Compulsion (35 page)
He nodded to himself, glanced at me, then looked down at the table. "If I did get released..." he started, then stopped short.
"Go on," I encouraged him. I was glad he could at least entertain the possibility that he’d go free.
"Nothing," he said. "It’s stupid."
"Try me," I said.
He just shrugged.
"I’ve said more stupid things in my life than I can count," I assured him. "You’ll never catch up."
That got him to smile. He glanced at me again, a little longer this time. "Well, if I ever did get out of here, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go. They’d never take me back home." He cleared his throat. "Not that I’d go there, anyway."
"That can all be worked out," I said. "Between the Department of Social Services and Nantucket Family Services there are..."
What I’m getting at is... Well, maybe I could kind of crash with you a while," he said. "’Cause I think I could be different than the way I’ve been. If I had someone around I trusted. You know?" He looked at me, for my reaction.
I was slow to respond because at least half my mind was occupied with thoughts of Billy Fisk, how things might have been different for him if I’d been willing to go out on a limb.
Billy looked embarrassed. "It is a stupid idea. I mean..."
"I’d be willing to give it a try," I said.
"You would?" His voice was equal parts surprise, doubt, and relief.
"Sure," I said. "Why not? What have we got to lose?"
* * *
Billy and I said our good-byes, and I headed out of the prison. A prison guard friend of Anderson’s escorted me to a back exit so I could circle around to my car without being hounded by the media. "They’ll be waiting for you," he explained, handing over copies of the
Boston Globe
and
Boston Herald
. Both papers, apparently worried about exhausting their readers’ appetites for the Bishop family saga, had run stories about me. The headlines were typical tabloid trash: “Doc in Hostage Drama Back for Billionaire Babies” and “He Doesn’t Shrink From Murder.” The photographs of me that accompanied the articles had been shot during my testimony years ago in Trevor Lucas’s very public murder trial.
All in all, I knew the coverage wasn’t a bad thing. The media would be primed to listen to the message about Billy that Anderson and I hoped to get out. I just had to be careful to pull the trigger at the right time.
It was 4:10
A.M.
En route to home, I called the chemistry laboratory at Mass General to check on Tess’s blood work. The laboratory technician told me the toxic screen had been negative; no new substance had been found in the baby’s bloodstream. That ruled out Julia having slipped Tess anything to slow her breathing — at least anything recognizable by routine testing.
I called North Anderson next. He’d been in touch with Art Fields about the prints Leona had lifted from inside the prescription bottle. Three individuals — including Darwin Bishop — but
not
Billy Bishop — had touched the inner surface. No surprises there. "I would guess the other sets belong to Julia and maybe to the pharmacist who filled the prescription," Anderson said. "So that’s another chink in the armor of Harrigan’s case against Billy." He paused. "How did your visit go with him? They let you in, didn’t they?"
"I just finished," I said.
"How does he look to you?" Is he holding up?"
"He’s lost some weight. And he’s scared. But he hasn’t lost hope."
"Good for him," Anderson said. "He’s a tough kid, then. Did he give us anything we can use?"
"He thinks Garret may be holding something back," I said. "He wants us to ask him one more time whether he saw anything the night Brooke was killed."
"It’s going to be hard getting access to him, but we can give it a shot."
"It’s the best one we have," I said.
"You’re headed my way, then?" he asked.
"First thing."
"Call me before you leave. I’ll swing by the airport and pick you up."
"Will do."
I took the left onto Winnisimmet Street, heading to my loft. Luckily, I happened to glance down the first cross street, called Beacon. I noticed two of Darwin Bishop’s Range Rovers parked halfway down the block, engines running. That was a very bad sign. I drove past my building and saw a couple of Bishop’s men huddled in the entryway, either politely buzzing my apartment or, more likely, getting ready to jimmy the front door.
