September ninth, what would suddenly prompt Crockwell to homicide in March? I don't get that.'
'Crockwell is a hater,' Bierly said. 'He carried poisonous grudges. In the group, he talked about other people who left, and he ranted and raved about how wretched they must be and how they deserve to be unhappy. He seemed to be obsessed with those people.'
'But if he got satisfaction from their misery,' I said, 'he certainly didn't have to kill them.'
Bierly blushed some more. I figured he was lying about some or much or all of what he had told me about his and Paul's departure from Crockwell's program and its aftermath. Yet he didn't seem to care if I thought he was lying. He just lied and blushed, lied and blushed. I didn't get it.
Bierly said, 'Look, something deep in my gut tells me that Vernon Crockwell killed Paul. All I ask is that you investigate Crockwell and see what you can come up with. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong. But I don't think I am, Strachey.' And then he brought out his checkbook. end user
4
So which check do I cash?'
'Neer.'
'What if Paul Haig was murdered?'
'Nnn.'
'What if Crockwell did it?'
'Nnn.'
'Axe you falling asleep?'
'Mmm.'
Spring stars twinkled over the Hudson Valley. We lay under a cotton blanket, cool, reasonably clean air moving west to east across us. Ted Koppel was our nightlight.
I said, 'I'm more inclined to take Phyllis Haig's money because she can afford it. And as much as I like Bierly and sympathize with him-his instincts seem pretty consistently decent-his selective evasions are glaring and unsettling. There were moments tonight when if Bierly had been wired to a polygraph, he'd have registered at about an 8.6 on a Richter scale of liars. Of course, polygraphs are notoriously unreliable. The anxiety they detect can result from the emotional significance of the question asked as well as from the emotional significance of the answer given, or just from the stress of being questioned at all. Anyway, I do think Bierly lied about some topics- this from the man disgusted by alleged chronic Haig-family dissimulation-and I don't know why. Why might he?'
'Nnn.'
'Phyllis Haig, on the other hand, is a serious drunk and a deluded homophobe with hardly a rational thought in her head. Except one, maybe-that Paul was not suicidal.
People can fool themselves about that, too, of course-parents, in particular, will sometimes deny their children's suicides in order to avoid facing what they fear is their own responsibility somehow. But the idea that Paul could have committed suicide was the one thing that seemed to generate an emotion in Phyllis Haig besides jealousy or outrage over deviations from the country-club norm. There was an emotional clarity to her assertions on this point that was lacking on others. On the other hand, even if she's right about Paul's not having killed himself, I could be risking my license and possibly my peace of mind-not to mention my shirt-simply by getting mixed up with this deranged heiress with friends in high places. I mean, not that my financial and mental survival should be the sole, or even chief, determinants in taking on a client, eh wot?'
'Zzzz.' His breath, sweet with chicken tikka masala and Crest, was regular now against my chest, his arm limp across my midsection. I groped for the remote, found it, and zapped a murmuring Ted Koppel and a couple of nervous Clinton apologists into blackness.
I said, 'Of course, the most interesting figure in all of this is the one I haven't talked to yet. Maybe I should meet Vernon Crockwell before I decide what to do. I doubt he'll be forthcoming on the subject of a couple of former patients, or happy to see me at all. But I've been curious about him for years, in a macabre sort of way, and now's my chance to both satisfy that curiosity and gather information that might help me make an important decision. What do you think, Timothy? Should I talk to Crockwell?'
He said nothing, but his breathing rhythm altered perceptibly and his shriveled member, sticky against my leg, seemed to throb weakly once. I took this to be a reply in the affirmative.
How could this be? I phoned Crockwell at 9:00 A.M. and told his machine I was a private investigator looking into the death of Paul Haig and asked for a few minutes of Crockwell's time at his convenience. At 9:55 Crockwell called back and, in a tone bordering on the cordial, informed me that he was extremely busy but that he could clear out a block of time at three that afternoon if that was convenient for me. I said it was and told him I would be happy to come to his office. I was eager for a peek inside Dracula's castle.
Why was Crockwell being so accommodating? When I phoned, I was fully prepared for a long wait before my call was returned, or for the call to be ignored, or for Crockwell to call back and explode with indignation. Instead, he was helpful and businesslike. Why? There had never been charges I knew of that Crockwell's treatment program was anything but voluntary, that he lured unsuspecting homosexuals into his lair and forced them at gunpoint to feign excitement over nude photos of Ole Miss sorority aquacade contestants. So when I drove out to Crockwell's office in mid-afternoon I felt reasonably safe but still mystified.
He had a suite in a sixties-suburban business block off Western Avenue near the Stuyvesant Plaza shopping center.
His listing on the building's directory just read 'Vernon T. Crockwell, Psychologist, Suite 508.' I took the elevator up and found a door with a sign that gave Crockwell's name and said 'Enter Here.' The fluorescent-lit, windowless waiting room had a blue couch and two blue chairs with a shiny washable finish and a table stacked with old copies of People. Crockwell apparently figured there would be plenty of opportunity in the rooms beyond this one for over-stimulation.
On the wall opposite the couch, a mirror was mounted. I stood before it and carefully mouthed the words 'You're pretty fucking intrusive, Vernon,' and within seconds a door opened behind me.
'You are Donald Strachey?'
'Yes-Mr. Crockwell? Or is it Dr. Crockwell?'
'Please follow me, Donald.'
He didn't look like Bela Lugosi, but he'd never have passed for John Denver either. He was tall and fiftyish and grave, with a narrow, lined face, a beak of a proboscis, and what I sensed was a lot of muscle tension. He looked as if a good neck rub might have improved his outlook, but I didn't offer him one.
Crockwell led me on a brisk, wordless hike along a corridor past three closed doors and one that was open. I caught a glimpse of a big sunlit room with a dozen or so plastic chairs arranged in a circle. I followed him around a bend and noted that the nearly bald spot on the back of his straw-colored-turning-gray hair was bigger than mine but smaller than Timmy's. Crockwell's brown sport coat was wrinkled in the back, a sign of an important man who sat in a chair.
'Sit down, Donald,' he said in his stern, avuncular way, indicating where I should do it. Behind a broad, uncluttered fake-mahogany desk, Crockwell manhandled a black leather swivel chair into position and lowered himself into it.
The bookshelves on the wall behind him were crammed with clinical texts published by companies like Uplift House and the Yolanda Schnell Foundation for Sexual Normalcy. Leaning on one shelf was a framed degree, or diploma, with Crockwell's name on it from the North American Psychosexual Institute of Moline, Illinois.
To Crockwell's right was a window overlooking the shopping center. The window was shut, probably unopenable except with a wrecking ball, though the odor of deep-fried chicken nuggets had permeated the suite from somewhere below and hung in the still air. It seemed an unlikely atmosphere for considering people's sexual appetites, or any other kind. But that could have been the point.
'Now I want you to tell me, Donald,' Crockwell said, as if he were the school principal and I had been sent to his office, 'who it is you represent in your investigation of Paul Haig's suicide. Are you working for a member of Paul's family, Donald?'
