Compulsion

"Where did he leave it?" I asked.

"In an empty bank envelope Bishop says was full of cash-about five grand. The envelope was in a little antique desk in the master bedroom. I guess that's where he keeps his spare change."

"Interesting." I shook my head, thinking how peculiar it would be for Billy to tie himself so clearly to a murder scene. "Billy left me a message on my Chelsea machine about an hour ago. I tried calling you to tell you about it just before I headed here."

"What did he say?" Anderson asked.

"That he went in through that window, stole some things. That's all."

"I've got officers combing the house for evidence. We'll see what turns up. All hell is going to break loose on the island now."

"Meaning?"

"I've asked the State Police to help with a manhunt for Billy," Anderson said. "They're bringing in thirty troopers, dogs, infrared search devices, the whole nine yards. And that's the tame part. Bishop may have used his contacts to keep the press at bay so far, but that dam won't hold. Reporters will start pouring in as soon as word about Tess filters through the wires. One rich kid murdered at home sounds like yesterday's news. Another attempted murder in the same family, and you've trumped the Ramseys."

"And raised them about nine hundred million," I said. "How's Julia?"

"Stu

I wanted to be with her. More, I felt it was my place to be with her. But I was troubled by the fact that it was Julia's medication Tess had overdosed on. "Anyone in that house could still be the killer," I said. "The signs of nortriptyline toxicity can show up many hours after an overdose. Tess could have been poisoned before the funeral." Another thought occurred to me. "I'm not sure Billy would even know a nortriptyline overdose can be lethal. The only ones who talked to the doctor in Aspen were Darwin and-"

"Julia," Anderson said. "Agreed. Nobody's cleared yet. But anybody would say Billy is the lead suspect, by a country mile."

"Why would he leave a note and a voice message about breaking into the house, if he knew he would be co

Anderson shrugged. "We're not talking about a normal kid."

"No," I said, "we're talking about a sociopath. They usually don't make our work easy, do they?"

"I didn't say to stop poking around," Anderson said, "to the extent Bishop lets you."

"He could have poisoned Tess as easily as anyone else," I said. "For all we know, he might have decided Billy's break-in was the perfect cover. So, tell me: When, exactly, did he start deciding who investigates what?"

Anderson stiffened. "Don't go there again, Frank. I'm paying him the same deference I'd pay anyone. He doesn't have to give you access if he doesn't want to. I'm sure you can figure a way around him."

"Great," I said. "I'm on my own, all of a sudden. This wasn't a case I exactly lobbied you for, if you remember. I took it because you said you needed help."

"And I still do." He winked. "We're waiting on a helicopter from Mass General. Tess will be flown to their ICU for observation and treatment. Julia's going along for the ride, not Darwin. He meets her there tomorrow."

"So if I had a few questions for Julia, I should get to Boston sooner rather than later," I said.

"That sounds right," Anderson said. "Once Bishop lands in Beantown, I'd head back here to touch base with Claire and Garret. She was home alone with Tess during the funeral, and he strikes me as one very angry young man."

"Not a bad plan," I said.

"For a guy abandoning you." He looked out over the hospital's expansive lawn. "You know, I wanted to give Billy a real chance. He just didn't read like a killer to me." He looked at me. "I think I may have read him wrong."

"Maybe," I said. "Maybe I did, too. But my gut tells me to dig deeper."

"Then that's what you'll…" He caught himself. "That's what we'll do."

12

As I waited for a space to open up on the ferry back to Hya

On any day in late June, Nantucket has no shortage of celebrities strolling down Main Street, but the Bishop tragedy was one of those island events that felt like it might resonate for generations. People who were not impressed by many things seemed to want to be part of the spectacle. Or perhaps, collectively and unconsciously, they were intent on making it into a spectacle, draining it of its terror and tragedy, in order to tame it into an entertainment event that could fit neatly inside a twenty-inch television. Then it could be labeled on-screen, over a ten-second clip of ominous, computer-generated music: "Infanticide on Nantucket: Day Four." The murder of a baby and attempted murder of another would be inscribed in something as i

I finally made it onto the 3:00 p.m. ferry, which landed me in Hya

North Anderson was interviewed at the end of the piece and said the department was "still investigating," but had identified a lead suspect. He explained that the individual's name was being withheld because he was a minor.

I got to Mass General at 5:50 p.m. and headed to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit-PICU, for short.

Few places could inspire more reflection. The space looks like a miniature mall from hell, with tiny glass storefronts along all four walls. Each room holds a child at risk of death or awaiting certain death. The nurses' station sits at the center, a kiosk of pathos, with monitors beeping out the weak rhythms of hearts meant to beat strong for the next seventy or eighty years. Below the monitors, a row of looseleaf charts holds a collection of short stories detailing God's limitations, with the first names of patients written on white tape along the bindings.

I found Tess's name and matched the number above her chart with one posted outside the furthest room to my right. Just as I did, I noticed John Karlstein, the pediatrician in charge of the intensive care unit, walking toward the nurses' station from one of the other rooms. He spotted me, too, and headed over.

Karlstein is a huge man, with a full beard, who stands six foot four in his trademark black alligator cowboy boots. He had been hired when the previous PICU director refused to dance to the tune of managed care companies and was eased into a full-time teaching position. Since then, the PICU had become a cash cow. "How are you, Frank?" he said in his bass voice. "It's been a while."

"Okay. You?"

"Can't complain," he said. "We're full. That's the good news. The bad news is that everybody's length of stay keeps getting shorter and shorter."

I nodded. "I guess it depends how you look at it-from our side of the bed, or the patients'."