"I remember reading about the bridge suicide. What a horror Crockwell is-true-believerism at its most destructive."
"Crockwell, of course, affects the stance that all the group members except two adored him. And since Paul Haig is dead, Bierly is his prime suspect for secretly taping a therapy session and sending the tape to the cops. It was funny, though. I had to drag it out of Crockwell that Bierly was logically the culprit if the others in the therapy group were Crockwell's diehard fans. He gets very uncomfortable when Bierly's name comes up and seems to hate to have to think about him at all."
"Did you tell Crockwell that Bierly is trying to hire you to pin the supposed murder on Crockwell?"
"That didn't come up, no. Nor did I tell Crockwell that Phyllis Haig wants to hire me to pin the supposed murder on Bierly."
"This is getting complicated, Donald. What if this entire crew is nothing more than an extended nest of paranoiacs and revenge seekers? Can you afford to spend a lot of time mucking about in this with no payoff either in the form of justice or cash?"
"Somebody will pay me-there's no reason to be concerned about that. Offers keep pouring in. It wouldn't surprise me if Jerry Falwell called up and wanted me to verify that on the night he died Paul Haig was seen leaving the Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge on Route 9W with Hillary Clinton. If I can show that Haig wasn't murdered, Crockwell can pay me. If I can show that Haig was murdered and Crockwell did it, Bierly can pay me. If I show that Haig was murdered and Bierly did it, then Phyllis Haig can pay me. As I see it, it's a no-lose situation."
Bypassing the jar of tartar sauce I'd brought out to improve the Taters, Timmy squeezed some more lemon on his remaining savories and said, "With the people you've described to me who are involved in this, Don, a no-lose situation sounds out of the question. I've got a feeling about all of this that's not good."
"I'll just have to be at my nimblest," I said. "Like this-"and proceeded to juggle three Tater Tots, Barnum amp; Bailey-style, until two landed in my lap and one in Timmy's wineglass. end user
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?"