Identity Thief (28 page)

Yet as my shrink self kicked into gear—I’d almost forgotten I wasn’t always a PI—I thought of another way my fake friend could’ve gotten involved. His mother treated him like crap, and his father died—abandoned him. Then Betsy dumped him for Biff. Since Biff was a crook, my pal had to become one, too. It was a way of holding on to Betsy, to not feel abandoned. Beneath that vanilla exterior, he was a total lunatic. As a shrink, that should’ve made me feel sorry for him. But I was a human being first and foremost, and I hated him almost as much as Biff. I’d leave the forgiving to God, assuming there was a God.

I called the Paradise Cul-de-Sac. Sabrina answered the phone, and I said, “I’m on my way, Sabrina, don’t you dare leave.” I figured she needed to leave with me. If she simply left on her own, her creepy husband would go after her or even worse. Pulling up in front of Number 11, I pounded on the door and rang and rang the buzzer. There was no answer. I saw that there was an alarm system, so I prowled around the house to see if there was an open window. I lucked out. The sliding back door was unlocked. I touched the handgun in my pants pocket for a sense of security.

I made no effort to be quiet as I stepped inside the kitchen. “Anybody home?” I shouted. “Sabrina? Mr. Asshole?”

Since it was the middle of the night, I figured I’d find them upstairs. I was about to give a new definition to the term, “rude awakening.” I didn’t intend to kill anyone. Even killing Biff was making me crazy with guilt. I wanted to tell them I knew what was up and for my daughter to be able to leave him and get her life back.

It never occurred to me to call the cops. They probably wouldn’t do anything even if they believed me. And I still worried about having pulled the plug on Linda Goldstein.

I opened the master bedroom door, though the thought of seeing them in bed together grossed me out.

The bed was empty. But it was unmade. I checked the master bath, and no one was there. Suddenly, I heard a voice and followed it down the hall.

“There’s blood everywhere. Naked and so much blood. Dead.”

After a pause, the voice said: “I . . . I never wanted this to happen.” Obviously, someone was on the phone. I couldn’t quite make out who it was because the person was talking very low, but I took a wild guess it was my daughter’s theoretical husband. As I listened, it sounded like a 911 call:

“Oh God, oh God . . . Christ, please, hurry! . . . It’s not just one—I mean, yes. I don’t know. Just get an ambulance . . . I’m home, damn it. In my bedroom . . . I told you, it’s not just one person. Why can’t you listen? Can’t you send an ambulance? . . . I’m in the Paradise Cul-de-sac, Number 11. I’m . . . I’m Dr. Jesse Falcon.”

At the sound of my name, I opened the door with such force it came loose from its hinges.

“I’m not that kind of doctor, you dumb shit. I’m a—I’m a psychologist.”

And there he was, before me. Scotty, talking in a deep voice to sound like an adult. At the sight of me, he said, “No . . . Please, no more,” and hung up the phone.

It was only then I saw the bodies on the floor. Both were face down, but I recognized their hair. One was Betsy, and one was . . . I could see it was my beautiful daughter, Sabrina. The pools of blood around them told me they were dead. Betsy was naked. But I checked Sabrina’s pulse to make sure; I felt something. I kissed her wrist in gratitude. Thank God help was on the way. Then I thought I might as well check Betsy’s pulse. Nothing, nada. She was a goner.

“Please don’t be mad at me, Mr. Van Sant.” He said this as if I found out he broke my window playing baseball.

I grabbed the boy by the shoulders and lifted him off the ground, shaking him hard. “Scotty, you tell me everything right now, or I’ll take you to jail. You’ll be in prison for the rest of your life with rats and cockroaches and other prisoners who will—” I stopped myself. I wanted to kill him for what he did to Sabrina and maybe I would, but first I needed to know what happened. I owed it to my daughter. In a much calmer voice, I set him down and quietly said, “Just tell me what happened.” I wasn’t a shrink all those years for nothing. I knew how to coax the truth out of people. I might as well have had a multiple personality disorder. Life will do that to you. Yet a strange sense of peace flooded my body, as if my blood had turned to warm milk. Something that couldn’t be helped was finally over.

Of course, looking back, I simply was in shock. I didn’t even cry.

