Текст книги "A Shock to the System "

Автор книги: Richard Stevenson

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I said, "Vernon, one of the people I've spoken with about Paul Haig is Larry Bierly. You remember Larry, of course."

He blinked and his face both tightened and colored. "Yes, I remember Larry Bierly all too well."

"He told me that when he and Paul became lovers and left your group together, you blew up. He said you ranted and carried on and screamed that they would be very sorry for leaving and for disrupting the group. Does any of that ring a bell?"

Now Crockwell was blushing—blushing—just as Bierly had. Looking as if he were trying not to break into a stammer, or get up and rush from the room, Crockwell said, "That is a gross exaggeration, Donald—a serious, serious exaggeration of what actually transpired. Did I try to impress on Paul and Larry that they were making a terrible mistake? Of course I did. Did I lose control and act in an unprofessional manner? Absolutely not." Now his face was as red as a new Miata.

I said, "Vernon, did Larry Bierly ever threaten you in any way? Or attack you?"

Most of the blood in his body now seemed to have surged up and pushed against the front of his face. He said, "Oh, no. No attack, and no threat that I can recall."

"Bierly never threatened to kill you?"

"I'm sure I would remember if he had done that, Donald. I would have notified the police, in fact. Tell me, is it Larry Bierly who hired you to investigate Paul's death?" His breathing was shallow now, but I had no intention of performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on Crockwell. Let him die.

I said, "My client wishes to remain anonymous for now. I can neither confirm nor deny that it's Larry Bierly, or that it's anyone else, or that it's not anyone else. Sorry."

"But you're going to pursue the killer?" He brought both hands up on the desk now and folded them tightly in front of him. His respiration was still poor, and his knuckles were as white as his face was red. Not good.

"To tell you the truth, Vernon, I'm not sure that I am going to do that. I'm making some preliminary inquiries and then I'll decide if I think it's worth my client's money for me to keep spending it by digging into this. Say, did you say 'killer'? Did you ask me if I was going to pursue Paul Haig's 'killer'?"

"Why, yes."

"So you don't think Paul committed suicide? Or that his death was accidental either?"

He tensed up even more. "I—I don't know. But this seems to be a theory that's going around. That Paul Haig was murdered."

"What do you mean by 'going around'? Are you saying you heard it before I walked in here today?"

"Yes," he mumbled, and nodded once.

"Who from?"

"The Albany Police Department." Now sweat broke out around his eye sockets.

"When?" I asked.

"Yesterday. They asked me to come to their office at Division Two. There was a Detective Finnerty and a Detective Colson. They—I have to tell you, it's very difficult for me to admit this, Donald—but they seemed to think Paul Haig might have been murdered. And, they seemed to think that I might have done it. They were not explicit, but the implications were clear."

"Where did they get an idea like that?"

"Someone had sent them an anonymous letter suggesting that I killed Paul. The letter was accompanied by a tape cassette of part of a therapy session of the group Paul was in. On the tape, I made some comments that could 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.

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 unethical– or even illegal?"

"He couldn't, he said, even though he's convinced, probably rightly, that someone in the group is out to get him—nail him as a murderer, whether he is one or not. At my suggestion, though, Crockwell was willing to sit quietly and examine his white knuckles while I phoned Larry Bierly, who was happy to provide me with the names and biographical sketches of each of the group members. Two others besides Haig are dead, it turns out—a double-suicide leap from the Patroon Bridge in February that was witnessed by six motorists and doesn't look suspicious, just sickening. It sounds like a kind of indirect murder. Anyway, Bierly said that all or most of the seven surviving group members probably considered Crockwell capable of actual murder and would be willing to testify to that effect, giving examples of his behavior that led them to this harsh opinion."

"I remember reading about the bridge suicide. What a horror Crockwell is—true-believerism at its most destructive."

"Crockwell, of course, affects the stance that all the group members except two adored him. And since Paul Haig is dead, Bierly is his prime suspect for secretly taping a therapy session and sending the tape to the cops. It was funny, though. I had to drag it out of Crockwell that Bierly was logically the culprit if the others in the therapy group were Crockwell's diehard fans. He gets very uncomfortable when Bierly's name comes up and seems to hate to have to think about him at all."

"Did you tell Crockwell that Bierly is trying to hire you to pin the supposed murder on Crockwell?"

"That didn't come up, no. Nor did I tell Crockwell that Phyllis Haig wants to hire me to pin the supposed murder on Bierly."

"This is getting complicated, Donald. What if this entire crew is

nothing more than an extended nest of paranoiacs and revenge seekers? Can you afford to spend a lot of time mucking about in this with no payoff either in the form of justice or cash?"

