Compulsion (17 page)

"You’re better off."  He removed his glasses and focused on me for the first time.  "It’s a rough game.  Like a lot of things in life, you don’t want to get into it unless you can stand to lose.  You can get hurt badly."

I didn’t think Bishop was talking about the market.  He was warning me to stay away from the murder investigation — or from Julia.  "Thanks for the advice," I said.  "I’ll keep it in mind."

"For whatever it’s worth."  He put on the fake Bishop smile.  "What brings you?"

I decided to start with what I needed to tell Bishop about Billy.  "Your son called me last night." I said.

He didn’t show any surprise.  "Were you able to trace the call?" he asked.

Bishop hadn’t asked whether Billy was all right, or living on the streets, or about to do himself in.  His first question had been a strategic one about whether Billy could be tracked down.  "He wasn’t on the line long enough," I said.  "I wasn't set up for a trace, anyhow."

"What did he have to say?"

"He wanted me to loan him some money, which I refused to do."

"I think that was wise," Bishop said.  "Maybe he’ll get hungry or scared and head back to the hospital."  He shook his head.  "I wish he had stayed put.  We would have done our best for him."

"He wasn’t convinced of that," I said.

"He never has been," Bishop said.  "It isn’t easy to trust anyone after you lose your parents the way he did."

"No question," I agreed.

"
It’s also hard to trust anyone
," the voice at the back of my mind said, "
when your adoptive father is whipping you with a strap
."

"you should know that he’s very angry," I told Bishop.  "I had the feeling he might lash out at you or your family."

"We’ve struggled with Billy’s rage a long time," Bishop said.  "Since Brooke, we’re taking every precaution.  It’s a little like Fort Knox around here.  We’ll be just fine."

"Do you have any idea where his anger stems from?" I asked.

"I would say that emotion is displaced from tragic losses he’s suffered in his life," he said.  "But you would know better than I."

"Did you know the police were set to arrest him early this morning?" I asked.

"I did," Bishop said.  "Their plan actually helped me focus my thoughts."  He folded his thick arms.

"How so?"

"Given that they’ve decided to arrest and try Billy, his best chance for acquittal is a straightforward plea of innocence.  His mental state and his trauma history should be irrelevant because no case for insanity or diminished capacity need be made.  As I’ve said before, there were several of us at home the night Brooke was killed.  I don’t see any way the police and the District Attorney can prove that Billy was the one responsible."

That was a simple strategy:  Billy would stand trial for the murder and either be acquitted or do life.  Either way, the chances of suspicion settling on any other family member would be close to zero.  Judging from what Laura Mossberg at Payne Whitney had told me, that had always been Bishop’s plan. He had never really intended to keep Billy out of the courtroom.  I decided to play my hand more aggressively.  "If you believe the D.A. won’t be able to prove Billy is guilty," I said, "why are you so certain he is?"

Bishop looked at me like he didn’t understand.

"Why do you think he’s the one who did it?" I asked, more directly.  "Did you see him?"

Without a word, Bishop stood up, went to the door, and closed it.  Then he walked back to his desk chair and sat down, staring at me.  "Do you have another theory?" he deadpanned.

"You’ve said yourself, five people were at home that night.  Billy, your wife, Claire, Garret — and you."

He nodded to himself, gazed out his window at the rolling lawn behind the house, then looked back at me.  "I’ve learned to be straightforward whenever possible," he said.  "I’ll tell you what I’m thinking.  You went to see my son at Payne Whitney, and he spun such a compelling fantasy that you’ve lost track of reality."

"I’m hopelessly deluded," I said.

"I’m not saying that," Bishop said.  "But it took me years to understand how manipulative and skilled in deception Billy is."

"I believe he’s both those things," I said.

"Yet whatever lies he told you," Bishop went on, "led you to seek out my wife, to learn more about this family."

That wasn’t completely accurate.  Julia had called me, not the other way around.  But I wasn’t about to share that fact with Bishop.  "I certainly wanted more background," I said.  "your wife and I talked briefly over lunch in Boston.  But you already know all that."  I paused.  "Just out of curiosity, if you’re going to have me followed, wouldn’t a Chevy sedan or a 4Runner be a little less conspicuous than a Range Rover with smoked windows?"

