This is major: He’s just described the house in Bronxville, the very one I parked in front of two nights ago. I’m done considering coincidences at this point.
“That’s right. White with black trim. Do you like the color?”
“No. I always wished it was red or blue.” Michael already sounds younger, slightly childlike.
“Let’s go into the house,” I say. “Okay? Let’s you and I go into the front door together.”
“Can I hold your hand?”
For a moment, I don’t respond. It was as if his voice even became Tom’s voice for a moment, a full octave higher. A sweeter, lighter voice. Finally I say, “Of course you can hold my hand. Feel it in yours?” I’ve not actually touched him, but I can sense his relaxation at imagining it. “All right. Now . . . let’s go inside.”
“Okay.”
I give it a second or two. “What do we see?”
“Boots.”
“Boots?”
“By the door. Boots and shoes. And jackets hanging. My red winter jacket.”
“Right, it’s winter. Is it snowing outside?”
On the bed, Michael gives a little shake of his head. “Not right now.”
I consider it. It had snowed the night of David Bishop’s murder, one of the first of the season. But it had been later, hours after he’d gotten home. And while visible footprints leading to and from the side door were part of the initial police report, those tracks had melted in the morning sun.
They weren’t hard evidence. They were one piece of a mystery. One I can remember desperate police scrambling to solve.
They seemed to have it in for the wife . . .
But these thoughts are galloping ahead of where I need to be.
“Okay. So all the boots and jackets are there inside the door. What’s next? What’s going on in the kitchen?”
Michael doesn’t respond.
“Michael?”
His hand twitches. Then his head — a minor jerking motion, like someone dreaming.
“Michael? Did you fall asleep?”
“No.” A child’s answer. Nooo. Then: “There’s nothing going on in the kitchen. The clocks are ticking.”
“The clocks . . . Are there lots of clocks?”
“Yes.” His words are dreamy, slightly slurred. “They go up the stairs.”
“That’s right. The clocks are on the wall going up the stairs. Let’s go up there together.”
He utters a kind of moan, like he’s reluctant.
“What do you say, Michael? Can you show me your room?” I want to call him Tom, but he’s responding to Michael fine. No need to push.
“Okay,” he says, after a pause. “We’re in my room.”
“Good. Very good. Can you tell me about your room?”
He describes the way it was set up. The toys, the posters on the wall, the Pokémon game. I haven’t even specified to when we were returning, only that we needed to go back in time, to some point. Michael has selected this. The boots and thick coats point to winter, which could be any winter — but based on Michael’s mannerisms, his voice, and the description of his room, he most certainly seems to have chosen the time near his father’s murder.
Maybe this very night, in his memory.
It is more than I expected, more than I would have hoped for, in a first session. Honestly, the whole thing raises my suspicion that Michael is faking it.
If so, he’s convincing as ever. Or I’m gullible. But I don’t think so. And there’s no better alternative to seeing it through, anyway.
I listen as he continues to tell me about his belongings — now it’s his cherished Harry Potter books on the shelves beside his bed — and yet I’m slightly distracted, knowing that Sean and Joni and Paul are all downstairs right now, surely talking about this. Each of them knows a little something, but so far their knowledge has been disparate. Now, together, they’re going to be able to form a more complete picture.
There’s nothing more I can do to stop that from happening. The cat is pretty much out of the bag. I could have refused to do the treatment with Michael, could have insisted he wait for my colleague’s opening, could have made excuses about needing to update my hypnotherapy license, but I didn’t.
Because I have to know.
Even if it’s a charade, I have to find out.
Not just whether Michael is Tom — I need to know what he believes truly happened that night.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Tom?”
It’s been a few seconds since I’ve given him any direction, having gotten lost in my own thoughts. I’ve said “Tom” instead of “Michael” without intending.
“Yes?”
But he’s answered.
“It’s time for bed,” I say.
“I don’t want to go to bed.”