"Somebody will pay me—there's no reason to be concerned about that. Offers keep pouring in. It wouldn't surprise me if Jerry Falwell called up and wanted me to verify that on the night he died Paul Haig was seen leaving the Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge on Route 9W with Hillary Clinton. If I can show that Haig wasn't murdered, Crockwell can pay me. If I can show that Haig was murdered and Crockwell did it, Bierly can pay me. If I show that Haig was murdered and Bierly did it, then Phyllis Haig can pay me. As I see it, it's a no-lose situation."

Bypassing the jar of tartar sauce I'd brought out to improve the Taters, Timmy squeezed some more lemon on his remaining savories and said, "With the people you've described to me who are involved in this, Don, a no-lose situation sounds out of the question. I've got a feeling about all of this that's not good."

"I'll just have to be at my nimblest," I said. "Like this—"and proceeded to juggle three Tater Tots, Barnum & Bailey-style, until two landed in my lap and one in Timmy's wineglass.

6

Mum, poker-faced Detective Lieutenant Al Finnerty had taken over the APD homicide unit after longtime head Ned Bowman's surprise early retirement and relocation to semirural Tennessee. This followed an incident at a Democratic Party hotel-ballroom fundraiser where Bowman's presumably speculative but overly jocular description of the mayor's mistress's genitalia was overheard by His Honor, who had stepped behind a column momentarily to zip up his fly.

And just as Bowman had been one of the public loudmouths of Albany, always ready with a crude opinion or a piece of nasty advice for citizens who fit into categories he didn't like—"fairies" headed his long list—Finnerty was one of the city's officers who was almost pathologically closemouthed. He had learned too well that whatever his views on public or private matters, large or small, the nineties comprised a decade for never, ever expressing any of them.

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?"

"Wednesday night, out at Millpond. We shared a pizza over his dinner break. Why?"

"You haven't been in touch with him since then?"

"I spoke with him briefly on the phone yesterday afternoon. Why do you ask? Have you been in touch with him?"

"In a manner of speaking, I have."

"Uh-huh."

His eyes narrowed and he said, "I guess you really don't know. Around eleven o'clock last night someone shot Larry Bierly in the Millpond Mall parking lot."

"Oh, hell."

"He's in serious but not critical condition over at Albany Med

with gunshot wounds to the chest and neck. Didn't you hear the news this morning?"

"I listen to public radio. WAMC would only report a shooting if it took place on the floor of the legislature or in a box seat at Tanglewood. Just how serious are Bierly's wounds?"

"He's in no real danger. He was lucky, and the last I knew they were saying he'd recover completely."

"Is he conscious?"

"Not yet, so far as I know. Bierly had surgery at midnight. Guy Colson's over there now to see if he can get a statement."

"Is anybody in custody?"

"Not yet. We're checking our snitches, but this doesn't look like robbery—Bierly's watch was on him when he was found, and his wallet with eighty dollars in it. Another mall employee, a waitress at Scarf-It-Up, finished her shift at eleven and went out to her car in the lot designated for employee parking. She found Bierly wounded and unconscious next to his car, with his keys on the tarmac beside him. The EMT crew was on the scene within six minutes. Their best guess is, Bierly had been shot within fifteen minutes of when they got there. Unfortunately, no witness has come forward. It's pretty quiet out there at that time of night. We do have a couple of people who were coming out of the cinemas on the other side of the mall around ten till eleven, and they think they heard shots, but now they aren't sure if the shots they heard were outside the mall or in the movie they'd just seen. They said it had a lot of shooting and explosions. That's as much as I can tell you for now, Strachey, because that's as much as I know."

I said, "This is bad."

"But the question now is, Strachey, do I know as much as you know about this incident?"

"Come again?"

"What's your connection with Bierly? If he's not your client, is he a friend of yours?"

"Al, I can't say, one way or the other, whether Larry Bierly is or is not my client. I can tell you that he is an acquaintance."

Finnerty let something he may have meant as a human expression form on his face. He said, "Boyfriend?"

"No, I have one at home."

"I mean on the side."

"Oh, I see what you mean. No, not that either. Do you have a woman you see on the side, Al? You're married, aren't you?"

"This is not about me, Strachey," he said, and blushed.

I said, "This is not about me either, Al. Mainly it's about Paul Haig, and now it looks as if it may be very much about Larry Bierly too. Look, if I'm going to perform the work Albany's taxpayers are paying you to perform, I'll have to have something more to work with. First, I need to see the letter you received accusing Vernon Crockwell of murder, and I need to hear the tape that came with it."