"I wasn’t trying to be coy," he said.

"Neither was I," I said.  "Do you always have people followed?"

Bishop kept his game face.  "Not infrequently.  More information is better than less."  He ran his fingers through his silver hair.  "Let’s get to it, Dr. Clevenger:  What tall tale did Billy fabricate that would lead you to believe someone else might have harmed Brooke?"

That felt like an open door to Bishop’s truth.  I couldn’t resist walking through it.  "It’s hard to fabricate welts all over your back," I said.

Bishop smiled, nodded.  "Ah, so that’s part of the equation here," he said.  "He claimed I beat him.  That’s been an ongoing refrain."

"Whereas you would claim his wounds are self-inflicted," I said.

"I didn’t any more use a belt on Billy than bite him or cut him or pull the hair out of his head.  All that was his doing."

"Maybe," I said.  "But his version does fit pretty well with your history."

Bishop shouldn’t have had to ask what I meant by that comment.  The message I’d given his driver about Bishop preferring to fight kids and women wasn’t subtle.  But he must have wanted to hear what I had to say firsthand.  "What history do you mean, exactly?" he asked.

I didn’t mind hitting the highlights.  "I mean the trouble with your first wife, Lauren:  you know, the little problem with violating a restraining order.  That, and the conviction for assault and battery."

He didn’t flinch.  "I was a different person then," he said.

"Oh?" I said.

"For one thing," he said, "I was a drunk."

I hadn’t expected him to admit that — certainly not so plainly.  "You were a drunk," I said.  "An alcoholic."

"A drunk," he said.  "‘Alcoholic’ makes it sound like I had fallen victim to some fancy illness over which I had no control.  Take a trip to the Betty Ford Center, and all’s well.  The truth is I was making the decision to drink every day.  Because I wasn’t willing to look at myself in the mirror.  No detox program, no matter how much it cost per day, would have done me any good.  I needed to face facts."

Bishop’s apparent candor didn’t square with the lie he had told Julia about his prior criminal record or with his having savaged Billy with a strap.  "What is it that you weren’t willing to face?" I asked skeptically.

"Who I was," Bishop said.  "And some things I had done."

I nodded once, letting him know I was prepared to keep listening.

"I didn’t grow up with much in the way of material possessions," he said.

"You were poor," I pushed.

He didn’t back away from the word.  "Yes.  Not enough to eat, if you really want to know.  Secondhand clothes to wear to school.  Nights without heat.  And those things bothered me for the longest time.  It’s pathetic to admit it, but I was embarrassed about where and what I had come from.  It made me angry.  And hateful.  I kept it all inside as a kid and a teenager.  Then, when I went to Vietnam, I suddenly had carte blanche to express all that negative emotion."  He pursed his lips, took a deep breath, and stared through the window again.  "I did things over there that I’m not proud of."  He looked back at me.  "For a long time, I tried to obliterate the memories with booze.  I was out of control.  And my wife Lauren was in that line of fire.  God bless her, she’s a friend of mine today.  I don’t know why.  I don’t deserve it."

I couldn’t tell whether Bishop was leveling with me or playing me.  What he was saying sounded good, but I couldn’t see any reason why Julia would lie about witnessing Billy’s beatings.  "Thank you," I said.  "That gives me more insight.  There aren’t many people who can talk about themselves that way."

"Neither could I, for a long time," Bishop said.  "It’s still a struggle opening up."

That last sentence missed its mark, coming out hollow and contrived.  I think Bishop knew it.  My gut told me he was painting himself in the kind of light he thought a psychiatrist would favor.  "Let me tell you a little about me," I said, "as long as we’re opening up here."

He cocked his head slightly to listen.

Even that movement looked scripted to me.  "I have only one real skill," I said.  "It’s the only thing people pay me for."

"And what’s that?" he asked.

"I’m a burrower."

"A burrower."

"Yes," I said.  "I just keep going deeper and deeper, kind of like a screwworm, until I get to the truth."