Scotty looked down at the floor as he spoke, as if too ashamed to look at me. “Mom came over. I was supposed to be asleep but I heard her. She told my stepmom that Dad had been hurt. She said he broke into her house and tried to kill her and this guy—who was, you know, like, a boyfriend—came out of the bathroom and hit him over the head really hard. Then the police came and arrested the guy. My dad is in a
coma
.” He started to cry. “I knew it wasn’t true because Dad would never kill Mom. Dad is the best guy in the world, and Mom is a liar. I knew my grandma had a gun in the house for when she stayed here. I wasn’t supposed to know about it, but I saw her hide it. I climbed up on a chair and got it out of a box in back of the top shelf of the hallway closet. I cried out that I was having a bad dream. I do that sometimes. You know, for attention. I feel all the time like I’m not even
here
—like I’m invisible or something. The grown-ups are always talking about stuff they don’t want me to know about. I hate being a kid.”

“That’s an awful way to feel, Scotty. Invisible. No wonder you get upset.” I could see his little fists tightening, as if something inside him was exploding. It was a feeling I knew well. “Please go on, Scotty. I am very interested in what you have to say.”

He actually smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Van Sant. I never knew before you were such a cool guy.”

“Thank you. I think you’re cool, too.” Remembering that dumb high five his father did with me once, I repeated the gesture with Scotty, who grinned even wider.

“Well, both my moms came into the room. I turned to my real mom and pulled out the gun. ‘You take back what you said about Dad, or I’ll shoot.’ She started to laugh, though my stepmom looked worried. My real mom said, ‘Scotty, don’t be dumb. Put down the gun and go back to sleep.’ That made me mad. ‘I’m not dumb,’ I said. Then I started screaming. ‘I’m not dumb, I’m not dumb.’ And then the next thing I knew, I pulled the trigger and shot. The bullet missed my mom. But it . . . it hit my stepmom, right in the heart. She fell over. My real mom laughed and said, ‘Jesus, what a lousy shot. Or should a say a great shot? I hated that bitch. Now, give Mommy the gun, Scotty.’ I gave it to her, all right. I shot her through the neck. You should’ve seen the blood! I kept looking at my mom, I mean my real mom. I was so confused. Did I really just kill her? On TV, they examine the bodies, so I . . . I know it was naughty, but I took off her clothes. I wanted to see the bullet hole and just . . . I wanted to see her. I wanted her to be okay. I put my head between her . . . her, you know, uh, breasts. I don’t know why, but I started crying. I put her arms around me. She never liked to hug me, and I . . . I just wanted to
feel
her, you know? Really feel her. Then I figured I’d call 911.”

I nodded encouragingly throughout this confession, so that I did not scare him into stopping. “Why did you say you were Dr. Jesse Falcon?”

“From sneaking into Dad’s computer, I knew there was this guy named Dr. Jesse Falcon that he was looking for. Dad was even in contact with the police. I figured Dr. Jesse Falcon was someone bad, so I gave his name. You know, so that I wouldn’t get caught.”

Obviously, Scotty misunderstood what was in the computer. I thought about asking him to show it to me. I heard the cop car sirens from a distance.

“Scotty, you like your grandmother, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give me the gun. Now, we’re going to sneak out the back door very quietly. If you hear the cops breaking into the house, you keep following me and don’t make a sound.”

“What about my dog?”

“We’ll get Jeremy—I mean, Astronaut later. Now, do as I say, young man.”

We made it to my car with seconds to spare. From my rearview mirror I could see the cop cars entering the cul-de-sac. I drove to his grandmother’s—my old condo—and banged on the door. Fortunately, the old bag was still awake. Drinking, I presumed.

“Mr. Van Sant,” she said. “Scotty. What are you doing here?”

“Get Scotty a lawyer this very moment. Then make him tell you what happened. He needs . . . he needs
something
.”

She was smart enough to know that whatever it was, she should do it. “Got it,” she said, and as she closed the door, she added, “Thanks.”

My reasons for getting Scotty to safety were quite calculated. I wanted to make sure neither of us were around when the cops came, to buy myself some time. He shot my daughter. Yeah, it was an accident. Yeah, he was only a kid. But I had to think of some way to avenge her death, and I needed to stay clear of the cops to do it.

