and left the room. I watched the motor traffic on Arch Street and the pedestrians strolling to work or school under a spring sun that smiled down on all the people.
Finnerty came back with a sheet of paper and a cassette player and placed these on the desk in front of me. Then he left the room without a word, closing the door behind him. end user
7
The paper appeared to be a photocopy of the original. It looked like a computer printout, with no date and no return address. It read:
To the Albany Police Dept. Homicide Division: Paul Haig died on March 17th. Verdict, suicide. Wrong.
Ask Vernon Crockwell, the so-called psychologist, where he was that night. Crockwell had his reasons for shutting Haig up. Play this tape. Vernon Crockwell has gotten away with murder, so far. Justice demands that you look into this. Let justice be done.
There was no signature. Was this Larry Bierly's voice? It sounded more like Phyllis Haig's voice than Bierly's. But she thought Bierly, not Crockwell, was responsible for her son's death, and she wouldn't have been siccing the cops on Crockwell.
I pressed start on the cassette player. The sound quality was poor, the voices distant and tinny, but the words were discernible. I got out my pad and made notes while the tape played:
'Now, Larry, it is customary to discuss the reasons when making a decision to terminate therapy.' This was obviously Crockwell, Mr. Unctuouser-Than-Thou. 'I think you'll agree that you owe it both to the group and to yourself to present your reasons for termination and see if we all think it is wise. How do you feel about that?'
'You mean if you think it is wise.' I recognized Bierly's voice. 'Don't give me that what-the-group-thinks shit, Crockwell-it's always been what you think and it always will be.'
A voice I didn't know said, 'Now, Larry, all Dr. Crockwell meant was-'
'All he meant'-this was Bierly again-'was that you're a bunch of sick fucks, and sick fucks like you had better do what the doctor says. But you're not sick and I'm not sick, and the only thing that's sick is all of us deluding ourselves and coming here every week and trying to turn ourselves into people we're not. We're not straight, we're gay. That's all there is to it. And it's not because our fathers weren't affectionate with us or some crazy shit like that.
We've been over and over that. Hardly any American fathers are affectionate enough with their sons, but it doesn't make them homosexual, for God's sake. Nobody knows why we're gay. We're all different and we all come from different kinds of families-'
'That's not true!' Another new voice. 'The patterns are obvious. If my parents had-'
'Hey, Lar, don't you remember why you joined the group?' Yet another voice I hadn't heard. 'Don't you remember how all alone you felt after you did it with another guy? How you always hated yourself in the morning? Do you want to go back to that kind of life?'
'But, Gene, I know now that that's not the only choice-'
'Perhaps,' Crockwell said, 'we should hear from Paul. I know that you and Larry have become good pals, Paul.
What do you think of Larry's decision to close off therapy and terminate his relationship with the group?'
Now came a long pause filled with scratchy electronic presence but no words. Then a quiet voice that must have been Paul Haig's said, 'I'm leaving too.'
A stir now, with murmurings that were indistinct except for one clear 'Oh no' and a loud 'Oh my Lord Jesus!'
Then a brief silence, followed by Crockwell's 'I can hardly believe my ears-that you would even consider disappointing the group by doing such a thing, Paul. Or disappointing your mother.'
'He's not just leaving,' Bierly said. 'Paul is leaving with me. Paul and I have been dating each other for some time now. We love each other deeply and we are going to have a life together. It's-it's great what we have-security and peacefulness. The one really good thing about this group is, it brought Paul and me together. We became friends and then lovers-well, to be honest, we became secret fuck buddies, and then friends, and then lovers. And now we're going to be-life partners, and neither of us have ever been happier in our lives, or ever imagined that we could be this happy and fulfilled.'
'There is no peace and love in a lake of fire!' someone boomed-the one who had yelled 'Oh my Lord Jesus!' before- but the others quickly shushed him up.
Then, after a little silence, Crockwell said coldly, 'Paul, can this be true? That you too subscribe to the illusion that Larry has embraced so emotionally without being cognizant of the consequences?'
'No-no, I think Larry's right,' Haig said. 'I'm just-gay. I always was and I always will be, and there's nothing wrong with that. The one thing I do know is, I love Larry. When we're together, I just feel-like Larry said peaceful.'
'Peaceful?'
'Well-yeah.'
'But how long does this feeling of peace last, Paul? One minute? Five minutes? Do you feel peaceful when you and Larry walk down the street together? When you're with your mother, or when you think of her?'
'No, but that's because-'
'It's because of people like you, Crockwell!' This was Bierly again. 'You and your bullshit that you spread around that there's something wrong with gay people. What's sick is you making us sit in those rooms looking at pussy and zapping us when we look at dicksthat is sick. All you ever did for me was make me sick of looking at pussy. I never cared about women's bodies one way or another until I came here, and now I can't stand the thought of them.'
'Why do you think that is, Larry?' This was Crockwell, trying to sound oh-so-cool, but with tremors creeping in.
'When you, ah, think about, ah, a woman's genitalia, what comes to mind?'
'I think of you, Crockwell, and I think of those dungeons down the hall-those electrocution chambers that are like something you read about that Saddam Hussein does to people in Iraq. And I'll bet the same thing is true for everybody in this room, isn't it? The only time you ever think about heterosexual sex is when you come here and get strapped into Crockwell’s electric chair. Admit it-isn't it true?'
'No, no, that is definitely not true!' This was a voice I'd heard once before, briefly exclaiming indignantly over Bierly's assertion that nobody knew why anybody turned out gay. With the inflections of what can only be termed a real screamer, this group member again exclaimed, 'Because of Dr. Crockwell's procedures, I have finally gotten in touch with my normal sexuality, and I resent your implications in regards to my manhood, Larry! You can just speak for yourself!'
'Dean, you should be ashamed of yourself,' Bierly said. 'I mean-suing your own mother and father because they made you gay? I never said anything before, because I never thought you'd go through with it. But that has to be the dumbest, greediest, meanest thing I ever heard of somebody doing to their parents. And Crockwell, you never discouraged him. You-'
'I am not suing them for the cash!' Dean screamed. 'It's to set an example for others, and you know it!'
'Larry,' Crockwell said, 'there's something about Dean's anger with his mother and father that you feel quite strongly about. Would you like to talk about that?'
'No, I'd like to talk about you, Crockwell, you evasive, manipulative piece of ignorant shit! You always throw it back on each of us, but it's you who's everybody's problem. How'd you like a dose of your own medicine? What comes to mind? How do you feel about me challenging you? What if I dragged you down the hall and strapped you in one of those chairs and zapped you every time you looked at-whatever the fuck turns you on? How do you feel about that, Crockwell? Tell us about your mommy and daddy. What did they do to produce such a cold-blooded, sadistic piece of crap? Huh? Huh?'
'Now, Larry, you are being disruptive.' Crockwell was asserting himself as the voice of authority, but it was coming out croaky. 'Now, we do have rules to follow as to disruptiveness- rules we all agreed to follow.'