With my wound still howling at me and my gun on the coffee table five stories up, I wasn’t about to go looking for trouble. I figured I’d travel real light to Nantucket, buy myself a change of clothing on the island. I needed a new pair of jeans and a new black T-shirt, anyhow. My favorite set was bloodstained, and the T-shirt had a nasty tear across the back, to boot.
I turned up Front Street and drove straight for Logan Airport and the first Cape Air commuter flight of the morning.
* * *
Anderson picked me up at 7:30
A.M.
, an hour before his scheduled meeting with Mayor Keene. We headed over to the temporary State Police headquarters for the Bishop investigation, a specially decked out trailer that had been sited next to the Nantucket Police Station.
Brian O’Donnell greeted us cordially enough, maybe because he figured Anderson was about to be fired, anyhow.
As we walked through the strategy room, its conference table loaded with maps of the island, its walls covered with aerial photographs of the varied terrain, I managed to hold back from needling O’Donnell about the fact that Billy had apparently escaped the island before all the ATVs and choppers started scrambling through cranberry bogs and hidden forests.
Anderson showed less restraint. "Did they use infrared heat-seeking devices out there in the moors?" he asked O’Donnell.
"I believe so," O’Donnell said, without breaking stride.
"Anything turn up, a lost dog or cat, or something? That might make an interesting human interest story for New England Cable News, trigger some goodwill toward the department. You always want to have something to show for a production as expensive as what went down around here."
"We got what we were looking for," O’Donnell said, turning to smile at us for the briefest moment. "That’s all that matters."
O’Donnell’s office occupied the last third of the trailer. He took a seat behind a folding aluminum table he was using as a desk. We each took one of the plastic chairs opposite him. He laced his fingers behind his neck. "Gentlemen, how can I help you this morning?" he asked.
I got right to the point. "I’d like to interview Garret Bishop one more time," I said.
"Impossible," O’Donnell said.
"Why is that," Anderson asked.
"You already know why. The investigation is wrapped up. Garret’s given his statement. We have a suspect under arrest. Billy will be indicted by the grand jury within a day or so."
"I heard O’Donnell loud and clear.
Don’t rock the boat
. "I think Garret may be able to add critical information about what happened in the Bishop household the night Brooke died," I said.
"We have a clear picture," O’Donnell replied, with a grin. He glanced at Anderson in a way that seemed to telegraph that he had seen the photograph of him with Julia on the beach. He let his not-so-subtle double meaning sink in for a few seconds. "The picture’s been developing ever since Billy Bishop tortured his first animal. From there, he’s escalated. Breaking and entering. Destruction of property. Arson. Murder. We’ve been over this ground."
"That picture doesn’t fit with the fingerprint evidence I shared with you from the state laboratory," Anderson said.
"It doesn’t need to fit that data," O’Donnell countered. "Unless you’re a Navy Seal, you’re not going to be able to get into and out of a property with no evidence you were ever there. The important thing for Billy, given that his hands had been all over that house for years anyhow, would be to keep his prints off anything directly linked to the mayhem he committed while inside. It’s simple enough. He wore gloves. End of story."
"I don’t think you’ll get a conviction with the information you have," I said. "Garret might actually make that easier. If he tells us anything, it might cut against Billy, not for him. I have no idea."
"We’ll get a conviction," O’Donnell said. "Billy Bishop will do life. Mark my words."
"Any decent defense lawyer is going to depose me and figure out I have doubts about Billy’s guilt," I said. "The jury will hear those doubts. Let me address them now and get them out of the way."
"Mark Herman from the Public Defender’s office has been court-appointed to defend Billy," O’Donnell said. "I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you. He’s a good man. The Bishops aren't retaining private counsel."
I didn’t know Mark Herman, but O’Donnell’s tone of voice made me wonder whether it was possible Herman was in the bag, too. Maybe he wouldn’t press for an acquittal. Maybe he’d try to convince Billy to plead to a lesser offense, like second-degree murder. I exchanged a look with Anderson that conveyed my cynicism. It was obvious to me that we weren’t going to get anywhere with O’Donnell. I decided to burn the bridge. I actually have a great deal of sympathy for people like you," I said.
