Shock to the system

4

So which check do I cash?"

"Neer."

"What if Paul Haig was murdered?"

"Nnn."

"What if Crockwell did it?"

"Nnn."

"Axe you falling asleep?"

"Mmm."

Spring stars twinkled over the Hudson Valley. We lay under a cotton blanket, cool, reasonably clean air moving west to east across us. Ted Koppel was our nightlight.

I said, "I'm more inclined to take Phyllis Haig's money because she can afford it. And as much as I like Bierly and sympathize with him-his instincts seem pretty consistently decent-his selective evasions are glaring and unsettling. There were moments tonight when if Bierly had been wired to a polygraph, he'd have registered at about an 8.6 on a Richter scale of liars. Of course, polygraphs are notoriously unreliable. The anxiety they detect can result from the emotional significance of the question asked as well as from the emotional significance of the answer given, or just from the stress of being questioned at all. Anyway, I do think Bierly lied about some topics-this from the man disgusted by alleged chronic Haig-family dissimulation-and I don't know why. Why might he?"

"Nnn."

"Phyllis Haig, on the other hand, is a serious drunk and a deluded homophobe with hardly a rational thought in her head. Except one, maybe-that Paul was not suicidal.

People can fool themselves about that, too, of course-parents, in particular, will sometimes deny their children's suicides in order to avoid facing what they fear is their own responsibility somehow. But the idea that Paul could have committed suicide was the one thing that seemed to generate an emotion in Phyllis Haig besides jealousy or outrage over deviations from the country-club norm. There was an emotional clarity to her assertions on this point that was lacking on others. On the other hand, even if she's right about Paul's not having killed himself, I could be risking my license and possibly my peace of mind-not to mention my shirt-simply by getting mixed up with this deranged heiress with friends in high places. I mean, not that my financial and mental survival should be the sole, or even chief, determinants in taking on a client, eh wot?"

"Zzzz." His breath, sweet with chicken tikka masala and Crest, was regular now against my chest, his arm limp across my midsection. I groped for the remote, found it, and zapped a murmuring Ted Koppel and a couple of nervous Clinton apologists into blackness.

I said, "Of course, the most interesting figure in all of this is the one I haven't talked to yet. Maybe I should meet Vernon Crockwell before I decide what to do. I doubt he'll be forthcoming on the subject of a couple of former patients, or happy to see me at all. But I've been curious about him for years, in a macabre sort of way, and now's my chance to both satisfy that curiosity and gather information that might help me make an important decision. What do you think, Timothy? Should I talk to Crockwell?"

He said nothing, but his breathing rhythm altered perceptibly and his shriveled member, sticky against my leg, seemed to throb weakly once. I took this to be a reply in the affirmative.

How could this be? I phoned Crockwell at 9:00 A.M. and told his machine I was a private investigator looking into the death of Paul Haig and asked for a few minutes of Crockwell's time at his convenience. At 9:55 Crockwell called back and, in a tone bordering on the cordial, informed me that he was extremely busy but that he could clear out a block of time at three that afternoon if that was convenient for me. I said it was and told him I would be happy to come to his office. I was eager for a peek inside Dracula's castle.

Why was Crockwell being so accommodating? When I phoned, I was fully prepared for a long wait before my call was returned, or for the call to be ignored, or for Crockwell to call back and explode with indignation. Instead, he was helpful and businesslike. Why? There had never been charges I knew of that Crockwell's treatment program was anything but voluntary, that he lured unsuspecting homosexuals into his lair and forced them at gunpoint to feign excitement over nude photos of Ole Miss sorority aquacade contestants. So when I drove out to Crockwell's office in mid-afternoon I felt reasonably safe but still mystified.

He had a suite in a sixties-suburban business block off Western Avenue near the Stuyvesant Plaza shopping center.

His listing on the building's directory just read "Vernon T. Crockwell, Psychologist, Suite 508." I took the elevator up and found a door with a sign that gave Crockwell's name and said "Enter Here." The fluorescent-lit, windowless waiting room had a blue couch and two blue chairs with a shiny washable finish and a table stacked with old copies of People. Crockwell apparently figured there would be plenty of opportunity in the rooms beyond this one for over-stimulation.

On the wall opposite the couch, a mirror was mounted. I stood before it and carefully mouthed the words "You're pretty fucking intrusive, Vernon," and within seconds a door opened behind me.

"You are Donald Strachey?"

"Yes-Mr. Crockwell? Or is it Dr. Crockwell?"

"Please follow me, Donald."

He didn't look like Bela Lugosi, but he'd never have passed for John Denver either. He was tall and fiftyish and grave, with a narrow, lined face, a beak of a proboscis, and what I sensed was a lot of muscle tension. He looked as if a good neck rub might have improved his outlook, but I didn't offer him one.

Crockwell led me on a brisk, wordless hike along a corridor past three closed doors and one that was open. I caught a glimpse of a big sunlit room with a dozen or so plastic chairs arranged in a circle. I followed him around a bend and noted that the nearly bald spot on the back of his straw-colored-turning-gray hair was bigger than mine but smaller than Timmy's. Crockwell's brown sport coat was wrinkled in the back, a sign of an important man who sat in a chair.

"Sit down, Donald," he said in his stern, avuncular way, indicating where I should do it. Behind a broad, uncluttered fake-mahogany desk, Crockwell manhandled a black leather swivel chair into position and lowered himself into it.

The bookshelves on the wall behind him were crammed with clinical texts published by companies like Uplift House and the Yolanda Schnell Foundation for Sexual Normalcy. Leaning on one shelf was a framed degree, or diploma, with Crockwell's name on it from the North American Psychosexual Institute of Moline, Illinois.

To Crockwell's right was a window overlooking the shopping center. The window was shut, probably unopenable except with a wrecking ball, though the odor of deep-fried chicken nuggets had permeated the suite from somewhere below and hung in the still air. It seemed an unlikely atmosphere for considering people's sexual appetites, or any other kind. But that could have been the point.

"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 today?"

"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. end user