Gail Bowen - The Shadow Killer

When I enter the brightly lit control room of Studio D, Nova Langenegger, who has produced the show since the beginning, is keying something into her computer. She has a phone balanced between her ear and her shoulder. In the year since her daughter, Lily, was born, Nova has started running. I thought she looked fine with a few extra pounds, but she didn’t share my opinion.

She’s my age, but tonight, with her blond hair tied up in a ponytail and her runner’s body in a tank top and shorts, she looks about seventeen. Nova never wears makeup. She doesn’t need to. Her skin is creamy and taut, and her eyes are the intense blue of an Alpine sky. Her steady gaze has rescued me more than once over the years.

Nova is not easily rattled, but she can’t take her eyes off whatever’s on her computer screen.

“Look at this.” She points to an email.

I lean over her shoulder and read the words aloud. “ For all of us, being dead would be better than living with him. When Charlie said ‘no man is a man until his father dies,’ I knew what I had to do. ”

“No name,” she says. “Just an email address. Loser1121@anonymous.org.”

There’s a coldness in the pit of my stomach. After ten years, I can tell when someone is about to cross the blood-red line. I keep my voice even.

“Did I say that?”

Nova’s fingernails are already chewed to the quick, but she slides what remains of her thumbnail into her mouth and nods.

“You did. I checked through the tapes for the last six weeks and found the exact words.” She adjusts the elastic on her ponytail. “The topic was guilt. The caller’s name was Brian, and he was beating himself up because his father died, and all he felt was relief.”

“I remember,” I say. “That voice is pretty hard to forget. Brian sounded as if he was being torn apart by the hounds of hell.”

“It wasn’t any easier listening to him the second time,” Nova says dryly. “I jotted down the key points of your conversation.” She picks up a scratch pad and begins reading. “Brian said, ‘A man’s supposed to cry for his father, but I can’t cry. I just keep feeling relieved that he’s finally gone.’ You tried a couple of approaches, but you weren’t connecting. Finally, you reached into your Tickle Trunk of a brain and came up with something that worked. ‘Fathers cast long shadows,’ you said. ‘It’s easy to get lost in them.’”

“That’s when Brian started listening,” I said. “I told him about an article I’d read. The writer believed fathers become an audience of one for their sons.”

Nova reads from her scratch pad.

“‘Fathers teach their sons how to throw a ball, and then they watch and cheer. A boy grows up knowing that his dad’s always going to be in the stands, watching.’”

“Which is great unless the boy becomes a man who is still always trying to please that audience of one,” I say.

“And that’s where the fatal quote came in.” Nova consults her scratch pad again and reads. “‘The son who is always trying to please his father will never be a man until the father dies.’”

I rub the back of my neck. The aspirin has not yet worked its magic. I watch Nova’s face carefully.

“Would you interpret that as me giving someone license to kill his father?”

Nova’s smile is thin.

“No. I’d interpret that as you telling Brian that he isn’t a monster-that other people have reacted to a father’s death the way he has. But people hear what they want to hear.”

“And loser1121 wanted to hear that he’d be justified in killing his father.”

Nova’s face is tense. “Not just his father. The email reads ‘ For all of us , being dead would be better than living with him.’ Charlie, I think loser1121 is planning to kill everyone in his family, including himself.”

I feel as if someone just dropped a large barbell on the back of my neck.

“So where do we go from here?” I say.

“Your decision,” Nova says. “Since I came to work tonight, I’ve had two hangups. I usually take that as an indication the caller wants to talk to you.” Her brow furrows. “Do you think it’s time to alert the police?”

I shrug. “We might as well cover our asses. But I can tell you right now what they’ll say. ‘The World According to Charlie D’ is broadcast coast to coast. All we have is an email address. Loser1121 could be anywhere. No police force in the country has the time or the resources to search for a needle in a haystack. Then they’ll say we have to get loser1121 to call in so we can either talk him down or trace the call.” I rub my skull and wince.

Nova narrows her eyes. “Your Father’s Day headache started early this year,” she says. “While we’re on the subject… your father called. He’s across the street at Nighthawks . He wants to come over after the show and take you for coffee.”

“Not going to happen,” I say.

After ten years together, Nova and I know each other’s stories. Her mother died of cancer when Nova was five. She had two younger sisters. Her father ran the farm, cooked, ironed the girls’ church dresses, and when the time came, he sat them down with a box of sanitary napkins and explained menstruation. When he died at fifty-two, he left behind three smart, self-reliant young women who still mourn him.

Nova’s eyes search my face. Clearly, she’s concerned about what she sees. “I have something for you,” she says. “I was going to give it to you after the show, but you look as if you could use it now.” She reaches into her backpack and takes out an eight-by-ten-inch photograph of her year-old daughter, Lily. Lily is wearing overalls and blowing the fluff off the dandelion she’s clutching in her hand.

I look at the photo for a long time.

“She is so beautiful,” I say.

“Agreed,” Nova says. “Medical student number seven must have been a hunk. First time at the sperm bank, and I hit the jackpot.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” I say. “Lily’s like you in many ways.”

The picture has been professionally framed. To set off the photograph, Nova chose a navy mat that matches Lily’s overalls. There are tiny white handprints on the navy mat.

“How did you get Lily’s handprints on there?” I ask.

Nova rolls her eyes.

“With white paint and great difficulty,” she says. “There’s a verse on the back, but don’t read it while I’m around. I don’t want to watch your opinion of me take a nosedive.”

She glances at the big clock above the glass that faces my studio. “Two minutes to air,” she says. “There are some notes for the opening on your screen. I’ll call the police, but I think you’re right about their response. They’ll need more to go on, and we’re the only ones who can get it. I’m going to answer loser1121’s email-urge him to give us a call on air or off. But, Charlie, you’ll have to be the point guy on this.”

I nod agreement. “And I’ll have to tread lightly. This guy is hanging on by his toenails. The last thing we want to do is freak him out.”

I pass from the bright light of the control room into the dark coolness of my studio. I slide into my seat at the desk and pick up my earphones. Nova’s notes for the intro are on my computer screen, but I don’t read them. I turn over the photograph she gave me and read the verse written on the back.

My throat closes. When we’re at our desks, Nova and I communicate through hand signals and our talkback microphone. I don’t trust my voice, so I give Nova the thumbs-up.