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 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 also 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 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 very 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.