Shock to the system

6

Mum, poker-faced Detective Lieutenant Al Finnerty had taken over the APD homicide unit after longtime head Ned Bowman's surprise early retirement and relocation to semirural Tennessee. This followed an incident at a Democratic Party hotel-ballroom fundraiser where Bowman's presumably speculative but overly jocular description of the mayor's mistress's genitalia was overheard by His Honor, who had stepped behind a column momentarily to zip up his fly.

And just as Bowman had been one of the public loudmouths of Albany, always ready with a crude opinion or a piece of nasty advice for citizens who fit into categories he didn't like-"fairies" headed his long list-Finnerty was one of the city's officers who was almost pathologically closemouthed. He had learned too well that whatever his views on public or private matters, large or small, the nineties comprised a decade for never, ever expressing any of them.

Finnerty's reticence was in some ways refreshing after Bowman, whose mouth was a running sewer. But it made it hard to get any information out of Finnerty at all. His saving grace, however, was this: he was lazy. And it was possible to obtain information, occasionally even assistance, from him if he could be convinced that his cooperation with a private investigator-even a "controversial" one, as he liked to call me-might reduce his workload by an iota.

"I'd like to help you out, Strachey," Finnerty said at 8:03 Friday morning, "but I don't know much about Paul Haig's death, and I haven't had an opportunity, really, to give it a great deal of thought."

We were in his office overlooking Arch Street and the old South End, urban-renewed into oblivion in the sixties by Nelson "the Visigoth of Tarrytown" Rockefeller and only just beginning to recover. Finnerty's coffee mug was a plastic job from a chain donut shop, whose logo, facing me, was as close to an open display as Finnerty would ever risk. His most naturally forthright disclosure was a product placement. He sat across from me, his doughy face devoid of interest or curiosity. I was somebody to put up with for a time, and then I'd go away, and that was fine unless a way somehow emerged for me to do Finnerty's job for him.

I said, "What about the coroner's report, Al? The conclusions are all public information anyway. How about saving me a trip over there?"

"Glad to help you out, Strachey. It was suicide. Suicide was the ruling. The coroner is experienced in these drug-and-alcohol fatals, so I'd be inclined to go along with his judgment on that. Coroner Bryerton is an old hand at these tragedies."

"Then why did you have Vernon Crockwell in here yesterday badgering him about where he was on the night of Paul Haig's death? Do you think Haig's 'suicide,' as you're calling it, was medically assisted, or what?"

Finnerty did not exclaim over this, but he did betray what might have been thought with a barely discernible dilation of his left pupil. "Is Crockwell your client?" he said.

"I can't tell you who my client is. But I saw Crockwell yesterday and he told me about the anonymous letter and the tape full of threats, so-called, and your pestering him for an alibi, one of which he hasn't got."

"Our interview with Crockwell was routine," Finnerty said. "When an accusation of homicide is made, we check it out."

"And?"

"And we did."

"And you still think Haig's death was suicide?"

"Maybe."

"Uh-huh."

He looked at me and I could see through his eyes and into his brain, which was weighing whether, if he opened up a little with me, I might make his life harder or easier.

Finnerty said, "Crockwell doesn't look like a killer to me. He's a doctor and a very conservative man."

"Sure," I said. "A member of the nonhomicidal classes."

"Anyhow, Strachey, the coroner's verdict is in. A determination of suicide in the death of Paul Haig has been duly rendered. That's official."

"Yes, but is it correct? I think that's what we ought to be talking about here, Al, what with your dragging citizens in off the street for close perusal. Even if they are citizens like- especially if they are citizens like Vernon T.

Crockwell, famous local psychologist."

His brain was squirming in its little cavity, but he said-mumbled really-"I will tell you this, Strachey: that there was something funny about the circumstances surrounding Paul Haig's death."

"Such as."

"The officer who was first on the scene reported it-mentioned it to me later, is what I should say."

"What was that, Al?"

He said, "The pill canister containing the Elavil that was mixed with alcohol, and that killed Haig, had its childproof lid back on and tightly attached and put back on Haig's bathroom sink. But the pathologist determined that Haig was already very drunk when he consumed the pills that turned out to be fatal. If that's so, then how did a drunk replace the childproof cap on the canister and put it back in its place? Getting one of those caps back on when you're stone cold sober is hard enough. Do you follow me, Strachey?"

"Yes, I do."

"It might be nothing, it might be something. But it's interesting."

"It sounds like something to me, Al. So, how come the coro ner's verdict was suicide, what with this question unresolved?"

"The coroner didn't know about the pill canister," Finnerty muttered. "It wasn't in the detective's written report because he didn't put it in."

"A serious error."

"No, just a breakdown in communications. It happens, Strachey. To err is human. We all make mistakes. The situation now, however, is this: if I reopen the case and go charging away, I make either the department or the coroner look incompetent. There's not a chance in hell I'll do either, which I'm sure you can appreciate. But of course if you happen to make the coroner look stupid-hey. You're just that fag detective that I can't control, what with the Constitution and all that. Are you still with me, Strachey?"

I said, "Sure. I do your job for you, including taking all the risks, physical and financial, and then you call me names in public. It's irresistible. Count me in."

He nodded. "You're not recording this, are you?"

"I wish I were."

"No, I don't think you do."

"Al, I'll take your word for what I wish or don't wish. Does anybody else besides me outside the department know about this snafu?"

"No. And if I read this in the Times Union tomorrow morning, you can kiss Albany goodbye, U.S. Constitution or no U.S. Constitution."

