“Out!”
His voice is like a crack of thunder in the humid house. I quickly leave the card, drop the towel on the nearest chair, and get moving. I reach the door and grab the handle, turn back for one more try. “I really think there’s been a mist—”
“Get out of my house!” Bleeker bellows. “Get out or I’m calling the police!”
You don’t have to tell me twice. Or three times. I’m out the door, and I leave it swinging in the breeze. I take the wet steps carefully, trying not to slip, and I’m about to cross the lawn to my car when I’m captured by bright lights.
I stop abruptly and put my hand in the air.
“Hey!” It’s a younger man’s voice. I can hear an engine. Someone has just pulled into the driveway, but I can’t see past the blinding lights. A door slams. There’s a flash of a silhouette and footfalls approaching fast.
My heart leaps into my throat and I rush for my car.
But I don’t make it. The man grabs me, and I scream.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
POLICE REPORT
INVESTIGATORS R. MOONEY and S. STARZYK
WITNESS INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT (PARTIAL): THOMAS BRADLEY BISHOP
APRIL 29
Mooney: And then what did you see? You snuck out of your room to— Tom: I heard bad fighting.
Mooney: Right. Yes. Did you go to the kitchen? Is that where the fighting sounds were coming from?
[Silence.]
Planski: Go ahead, honey.
Tom: It was coming from different places.
Mooney: The fighting?
[Silence.]
Mooney: You can’t nod, okay, Tommy? We need you to say “yes.”
Tom: Yes.
Mooney: Do you mean you think there were multiple people? Tom? Do you think more than one person was fighting with your dad?
[Silence.]
Mooney: Did you see them? Tom, it’s very important . . . Did you see who was fighting with your dad?
[Silence.]
Mooney: For the tape, the witness has indicated in the negative. Okay, Tom . . . So then what happened? Try to tell me. You left your room when you heard the fighting. Right? Where did you go first?
Tom: I don’t remember.
Mooney: You don’t rem—
Tom: The stairs.
Mooney: You went to the stairs?
Tom: The top of the stairs. I can look down from the top of the stairs.
Mooney: You’re talking about the stairs that come down from your bedroom, right? They go into the kitchen?
Tom: They have all the clocks. All the clocks are on the stairs.
Mooney: Right . . . hanging on the wall going down the stairs. Your dad liked clocks?
Tom: My mom does.
Mooney: Oh, your mom. Okay. So from the stairs, you can see the clocks. And also, a little bit, the open doorway into the kitchen. Isn’t that right?
Tom: Uh-huh.
Mooney: Did you see anything? Did you go the rest of the— Tom: I went the rest of the way down. I was quiet.
Mooney: Yeah, you were kind of sneaking?
Tom: Yeah.
Mooney: And then what happened? I know we’ve done this a couple of times already. And now it’s been a while. But it’s very important — it’s so important, Tom — that we know what happened to your daddy. He would want you to— Planski: Investigator Mooney, if you could please stick to the line of questioning.
Mooney: I just need you to tell me what you remember, as best as you can. Okay?
[Silence.]
Tom: I sat on the stairs. It sounded like people were fighting all over. And I looked into the kitchen but didn’t see anyone. Then I came all the way down the stairs. Everything got quiet. But I . . . And then I . . .
[Indistinguishable noises.]
Planski: It’s okay, Tom. Here, I have some Kleenex somewhere . . . All right, I think we’re going to have to— Mooney: What, Tom? And then you what?
Tom: I don’t know. My mom . . .
Mooney: What about your mom?
Planski: I’m going to ask that we end this interview. Tom is clearly upset.
Mooney: Okay, okay. I know. You’re right. But he’s . . . It’s right there. Tom? Did you see who hurt your father?
Tom: He was on the ground. Like he was sleeping. But there was blood everywhere.
Planski: Detective Mooney? I’m asking—
Mooney: And your mother?
Tom: Holding him. Like he was a baby.
Mooney: Oh, Christ. Tom, I’m sorry, Tom. Don’t you have any more of those tissues?
Planski: Okay. Okay, that’s it. Officer Mooney? That’s it.
Mooney: I’m sorry — okay. Tom . . . it’s okay, Tom . . .
*
ACCOMPANYING MEMO TO DISTRICT ATTORNEY’S OFFICE
INVESTIGATOR R. MOONEY
APRIL 29
It is the opinion of this investigator that either the witness, Thomas Bishop, is afraid to express what he saw in the final moments of his father’s life or, having seen something particularly upsetting, he’s blocked it out. It is my strong recommendation, in light of this, that we hire an outside counselor or therapist to evaluate Tom. Perhaps work with him to unearth any repressed memories. As our only witness to the murder of David Bishop, Tom is critical to the prosecution.
Signed,
Rebecca Mooney
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When the man grabs me, I go for my pepper spray — but of course I don’t have it. I haven’t carried it since my days attending college in the city, decades ago. Instead, I wrench free of his grip and keep going for my car.
The rain has slowed but the front lawn is soaked, my quick feet squishing the wet grass. To my right, past the end of the road, the ocean pounds. Harder than before, it seems, with fury.
I reach the car and I dig for my keys in the pocket of my shorts. It’s only as I unlock and open the car door that I risk looking back.
The man is standing in the drizzle. He’s not much older than my Sean, maybe thirty. A young woman grips his arm, as if holding him back. The details of their faces are hard to make out — but I think I’ve seen her before.
Candace.
Old man Bleeker stands just outside the front entrance. I hear his voice but can’t make out the words over the angry surf. Whatever he says, it gets the attention of the two on the lawn, and they start toward him. The man looks over his shoulder at me as they go.
Part of me — the rational part, you might say, the part who was raised by parents big on manners and etiquette and which-fork-goes-with-which-dish — wants to walk back across the lawn and make amends. But clearly I’ve upset Arnold Bleeker. I’ve upset him to the point of him kicking me out. So maybe now is not the time.
And here I am, in Sayville, on Long Island, when my family is in Upstate New York. I’m supposed to have left them to assist police in understanding the suicide of a young woman who happened to be one of my patients.
It’s over. Time to go.
I get into the Range Rover, start the engine, and pull a U-turn in the road. I glance at the house as I roar past in the other direction. The three of them are all still standing there; their heads turn in unison as they watch me leave. At the last second, Candace gives me a one-finger salute.