"Is that so, Doctor?" O’Donnell said.
"It’s harder to see a sociopath when he’s wearing a uniform," I said.
"But I know you must have gone through something terrible that ruined you. Nothing comes out of nowhere."
"I guess we’re done with our meeting," O’Donnell said.
"The only question left is what that something was," I said.
He stood up.
"What was it? What was so hurtful in your life that the badge hasn’t been enough to help you turn your hatred around?"
O’Donnell walked out of the office. "See yourselves out," he called back to us.
* * *
The rest of the day felt like running into wall after wall in an endless maze. Anderson’s meeting with Mayor Keene went down pretty much the way he thought it would. Keene handed him a copy of the photograph of him and Julia embracing by the water’s edge, then handed him a three-month suspension, without pay, for inappropriate conduct.
Anderson and I tried driving to the Bishop estate to see if we might stumble on Garret again, but were interrupted by State Police vehicles and turned back.
I called Julia Bishop at MGH to ask her to intervene and arrange a meeting with Garret, but she hung up on me before I could say three words.
Finally, I contacted Carl Rossetti to see if he could get a court order allowing Garret’s interview with Julia’s consent. He went to the trouble of finding Julia at MGH and getting her written permission, but then learned that Darwin Bishop’s team of lawyers had already gotten a preemptive order from the court prohibiting any access to Billy or Garret unless
both
parents allowed it.
I had to admit things were looking worse for Billy. It felt as if a particular version of the facts was congealing around him, casting him permanently and inescapably as the killer in a drama that would not yield, even to the truth.
North Anderson and I decided to weigh our options over coffee at Brotherhood of Thieves, a favorite haunt of his. We settled on going to the media with the information we had, hoping to bring enough facts to light that Billy would go to court still enjoying a shadow of doubt as to his guilt. If we were quickly and wildly successful getting our message out, the D.A.’s office might even start worrying about their prospects for a conviction and wait a while before asking a grand jury to indict. That would buy us more time. In any case, was almost certain Carl Rossetti would agree to represent Billy — pro bono, if necessary. The exposure would pay him back a hundred times over.
The strategy was anything but surefire. Anderson had left his badge with the mayor. That meant I was officially off the case, too. O’Donnell would probably try to paint us as exiled, disgruntled former members of his team. And that might be enough to keep our version of the evidence largely out of print and off the airwaves. These days, maverick reporters are as few and far between as maverick investment bankers.
We were waiting for the check when my cell phone rang. The number on the display was for MGH. I thought it might be Julia, apologizing for hanging up. I felt a little uncomfortable answering the call with North at the table, but I didn’t want to miss any important news.
Anderson intuited the reason I was hesitating. No doubt Julia was still on his mind a good deal of the time. "If it’s her, go ahead," he said. "I’ll take a walk, if you want."
"Stay." I picked up. "Frank," I said.
"Frank, it’s John." John Karlstein. His voice sounded more solemn than I’d ever heard it.
The background in the restaurant seemed to disappear. I cold feel, even hear, my galloping heart. Tess was dead, I told myself. I stared at North Anderson, not looking at him as much as looking
for
him. For more ballast. I felt I had sailed too far into the storm. After bearing witness to Trevor Lucas’s butchery, I had barely pieced my psyche back together. Failing to prevent the murder of Julia’s baby felt like it might snap the mast of my life once and for all, leaving me adrift forever. That had always been the risk in taking this case. I had spoken the fear to Justine Franza, the Brazilian journalist I’d met at Café Positano, who had seen so much beauty in my Bradford Johnson painting of men from one ship trying to save another at risk.
What if both ships end up sinking?
Anderson gave me a reassuring nod of his head.
"You there, Frank?" Karlstein asked.
When people use your name while talking to you — especially when they use it two times in as many sentences — it is because they feel the need to reach out to you, to take care of you. "Bad news," I said.
