them to," she said.

"I believe that, too," I said. Our eyes met, and I realized why models command the fees they do. Her luminous eyes promised to see the best in me and to help me see it. They made me want to be strong for her.

"The truth is," she said, "the boys and I have lived in fear of Darwin for years. He becomes physically abusive, unpredictably. It used to happen when he drank. I thought the alcohol was to blame. But it only got worse after he managed to stop drinking."

"He hits you?" I asked. I could feel my jaw tighten, my pulse rate start to climb. I knew some of my reaction had to be rooted in having watched my father beat my mother, but I didn't know how much of it. And I didn't know how to control it.

Julia looked embarrassed. "Let's say I've worn my share of dark lenses," she said. "I've hidden a lot over the years."

"And he's physically abusive to the boys?"

Her expression turned solemn. "That's as much my fault as anyone's," she said. "I should have left with them a long time ago."

"So you're saying he does abuse them," I said.

She nodded once. "Billy's gotten the worst of it," she said.

I noticed I was leaning into the table. I settled myself back in my seat. "Why?" I asked.

"Two reasons, I think. First of all, Billy's had a much harder time achieving. Win takes that as a direct challenge to his authority. He doesn't seem to understand that Billy's background may mean he always has to struggle. He literally believes that Billy willfully failed again and again in school-and in sports-to spite him."

That certainly didn't sound like the man who had made so much of Billy being ill, rather than evil-and so worthy of help. But I was learning that Darwin Bishop had at least two faces. "What's the other reason Billy is your husband's preferred target?" I asked. Your husband. I didn't like the words any better when I spoke them.

"Billy is the one who always seems to fight back. He won't give in. No apologies. No promises of more effort or better behavior-not even after setting the house afire. Obviously, that stubbornness makes Darwin angrier. He doesn't have anyone else in his life who stands up to him." Her eyes fell. "Myself included."

I decided to share what Billy had told me about being beaten with a strap. "When I visited Billy at Payne Whitney, he showed me his back," I said.

"He won't let me look at his back," Julia said. "He hides it from me."

"It's covered with welts. He told me that your husband whips him with a belt."

She winced.

"That happened some number of times?" I said. "What Billy described?"

She nodded.

"Do the boys try to protect one another?" I asked.

"No," she said. "They don't have a close relationship. They pretty much steer clear of one another. I've always thought that had something to do with Garret having come from Darwin 's previous marriage. The boys didn't meet until Garret was seven and Billy was six. But I think Garret also avoids him because Billy's been the one acting out, getting into trouble. He doesn't want to be painted with the same brush."

"Or hit with the same strap," I said.

"Or that," she said.

" Darwin told North Anderson and me that Billy inflicted those wounds on himself," I said.

"That's absurd," she said. She looked directly at me again. "Listen to me. Part of me would like to see Billy spend his life in prison for what he did," she said, working to keep her voice steady. "Part of me wishes this state had the death penalty." Her chest rose and fell sharply with her breathing. "I've lost my baby."

"I understand," I said.

"You couldn't."

She was right. I stayed silent.

"I'm here because the other part of me knows that Billy isn't fully to blame for what he did-even though he did it to my daughter. My husband is also guilty. And I am, too, for not having done something about Win's violence." She took a few moments to steady herself. "My husband and Billy have been locked in a terrible struggle," she said. "It's nothing a boy should have had to deal with. Certainly not a boy with Billy's history. And I think it's the reason he struck out at Brooke. I think he really wanted to hurt Win."

That fit eerily with the theory I had shared with Billy during my hospital visit. It also answered a question for me; Julia Bishop obviously didn't think her husband was responsible for her baby's death. I wasn't at all sure she would consider moving Tess off the estate. I decided to slowly test the waters. "I happened to see the New York magazine article that ran after your wedding," I said. "The two of you were driving down Fifth Avenue in a Ferrari. You seemed very much in love."

"I thought I was," Julia said.

"Did you know a great deal about him before you married him?"

"I've learned a lot more. Why do you ask?"

"Had he shared his criminal record with you?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "But I didn't make much of it. I knew about his drinking."

Not making much of marrying a man who had beaten his first wife-drunk or sober-seemed peculiar. "What exactly did he tell you?" I asked.

"He told me about a barroom brawl that led to an assault charge," she said. "It was around 1980, I think. There was mention of it in the paper when Win was arrested for drunk driving."

I shook my head. "That isn't what the newspaper was referring to," I said. "I pulled Darwin 's record. Your husband pled guilty to assault and battery of his former wife, Lauren, along with violating a restraining order she had taken out. He got the year right, but that's about it."

