"He was weak. Taking his own life would have required a degree of strength I never once saw in Paul Haig."
"But he walked out on Crockwell," I said. "That certainly took will."
"He followed Larry Bierly out. That's all he did. By the time they left, Larry had more sway over Paul than Crockwell did, that's all it was. Paul was a drunk and a weakling. People like that don't kill themselves. What they do is, they die slowly from their addictions and they make other people's lives miserable while they're at it."
"You seem to know a lot about the subject, or have strong opinions about it anyway."
"Both," he said. "My father was an alcoholic. He was a weak man who was a pathological liar and an abusive drunk.
Luckily, he died when I was sixteen. My mother had thirty-six years of him, though."
"Sorry."
"So I don't have a lot of patience with people like Paul Haig."
"Was Paul abusive to people?"
He frowned, then shrugged. "I guess not-not in the usual sense of 'abusive.' But he was totally spineless. He let his mother walk all over him and run his life. It sounded like she was a drunk too, and they were each other's enablers. A very sick situation. People like that don't kill themselves. They have better ways of escaping from reality. Better for them, anyway."
"You're the son of an alcoholic, Grey, but you drink. I take it that you can handle it."
"Yes, as a matter of fact I can handle it. I make it a point to."
"You talked, though, as if you thought there was something sinister about Paul's death. That it wasn't an accident."
"I wouldn't know for sure, of course. I didn't have anything specific in mind. And boozers can be awfully sloppy, so it could have been accidental. But there were people who hated Paul. That I do know. Though probably not enough to kill him, if that's what we're talking about here. That's going a little far."
I said, "Who do you have in mind?"
He drained his beer glass but made no move to order another.
"At least two of the guys in the therapy group hated his guts. And Paul talked in the group about other people he'd had serious run-ins with. Obviously his personality just got to some people."
"That can happen. Though rubbing somebody the wrong way rarely leads to homicide-except among urban schoolchildren these days, but that's another story. Who were the two guys in the group who hated Paul?"
"Roland Stover and Dean Moody. Have you talked to them yet?"
"No. They aren't a couple, are they? Isn't Moody the one who sued his parents for making him a homosexual?"
Oliveira grinned, apparently at the image of Stover and Moody as a couple. "Yeah, Dean's the wrathful son, but I doubt that he and Roland are dating. As far as I know, they both passed Crockwell 101 and have been certified het."
"What makes you say they hated Paul Haig?"
"They said so, in the group. They hated him for being wishy-washy-about his sexuality, and for betraying the group by sucking Larry Bierly's dick and then leaving with him. Roland and Dean were the zealots in the group, the fanatical true believers."
"I heard one of them is a religious nut."
"Roland is. 'He who lieth with another man shall be put to death,' and all that. Dean was more of a secular humanist.
He just thought homosexuality was sick."
"Did either Stover or Moody ever threaten Paul?"
He thought about this. "Not exactly," he said finally. "It was more of a general 'You'll pay for your evil, perverted ways, Paul' More of a dire warning than an actual personal threat."
"I heard Crockwell once threatened Paul. Do you remember that?"
"It was just before Paul and Larry walked out last summer," Oliveira said. "It was truly shocking. It was a side of Crockwell we'd never seen before. He apologized later and tried to convince us it was a calculated outburst. But I think he was genuinely out of control. Something Paul or Larry said just got to Crockwell and he flipped out. Two of the guys were so shaken up by it, when I saw them outside after the session they talked about dropping out of the group."
"Which two said that?"
"Gary Moe and Nelson Bowkar. But you won't be interviewing them. They're dead."
"I heard."
"They both had AIDS and they went off the Patroon Bridge together. You want romance in your life? There's romance for you."
"Are you aware, Grey, of anyone ever making an audiotape of any of the therapy sessions with Crockwell?"
"No. Did somebody?"
"Possibly."
He glowered. "That's pretty shitty. What's on the tape? Have you heard it?"
"I can't discuss it, and I'm sure you understand why."
"Sure. It's confidential. But not so confidential that some cock-sucking private eye doesn't know all about it and is going around Albany asking questions about something in people's lives they had every right to expect would be kept totally private." The big gray eyes, sultry before, were cold now.
I said, "That's a more or less true assessment of what's happening. It's all in the service, though, of clearing up the circumstances surrounding Paul Haig's death, if that's any consolation. And of shedding light on the attempt on the life of Larry Bierly last night. Did you hear about that?"
"What? Somebody tried to kill Larry Bierly?"
"He was shot in the Millpond Mall parking lot. He's expected to survive."
"God, that's awful."
"Do you know a Steven St. James?"
"No. Should I?"
"Not necessarily."
"Who do they think shot Larry?"
"There are no suspects yet."
Oliveira said, "Ten guys started out last year in the therapy group we were in with Crockwell, and now three are dead and somebody tried to kill a fourth guy. You're cute, Strachey, and I'll bet you've got a nice one down there between those trim thighs. But for the kind of detective work that's needed on this case, I think they're going to have to bring in Oliver Stone."
That one was a little hard for me to sort out, but I salvaged from it what I thought I could before saying so-long-for-now to Grey Oliveira. end user
11
I arrived back at the house on Crow Street just as Timmy ambled around the corner after a hard day at the Assembly.
I said, "Think up some new ways to tax 'n' spend?"
"I tried, I tried."
We went inside and smooched behind closed doors, so as not to frighten the Morses, the elderly Presbyterians who lived in the townhouse next to ours and who often came out to polish the little Historical Albany Foundation plaque next to their front door. Our plaque was tarnished-fittingly Maude Morse had once told another neighbor.
"How is Larry Bierly doing?" Timmy asked, removing his jacket and placing it carefully on a wooden hanger he kept on the foyer hatrack specifically for this purpose. His necktie went over the banister by the newel post.
"He was improving, the last I heard. But I've got to check again with the hospital and the cops."
"Are you still conniving to ruin Vernon Crockwell?" Timmy's glistening shoes came off and were placed side by side on the far right of the fourth step.
"I'm still conniving to find out how and why Paul Haig died, and who shot Bierly and why. If Crockwell is mixed up in either situation, his evil mission will be destroyed. I'll be glad and so will you."
"What does 'mixed up in' mean? That's the part I'm nervous about." I followed him to the kitchen, where he fixed himself a tall, cool glass of Price Chopper seltzer. I found a Popsicle in the freezer.
"If it takes a load off your mind, Timothy, rest assured I don't plan on planting evidence in Crockwell’s office-a smoking revolver or-in Paul Haig's case, what? That's the problem with Haig's death. Even if he was somehow forced or conned into ingesting the lethal combination of Scotch and Elavil, what evidence of it can anybody come up with at this late date? He's been dead and buried for two months. And Haig's apartment, where he died, has been cleaned out and rented to someone else. So physical evidence is going to be nil."