Free Compulsion by Keith Ablow Page B

than half an hour with him," I said.
    "Feel free to ask for me when you’re finished," she said.  She started back down the hallway.
    I walked into Billy’s room.  He rolled onto his back, flipped his straight, dirty blond hair out of his eyes, and stared at me.  He obviously hadn’t been sleeping.  "You would be who? " he demanded.
    "Frank Clevenger," I said, staring back at him.  "I’m a psychiatrist."
    Billy’s ice blue eyes sparkled.  He was sixteen and looked like a prototype adolescent, at the edge of boyhood and manhood, with fine features that promised to become handsome.  The lines of his nose and jaw were almost feminine, suggesting fragility, but in another year or two, as his wiry body filled out, his broad shoulders adding impressive bulk, that hint of femininity would be the very thing that reassured women they could immerse themselves in him, rather than fear him — this Russian-American, bad-boy billionaire’s kid.  That is, if he wasn’t in prison for life.  "My dad sent you," he said.
    "Not exactly," I said.  "Your father gave me permission to see you.  I’m working with the Nantucket Police Department."
    Billy sat up, smiled.  "He gave me your name before I left home," he said.  "Trust me.  He sent you."
    The bravado in his voice reminded me of Billy Fisk, the teenager I had lost to suicide.  I pictured Fisk sauntering around my office during his first visit, talking trash about how much respect he got on the streets.  It took me months, and fifty or so meetings together, to get him to back off the tough-guy routine and talk to me about who tough his life had been.  I should have taken things even slower.  Because I had lost him somewhere on the journey into his pain.  I closed my eyes, remembering the call I’d gotten that he had hung himself.
    "Still with the program, doc?" Billy asked.
    I opened my eyes.  "I’m fine," I said.  I noticed Billy’s forearms were marred by faded, haphazard scars where he had slashed at himself.  "And maybe you’re right.  Maybe your father sent me, after all."  I pulled out the chair from under the desk, turned it toward the bed, and sat down.
    "This should be fun," he said.
    "Really.  Why?" I said.
    "I’ve never seen a police psychiatrist before, just the regular ones."
    "And what were they like?" I asked.
    "Mossbergs.  Every one of them," he said, with a smile full of disdain — his father’s smile.  "Nice, soft people, who felt very powerful holding the keys to their little locked kingdoms.  I keep every one of their names right here."  He pointed at his head, made a mock gun of his fist, thumb, and forefinger, and pointed it at me.  He pretended to drop the hammer, then winked and let his hand drift to his side.
    I hadn’t forgotten that Billy was a predator, whether or not he had murdered Brooke.  His firesetting and cruelty to animals showed he was intoxicated by his own power — the power to destroy.  I wanted him to know that I wouldn’t be scared off.  "Let’s not waste our time on threats," I said.  I stood up and walked toward the door, feeling Billy’s eyes on me.  I reached for the door, pushed it shut.  Then I turned around, facing him again.  "I know exactly who and what you are," I said.
    He rolled his eyes.  "You’re clairvoyant and overeducated."
    "I know about the feeling in your gut — the emptiness."
    "Actually, I had a big breakfast this morning," he said.  "Courtesy the hospital cafeteria.  I’m full."
    "Even when you joke about it, it’s there.  It’s always there, gnawing at you," I said.
    He looked away, tilting his head.  "Let’s see... two eggs, sunny side, hash browns..."
    "Some days are worse than others," I pressed.  "Some days, you feel so empty it actually hurts."
    He flashed that Bishop smile again, but said nothing.
    "Maybe you light up a joint and get yourself two, three hours of relief.  It never lasts.  You’ve tried cutting yourself, biting yourself, pulling out