I didn't think Bishop was talking about the market. He was warning me to stay away from the murder investigation-or from Julia. "Thanks for the advice," I said. "I'll keep it in mind."

"For whatever it's worth." He put on the fake Bishop smile. "What brings you?"

I decided to start with what I needed to tell Bishop about Billy. "Your son called me last night," I said.

He didn't show any surprise. "Were you able to trace the call?" he asked.

Bishop hadn't asked whether Billy was all right, or living on the streets, or about to do himself in. His first question had been a strategic one about whether Billy could be tracked down. "He wasn't on the line long enough," I said. "I wasn't set up for a trace, anyhow."

"What did he have to say?"

"He wanted me to loan him money, which I refused to do."

"I think that was wise," Bishop said. "Maybe he'll get hungry or scared and head back to the hospital." He shook his head. "I wish he had stayed put. We would have done our best for him."

"He wasn't convinced of that," I said.

"He never has been," Bishop said. "It isn't easy to trust anyone after you lose your parents the way he did."

"No question," I agreed.

"It's also hard to trust anyone," the voice at the back of my mind said, "when your adoptive father is whipping you with a strap."

"You should know that he's very angry," I told Bishop. "I had the feeling he might lash out at you or your family."

"We've struggled with Billy's rage a long time," Bishop said. "Since Brooke, we're taking every precaution. It's a little like Fort Knox around here. We'll be just fine."

"Do you have any idea where his anger stems from?" I asked.

"I would say that emotion is displaced from tragic losses he's suffered in his life," he said. "But you would know better than I."

"Did you know the police were set to arrest him early this morning?" I asked.

"I did," Bishop said. "Their plan actually helped me focus my thoughts." He folded his thick arms.

"How so?"

"Given that they've decided to arrest and try Billy, his best chance for acquittal is a straightforward plea of innocence. His mental state and his trauma history should be irrelevant because no case for insanity or diminished capacity need be made. As I've said before, there were several of us at home the night Brooke was killed. I don't see any way the police and the District Attorney can prove that Billy was the one responsible."

That was a simple strategy: Billy would stand trial for murder and either be acquitted or do life. Either way, the chances of suspicion settling on any other family member would be close to zero. Judging from what Laura Mossberg at Payne Whitney had told me, that had always been Bishop's plan. He had never really intended to keep Billy out of the courtroom. I decided to play my hand more aggressively. "If you believe the D.A. won't be able to prove Billy is guilty," I said, "why are you so certain he is?"

Bishop looked at me like he didn't understand.

"Why do you think he's the one who did it?" I asked, more directly. "Did you see him?"

Without a word, Bishop stood up, went to the door, and closed it. Then he walked back to his desk chair and sat down, staring at me. "Do you have another theory?" he deadpanned.

"You've said yourself, five people were at home that night. Billy, your wife, Claire, Garret-and you."

He nodded to himself, gazed out his window at the rolling lawn behind the house, then looked back at me. "I've learned to be straightforward whenever possible," he said. "I'll tell you what I'm thinking. You went to see my son at Payne Whitney, and he spun such a compelling fantasy that you've lost track of reality."

"I'm hopelessly deluded," I said.

"I'm not saying that," Bishop said. "But it took me years to understand how manipulative and skilled in deception Billy is."

"I believe he's both those things," I said.

"Yet whatever lies he told you," Bishop went on, "led you to seek out my wife, to learn more about this family."

That wasn't completely accurate. Julia had called me, not the other way around. But I wasn't about to share that fact with Bishop. "I certainly wanted more background," I said. "Your wife and I talked briefly over lunch in Boston. But you already know all that." I paused. "Just out of curiosity, if you're going to have me followed, wouldn't a Chevy sedan or a 4Runner be a little less conspicuous than a Range Rover with smoked windows?"

"I wasn't trying to be coy," he said.

"Neither was I," I said. "Do you always have people followed?"

Bishop kept his game face. "Not infrequently. More information is better than less." He ran his fingers through his silver hair. "Let's get to it, Dr. Clevenger: What tall tale did Billy fabricate that would lead you to believe someone else might have harmed Brooke?"

That felt like an open door to Bishop's truth. I couldn't resist walking through it. "It's hard to fabricate welts all over your back," I said.

Bishop smiled, nodded. "Ah, so that's part of the equation here," he said. "He claimed I beat him. That's been an ongoing refrain."

"Whereas you would claim his wounds are self-inflicted," I said.

"I didn't any more use a belt on Billy than bite him or cut him or pull the hair out of his head. All that was his doing."

"Maybe," I said. "But his version does fit pretty well with your history."

Bishop shouldn't have had to ask what I meant by that comment. The message I'd given his driver about Bishop preferring to fight kids and women wasn't subtle. But he must have wanted to hear what I had to say firsthand. "What history do you mean, exactly?" he asked.

I didn't mind hitting the highlights. "I mean the trouble with your first wife, Lauren: you know, the little problem with violating a restraining order. That, and the conviction for assault and battery."

He didn't flinch. "I was a different person then," he said.

"Oh?" I said.

"For one thing," he said, "I was a drunk."

I hadn't expected him to admit that-certainly not so plainly. "You were a drunk," I said. "An alcoholic."

"A drunk," he said. " 'Alcoholic' makes it sound like I had fallen victim to some fancy illness over which I had no control. Take a trip to the Betty Ford Center, and all's well. The truth is I was making the decision to drink every day. Because I wasn't willing to look at myself in the mirror. No detox program, no matter how much it cost per day, would have done me any good. I needed to face facts."

Bishop's apparent candor didn't square with the lie he had told Julia about his prior criminal record or with his having savaged Billy with a strap. "What is it that you weren't willing to face?" I asked skeptically.

"Who I was," Bishop said. "And some things I had done."

I nodded once, letting him know I was prepared to keep listening.

"I didn't grow up with much in the way of material possessions," he said.

"You were poor," I pushed.

He didn't back away from the word. "Yes. Not enough to eat, if you really want to know. Secondhand clothes to wear to school. Nights without heat. And those things bothered me for the longest time. It's pathetic to admit it, but I was embarrassed about where and what I had come from. It made me angry. And hateful. I kept it all inside as a kid and a teenager. Then, when I went to Vietnam, I suddenly had carte blanche to express all that negative emotion." He pursed his lips, took a deep breath, and stared through the window again. "I did things over there that I'm not proud of." He looked back at me. "For a long time, I tried to obliterate the memories with booze. I was out of control. And my wife Lauren was in that line of fire. God bless her, she's a friend of mine today. I don't know why. I don't deserve it."

I couldn't tell whether Bishop was leveling with me or playing me. What he was saying sounded good, but I couldn't see any reason why Julia would lie about witnessing Billy's beatings. "Thank you," I said. "That gives me more insight. There aren't many people who can talk about themselves that way."