I drove to the hospital and went to the emergency desk. The receptionist asked if I had a question.

“Yes. Do you have a patient named—” I stopped myself. “Do you have a patient named Dr. Jesse Falcon?”

The receptionist sighed. “I’m afraid we do. I remember him from that awful bank robbery. When I saw them bring him in again, I thought, ‘That poor man has the worst luck in the world.’ But it helped us get him checked in.”

“I’m his doctor,” I said. “His psychologist. I’d really like to see how he’s doing.”

“I shouldn’t, but okay. There’s a police officer outside his door, anyway. He may stop you from going in.”

“I’m sure I can talk him into letting me see him.” I winked as I took a slip of paper with the room number. The supposed cop at the doorway wasn’t even there. How typical. But also, how lucky for me.

I saw my ex-son-in-law-ex-best-friend lying in a coma. He had fewer gadgets hooked up to him than Linda Goldstein had, but it was the same general idea. I sat down next to him. I really didn’t know what to think anymore.

“So, buddy boy, you steal from me and marry my daughter and get her killed. After I saved your life. Those transactions on the computer . . . it was all part of your plan with Biff. In the bar, you sent that text message. Was it to Sabrina, telling her to leave because I was coming over? You were even willing to get beaten up to try to keep me away from Biff. Did it hurt you to know I killed him? Did it scare you? And now here you are. Oblivious to everything. Maybe you’ll die never even knowing all that you did. Should I pull your plug and give you death? Or should I hope you wake up and face what you did? Which is worse? Which will stab you over and over with more of my rage?”

I was startled by a tap on my shoulder.

“In the mood for pulling another plug, Dr. Falcon?” It was a woman’s voice.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I turned and saw this cop right in my face. The whole thing was some kind of setup. The cop not being on duty, the name of Jesse Falcon. Was Scotty right—or at least partially right—after all? Did the cops hire this fuckhead to find me? When? Why?

“Linda Goldstein ring any bells?”

“I . . . I want a lawyer.”

She handcuffed me as she read me my rights. “Dr. Jesse Falcon, aka Randall Van Sant, you are under arrest for the murder of Linda Goldstein.”

Just to have the last word, I said, “Why would a woman want to be a cop? Couldn’t you get laid?”

“I have a thing for serial killers.” She yawned, like she’d heard it all before.

I thought I must’ve heard wrong. “Serial killer? What the hell do you mean?”

“You asked to speak to a lawyer, sir. I’m sure it will all get straightened out at the station.”

That was two years ago. At first they thought I killed a whole mess of people who woke up from comas, but finally they settled on just Linda Goldstein. I never said a word about killing Biff, though the charges against the mob guy and hit man were dropped due to lack of evidence, so they were free to go their merry way, killing more people. The cops really did ask my dumb-ass friend to find Jesse Falcon, and he truly didn’t know that’s who I was. There was a plea bargain I never knew about. The FBI guy who gave me my new name never told his superiors, so in typical fucked-up fashion, no one had any idea what anyone else was doing. I fell off the radar, until they finally added two and two.

Eventually, they also figured out that the asshole doctor who talked to me the night I pulled Linda’s plug had killed the other patients. I guess you could say the squeaky wheel got the grease because he had a trial in about five minutes—guilty, the death penalty—while I’ve been rotting in prison for two years as my trial keeps getting postponed. God, I miss sex.

There really is no justice in this world.

W
HEN I FIRST MET JESSE FALCON, I WAS SIXTEEN, and I thought he was a young god. He was so handsome, born to wear tuxedos and polo gear, but not in a self-aware way, like a conceited male model or movie star. Truly handsome men do not give off an aura of knowing how handsome they are. That was Jesse—oblivious perfection. And for a year or two, we were obliviously happy. Then . . . how do I say it? He looked in the mirror and liked what he saw. Indeed, he liked it way too much. The magic spell had been broken. He became narcissus; he couldn’t stop looking at himself. The first time he cheated on me was the night of our engagement party. I remember thinking, “Oh, so he’s only another man.” But I put that realization in the back of my mind, like a beautiful garden that has a pile of mulch way in the back. I suppose you could say my life has been about trying to believe that men are not the way they really are.