Compulsion

19

North Anderson and I decided to weigh our options over coffee at Brotherhood of Thieves, a favorite haunt of his. We settled on going to the media with the information we had, hoping to bring enough facts to light that Billy would go to court still enjoying a shadow of a doubt as to his guilt. If we were quickly and wildly successful getting our message out, the D.A.'s office might even start worrying about their prospects for a conviction and wait a while before asking a grand jury to indict. That would buy us more time. In any case, I was almost certain Carl Rossetti would agree to represent Billy-pro bono, if necessary. The exposure would pay him back a hundred times over.

The strategy was anything but surefire. Anderson had left his badge with the mayor. That meant I was officially off the case, too. O'Donnell would probably try painting us as exiled, disgruntled former members of his team. And that might be enough to keep our version of the evidence largely out of print and off the airwaves. These days, maverick reporters are as few and far between as maverick investment bankers.

We were waiting for the check when my cell phone rang. The number on the display was for MGH. I thought it might be Julia, apologizing for hanging up. I felt a little uncomfortable answering the call with North at the table, but I didn't want to miss any important news.

Anderson intuited the reason I was hesitating. No doubt Julia was still on his mind a good deal of the time. "If it's her, go ahead," he said. "I'll take a walk, if you want."

"Stay." I picked up. "Frank," I said.

"Frank, it's John." John Karlstein. His voice sounded more solemn than I'd ever heard it.

The background noise in the restaurant seemed to disappear. I could feel, even hear, my galloping heart. Tess was dead, I told myself. I stared at North Anderson, not looking at him as much as looking for him. For more ballast. I felt I had sailed too far into the storm. After bearing witness to Trevor Lucas's butchery, I had barely pieced my psyche back together. Failing to prevent the murder of Julia's baby felt like it might snap the mast of my life once and for all, leaving me adrift forever. That had always been the risk in taking this case. I had spoken the fear to Justine Franza, the Brazilian journalist I'd met at Cafe Positano, who had seen so much beauty in my Bradford Johnson painting of men from one ship trying to save another at risk. What if both ships end up sinking?

Anderson gave me a reassuring nod of his head.

"You there, Frank?" Karlstein asked.

When people use your name while talking to you-especially when they use it two times in as many sentences- it is because they feel the need to reach out to you, to take care of you. "Bad news," I said.

"Afraid so," he said. "This really came out of left field."

I closed my eyes. "Tell me."

"Julia's been hurt," he said.

My eyes opened to a squint. "Julia? What happened to her?"

Anderson looked at me, a lover's worry in his eyes. "Jesus Christ," he said. "Is she all right?"

I looked down, listening to Karlstein. Guilt clawed at my insides. I had left Julia alone, in harm's way.

"Keep in mind, I'm getting this secondhand," he was saying. "I wasn't on the Telemetry floor when the whole thing went down. Long and short of it, her husband came back. I guess he wanted her to sign legal papers of some kind. She did the right thing-reminded him there was a restraining order against him and asked him to leave. He wouldn't budge, so she asked one of the nurses to call the police."

"And…" I said.

"And then he just lost it," Karlstein said. "It took a bunch of staff to drag him off her."

I looked at North. " Darwin beat her up."

"That fucking bastard," Anderson said.

I had a sinking feeling that Karlstein was letting me down easy. "She made it, though? I mean, she's alive?"

"Yes. Yes," he said. "Of course."

"How bad off is she?" I asked.

"She's stable," Karlstein said, "but she took some serious punishment. There's a good deal of facial swelling from a fractured zygomatic arch. She's also got four broken ribs and a liver laceration. I put her in the ICU, just to be cautious. Grabbed a CAT scan of her head, which came back normal. I'll order a repeat before she leaves here, make sure she hasn't started to bleed intracranially. Ophthalmology came by to check out her eye; the right one is swollen shut. Doesn't look like there's any retinal damage." He paused. "She'll heal up, physically. Emotionally, it's got to be a longer mile."

"Is she with it?" I asked.

