Gail Bowen: The Shadow Killer

“Being a billionaire has its advantages,” I say. “Unfortunately, money can’t straighten out whatever’s playing havoc with our phone lines. We’re going to stay with music till we fix the problem. Will you stick around?”

“Of course,” he says. “At eighty-three, adventures don’t come every day. And Misty’s always up for adventures, aren’t you, my love?” In the background a woman laughs softly.

I smile to myself. Henry’s marriage to Misty de Vol may not be a love match, but Misty knows how to give a man his money’s worth. I lean into my microphone.

“Hey, it appears that gremlins are scrambling our phone lines tonight , so please hold your calls. As our tech works at unscrambling, let’s have a listen to Lenny Kravitz singing Elton John’s rocking ‘Like Father Like Son.’”

I stretch to get the kinks out, but it’s not my night to un-kink. Nova’s on the talkback.

“You’re fired, Charlie. Check your inbox. Evan Burgh sent a blistering email. He didn’t take kindly to you cozying up to his dad.”

I shrug. “You know what they say. ‘Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.’”

Nova’s laugh is thin.

“That’s the spirit. Okay, here’s the situation. One of the officers in here with me is a psychologist. She thinks loser1121’s hatred for his father has been building for a long time. In her opinion, creating the plan was a safety valve for 1121.”

“But now the plan doesn’t bring the same old thrill,” I say.

“No, the police shrink is convinced that 1121 is ready to act. Her colleagues on the force agree that there’s no way the authorities can find this kid. He could be anywhere. The initials he’s written on the blueprint are useless. So is his email address. Anonymous.org is one of those temporary web-based addresses that don’t require registration. You’re going to have to get him to call in.”

“I’ll bet Henry Burgh has a few ideas on the relationship between fathers and sons. I’ll see if I can get him to provoke a response from loser1121.”

I flip on my mike.

“And we’re back. Our first-time caller, Henry Burgh, has been kind enough to stick around. So, Henry, earlier on the show I referenced an ancient sage who said that most sons are worse than their fathers. Any thoughts?”

Henry doesn’t hesitate.

“I agree,” he says flatly. “It doesn’t start out that way. Most of us start out like Aldo. We have big dreams for our sons. They’re the center of our existence. Then expectations on both sides aren’t met. One day a father wakes up and realizes that his son is never going to be the man he dreamed he would be. One day the son wakes up and sees the disappointment in his father’s eyes when he looks at him. They both cut their losses. They start avoiding one another. Why put yourself through that pain- on either side? Then the son grows up and does everything he can to spite his father.”

I think of my father waiting in a coffee shop for me to finish tonight’s show so we can get together and slap a Hallmark ending on thirty-three years of indifference and neglect.

“Is it always the son who’s at fault?” I ask, and my mind is no longer on 1121.

“Does it matter?” Henry says. “The day a father realizes that his son will never be the man he is, the damage is done. It’s a Humpty Dumpty thing-once a hope is shattered, it can never be put back together again.”

“What about the son’s hopes?”

“That would be the son’s problem, wouldn’t it?” Henry says. The warmth has gone from his voice. For the first time that night, he sounds a lot like Evan. Maybe Lenny Kravitz had it right. Genes will tell. No matter what a boy does, he’s destined to end up like his father.

It’s a depressing thought, but I don’t have much time to ponder. Nova calls on the talkback. Loser1121 is on line two. I thank Henry, cut him off and open line two.

His voice is a surprise. It’s small, high-pitched, edged with doom.

“ This is loser1121-I’ve sent you some emails. Did you get them?”

“I did. Can you tell me your real name?”

“Loser1121 is my real name.” His tone is flat, the voice of someone to whom nothing matters . “I tried to be just ‘loser’ on my email address, but the name was taken.Loser1121 was the first name that was still available. That means there are 1,120 losers ahead of me. I’m not even the first.”

His pain at being denied even this small distinction makes me wince.

“I’ve felt like a loser for much of my life,” I say.

Even his laugh is a sob.

“You’re just saying that. I listen to your show every night. You’re a winner, Charlie D. People worship you. The kids at my school try to talk like you-edgy, funny, smart. I’ve tried myself-just at home in my room. I try to make my voice low like yours, but it comes out wrong. Everything I do comes out wrong. But tonight it’s going to be different.”

“So what are you doing tonight?”

“Killing my family,” he says. His voice is without emotion. He could be announcing that he’ll be sitting with a bowl of popcorn watching a dvd. “Charlie, you know what I’m going to do.” He raises his voice. He’s angry now. “I sent you the plans. You’ve been waiting for me to call. That’s why you made up all that stuff about problems with the phone lines. There were no problems with the phone lines. When I called, I got right in.”

I try a laugh.

“You’re too smart for me.”

“Smart enough not to let you stop me.” He tries for a tough-guy growl, but in one humiliating adolescent moment, his voice breaks. He’s younger than I thought- perhaps as young as thirteen or fourteen.

“I know I can’t stop you,” I say. “I was hoping you’d stop yourself.”

“Why? Just to prove one more time that I can’t do anything right?”

“Killing your family isn’t right,” I say.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Suddenly he sounds confident. I’m losing ground.

“ You’ve only known me a couple of minutes,” he says. “I’ve known me fourteen years. So have the people in my family. They know I’m a loser. Every time they look at me, I see it in their eyes. But after tonight, they’ll never have to look at me again.”

“Where are you now?”

“Still up on the third floor in my room. You know what comes next. I sent you the blueprint. I’m going downstairs to close my sisters’ eyes. Then I’ll close my mother’s eyes, and then I’ll close his eyes.”

“Your father’s?” I ask.

“Don’t do that! You knew who I meant!” His voice cracks. He takes a breath. “Then I’ll come back to my room, and that will be the end.”

“Please, don’t do this,” I say. My voice is as weak as my words.

“Too late, Charlie D. It’s time to get started. I have my father’s knife. But guess what?” His laugh is childlike but haunting. “It’s not his knife anymore. It’s mine.”

My pulse is racing.

“Stay on the line-please.” I rack my brain for something-anything-that will keep him from breaking our connection. As long as he’s talking to me, he’s not killing the members of his family. “Why did you send me the blueprint?” I say. “If you didn’t want to be stopped, why did you call in tonight?”