Compulsion (18 page)
"Do you remember where she was from?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "I helped find her. She’s from Duxbury."
Duxbury is a suburb of Boston, about twelve miles south of the city. I took a mental note of Kirsten’s name and hometown. "Did Julia ever mention hurting herself?" I asked. "Or anyone else?"
Claire shook her head. "I don’t want to make more of this than it is. I mean, it’s probably not that uncommon. Right? I think a lot of women feel the way Julia did and just never say anything. And her moods had been getting better over the last month."
"
A lot of women never say anything
," the voice at the back of my mind prodded me, "
but what did Julia say?
"
"I understand," I said. "But did Julia share anything specific about her feelings — anything, in particular, that concerned you?" I asked.
Claire looked away and said nothing.
"Claire?"
"Well, she told me once that..." She fell silent, again.
"Go on."
"She told me... She said she wished she never had the twins." She dropped her voice to just above a whisper. "She said she wished they were dead."
My heart fell. It is true that many women feel overwhelmed after childbirth and wish they could go back to their lives without the constant demands of a new infant. They may even fantasize about the baby not surviving. The most honest and brave of them might even confess their private thoughts to doctors or close friends. But given Brooke’s death — her murder — the question had to be asked whether Julia had acted on those thoughts. My whole being told me that that wasn’t the case, but I couldn’t completely trust my instincts where Julia was concerned.
"I wasn’t going to say anything," Claire went on, "but when they took Billy to the psychiatric hospital, he really did seem shocked."
"Tell me what you mean," I said.
"I’ve heard him lie plenty of times," she said. "He’s very convincing. He could have your wallet in his pocket and tell you flat out that he hasn’t seen it. That happened to me once with him. He even helped me look for it after he’d stolen it. And I remember him swearing he was nowhere near any of the neighbor’s pets, even when he had scratch marks all over his arms from one of the cats." She toyed with her shiny Cartier love bracelet. "But the night he left for Payne Whitney, he seemed just plain scared. Like he didn’t know what had hit him."
"Are you saying you don’t think he did it?" I asked.
She bit her lower lip again. "I’m not sure what to think. I just wanted to get all this off my chest."
"I appreciate that, Claire," I said. "I really do."
"If I think of anything else, should I be in touch with you?" she asked.
"I’m staying at the Breakers overnight," I said. "Feel free to call me there. And you can always reach me on my cell phone." I gave her the number. She walked me to the door. "By the way, where’s Garret today?" I asked.
"In his room," Claire said. "He’s having a lot of trouble coping. He’s lost his sister
and
his brother. It’s a chore to get him to come out of there for meals."
"But he makes it to his tennis matches," I said.
"Reluctantly," she said, "to say the least." She glanced at her watch. "Actually, he has to defend his single’s championship at twelve-thirty."
"On the day of his sister’s funeral?"
She rolled her eyes. "I don’t get involved in any of that," she said. "That’s between Garret and his father."
I looked up the staircase, then glanced back toward Darwin Bishop’s office. "You think Garret would mind if I talked with him a few minutes?" I asked.
"He won’t speak with anyone," she said. "I don’t think you’d get anywhere right now."
"I don’t mind trying," I said.
She hesitated. "I would have to run that by Win."
I knew how that would turn out. "Don’t bother," I said. "I’ll catch up with him another time."
* * *
"Learn anything?" Anderson asked, as we drove away from the Bishop estate.
"You’re right about one thing. Bishop wants this investigation to end," I said.
"What did he say?"
"He offered me fifty grand to cut bait."
"I hope you took it," Anderson said.
I looked over at him. He was grinning. "He wasn’t happy when I turned him down," I said. "He’s not pretending we’re on the same team anymore."
"So he still sits at the top of your list? You think he’s the one."
"I think if we keep the pressure on him," I said, "he’ll let us know, one way or the other."
"I’ll buy that," Anderson said.
I didn’t want to hold anything back. "Claire stopped me on my way out," I said. "She wanted to tell me a few things about Julia."