"I put her on a fair amount of Darvocet, so she's drifting in and out. But when she's awake, she's holding her own. She's completely oriented. She knows who I am, what day it is, where she is, who the president is-all those questions you guys throw at people."

"How about Tess?" I asked. " Darwin didn't hurt her, did he?"

"He didn't go near her," Karlstein said. "I mean, this wasn't one of those things where the father can't stand being away from his kid and goes berserk. The one-to-one sitter said Bishop never even went to Tess's bedside."

"Was he arrested?" I asked.

"Security held him until the police got here. He left in cuffs," Karlstein said. "I'm no lawyer, but I'd say he's gone for a while, even with his connections. There's no shortage of witnesses to what he did. And the way they say he went after her… He was trying to kill her."

"Tell her I'll be there as soon as I can," I said. "Me, and my friend North Anderson."

"I'll tell her right now," Karlstein said.

"Thank you, John," I said. "Thanks again."

"No problem," he said. "See you later."

I hung up.

"Will she be all right?" Anderson asked. "What the hell happened?"

I told him everything Karlstein had told me. "It sounds like Bishop cracked," I said. "I guess he really had the subsoil to lose it. He's looking at charges of violating a restraining order and attempted murder. He could go away twenty years." Saying that made me see more clearly that Darwin Bishop really had been battling to keep parts of himself buried. But marrying a model, accumulating a billion dollars, and buying his way into Manhattan and Nantucket society hadn't freed him of his underlying rage- not any more than alcohol had.

"This makes it a lot harder for O'Donnell to close the investigation," Anderson said. "And even if he does, your friend Rossetti should be able to raise doubt in a jury's mind about whether the D.A. put the wrong person on trial."

Anderson was right. "It's certainly not the way I wanted to score points, but I'll take 'em."

"I wonder what those papers he wanted her to sign were all about." Anderson said.

"I guess we'll find out from the Boston cops who arrested him," I said. "Coming with me?"

"If you'd rather go alone, all you have to do is say so."

"I know that," I said. "That's the biggest reason we should go together."

Even with John Karlstein's description of Julia's injuries, even with his tipping his hand by telling me she needed to be observed in the ICU, I wasn't prepared for what I saw when I visited her there. Maybe it was the fresh memory of her extraordinary beauty, or maybe I had simply summoned a level of denial to make it through my phone conversation with Karlstein, but the swelling and discoloration of Julia's right eye, cheekbones, and lips shocked me. So, too, did the nasogastric tube that ran into one of her nostrils, down her throat, and into her stomach, draining blood-tinged fluid, and preventing her from speaking clearly. Yet, seeing all that, I wanted nothing more than to hold her and stroke her hair and promise her that everything would turn out all right. I tried to keep my smile bright and my voice steady, because I could tell that she was watching North and me for our reactions.

Anderson was good enough to take the first shot at humor. "I'd like to see the other guy," he said. It was a twist on a tired cliché, but he delivered it with warmth and reassurance, and it seemed to give Julia something she needed. She smiled.

"I talked to Dr. Karlstein," I said. "You'll heal up. It's a matter of time. All you have to do is rest."

Julia tried to say something, but choked on the nasogastric tube and fell into a coughing fit.

I bent over the bed and helped her sit up, relishing the chance to put my arm around her shoulders.

"Let me get a pen and paper," Anderson said. "You can write down whatever you need to tell us." He walked off toward the nurses' station.

I brushed my lips against Julia's ear and felt her move her hand to the side of my thigh. "I'm sorry I wasn't here," I said. "I'll be here for you from now on." A single tear escaped her eye. I dried it with my shirtsleeve.

Anderson walked back into the room. He handed Julia a pen and pad of paper. She wrote just three words: Is Tess okay?

My throat tightened. Julia's concern for her baby, while she nursed her own battered body, began to paint as absurd the notion that she could be responsible for Brooke's death or Tess's cardiac arrest. "Dr. Karlstein said she's absolutely fine. I'll check in on her."

She nodded weakly. Then she held up a finger, signaling us she had more to write. Good to see the two of you together, she wrote.

