“I understand.”
Mooney says, “She, of course, insisted someone else was there, too, Bishop did. But the defense had the same problem — inadmissible evidence. Nothing to build on. Still, her lawyer said she was pleading not guilty, that it was gonna go to trial. And so I met with her again, and the boy again, and got new statements. But the boy’s didn’t match up. He’d go back and forth from saying his parents were fighting to saying they weren’t. That’s when I submitted to the DA that we get him evaluated.”
“And that’s when you brought me in.”
“Correct.”
I sit for a moment in the dimly lit room, the rain a steady background force. Carefully, I recollect, “You were talking with Tom during the same time period I was. Isn’t that right?”
“Well, we had to. We couldn’t wait three sessions over a week. Or five sessions over two weeks. Especially not when Laura Bishop was threatening to move.”
I remember the two cops coming to my office, effectively telling me to speed it along.
“We were worried because Bishop had linked up with some guy. Someone with resources. Money.”
“Doug Wiseman,” I blurt.
“Doug Wiseman,” Mooney agrees. “That’s right. How did you know about him?”
“I, um . . .”
Mooney is sharp. “You hired someone.”
Might as well admit it. “I did. An old friend.”
“Frank Mills.”
Her insight is a little disconcerting. But she says, “It came up when we researched you as a consultant. You’d hired him once before. But you knew him before that?”
I want to ask more about Wiseman, but I quickly indulge her. “Yeah, Frank Mills was a patrol officer when I was in college. We actually met around the time my father died. I was at a really low point; I did some stupid things. Frank helped me. He even had a friend who was a therapist. Sarah Burgess. We lost touch for a while, but he tracked me down years later, found out I was married and had kids. And we’ve been friends since.”
As she watches me, I can see her mind working. “Has he found out anything else for you?”
“Just that you were retired here in Lake George. And that there’s a Thomas Bishop in Arizona. Same middle name, birthdate, and physical appearance. A dead ringer. And apparently one of Tom’s residences out there was at a place owned by Wiseman. Can you tell me about him?”
She gives me a shrewd look but seems to decide something, and the look dissipates. “We became aware of him about two months into the investigation.”
“Aware of him how?”
“Well, we had tags on Laura. What that means is we regularly surveilled her, kept track of her movements. She was going out to dinner with this guy, meeting him at his place, all this. He owned a restaurant. I think he still does — at least partly, and from afar. Like a silent partner. Anyway, he started showing up. And then we found out they were planning a move together. That’s when we knew we had to shit or get off the pot.”
I’m feeling excited despite the gloomy room, my sick host and the tragedy of all of this. “But maybe Wiseman was with her before you noticed him?”
“Oh sure, it’s possible they knew each other prior to the murder. Very possible. He actually retained David Bishop’s services. Managing some money for him.”
My heart is beating harder now. “So what happened?”
“He had a solid alibi. And it looks more likely he dated her after the murders. Three months or so.”
“But if he knew David before the murder, he could have known Laura.”
“Could have, sure. But we had no proof. She certainly didn’t admit it.”
“What was his alibi?”
“He was traveling.”
“Where?”
Mooney puts a hand to her head, like she’s getting fatigued. “I don’t remember. But listen — there’s the thing — the thing I do remember. It always seemed to me like Bishop had someone to blame. An alternative suspect. But she never said who. It was like she was waiting for the trial, and then she’d name someone. But she changed her plea and there never was a trial.”
“Maybe because she was guilty,” I offer.
“Maybe.”
“What was the life insurance situation? Do you remember that?”
Mooney nods. “She was a beneficiary, but since she murdered the insured, she got nothing, of course. Which was also why I felt it was strange she was withholding this alternative suspect.”
“How can you be sure she had one?”
Mooney is silent a moment. “I can’t. But it was in her eyes.”
I’m about to follow that up with more questions when I hear someone approach. Jake returns and asks how she’s doing. She says she’s fine, but Jake gives me the eyes again. I’m on the verge of overstaying my welcome. Mooney is sick and no longer an active investigator. The space between me and Jake feels heavy.
“I should get going,” I say, standing.
“Oh,” Jake says. “Yeah, okay.” He seems obviously relieved. And Mooney doesn’t object.
But I have one last question.
“Before I go. One professional to another. One human being to another. Do you think everything that happened with the Bishop case was . . . ?” I stop short of saying above board. “Did it go as best as it could?”
“Was it by the book? Mistakes were made, I’ll say that. Multiple mistakes. But do I think we got the bad guy in the end?” She’s contemplative. “As soon as we had the boy as our witness, I mean, once he opened up to you, Bishop changed her plea to guilty. What else is there? For the law, nothing.”
I am able to see Mooney clearly now. Her gaunt face and sunken eyes. I remember the sassy detective. I remember thinking that she put up a bit of a front — tough, even butch — in order to hang with the boys. To deal with the men surrounding her, to avoid showing any vulnerabilities. I’ve known women like Mooney my whole life, who take a hard job, who have to work twice as hard.
I can tell when they’re scared. I can see through the bravado.
Rebecca Mooney is scared.
*
Halfway down the gravel road, I pass by a pickup truck going the other way. The weather is still grim and rainy, and the man behind the wheel is an obscure figure. But his brake lights flash as I pass. And as I descend a small hill, one last glance in the mirror makes me think he’s stopped.
I drive distractedly for a few minutes, constantly checking my mirrors. I also pull out the tape recorder in my pocket and rewind twenty minutes’ worth of conversation. It’s the same tape recorder I’ve been using for twenty years, analog, not digital.
I hit play.
“. . . were suboptimal,” Mooney says on the tape. “For one thing, the first cops to respond to the 911, two local PD, they did a perimeter check, walked all around the house . . .”