“Well, you’ve had a long day. I think—”
“I don’t want to!” he shouts. On the bed, Michael’s eyes remain closed, but his forehead is lined with a scowl, his hands closed into fists.
So much for easygoing Tom, I think. But then I remind myself: The Tom of fifteen years ago is not the same as the Tom — or Michael — in my son’s bed.
Though Michael has brought us back to a time just prior to his father’s death, the boy who experienced that murder, who saw it take its gruesome place, is already layered in. The frustrated, sad and angry boy who came to see me — he’s here.
Plus, I screwed up. Now that we’re here, I’ve been trying to fast forward to the moment he witnessed the crime, but Michael’s mind isn’t video playback. It’s too much too soon for him, hence the mini-tantrum.
“Okay, Tom. It’s okay . . . how about we read a bedtime story instead?”
He settles. His fists relax and his forehead smooths. “All right,” he intones. “I’ll pick one.”
We get back to it. First, he makes an elaborate show of choosing a book. I marvel that he can remember so many titles. But he spent a significant portion of his childhood in this room and has a vivid picture of this time in his life.
“How about Harry Potter?” I ask, when time has passed.
He doesn’t respond.
“Tom? Can we pick a book?” I feign a yawn. “I’m getting tired.”
“There’s someone,” he whispers.
“What?” I edge closer, feeling the hairs on my arms stiffening. “Someone where?”
“There’s someone outside.”
It’s so convincing, so compelling, that I stand up.
“Can you see them?” Even though I realize Michael is talking about the past, I move to the windows. The rain hits the lake at an angle, frothing it white. I hear the boats thumping in the boathouse.
“I can see him,” Michael says.
My blood runs cold. “What is he doing?”
“He’s sitting in a car. I think he’s watching.”
The words chill me. “You think he’s watching?” I ease back toward the chair, recommitting to Michael’s memory. His world.
“He’s sitting there. Smoking.”
Another flash in my mind: two cigarette butts in the street. Cops had found them and bagged them. Along with the tracks in the snow, it was early evidence of an intruder. That theory held for six months, although no one was ever arrested.
But Tom told police he saw his mother.
Right?
“Tom? What’s the man outside doing now?”
“I want to read.”
“Is he still there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you see him?”
Tom never told me this. Not that I remember. I’ll have to go back through my case notes to be sure, but this is all new to me.
“Tom? Can you still see the man?”
“I’m done. I need to leave here.” Michael’s gruffer tone suggests he’s reverting to his present, older self. Trying to come back.
I sit down quickly. “Wait now, Tom. Let’s stay in your room. I’ll read you a book, and then we can go to sleep.”<
br />
“I don’t want to go to sleep.”
“Well, let’s go back down to the kitchen and maybe get sna—”
“I don’t want to go to the kitchen!” he yells with the rage of a grown man. He smashes his fists down on the bed. The deep scowl has returned. His jaw bulges on the sides.
“Is it fighting?” I remember a phrase Tom Bishop used from his police interviews. “Do you hear bad fighting?”
Michael answers by grunting and writhing on the bed.
“Okay — Tom? I need you to listen to my voice.”
“I’m not going to the kitchen!”
“Listen to me. Just my voice. Your house is fading. Everything is fading around you. Can you hear the rain? The rain is starting to come back, like the volume turned up on your stereo. Can you hear it?”
He is relaxing a little, though his fists remain clenched.
Finally: “I can hear it.”
“Follow my voice, and follow the rain. We’re going to go forward in time. Back to the lake house. Back to Joni. You remember Joni?”
The twitch of a smile. “Yes.”
“Okay. We’re coming back from the past, we’re returning to the present. Right here, right now. From Tom to Michael. You’re at the lake house with Joni. With me, Emily. We’re in Sean’s room. You’re lying in his bed. Now, I’m going to count back from five . . .”
Less than a minute later, Michael is sitting up in the bed, legs off the side. He rubs his temple like his head aches mildly, and he wears a sheepish grin. I offer him some water. He drinks it, and I sit back in the chair, watching him.