Anderson and I looked at those words and both nodded. It was good that our friendship had survived wanting the same woman. It meant it could survive most things.

I took particular comfort in what Julia had written because it seemed to say she was openly choosing me, despite her affection for North, that she was willing to acknowledge our being a couple, even in his eyes. Maybe she really could commit to one man. Maybe Brooke and Tess's father really was out of her life for good. And maybe someday she'd be able to admit that the letter Claire Buckley had found was written to him, not to her therapist. It didn't have to be that day. Or the next. "You rest up," I said, helping her lay back on the pillows.

Her brow became furrowed. "Billy," she mouthed.

"North and I will take care of Billy," I said.

She looked at North for confirmation.

"We're not going to let him down," he said.

We left Julia's room about 6:30 p.m. and were walking out of the ICU when Garret Bishop appeared in the hallway leading to it. We stopped. He walked right up to us. "What are you doing here?" he fumed.

"Checking on your mother," I said. "I take it you know what happened to her."

He glared at North Anderson. "Do they still have the bastard under arrest or have they let him go on a couple hundred thousand bail?"

"He's in jail, right here in the city," Anderson said.

Garret's lip twitched. He was grinding his teeth.

"If you were willing to tell us everything you know about the night Brooke died," Anderson said, "the bastard might stay locked up, forever. If you're not willing to stand up to him, I can't guarantee anything."

Garret looked away, then back at us. He took a deep breath. "Can I get any kind of protection?"

My heart leapt at the thought that Garret might finally be willing to take on his father.

"Police protection?" Anderson asked. "That could be arranged, under the circumstances. I'm sure of it."

"Who would I be giving my statement to?" Garret said, visibly trying to settle himself down.

"I'd set up an interview for you with three people: a Boston police officer, a State Police officer, and the District Attorney. Dr. Clevenger and I would be there, too." He glanced at me, then looked back at Garret. "We might even be able to get you in front of a couple reporters. That way you'd get to speak your mind to the whole state. The whole country, really."

Garret hung his head for several seconds, apparently mulling over the offer. Then he looked at us again. "Set it up," he said. "I want that animal gone for life. He isn't going to lay a hand on my mother ever again."

"Consider it done," Anderson said. "We'll meet you in the lobby in one hour and drive you over to the Boston Police Station. I'll start getting the audience together right now."

"See you in the lobby," Garret said. He walked past us, headed for the ICU.

"That could do it," Anderson said. "An eyewitness connecting Darwin to Brooke's murder makes the case against him. Let's hope he doesn't flake."

"What about that court order against interviewing Garret without both his parents' consent?" I asked.

"Call your buddy Rossetti and get him to shoot back to Suffolk Superior Court," he said. "With Darwin jailed for attacking Julia, he ought to be able to get a quick hearing with a judge and have that order reversed. I'll set the rest of the gears in motion."

"Will do," I said.

"The lobby, in say forty-five minutes, then?"

"Forty-five," I said.

It took until 10:00 p.m. to get the relevant players into an interview room at Boston Police headquarters on Causeway Street: Detective Terry McCarthy from the Boston force; State Police Captain O'Donnell; District Attorney Tom Harrigan; and Carl Rossetti, now officially chosen by Julia to represent her, Garret, and Billy.

Two hours earlier, Rossetti had worked his magic with Judge Barton at Suffolk Superior, getting us an emergency court order to take Garret's statement.

Darwin Bishop's assault on Julia had dissolved most of the animosity between the players in the room. Bishop was beyond rescue, and his henchmen knew it. The papers he had demanded that Julia sign at MGH turned out to be forms closing out two bank accounts in the twins' names, each of which held $250,000. He also happened to have been carrying two one-way tickets to Athens, Greece, a nice stopover on your way to disappearing forever. The tickets had been issued in his name and Claire Buckley's.

We chose Terry McCarthy to conduct the interview. McCarthy, a soft-spoken man of forty-two years who looks about fifty-five, is a former Boston College hockey player. He leans into every step with his right shoulder, half-lifting, half-sliding his feet, as if still on the ice. And, despite his smooth voice, he can still get this look in his eye that makes you think he's about to crush you against the boards or drop gloves and pummel you. That dichotomy may be the reason he can coax the truth from just about anyone.