She looked at me as if I must be joking. Then, seeing that I wasn't, she leaned toward me, incredulous. "I had no idea," she said. She let her head drop into her hands. "I've been so stupid."

It felt like the right moment to introduce the idea of Tess Bishop staying with grandparents. "The question I would ask yourself, Julia, is whether it's completely clear to you that Billy is the one who took Brooke's life."

She looked up. "What do you mean?"

"Billy denies hurting his sister."

"Of course 'he does," she said. "He never admits any of the destructive things he does."

"So you're convinced he's responsible?"

"Well, yes."

I took the leap. "It isn't possible your husband is involved?"

She squinted at me. "You're saying you think Win might have done this?"

"I'm saying the facts of the case aren't clear to me yet. Darwin does have an extensive history of being abusive-toward you, Billy, and Garret. And the pattern goes back even further, to his first marriage."

Julia seemed lost in thought.

"He's the only one in the house who has a known history of violence toward family members," I pressed.

"He never wanted the twins," she said blankly.

I relaxed a bit, thinking she might cooperate with the idea of getting Tess to a safer place. "Tell me more about that," I said.

"He never wanted children of our own. I mean, biological children. He made it very difficult for me when I was pregnant. I nearly went through with an abortion." She squinted down at the table, remembering. "I've wondered whether God is punishing me for that."

"You showed a lot of strength going through with the pregnancy," I said. "I don't know why you'd be punished."

"I wanted children so much," she said. She caught her lip between her teeth.

I waited a few moments. "Why didn't Darwin want them?" I said softly.

"According to him, it has to do with the war," she said, looking up at me. "He won't talk about Vietnam, except to say that he saw horrible things there, things that convinced him it wasn't fair to bring children into the world." She rolled her eyes. "It's a bit of a cliché."

"You don't buy it," I said.

"No. I don't."

"What do you think his real reason is?"

"It's about maintaining control," she said. "Win is incapable of intimacy. I think he felt having a son or daughter together-let alone twins-would connect him too closely with me, not to mention the child. No matter how much you love adopted children, they aren't blood. It isn't the same." She paused. "He sees me as a combination concubine and governess, not a wife and mother. Those roles would give me too much power."

"Did you object to adopting Billy?" I asked.

"I questioned Win's motives, that was all," Julia said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Win had driven Billy's father out of business," she said. "The two of them owned competing mining companies. It was a very tough time. Win almost lost everything, but he ended up on top, as usual. Then, about five months later, Billy's parents were murdered. I felt Win was playing Gandhi, adopting a rival's child."

I was stunned by the connection, particularly because Bishop had never mentioned it. Had he been silent out of humility? "It does sound admirable," I ventured.

"It may sound that way," she said. "But I'm quite certain he was just posturing for his business associates in Russia, faking his concern for Billy to impress them. He never showed Billy any love."

I could have told her even more about the real Darwin Bishop, including what I knew about his affair with Claire Buckley. But it wasn't the right time. And I wasn't at all sure it was my place. "The question I want to raise is whether it might be safer to have Tess stay somewhere outside the house," I said. "Maybe with your parents, or with friends."

"I don't know if I could do that," she deadpanned.

"Why not?"

" Darwin would never allow it," she said.

Those words certainly spoke to Bishop's psychological control over his wife. "You could do it on your own. You have every right…"

"Rights don't necessarily hold up when you're dealing with someone like him," she said.

"Why is that?"

"The few times I've broached the idea of a separation, he's made it clear he wouldn't let it happen."

"What choice would he have?"

Julia smiled for an instant, as if she was about to explain something about the world to a child. Then her face fell again. "Being Darwin Bishop expands the range of possibilities," she said. "There could be a whole legal team filing endless motions for custody of our children, a media campaign to ruin my reputation and influence judges, months of travel with Garret and Tess to any one of a dozen countries Darwin does business in. He could probably pay Claire enough to convince her to go with him. He might even decide that they should never return."

"And Claire would stay with him?" I asked, wanting to see whether Julia would volunteer any suspicions about the affair.

"Everyone has a price, Frank," she said. "Claire isn't from money. She's very impressed by it."

Julia certainly didn't seem naive about her nanny. But her response didn't tell me exactly how much she knew about Claire's behavior. I didn't want to press her. "The bottom line," I said, "is that Darwin would go to great lengths to keep you from divorcing him."

"Or I suppose I could just disappear."