"That's fair enough. You questioned Crockwell, Al, but I understand that Phyllis Haig, Paul's mother, has her own suspicions about her son's death, but she doesn't think it was Crockwell who did it. She's landed on Larry Bierly, Paul's old boyfriend. I guess she came in here hyperventilating, and then you went chasing after Bierly too, huh? To ask him where he was on the night of Haig's death."

"Again, routine."

"And Bierly had an alibi and it checked out?"

"Yes, it did. He seems to be in the clear. Is Bierly your client?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, Al."

"Or is it Mrs. Haig? Or even Crockwell? Not that I could imagine him hiring an avowed homosexual."

"I can't say. You know how PI clients like their privacy. Anyway, lots of people hire homosexuals. If we all suddenly quit our jobs and emigrated to Norway, every business and occupational pursuit in the nation would be utterly decimated, except for nerve-gas manufacturing and chain-restaurant interior design. But I see your point. I can't tell you if Crockwell is or isn't my client, but I can say that I have spoken with him and I have his permission to hear the tape you received anonymously in the mail."

Finnerty said, "That tape is not Vernon Crockwell's property. His voice is on it, but the tape is the property of the Albany Police Department."

I hoped that was all pro forma bluster. I said, "Do you want me to sign something? Slip you a fifty? What's this about? You said you could use a little help on this and I'm willing to provide it. All I ask is discreet access to whatever you've got that's pertinent. Is that unreasonable?"

"We'll get to that," he said, and he looked suddenly somber, almost intelligent. "Strachey, when did you last see Larry Bierly?"

"Wednesday night, out at Millpond. We shared a pizza over his dinner break. Why?"

"You haven't been in touch with him since then?"

"I spoke with him briefly on the phone yesterday afternoon. Why do you ask? Have you been in touch with him?"

"In a manner of speaking, I have."

"Uh-huh."

His eyes narrowed and he said, "I guess you really don't know. Around eleven o'clock last night someone shot Larry Bierly in the Millpond Mall parking lot."

"Oh, hell."

"He's in serious but not critical condition over at Albany Med with gunshot wounds to the chest and neck. Didn't you hear the news this morning?"

"I listen to public radio. WAMC would only report a shooting if it took place on the floor of the legislature or in a box seat at Tanglewood. Just how serious are Bierly's wounds?"

"He's in no real danger. He was lucky, and the last I knew they were saying he'd recover completely."

"Is he conscious?"

"Not yet, so far as I know. Bierly had surgery at midnight. Guy Colson's over there now to see if he can get a statement."

"Is anybody in custody?"

"Not yet. We're checking our snitches, but this doesn't look like robbery-Bierly's watch was on him when he was found, and his wallet with eighty dollars in it. Another mall employee, a waitress at Scarf-It-Up, finished her shift at eleven and went out to her car in the lot designated for employee parking. She found Bierly wounded and unconscious next to his car, with his keys on the tarmac beside him. The EMT crew was on the scene within six minutes. Their best guess is, Bierly had been shot within fifteen minutes of when they got there. Unfortunately, no witness has come forward. It's pretty quiet out there at that time of night. We do have a couple of people who were coming out of the cinemas on the other side of the mall around ten till eleven, and they think they heard shots, but now they aren't sure if the shots they heard were outside the mall or in the movie they'd just seen. They said it had a lot of shooting and explosions. That's as much as I can tell you for now, Strachey, because that's as much as I know."

I said, "This is bad."

"But the question now is, Strachey, do I know as much as you know about this incident?"

"Come again?"

"What's your connection with Bierly? If he's not your client, is he a friend of yours?"

"Al, I can't say, one way or the other, whether Larry Bierly is or is not my client. I can tell you that he is an acquaintance."

Finnerty let something he may have meant as a human expression form on his face. He said, "Boyfriend?"

"No, I have one at home."

"I mean on the side."

"Oh, I see what you mean. No, not that either. Do you have a woman you see on the side, Al? You're married, aren't you?"

"This is not about me, Strachey," he said, and blushed.

I said, "This is not about me either, Al. Mainly it's about Paul Haig, and now it looks as if it may be very much about Larry Bierly too. Look, if I'm going to perform the work Albany's taxpayers are paying you to perform, I'll have to have something more to work with. First, I need to see the letter you received accusing Vernon Crockwell of murder, and I need to hear the tape that came with it."

"I could arrange that if I wanted to," he said inanely.

I asked, "Is Crockwell a suspect in Bierly's shooting?"

"Like I told you, Strachey, we have no suspect in the shooting."

"Last night was Thursday night. That's Crockwell's no-alibi night. Have you talked to him?"

"I'm seeing him in an hour. You said you talked to Crockwell yesterday yourself. Did you tell him that Bierly was trying to hang a murder rap on him?"

"I didn't mention it, no."

"What did you tell him?"

"That I thought he was a crackpot, that he ought to be tarred and feathered by the mental health profession, stuff like that. I was there solely to ask him questions about Paul Haig."

"I guess you think Larry Bierly's shooting is connected in some way to Paul Haig's death. Am I right about that?"

"It's hard to say, Al, for now. Let me see the letter and hear the tape, and then I can start clearing this case for you or cases, as the case may be."

Two for the price of one, he must have been thinking, the price of one being zip. Without speaking he got up and left the room. I watched the motor traffic on Arch Street and the pedestrians strolling to work or school under a spring sun that smiled down on all the people.

Finnerty came back with a sheet of paper and a cassette player and placed these on the desk in front of me. Then he left the room without a word, closing the door behind him. end user