"Like?"
"Julia did get quite depressed after the twins were born." I kept any alarm out of my voice. "I guess she even made a stray comment about wishing they hadn’t been born."
Anderson raised an eyebrow. "All worth hearing," he said. "I’m glad you made the trip."
"Me, too," I said.
"I reviewed that data you e-mailed about the risk of a second infanticide when one twin has been killed," Anderson said. "Seventy percent. I’m going to press the Department of Social Services to intervene and get Tess out of there."
I didn’t like the idea of forcing Julia’s hand, but the risk to Tess was too high to worry about hurt feelings. "It’s the right thing to do," I said.
As we passed Bishop’s ‘watch house’ another Ranger Rover pulled behind us.
Anderson glanced in the rearview mirror, then over at me. "You should get out of that hotel and head to my place for the night."
I instinctively felt for the Browning Baby in my front pocket. "Not a bad idea," I said. "Maybe I’ll head over after the funeral."
"Why just maybe," he asked.
"Because my room is nonrefundable," I joked.
Anderson shook his head. "If you’re planning anything with Julia, you’re not thinking straight."
"I’ll probably come by," I said, feeling the urge to close down the discussion.
"You’ve been warned," Anderson said.
The Brant Point Racket Club on North Beach Street is the kind of place you’d expect people of leisure to spend leisure time. The fences around the outdoor courts are hung with green nylon sheeting intended to protect the players not only from the sun but from the paparazzi. The clubhouse is understated and elegant, with deep armchairs to linger in and talk about this shot or that shot, this racket or that, all the while nursing a gin and tonic, maybe checking a stock quote on a Palm VII.
I had driven over to Brant Point after Anderson left me at my hotel. I thought I might get a few minutes alone with Garret Bishop. My gut told me that something other than grief was keeping his scarce.
I got to Garret’s singles match just before 2:00
P.M.
The temporary bleachers around the court were filled with spectators. Garret was already winning the third set 4-1. He’d taken the first two 6-2, 6-4. He was serving for another game point. He leaned back. Beads of sweat flew off his brow. He tossed the ball over his head, tracking it with his eyes like a hunter. Then he reached to the sky and funneled every ounce of strength in his powerful body to his arm and wrist. A dull thud broke the silence, his opponent swung and missed, and, just like that, it was 5-1.
What sort of young man, I wondered, can perform with excellence on a tennis court when his baby sister’s funeral is to be held four hours later? And what had it cost Garret to buckle to Darwin Bishop’s demands for performance and grace under any pressure, no matter how intense? Where had all his anxiety, sadness, and fear gone?
The match ended just five minutes later — 6-2, 6-4, 6-1. Garret scored match point, moving in for a weak lob, posturing to slam the ball down the right baseline, making the opponent back up to defend against his power, then tapping the ball ever so gently, so that it dropped just over the net.
As applause filled the air, Garret simply turned and walked off the court — no fist raised in triumph, no nod to the crowd, no handshake at the net.
I tried to get his attention when he was about halfway to the clubhouse. "Garret," I called out, from a few steps behind him. He didn’t stop. I quickened my pace until I was walking beside him. He kept staring straight ahead. "Garret," I said, a little louder.
He turned to me, a blank expression on his face. "What?" he said, without any hint that he remembered we had met.
"I’m Frank Clevenger," I said. "I met you with your mother at the house. I was with Officer Anderson."
He kept walking.
"The psychiatrist," I prodded him.
"I know who you are," he said, without breaking pace.
"I’d like to talk with you for a minute," I said.
"I don’t need to," he said. He picked up his pace. "I’m getting through it."
It dawned on me that he might think Julia had sent me to help him with his feelings about the murder. "No one knows that I’ve come here," I said. "Your father and mother didn’t send me. I came because I need information."
"Such as," he said.
I didn’t think I had the luxury of being subtle. "I want you to tell me what you can about your father."
That stopped him. He turned to me. "My father," he said, with palpably fragile patience.
"Yes," I said.