Frank Mills, in my head: Everything takes longer than expected.
Yeah, this is going to take a little while.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
POLICE REPORT
INVESTIGATORS R. MOONEY and S. STARZYK
WITNESS INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT, LAURA AVEENA BISHOP
OCTOBER 27
Mooney: Hi, Mrs. Bishop. Thank you for speaking with us. We know things are . . . it’s really hard right now. But you doing this, while things are fresh. It can really help.
Laura: Is Tom okay?
Mooney: He’s fine. We just talked to him. You’ll see him again in just a few minutes.
Laura: Okay.
Mooney: Let’s just get right to the hard stuff. Get it out of the way. What can you tell us about last night? If you could start with when you came home. You came home from work . . . ?
Laura: Yes. I came home from work.
Mooney: And where do you work?
Laura: In the city. In New York City. In SOHO.
Mooney: You’re an art dealer?
Laura: No. I manage artists.
Starzyk: What is that? If I may ask. Getting paintings sold, or something?
Laura: Sometimes. Arranging gallery shows. Museums. Private events. Coordinating publicity efforts.
[Indistinguishable speaking.]
Starzyk: Anybody I would know about? Banksy or someone like that?
Laura: Kate Morrison. Um, Isaiah Jackson-Smith. Corrine Whitman.
Starzyk: Huh. And you’ve been doing this how long?
Laura: I’ve been with United for five years.
Mooney: United. That’s United Artists Management?
Laura: Okay. I mean, yes. How much longer is this going to take? My son . . .
Mooney: Not long. Your son is fine. He’s just in the other room, playing with some toys. An officer is with him. She’s great with kids.
Starzyk: You were out of work for a while, is that right? You had Thomas, and then raised him for a couple of years?
Laura: I got my master’s, and a few months later, had Tom.
Starzyk: Your master’s. From Cooper’s Union. Very prestigious. What about before that? You’re from Stamford, Connecticut?
Laura: Yes.
Starzyk: What was your childhood like? You grew up with three sisters, and you’re the oldest. Then you did some traveling?
Laura: I went to Europe. To Paris. Italy, England. I spent six months in Costa Rica.
Starzyk: And what were you doing?
Laura: Living. Working. Painting.
Starzyk: Ah, so you’re a painter, too. Any success with that?
Laura: How do you mean?
Starzyk: Shows. Big sales, big commissions. I don’t know how it works. Didn’t Jackson Pollock — didn’t he get contracted to do some big painting for a museum?
Laura: I wanted to get out of Connecticut. I wanted to see some of the world before I went to college. It was a structured gap year. It was planned. I didn’t intend to sell paintings. I was studying with people. Learning craft and technique, but also representation. Management.
Mooney: Did you spot any talent?
Laura: Everywhere. The world is full of talented people. Everyone has a talent for something.
Starzyk: But not everyone is able to make a success out of it. That’s where you come in.
Laura: Not everyone has the same set of circumstances . . . Are we going to talk about who killed my husband?
Mooney: Mrs. Bishop, we’re just trying to establish a little about who you are, for the record. I’m sure it’s no surprise that, in these types of situations, we have to ask the spouse some questions. It’s a very difficult position for you, I know.
Laura: I don’t understand. I’ve told you what happened. I told you I heard David struggling with someone. That they were in the kitchen. It sounded like fighting — like wrestling. My son even said he saw someone sitting outside, in a vehicle . . . Why are you looking at me like that?
Mooney: Mrs. Bishop, Mrs. Bishop . . . please. I understand your frustration. We’ve got your statement, and we’re taking it very seriously. The crime-scene unit is still at your house, gathering evidence. We ask these questions because it’s procedure. We’d ask anyone. Hard as it is to ask, or to be asked.
Starzyk: It’s also relevant, Mrs. Bishop, that there are eyewitnesses of you slapping your husband at a restaurant—
Laura: That’s got nothing to do with this!