"I could arrange that if I wanted to," he said inanely.

I asked, "Is Crockwell a suspect in Bierly's shooting?"

"Like I told you, Strachey, we have no suspect in the shooting."

"Last night was Thursday night. That's Crockwell's no-alibi night. Have you talked to him?"

"I'm seeing him in an hour. You said you talked to Crockwell yesterday yourself. Did you tell him that Bierly was trying to hang a murder rap on him?"

"I didn't mention it, no."

"What did you tell him?"

"That I thought he was a crackpot, that he ought to be tarred and feathered by the mental health profession, stuff like that. I was there solely to ask him questions about Paul Haig."

"I guess you think Larry Bierly's shooting is connected in some way to Paul Haig's death. Am I right about that?"

"It's hard to say, Al, for now. Let me see the letter and hear the tape, and then I can start clearing this case for you—or cases, as the case may be."

Two for the price of one, he must have been thinking, the price of one being zip. Without speaking he got up and left the room. I watched the motor traffic on Arch Street and the pedestrians

strolling to work or school under a spring sun that smiled down on all the people.

Finnerty came back with a sheet of paper and a cassette player and placed these on the desk in front of me. Then he left the room without a word, closing the door behind him.

7

The paper appeared to be a photocopy of the original. It looked like a computer printout, with no date and no return address. It read:

To the Albany Police Dept. Homicide Division: Paul Haig died on March 17th. Verdict, suicide. Wrong. Ask Vernon Crockwell, the so-called psychologist, where he was that night. Crockwell had his reasons for shutting Haig up. Play this tape. Vernon Crockwell has gotten away with murder, so far. Justice demands that you look into this. Let justice be done.

There was no signature. Was this Larry Bierly's voice? It sounded more like Phyllis Haig's voice than Bierly's. But she thought Bierly, not Crockwell, was responsible for her son's death, and she wouldn't have been siccing the cops on Crockwell.

I pressed start on the cassette player. The sound quality was poor, the voices distant and tinny, but the words were discernible. I got out my pad and made notes while the tape played:

"Now, Larry, it is customary to discuss the reasons when making a decision to terminate therapy." This was obviously Crockwell, Mr. Unctuouser-Than-Thou. "I think you'll agree that you owe it both to the group and to yourself to present your reasons for termination and see if we all think it is wise. How do you feel about that?"

"You mean if you think it is wise." I recognized Bierly's voice. "Don't give me that what-the-group-thinks shit, Crockwell—it's always been what you think and it always will be."

A voice I didn't know said, "Now, Larry, all Dr. Crockwell meant was—"

"All he meant"—this was Bierly again—"was that you're a bunch of sick fucks, and sick fucks like you had better do what the doctor says. But you're not sick and I'm not sick, and the only thing that's sick is all of us deluding ourselves and coming here every week and trying to turn ourselves into people we're not. We're not straight, we're gay. That's all there is to it. And it's not because our fathers weren't affectionate with us or some crazy shit like that. We've been over and over that. Hardly any American fathers are affectionate enough with their sons, but it doesn't make them homosexual, for God's sake. Nobody knows why we're gay. We're all different and we all come from different kinds of families—"

"That's not true!" Another new voice. "The patterns are obvious. If my parents had—"

"Hey, Lar, don't you remember why you joined the group?" Yet another voice I hadn't heard. "Don't you remember how all alone you felt after you did it with another guy? How you always hated yourself in the morning? Do you want to go back to that kind of life?"

"But, Gene, I know now that that's not the only choice—"

"Perhaps," Crockwell said, "we should hear from Paul. I know that you and Larry have become good pals, Paul. What do you think of Larry's decision to close off therapy and terminate his relationship with the group?"

Now came a long pause filled with scratchy electronic presence but no words. Then a quiet voice that must have been Paul Haig's said, "I'm leaving too."

A stir now, with murmurings that were indistinct except for one clear "Oh no" and a loud "Oh my Lord Jesus!"

Then a brief silence, followed by Crockwell's "I can hardly believe my ears—that you would even consider disappointing

the group by doing such a thing, Paul. Or disappointing your mother."

"He's not just leaving," Bierly said. "Paul is leaving with me. Paul and I have been dating each other for some time now. We love each other deeply and we are going to have a life together. It's—it's great what we have—security and peacefulness. The one really good thing about this group is, it brought Paul and me together. We became friends and then lovers—well, to be honest, we became secret fuck buddies, and then friends, and then lovers. And now we're going to be—life partners, and neither of us have ever been happier in our lives, or ever imagined that we could be this happy and fulfilled."