A Shock to the System - Stevenson Richard (чтение книг TXT) 📗

Finnerty's reticence was in some ways refreshing after Bowman, whose mouth was a running sewer. But it made it hard to get any information out of Finnerty at all. His saving grace, however, was this: he was lazy. And it was possible to obtain information, occasionally even assistance, from him if he could be convinced that his cooperation with a private investigator—even a "controversial" one, as he liked to call me—might reduce his workload by an iota.

"I'd like to help you out, Strachey," Finnerty said at 8:03 Friday morning, "but I don't know much about Paul Haig's death, and I

haven't had an opportunity, really, to give it a great deal of thought."

We were in his office overlooking Arch Street and the old South End, urban-renewed into oblivion in the sixties by Nelson "the Visigoth of Tarrytown" Rockefeller and only just beginning to recover. Finnerty's coffee mug was a plastic job from a chain donut shop, whose logo, facing me, was as close to an open display as Finnerty would ever risk. His most naturally forthright disclosure was a product placement. He sat across from me, his doughy face devoid of interest or curiosity. I was somebody to put up with for a time, and then I'd go away, and that was fine— unless a way somehow emerged for me to do Finnerty's job for him.

I said, "What about the coroner's report, Al? The conclusions are all public information anyway. How about saving me a trip over there?"

"Glad to help you out, Strachey. It was suicide. Suicide was the ruling. The coroner is experienced in these drug-and-alcohol fatals, so I'd be inclined to go along with his judgment on that. Coroner Bryerton is an old hand at these tragedies."

"Then why did you have Vernon Crockwell in here yesterday badgering him about where he was on the night of Paul Haig's death? Do you think Haig's 'suicide,' as you're calling it, was medically assisted, or what?"

Finnerty did not exclaim over this, but he did betray what might have been thought with a barely discernible dilation of his left pupil. "Is Crockwell your client?" he said.

"I can't tell you who my client is. But I saw Crockwell yesterday and he told me about the anonymous letter and the tape full of threats, so-called, and your pestering him for an alibi, one of which he hasn't got."

"Our interview with Crockwell was routine," Finnerty said. "When an accusation of homicide is made, we check it out."

"And?"

"And we did."

"And you still think Haig's death was suicide?"

"Maybe."

"Uh-huh."

He looked at me and I could see through his eyes and into his brain, which was weighing whether, if he opened up a little with me, I might make his life harder or easier.

Finnerty said, "Crockwell doesn't look like a killer to me. He's a doctor and a very conservative man."

"Sure," I said. "A member of the nonhomicidal classes."

"Anyhow, Strachey, the coroner's verdict is in. A determination of suicide in the death of Paul Haig has been duly rendered. That's official."

"Yes, but is it correct? I think that's what we ought to be talking about here, Al, what with your dragging citizens in off the street for close perusal. Even if they are citizens like—especially if they are citizens like Vernon T. Crockwell, famous local psychologist."

His brain was squirming in its little cavity, but he said—mumbled really—"I will tell you this, Strachey: that there was something funny about the circumstances surrounding Paul Haig's death."

"Such as."

"The officer who was first on the scene reported it—mentioned it to me later, is what I should say."

"What was that, Al?"

He said, "The pill canister containing the Elavil that was mixed with alcohol, and that killed Haig, had its childproof lid back on and tightly attached and put back on Haig's bathroom sink. But the pathologist determined that Haig was already very drunk when he consumed the pills that turned out to be fatal. If that's so, then how did a drunk replace the childproof cap on the canister and put it back in its place? Getting one of those caps back on when you're stone cold sober is hard enough. Do you follow me, Strachey?"

"Yes, I do."

"It might be nothing, it might be something. But it's interesting."

"It sounds like something to me, Al. So, how come the coro-

ner's verdict was suicide, what with this question unresolved?"

"The coroner didn't know about the pill canister," Finnerty muttered. "It wasn't in the detective's written report because he didn't put it in."

"A serious error."

"No, just a breakdown in communications. It happens, Strachey. To err is human. We all make mistakes. The situation now, however, is this: if I reopen the case and go charging away, I make either the department or the coroner look incompetent. There's not a chance in hell I'll do either, which I'm sure you can appreciate. But of course if you happen to make the coroner look stupid—hey. You're just that fag detective that I can't control, what with the Constitution and all that. Are you still with me, Strachey?"

I said, "Sure. I do your job for you, including taking all the risks, physical and financial, and then you call me names in public. It's irresistible. Count me in."

He nodded. "You're not recording this, are you?"

"I wish I were."

"No, I don't think you do."

"Al, I'll take your word for what I wish or don't wish. Does anybody else besides me outside the department know about this snafu?"

"No. And if I read this in the Times Union tomorrow morning, you can kiss Albany goodbye, U.S. Constitution or no U.S. Constitution."

"That's fair enough. You questioned Crockwell, Al, but I understand that Phyllis Haig, Paul's mother, has her own suspicions about her son's death, but she doesn't think it was Crockwell who did it. She's landed on Larry Bierly, Paul's old boyfriend. I guess she came in here hyperventilating, and then you went chasing after Bierly too, huh? To ask him where he was on the night of Haig's death."

"Again, routine."

"And Bierly had an alibi and it checked out?"

"Yes, it did. He seems to be in the clear. Is Bierly your client?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, Al."

"Or is it Mrs. Haig? Or even Crockwell? Not that I could imagine him hiring an avowed homosexual."

"I can't say. You know how PI clients like their privacy. Anyway, lots of people hire homosexuals. If we all suddenly quit our jobs and emigrated to Norway, every business and occupational pursuit in the nation would be utterly decimated, except for nerve-gas manufacturing and chain-restaurant interior design. But I see your point. I can't tell you if Crockwell is or isn't my client, but I can say that I have spoken with him and I have his permission to hear the tape you received anonymously in the mail."

Finnerty said, "That tape is not Vernon Crockwell's property. His voice is on it, but the tape is the property of the Albany Police Department."

I hoped that was all pro forma bluster. I said, "Do you want me to sign something? Slip you a fifty? What's this about? You said you could use a little help on this and I'm willing to provide it. All I ask is discreet access to whatever you've got that's pertinent. Is that unreasonable?"

"We'll get to that," he said, and he looked suddenly somber, almost intelligent. "Strachey, when did you last see Larry Bierly?"