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

"Oh, that's right. I guess it would be hard to shoot yourself more than one time. I shouldn't have stumbled on that one. Me, who never misses Murder, She Wrote."

"Did Paul shoot himself?" Monroe asked.

"No," Tidlow said, "that was pills and liquor, like Marilyn."

I nearly asked if Marilyn was another acquaintance of theirs who had died, but caught myself. Tidlow was a balding, pleasant-faced, pale-skinned man who worked as a bookkeeper for the company that owned the Millpond Mall. He said he'd seen Bierly at the mall occasionally—as he had Paul Haig when he was alive—but hadn't spoken with him in recent weeks and had left the mall at eight p.m. on the previous night, three hours before Bierly had been shot.

Monroe was a balding, pleasant-faced black man who was a bookkeeper for the state tax department. He wore a tartan-plaid necktie and matching socks. He told me he was originally from Rome, New York, where he was named after his mother's favorite pop singer, Vaughn Monroe.

Tidlow was due at the mall at two and Monroe was on his lunch break, so I tried to move the conversation along. "Were both of you there the day last year when Paul and Larry left the therapy group?"

"Who told you LeVon and I were in that program, if you don't mind my asking?" Tidlow said.

"Larry did. I spoke with Vernon Crockwell, but he would never mention any names, if that's what you're worried about," I said.

They glanced at each other. Monroe said, "No member of the group was ever supposed to reveal to outsiders who the other group members were. It was strictly confidential. But I must say it's entirely agreeable to make an exception in your case." He gave me a sly look and winked.

"The thing of it is," Tidlow said, "we heard something about you." He gave me a sly look and winked too, and I gave them both a sly look and winked back at each of them.

"When you called," Tidlow said, more at ease now, "you said you were investigating Paul Haig dying, but you didn't say who was employing you to do this." They both looked at me with curiosity, and I saw some older, wiser version of myself looking at me with curiosity too.

I said, "I am not able to reveal to you at this point in time exactly who my client is. But I can tell you that a number of

people connected with Paul Haig consider his death suspicious. That's why I'm interested in the last therapy session that Paul and Larry took part in."

"Suspicious in what way?" Monroe said, buttered cracker poised in midair. "You mean perhaps it wasn't suicide?"

"Despite the official verdict, there's a question in some people's minds."

"Golly," Monroe said.

Tidlow said, "This is the first time I heard about that. My word."

"Paul was always a pretty unhappy camper," Monroe said. "So when I heard he committed suicide I wasn't all that shocked. Now somebody thinks—what? He was murdered?"

"Yes."

"My heavens," Tidlow said.

I said, "That's why I'd like to get your take on that last therapy session they participated in. I understand some remarks were made that some of those present regarded as threats."

"They do? Why?" Monroe asked. They both looked confused.

Tidlow said, "Whose opinion is that?"

I said, "Didn't Crockwell kind of lose it at that session? That's one account I've heard. Crockwell told Haig he'd regret leaving therapy and he'd upset his mother, and then Haig warned Crockwell not to bring his mother into it or Crockwell would be sorry, and then Crockwell said if Haig tried anything funny Crockwell would stop him dead in his tracks. Do you remember it any differently?"

Tidlow said, "That sounds right, but there was more to it. Later on, Dr. Crockwell said he was simply using a therapeutic technique to get Paul to bring his feelings out so he could talk about them, and he apologized to the other members of the group for pretending to lose his temper."

"I see. And did this explanation and apology come before or after Paul and Larry left the room?"

"It was afterwards," Monroe said. "I know because I think it was I who asked Dr. Crockwell if he was going to call up Larry

and Paul, if they really didn't come back, and apologize to them."

"What did he say?"

"He said he sure would."

I said, "Crockwell was quite the manipulative fellow."

"Oh, he took the cake when it came to manipulation," Tidlow said. "But does somebody think he killed Paul? That sounds far-out."

Monroe said, "Dr. Crockwell didn't need to kill anybody in the group. He was already cutting off their whoosy-whatsis, figuratively speaking. That seemed to be good enough for him." Tidlow nodded sagely in agreement, and I did too.

I said, "You both seem to have come out of therapy with a low opinion of Vernon Crockwell. Would you care to say more on the subject?"

"To be perfectly frank," Tidlow said, "LeVon and I are both of the opinion that Dr. Crockwell is either deeply misguided or even, conceivably, a fake."

"In addition to being some kind of depraved sadist, like a monster in a Stephen King novel," Monroe said. "Let's not forget that."

I said, "But you stayed in therapy with him anyway? Or did you come to these negative conclusions later on, after the course of therapy ended?"

Tidlow said, "I stayed because my mother paid the eighty-two hundred dollars for the program in advance, and because I met LeVon there and I wanted to keep him company. I faked it, even went to all the 'private sessions'—that was Crockwell's euphemisms for the zap routines—and even managed to get a boner, if you'll excuse the expression, looking at pictures of Playboy bunnies. Even though I had to rub my weenie raw to do it. Does that answer your question?"

"That's vivid enough. What about you, LeVon? How come you stayed?"

"To prove to my ex-wife that it wouldn't help. That I was gay and nothing could be done about it. And the same goes for me—

I could get through it because Walter was there. We figured if we could survive Vernon Crockwell together, we could survive anything."

They both grinned at me across their empty soup bowls.

I said, "I guess that wasn't the effect Crockwell was after."

They chuckled. Monroe said. "On our twenty-fifth anniversary we're going to have a big dinner at the Luau Hale over in Pittsfield, where Walter's from, and make sure Crockwell is invited."

"You two seem to be as comfy and well-adjusted as most of the gay men I know," I said. "I don't suppose the same could be said of the other members of the therapy group."

"Are you going to talk to them too?" Tidlow asked.

I said yes.

"Then you'll see for yourself. Some are compos mentis, and a couple of them are the most addlebrained people you'll ever meet in your life."

"Which ones are which?" I asked.

"Gene and Grey are compos," Monroe said, "but Roland and Dean are out in la-la land."

"Would you say either Roland or Dean is dangerously demented?"

Tidlow said, "I'd say they might be dangerous, wouldn't you, LeVon?"

"Oh, my, yes."

I said, "Both of them?" They nodded emphatically. "What makes you think they might be dangerous?"

"Well," Tidlow said, "Roland believes that homosexuals who don't repent should either be stoned to death or thrown over a cliff. And Dean thinks they should be locked up in state mental hospitals. I'd say that makes them rather dangerous."