McCarthy sat catty-corner to Garret at the conference table, the rest of us taking seats a respectful distance away. He turned on a tape recorder.

"Why don't we start with your name?" McCarthy said to Garret.

"That's easy," he said. "Garret Bishop."

"Your date of birth?"

"October 13, 1984."

"And today's date?" McCarthy asked.

"June 29, 2002."

"And, Garret, are you giving this statement voluntarily? Of your own free will?"

"Yes," Garret said.

"No one here has coerced you in any way-offered you anything?"

"No, sir," Garret said, with a hint of a smile. "I wish they would."

Captain O'Donnell chuckled.

Garret laughed a nervous laugh.

McCarthy got that look in his eye.

"Just answer his questions," Rossetti told Garret. "No jokes."

"Let me ask you again," McCarthy said, leaning into the table, his voice especially kind. "Has anyone offered you anything for what you are about to say?"

"No," Garret repeated.

"Very well. Let's get started, then. Tell us what you saw on the night of June 21, 2002."

Garret stared at McCarthy, seemed about to answer, then slumped a little in his seat and looked down at the table. Several seconds passed.

"Garret?" McCarthy prompted him.

No response.

I glanced at Anderson, who looked just as worried as I was that Garret was losing his nerve.

"Garret, if you don't want…" McCarthy started.

"Tell me again how I know I'll be safe," Garret said, still staring at the table.

"Okay, let's go over that," McCarthy said. "A state trooper is being assigned to you as a bodyguard. That person will be with you for at least six months, much longer if anyone you implicate in a crime is ultimately brought to trial. It's important you understand, though, as we've informed your mother and your lawyer: There are no guarantees. Nothing we can do will take away every bit of risk."

Garret pursed his lips, apparently pondering what he had just heard.

All I could do was sit there and wait. I scanned the faces in the room. Tom Harrigan rolled his eyes and shrugged.

"Are you reconsidering, Garret?" McCarthy said. "You shouldn't feel pressured to say anything." His tone suggested otherwise. "We can call it a night right now, if you want. Everyone will go home, like this never happened."

Garret looked up at him, glanced at me. A few more seconds of silence, then: "I was reading in my room. It was about eleven-thirty or so."

I felt my whole body relax. I sensed victory. I looked at Anderson. His fist was clenched. This was the moment we had worked for.

"I was reading and I heard something downstairs-from the basement," he went on. "It was a crash, like something had fallen."

McCarthy nodded encouragingly.

"I thought everyone else had gone to bed, so I was like, "That's weird,' you know? So I started going down to the basement." He squinted, as if visualizing the scene. "I got as far as the family room and I was walking toward the kitchen, where the basement door is. But before I got there I heard footsteps coming toward me. So I stopped. And Darwin walked into the room." Garret paused, looked directly at McCarthy. "He had a tube of plastic sealant in his hand."

Every trace of sound seemed to evaporate from the room. What Garret had said was enough to help Billy, but he wasn't finished.

"I told Darwin I had heard something in the basement," Garret continued. "He said not to worry about it, he'd knocked something over, to go back to my room."

"And what did you do?" McCarthy said.

"I went upstairs. But I had a bad feeling about the whole thing. Eerie, like. Darwin never goes down to the basement, first of all. And he seemed, like, out of it."

"Out of it," McCarthy repeated.

"Major league stressed or angry, or something," Garret said. "I couldn't tell."

"What happened next?"

"I heard him walk past my room, toward the nursery. So I waited until he'd gotten all the way down the hall, then I sneaked out of my room and followed him."

"And?" McCarthy said.

Garret closed his eyes. "I saw him take the tube of caulk and…"

"What did he do with the caulk?" McCarthy said.

"He put it in Brooke's nose. First on one side, then the other," Garret said. "Then down her throat." He opened his eyes. They were filled with tears.

It was the first time I had seen Garret cry. And for the first time, he seemed his age to me. He looked like an emotionally awkward, adolescent boy struggling to be a man, under the worst of circumstances.