Bishop must have heard me loud and clear:  I didn’t intend to stop working the investigation.  "In that regard," he said, "despite how much I might value your relentlessness in other circumstances, I should tell you that my plan for Billy to plead innocent — rather than entering an insanity plea or putting forward a diminished capacity defense — makes your services unnecessary."

"To whom?" I asked.

"This family," he said.

That certainly could have been debated, given that Billy — and Tess — were members of the family, but I had a simpler point to make.  "The family isn’t my client in this case," I said.  "The Nantucket Police Department is."

"And I’m sorry if they gave you the impression this would be a long and involved piece of work," Bishop said.  "I’ll make good on that expectation.  I’m happy to cover a month of your time.  Two months.  Whatever you think is fair."

Bishop obviously felt the police department and he were one and the same.  It was obvious he wanted me off the case badly enough to pay for it.  I wondered how badly.  "Two months, full time, bills at fifty thousand dollars," I said.

"That’s a rich fee," Bishop said.

"Too rich for you?" I said, forcing a smile.

"I didn’t say that.  If your expectation was for two months employment, you should be compensated accordingly.  I’ll arrange everything."  He held up his hand.  "There is one condition: You’re to have no further contact with Julia."

Maybe I had missed the point.  Maybe I was being bribed to stay away from Bishop’s wife, more than from Billy’s case.  Regardless, it was time to end the charade.  I stood up.  "No deal," I said.

Bishop’s face hardened.  "I met your price."

"The thing is, once I start burrowing," I said, "I can’t stop.  Not for any price.  It’s a little like your drinking."

"
Or yours
," the voice at the back of my mind said.

"I wish you would rethink your decision," Bishop said.

I nodded.  "Thank you for your time," I said.  "I can show myself out."  I started toward the door.

"Last chance," he called to me.  Something in his tone had changed dramatically, becoming mechanical, with no effort to connect or persuade in it.

I stopped in front of the portraits of Bishop’s horses again.  "How can someone as open and sensitive as you are not fall for these animals?" I said.  "It seems inhuman."

"If you were a stock," Bishop said, "I’d be selling."

I walked out of the office.

*            *            *

Claire Buckley caught up with me before I reached the front door.  "I hope you got your questions answered," she said.

"Some of them," I said.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" she asked.

I slowed my pace.  I decided to increase the anxiety level in the house another notch by letting Claire know I had my doubts about Billy being the assailant.  "Do you think Billy is the one who killed Brooke?" I asked.  I watched her face, expecting a replay of the same confusion with which others, like Laura Mossberg and Julia Bishop, had greeted that question — as if they had never considered any other possibility.  But Claire bit her lower lip, looked down at the ground, and said nothing.  "Do you think Billy’s the one?" I repeated, finally.

She took a deep breath.  "Is this confidential?"

"Just between you and me," I said.  "It won’t go any further."

"Not even to Win."

"You have my word."

"You need to understand," she said, "there was a reason I got so involved with Brooke and Tess."

"Okay," I said.

"I never expected to be a full-time nanny, you know?  It just sort of happened.  I was mostly helping with decorating, arranging parties, setting up some of Win’s business meetings at the house."

"What changed?" I said.

"Julia did, actually."

"What do you mean?"

"As long as I’ve known her she’s always been upbeat and vibrant.  She’s a wonderful woman.  I have a lot of respect for her."

That had to make it more gratifying to sleep with her husband.  "You have respect for her, but..." I prompted Claire.

"But after she gave birth to the twins, she went downhill.  She took no interest in the babies.  She didn’t want to be around them."

"And you picked up the slack."  I tried to keep my tone even, but cynicism crept in.

"Because Mr. Bishop asked me to," she said.

He was ‘
Mr. Bishop
,’ all of a sudden.  My putting her on the defensive was shutting her down.  I backtracked.  "To be honest, they’re lucky you were here — and willing to step in.  A lot of people would have said, ‘Hey, it’s not in my job description.’"

"I could never do that," she said.  "Win was beside himself."

"Of course," I said.  "What was Julia like, exactly?" I asked.  "Was she sad and tearful, or...?"

"More irritable.  Win called it a ‘black mood.’  They’d hired a baby nurse for the twins — a woman named Kristen Collier — but Julia argued with her and fired her a week after the twins were born."