"What do you need to know about him?" he asked.
I had the feeling I would get more, rather than less, information from Garret if he knew I suspected his father of involvement in Brooke’s death. Maybe he’d relish the chance to get out from under Bishop’s thumb. "I’m not comfortable with the party line that Billy killed your sister," I said. "I’m looking at other possibilities."
He looked at me doubtfully. "Isn’t Win the one paying you?" he asked.
I remembered that Billy had asked me the same question. I also noted that Garret called his father by his first name. No terms of endearment anywhere in sight. "No," I said. "I work for the police."
"They usually work for Win, too."
Garret’s statement gave me a moment’s pause about whether North Anderson had always kept himself at arm’s length from the Bishop family. But the doubt didn’t last more than a moment. Anderson and I had been through hell and back together. "Nobody investigating this case is on your dad’s payroll," I said. "That may be a problem for him."
He glanced at the ground, then back at me, sizing me up. "Okay," he said. "So, talk."
"Do you think Billy killed your sister?" I said.
"No," he said.
"What do you think happened?"
"I think she was born dead."
"Excuse me?"
"Stillborn," he said.
I shrugged. I don’t get it."
"Not just Brooke. Her and Tess."
"What do you mean?" I said.
"I mean we’re all walking dead people in that house," Garret said. "Only one person matters. Darwin Harris Bishop."
"He made you play in the tournament today," I said. "Claire told me that."
"Claire," he repeated with scorn. He shook his head. "You don’t get it," he said.
"Get what?"
"It’s not this tournament. It’s not tennis. It’s everything. What I wear. Who my friends are. What I study. What I think. What I feel."
In some ways, Garret’s complaint sounded like the one that most seventeen-year-olds would have about their fathers or mothers. And that probably explained why I responded with an unfortunate cliché. "You don’t have your own life," I said.
"Right on," he said. "I’m going through a phase."
"I’m sorry," I said immediately. "I didn’t mean it that way."
Garret looked at the ground again, kicked the sand, and chuckled to himself.
"I really do want to know what it’s like in that house," I said.
He looked back at me. His lip curled. "It’s like being eaten from the inside out, until there’s nothing left of you," he said. "Dad’s kind of like Jeffrey Dahmer. Only he doesn’t have to pour acid in your head to turn you into a zombie. He does it in other ways."
Garret clearly thought of his father as psychologically fatal to him, but I wanted to know if he had any direct physical evidence that would link him to Brooke’s murder. "Did you see anything the night Brooke died?" I asked. "Do you think your father...?"
He looked away. "You still aren’t getting the point," he said.
"I want to," I said. "Give me another shot at it."
"There’s only air in our family for Win. The rest of us have been struggling to breathe our whole lives. So it doesn’t matter if he suffocated Brooke." He looked at me more intensely. "It really doesn’t. In a way, it’s better. Less painful. Quicker."
Garret was speaking the language of learned helplessness, the mindset that takes over in prisoners who, seeing no chance of escape, stop struggling to achieve it. "You still might be able to help Billy," I reminded him. "I know you two aren’t close, but he could spend his whole life behind bars."
"He’ll have more freedom there," Garret said. "And I doubt the guards would beat him as badly."
I heard that loud and clear. Julia, Billy, and Garret all seemed to disagree with Darwin Bishop’s claim that the wounds on Billy’s back were self-inflicted. "If Billy is innocent, and you can prove it," I said, "then you must have seen something the night Brooke died."
"And if I step out on a limb and testify against Win, and Win goes free," Garret said, "then what do I do?"
I didn’t have a good answer to that question. In the seconds I took to try and think of one, Garret started to walk away. "Where are you going?" I called to him.
He turned back toward me, but didn’t stop moving. "Think about it," he said. "None of us can get away from Win. Billy still doesn’t understand that. Otherwise, he’d head right back to the hospital." ;He turned, broke into a jog, and headed to the clubhouse.
* * *
I climbed into my truck and checked my home machine for a message from Billy, but he hadn’t left one.