"You're saying he'd…"

"I'm saying I'm not brave enough to find out, Frank," Julia said. "At least I haven't been in the past. I've never had the courage to walk away."

"Maybe it's time."

"Maybe. Maybe that's one reason I called you. You make me feel like I could do it," she said.

The idea of rescuing a woman was a potent drug for me. "Only because you can," I said. "As soon as you believe it."

She nodded to herself, then focused on me with a new intensity. "Do you really think Tess could be in danger? You believe Darwin is capable of killing our daughter? His own flesh and blood?"

I hadn't had the question put to me so directly before. I thought about it for several seconds. I thought about Julia's belief that Bishop craved control, that he couldn't tolerate intimacy. I thought about the parts of his own soul he had snuffed out. "Yes," I said. "I think he is."

She kept staring at me. She seemed on the verge of agreeing to get Tess to a safer place. But then her gaze fell-maybe under the weight of so many years bending her will to Darwin Bishop's. "I have to think about this," she said.

"I hope you'll think about it sooner rather than later," I said. Later as in too late, I thought to myself.

She looked back at me, hopefully. "Will you be at Brooke's…" she said, then stopped, choked up. She waited a bit, took another deep breath. "Will you be at Brooke's funeral tomorrow? It's on the island. St. Mary's on Federal Street. Five p.m." She had to pause again. " Darwin wants the sun to be setting as the mass ends."

Another possible reason why Bishop would prefer an evening funeral mass occurred to me: the stock market closes at 4:30 p.m. "I'd like to be there," I said. "I'm not sure Darwin would be comfortable with my attending, given the ongoing investigation."

"I want you there," she said. "I need you there, whether Win has a problem with it or not."

"Then I will be."

"Thank you," she said softly.

I told Julia I would walk her to her car. I was on my way out of Bomboa, with Julia a few steps in front of me, when K.C. Hidalgo caught my arm. I stopped.

"She's terrific," K.C. said. "You look great together." He winked at Julia, who had stopped near the door.

"It would be mixing business with pleasure," I said, half to remind myself. "Probably a recipe for disaster."

"What a pleasure, though," he said.

K.C. was living with the night manager of his joint, a stunner named Yvette. "I'll take that from where it comes," I said. "Say hello to Yvette for me."

"You got it." He paused. "Hey, one other thing, champ," he said. He leaned toward me. "When you ordered that Sambuca? I had already told Stevie at the bar not to serve you any booze. Try sneaking another drink at my place, I'll lock you in the fucking basement and throw away the key until you're good and dry."

I forced a smile.

"I mean it," he said.

"You're a good guy, K.C."

"Get a hold of yourself, will you?"

"Sure," I said. "I will. Trust me on this."

"Right," K.C. said. His tone made it clear he wasn't buying my bullshit. "I'm here if you need me."

I caught up with Julia. We walked outside.

"My car is in the Dartmouth Street garage," she said. We started down Stanhope, headed toward Dartmouth. But within several steps, Julia stopped. "I'm okay alone," she said.

"I don't mind the walk," I said.

She glanced across the street. "It's not a good idea."

I followed her eyes and saw a white Range Rover with smoked windows. I assumed it was one of Darwin Bishop's. I felt a rush of adrenaline. "He's having you followed?" I said.

"Unlikely," she said. "He's probably having you followed." She held out her hand. "Shake," she said. "All very businesslike, right?"

I took her hand, but just held it. She looked into my eyes with what I read as a combination of tenderness and fear. "I'll see you tomorrow night," I said. I let go of her hand.

She nodded tentatively, turned around, and headed toward the Dartmouth Street garage.

I crossed the street and walked up to the Range Rover. I couldn't see through the driver's-side window, so I knocked on the glass. The window came down. A man who looked to be in his mid-thirties was in the driver's seat. His neck was weight-lifter thick, his face half-shaven. He was wearing a blousy silk shirt, but it covered an obviously large frame.

"Can I help you with something?" he said, without any emotion.

"I want to get a message to your employer," I said.

He didn't respond, but he didn't close the window.

"Tell Mr. Bishop I don't mind if he has me followed. I don't mind if he visits me, either. I live at Thirty-nine Winnisimmet Street in Chelsea. Top floor. Unit Five B. I'm there a fair amount, almost always in the late part of the evening."

"I'll be sure to do that," the man said.

I started to leave, but turned back. "One more thing: Since I'm not a kid and I'm not female, tell him he can expect to have a tougher time with me than his usual targets. He might want to bring someone like you along to give him a hand."