"Then what happened?" McCarthy continued, unfazed.

"I went back to my room," Garret said, wiping tears off his cheeks.

"And you didn't tell anyone about this until now?" McCarthy said.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I was scared," Garret said.

"Of what?" McCarthy asked.

" Darwin."

"Why?"

"Because I've watched him beat my brother Billy almost unconscious," Garret said. "Because he's threatened more than once to kill me if I disobeyed him-let alone… turning him in."

"So why go out on a limb now?" McCarthy asked.

Garret swallowed, took a deep breath. "I saw what he did to my mother," he said, his lip starting to twitch again.

"If I had had the guts to stop him sooner, that never would have happened. I'm not going to wait until she's dead to do the right thing."

Garret left the interview room with a police escort. The plan was for him to stay the night in Boston, then head back to Nantucket.

State Police Captain O'Donnell was the first to speak. "Officer Anderson," he said, "based on what I just heard, along with the fingerprint evidence you obtained and the other circumstantial evidence in this case, I plan to charge Darwin Bishop with the first-degree murder of his daughter Brooke and the attempted murder of his daughter Tess." He glanced at Tom Harrigan. "I would presume the District Attorney's office will ask the grand jury to indict Mr. Bishop for those offenses, along with the attempted murder of his wife Julia earlier today."

"We'll be in front of the grand jury as soon as they can convene one," Harrigan said.

"I hope we can arrange Billy Bishop's release in the same time frame," Carl Rossetti said.

"We'll drop the charges against him as soon as possible," Harrigan said.

"When would that be?" Rossetti asked, stonefaced.

"I'll take care of it personally tomorrow morning," Harrigan answered.

Terry McCarthy looked over at Anderson and me. "That means Billy goes free in the a.m.," he said. "Would you two be picking him up?"

Anderson turned to me. "You mind taking care of that, Frank?" he said, with a wink. "I should get back to the island tonight."

"I don't mind," I said. "I don't mind at all."

As the room emptied, I pulled O'Donnell aside. "I think you owe me one thing," I said.

"What?" he said, annoyed. "You want some kind of formal apology? I should contact the newspapers, tell them how fucking brilliant you are? You haven't had enough news coverage in your life, Doc?"

"No," I said. "I'm not looking for anything like that."

He didn't walk away.

"He's gonna pay up," the voice at the back of my mind said. "He owes you the truth and he knows it."

"I meant what I said when we met at your office," I told him.

He smiled a surprised, good-natured smile. "That I'm a sociopath?" he said.

So he knew where we were headed. "Not that you're a sociopath," I said. "But that something got in the way of you doing the right thing here." I saw him stiffen. I shook my head and looked away, giving him a little space. "This is over," I said. "No hard feelings. All I want is the answer to one question." I looked back at him.

He took a deep breath, let it out. "Ask already." His eyes met mine and stuck.

"You've been through something painful," I said. "I want to know what it was."

The smile left his face. "Why? What does that matter to you?" he said.

"It does," I said.

"But why?"

"It just does." I could have said much more. I could have told him that, wherever I go, I keep searching for primary evil, out of the womb-the bad seed-but have never found it. I could have told him that everyone really does seem to be recycling pain, that empathy, properly harnessed, really does seem to stop the cycle of hurt-and heal people. And I could have told him that something about those two facts kept my mood from plummeting and kept me out of the gutter, because they reassured me we might be a worthwhile species, capable of more compassion than we seem to be. "If it turned out we were butting heads purely over some allegiance you've got to the mayor or Darwin Bishop, I just wouldn't know what to do with that. I wouldn't understand it, you know? I-"

"You need to know why people act the way they do. You want things to make sense," he said.

"Yes," I said.

O'Donnell chuckled, looked away. The smile on his face vanished. "I had a sister less than a year old kidnapped and killed by some bum drifter out of Colorado." He shrugged. "Maybe I wanted this case to go away. Maybe I shut down on it. My mistake." He glanced at me, then walked off.

I closed my eyes. "Thanks," I said quietly.