"You knew Paul Haig, didn't you?"
"Slightly-why?"
"Did he strike you as depressed?"
"Well, he killed himself."
"Other than that. Just what you saw."
"More anxious than depressed, I'd say. But I hardly knew him, so I'm not the best person to come to for an insightful diagnosis of his mental state. Why do you ask?"
"I'm coming to that. It's problematical. Was Haig the guy we'd see sometimes with his boyfriend at gay political events-him a tall blond with wavy hair and the boyfriend darker and chunkier? And they were always a little shy and nervous and apart from everybody else?"
"That's them. Larry something was the boyfriend."
"Larry Bierly."
"I tried to get them more involved, or at least to feel more at ease. And they were perfectly nice, and friendly, but they never seemed able to mix and get to know people and really relax."
"You're ever the thoughtful host, Timothy, whether it's brunch for twenty-two or an assault on the Senate Republicans."
"Thank you."
"They both must have friends in Albany. Any idea who?"
"Yes, but it would be easier to answer these questions if I understood the context in which they were being asked. What's this all about?"
After nineteen years, he still needed explanations from me. If being willing to speak at length into an unresponsive void isn't one of the cornerstones of a rich relationship and enduring love, what is?
I said, "I'll get to the point, trust me. Just tell me what you know about Haig's and Bierly's social life, if any. Don't think context. Pretend we're deconstructionists."
He let out a little sigh that was so recognizable I could almost smell the tuna he'd had for lunch. He said, "Both Bierly and Haig owned and managed businesses out at Millpond. But you already knew that, right? We've seen them out there."
"Right. Bierly runs Whisk 'n' Apron and Haig owned Beautiful Thingies."
"Well," he said, "I have seen Paul Haig somewhere else."
"Where?"
A little tuna-scented silence. "You're going to consider this somewhat pompous," he said.
"Uh-huh."
"I'm not sure of the ethics of my telling you where I saw Haig."
"Oh, the ethics."
"I'm afraid so."
Now Timmy was neither a psychiatrist nor an attorney. Nor was he a priest-although at fourteen he had briefly entertained the idea of becoming one, in which calling he would have been able to wage holy war on his newly discovered unholy sexuality while at the same time dressing and undressing with men. By fifteen, though, he had discovered both liberation theology and Skeeter McCaslin, with whom he enjoyed a sweaty, Clearasil-slick affair for over two years-until they both had graduated from high school and left Poughkeepsie-that was carried out with the stealth of Mossad's operation in getting Adolf Eichmann back to Israel. I once asked Timmy if "Skeeter" was short for "Mosquito"; he just laughed and said most assuredly not.
I said, "Let me guess why you have ethical doubts about telling me where you saw Paul Haig. Does it have something to do with covert U.S. government activities for dealing with North Korea's nuclear-bomb program?"
He laughed lightly. "I knew you'd see my reaction as kind ofmorally overweening."
"Your term, not mine."
"The thing is, if I told you why I'm reluctant to tell where I saw Haig, you'd understand my point. But then you'd also know where I saw him, and I'm the one who would have told you. Can't you just take my word for it that I shouldn't tell you where I saw him? Trust me. Like I'm trusting you."
I said, "Paul Haig's mother is convinced Larry Bierly killed Haig and made it look like suicide. Haig and Bierly were on the outs, she says. Bierly was the beneficiary of Haig's estate and needed money to save his business, according to Mrs. Haig. She told me Bierly has a history of violence and once assaulted and threatened to kill a man.
Mrs. Haig wants to hire me to prove the coroner was wrong and the suicide was murder and have Bierly charged.
The mother is something of a horror show herself, and I'm trying to evaluate whether or not to hire myself out to her.
That's why I'm asking you these questions, Timothy. Now are you going to help me out?"
"AA," Timmy said.
"As in Alcoholics Anonymous?"
"That's where I've seen Haig-with the AA bunch that hangs out on the sidewalk in front of Saint Aggie's before their meetings."
"More than once? He was a regular at that meeting?"
"I'd say off and on over several years. When I worked late and walked home in warm weather, I'd sometimes pass there while they were out smoking and drinking coffee on the sidewalk before the eight o'clock meeting. Sometimes I'd say hello to Haig and he'd say hi back."
"What about Bierly? Was he ever there too?"
"Not that I ever saw. I just saw Paul Haig."
I said, "Timmy, I don't think it's unethical for you to pass this on to me. AA members are morally bound to protect the privacy of other members. But you're not a member.
Anyway, you're telling me, not Le Monde. So what's the big deal?"
"I'm not a member, but I respect AA's confidentiality ethic, and the best way I can show my respect for that ethic is by observing it."
"So by walking past their meeting you fall within AA's ethical penumbra?"
"Yes, I believe I do."
Now it was he who must have gotten a whiff of my gnocchi breath. I said, "Then I appreciate your ethical lapse on my behalf."
"You're welcome to it this one time. It's no big deal. Do you really think Bierly might have killed Haig? I thought Haig died of a drug overdose."
"It was a combination of Elavil and Scotch. The mother is something of a boozer herself and maybe delusionary. But the one thing that's more or less plausible in her account is that she knew her son's mental state and she's certain he had not been suicidal. So I'm going to ask around a little and talk to Bierly before I decide whether or not to take Mrs. Haig's money. She stuffed a retainer check in the bun basket at Le Briquet and shoved it across the table toward me, but I handed it back for now. I'm meeting Bierly for an early dinner at Millpond, so I won't be home until eight or nine."
"I'm glad you're meeting Bierly in the mall if he's violence-prone."
"That's Mrs. Haig's story, but who knows. It is her assertion that after Bierly attacked someone, the guy was going to press charges, but her son bought him off before the cops were notified. And here's the intriguing part. The man Bierly supposedly threatened to kill was Vernon Crockwell."
This elicited a sound that was part guffaw and part snort. "My, my. Herr Doktor Crockwell. Was Bierly in Crockwell's treatment group-getting cured of his sexual deviancy?"
"They both were. It's where they met, according to Mrs. Haig."
"If subjecting yourself to Crockwell isn't incitement to murder, I don't know what is. No wonder Bierly is full of rage and confusion. It sounds as if you should approach him very gingerly, Don."
"I'm meeting him in a mall pizzeria, not in a dark alley. But from what I know of the homosexuality cure programs, people tend to come out of them either zombielike or with a healthy anger directed not at themselves or one another but at the programs they were victimized by. So, not to worry."
"I will. I do."
"I know. Maybe I'll bring you a lovely gift from Beautiful Thingies to help you feel better. A Gucci waterpick cozy.
Or a Georg Jensen nipple ring."
"Just watch out for your own beautiful thingie."
"I'll make a note." end user
3
The darling buds of May had popped out even on the genetically stunted arboreal species around the Millpond Mall parking lot, and the air was fresh after a spring shower. All but glacier-ridden from November to March-and hot and sopping as Bangladesh in summer-Albany during a brief spring and briefer fall was not only fit for human habitation but certifiably pleasant. Crossing the newly washed tarmac, I'd have felt downright jaunty if I'd driven out to Millpond for a movie or a pack of clean sweat socks instead of an interview with the object of a scurrilous accusation of homicide that was conceivably true.