be interpreted as angry. Or perhaps even threatening.'
'I thought you said your words and tone were always professional and controlled.'
'Of course, absolutely. But on this one occasion, particular things I said could conceivably be misconstrued by the lay observer.'
'Or by a jury, I suppose.'
He didn't like the sound of that and came out with a little 'Oh.'
'Did they play the tape for you, Vernon?'
'Yes.'
'Who made the recording? Did you, Vernon?'
'Oh, no, no, Donald. That would be unethical without first obtaining the permission of the patients. No, the recording must have been secretly made by one of the members of the therapy group.'
'Uh-huh. Maybe one of the members whose opinion of your ideas and methods fell off at some point. Were there others in the group besides Paul Haig and Larry Bierly who ended up considering you a demented crackpot?'
With effort-I could all but hear his sphincter grinding-he said, 'I wouldn't know. All the members of that group have moved on. I haven't been in touch with any of them. It's always possible one or two of the ten men in the group were insufficiently motivated and later slipped back to their unnatural ways. And instead of blaming themselves, they blamed me. That can happen.'
'I'll bet it does. Did the cops give you a copy of the tape?'
'No.'
'Did they ask you for an alibi for the night Paul died?'
He loosened up just enough to slump in his seat. 'Yes, they did.'
'Did you have one?'
'No.'
'Too bad.'
'I'm here alone Thursday nights, Donald, often until after midnight. I go over my notes of the past week and transfer them into my computer. Those solitary Thursday nights in this office are extremely valuable to me and I protect them-cherish them, I can say. So regrettably I have no alibi for the night of Paul's death.'
'Well, what the cops have is little to go on. Unless something more solid turns up, it's not at all likely they'll charge you with anything, Vernon. They're just fishing around. So, did you kill Paul Haig?'
He slumped some more and said quietly, 'Of course not.' Then, the strain of it all showing again, he gave me a funny, embarrassed look and said, with obvious effort, 'My attorney, Norris Jackacky, tells me that you are quite capable, Donald.'
'Thank you.'
'Although a police investigation would end up clearing me of any role in Paul Haig's death-if word went around that I was even a suspect in a former patient's murder, the harm to my reputation would be incalculable. Faith and confidence are the coin of the realm for a psychotherapist.'
'Oh, I thought it was seventy-five or a hundred or a hundred and fifty dollars an hour.'
'You're being facetious and I'm sure you know what I'm saying, Donald. If doubts about my character circulate, my effectiveness could be compromised, even wiped out. And my wife, my family-we could be ruined! I can't let that happen.' He looked at me grimly, and before he said it, I heard it coming. 'If your other client decides not to pursue the investigation of Paul Haig's death, Donald, I would like to retain you to carry on the investigation on my behalf. I can pay you whatever the other client would have paid, or more if that's necessary. It may feel somewhat odd to you to be working for me. But the arrangement would be independent of our positions on sexual and other matters. It would be purely professional-a business transaction, much as either of us might conduct with an accountant or a dry-cleaning establishment.'
Crockwell reached down to where his hand had been earlier, but instead of coming up with a pistol or a rubber ducky, he produced a checkbook. end user
5
I 'm amazed you actually met with Crockwell,' Timmy said. 'Wasn't that premature?'
'You thought it was a good idea last night.'
'I did?'
'You were a little groggy.'
We were at the dining-room table at the house on Crow Street. He'd brought home a Vieille Ferme 1991 and had grilled a nice slab of bluefish, and I was responsible for the salad and the Tater Tots.
'You aren't actually considering taking that madman's money, are you? You've had some reprehensible clients over the years, but surely Crockwell is beyond the pale.'
'I'm not going to take anybody's money until I've got a clearer picture of what the possibilities are in this. For one thing, I want to talk to the cops and see what they've got. Phyllis Haig, Larry Bierly, and Crockwell have all fed me stories that have their dubious aspects. I'm especially mystified over conflicting accounts of threats that Bierly and/or Haig may have made against Crockwell, and vice versa, and a possible assault by Bierly on Crockwell. In those areas, all three of them are antsy and unconvincing.'
'Maybe the tape will clear some of that up. Will the cops let you hear it?'
'They will if they think I can be helpful. Otherwise they'll poke me in both eyes with sticks and leave me standing in the middle of Washington Avenue during the morning rush.'
'You've survived worse from the Albany Police Department.'
'I have to admit I'd love to take Crockwell's money, but I'd also like to see him put out of business. And if a homicide charge, however false, accomplished that-hey, it must all be part of a larger plan. Let his missus, who's a Sunday-school teacher in Loudonville, he says, till the Crockwell fields for a year or two while he goes somewhere and gets deprogrammed.'
Timmy gave me his never-entered-the-priesthood-but-still-a-Jesuit-at-heart look. 'I don't think you mean that.'
'Of course I do.'
'Don, Crockwell is a dangerous quack and should be exposed as such. And an enlightened public should scorn and discredit him and make it clear to one and all he's bad, not good, for the health of anybody's mind and soul. And I certainly hope that you don't accept a nickel of his soiled pelf. But being wrongly accused of taking a life is a fate nobody deserves.'
'Look, if he didn't do it, the chances are slight that he'd actually be convicted and sentenced and hung by his thumbs.'
'Sure, slight.'
'Timothy, if there is any such thing as evil in what passes for the civilized world, this guy represents it. He's a kind of Men-gele's-pale-shadow for the nineties, performing weird experiments on people's sexuality for the sake of an ancient, barbaric prejudice. Should fate suddenly turn around and perform a weird experiment on Vernon Crockwell's reputation-well, it's all in the game.'
'Are you really talking about fate, or fate with a little nudge from you?'
'I'll just follow the question where it leads. You know me. Pass the Tots, please.'
'Yes, that is the way you operate, usually. And it's one of the things I most admire about you, when I do.' He passed the mooshed-potato balls. 'How does Crockwell do whatever it is he does to his clients? Is it the talking cure, or aversion therapy, or what?'
'I didn't ask and I'm not sure I want to know. Group therapy is part of it-I've got a list of the eight other men in Haig's and Bierly's group-but I got the impression from Bierly there's more to it than that. Crockwell's suite had one big conference-type room that I saw. There were a number of closed doors, too, but I don't know who or what was lurking behind them.'
'Crockwell gave you a list of his clients? Isn't that unethicalor even illegal?'
'He couldn't, he said, even though he's convinced, probably rightly, that someone in the group is out to get