Starzyk: —and people who have come forward saying your husband suspected you of having an affair. Someone you met in the city at your art gallery.
Laura: I want to go see my son.
[Chairs scraping. Sounds of movement.]
Mooney: I’m sorry, Mrs. Bishop. I apologize for Detective Starzyk. That was out of line. Let’s just get back to the timeline. Okay? You came home from work . . .
Laura: You want the timeline — I already gave my statement at the house. He wants to know all about my life. The two of you bring up something that happened in a restaurant six months ago, out of context, which has nothing to do with this. What kind of police department is this? I want someone else to investigate this. You haven’t even asked me who I think it might be.
Mooney: Who you think this might be? You have someone in mind for your husband’s murder?
Laura: Jesus Christ, you say it like you’ve already decided I’m guilty.
Starzyk: Please calm down, ma’am. You’re getting very agitated. We asked about the timeline because—
Laura: Fine. I came home from work and picked up my son from the sitter. I took him home. I made dinner in anticipation of David’s arrival. He missed the train and arrived home a half hour later. Okay?
Mooney: At eight p.m.?
Laura: At eight. Yes. We ate, we talked. We—
Starzyk: What did you talk about?
Laura: Our son. David’s work. My work. A normal conversation on a normal night.
Mooney: And he seemed perfectly okay to you? Perfectly normal?
Laura: He seemed a little overworked. A little tired. But he puts in long days.
Mooney: Okay. So he’s a little tired, you’re talking. Any drinking?
Laura: Like I said in my statement, we each had a glass of wine with dinner. That’s it. I went upstairs and gave Tom a bath, read him a story, and put him to bed. If David drank more, I don’t know. It’s really just amazing how
little you’ve—
Mooney: Did you go back downstairs at any point?
Laura: Yes! Also like I’ve said, multiple times. I came down in my pajamas. I finished the dishes. David was outside, having a cigar, talking on the phone.
Mooney: A good conversation? Bad conversation?
Laura: My God. Do you think I’m going to change my story? He was blowing cigar smoke into the air and laughing. And that’s the last time that I saw . . .
[Indistinguishable noises.]
Mooney: I know this is hard for you, but you’re doing well. Can you keep going? For the tape, the witness has nodded yes. He came upstairs, though, at some point?
[Indistinguishable noises.]
Mooney: Mrs. Bishop, I know this is hard, but I need you to answer.
Laura: I . . . I heard the floor creak. He went into Tom’s room. To kiss him good night. I was so tired. I just . . . fell asleep.
Mooney: And then you were awakened . . .
Laura: I heard a noise. A thump. It sounded like . . . at first I thought I was dreaming about a gym. Someone playing basketball. Shoes squeaking. Breathing hard. But then there was another . . . another noise. It was sickening. A living thing being hit with something . . . bludgeoned . . . a cracking . . . oh God . . .
[Indistinguishable speaking. Chair scrapes.]
Mooney: It’s okay. Take a couple of deep breaths. That’s it. It’s going to be okay, Mrs. Bishop . . .
Starzyk: We’re almost done, Laura. We know what you saw when you came downstairs. You don’t have to go through that again. Your husband was there on the floor. The side door — the door to the mudroom off the kitchen — was ajar. You said the cold air came in. You said that beside your husband on the floor was a hammer. Covered in blood.
[Indistinguishable speaking.]
Starzyk: Can you answer again for the tape?
Laura: Yes.
Starzyk: Yes, you saw a hammer?
Laura: Yes.
Starzyk: What did you think when you saw it?
Laura: Wh . . . What?
Starzyk: Among other things. Everything is going through your mind. But did you think — ‘I know that hammer’? Or ‘What’s that doing here?’ Or — ‘Whoever did this left the murder weapon’? Anything like that?
Laura: No. I didn’t think anything about the hammer.
HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller Page 14
