“O-kay,”
I say.
“Here's a song for Aldo and
for all the other guys out there who take their
dad-ly duties seriously. It's the Winstons with
âColor Him Father.'”
I hum a few bars along with the Winstons, and then I turn on my talkback. “Only two callers and we're already doing another tune?” I say. “Are you afraid Henry Burgh is going to turn Misty loose on me?”
Nova is staring at her computer screen. “At the moment, Henry is far from our biggest problem. Loser1121 just emailed his plan for the murders. I'm forwarding it as an attachment.” There's a catch in her voice. “Charlie, this is a nightmare.”
I open the attachment. It's an architect's blueprint of a house. Loser1121 has marked his route for the killings in red Sharpie. The thick red line starts in the kitchen, goes up a back staircase and then to a large bedroom on the east side of the house. Outlines of twin beds are drawn against one of the walls. Each bed is marked with three letters. I assume they're the initials of the person who sleeps in the bed:
LMK
and
VCK.
On top of each set of initials, loser1121 has drawn a large
X
.
The red line leaves the bedroom and goes down a hallway into a wing on the west side of the house. The blueprint identifies this as the master bedroom. A double bed is drawn against the far wall. At the head of the bed, there are two sets of initials:
MEK
and
JAK
. Both are X'd out. Finally the red line doubles back to the stairs that lead to the third floor. The bed in this loft bedroom is marked with the initials
JJK.
It, too, bears an
X
. Each of the sets of initials is numbered. LMK is number 1; VCK is number 2; MEK is 3; JAK is 4; and JJK is numbered 5. The thick red line stops at JJK's bed. His will be the last blood shed.
T
he Winstons' graceful tribute to the stepfather who raised them to be proud and loving men ends. It's my turn now, but I can't move. Through my earphones, I hear dead airâfatal for talk radio. Nova takes over. Her voice is shaky, but she's in charge. “The cops are on their way,” she says. “Henry Burgh's on line one. Can you handle him?”
I nod, take a deep breath, dig deep for my cool voice and flip on my microphone. My hands are trembling, but my imitation of the unflappable Charlie D is convincing.
“
Hey, Henry, this is a big night for us.
You're a first-time caller and our show's first
billionaire. Thanks for joining the party.”
Henry's bass rumbles with authority, but he's in high spirits.
“I wanted to thank Britney for her good
wishes. Misty's right here with me, and she
appreciates Britney's kindness too. People of my
generation are often too quick to dismiss young
people. They have a great deal to offer.”
“Agreed,”
I say.
“You've obviously discovered
that Misty has a great deal to offer.”
Provoking a billionaire is never a sharp move, but Henry takes my comments in stride.
“Misty is a woman of infinite variety. But
enumerating my bride-to-be's many charms
would just get me into a pissing match with my
son. I've always been able to out-piss Evan.”
He chuckles.
“Besides, Misty is attempting
to teach me to turn the other cheek.”
I find myself liking Henry.
“So how's that working out for you?”
His laugh rumbles.
“
Let's just say it's not easy to teach an old
dog new tricks.”
I turn to share the moment with Nova. What I see makes me reach for the aspirin. The control room is filling with cops. This baffles me. The danger is out there, not in here.
Through the talkback, Nova's voice is tense, but she's in control.
“We're going to another tune. Ask Henry Burgh to stay on the line. If we're going to lure loser1121, we're going to have to bait the hook.”
“And Henry will keep the focus where we need it to beâon fathers and sons.”
“We can't afford to blow this, Charlie. Do whatever's necessary to keep Henry onside.”
I flip my mike back on.
“Henry, I apologize, we're having some
technical difficulties.”
“I assumed as much,”
he says.
“Over the
years, I've hung up on many people, but no one
ever hangs up on me.”
“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 âLike 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. âFreedom'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 painâ
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 thingâonce 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.
H
is voice is a surprise. It's small, high-pitched, edged with doom.
“
This is loser1121âI'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 âloser' 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 youâedgy, funny, smart. I've tried
myselfâjust 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 thoughtâ 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 lineâplease.”
I rack my brain for somethingâanythingâthat 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?”
He doesn't answer. In the silence, I can hear my heart pounding. It's too late. I reach for the bottle of aspirin, shake two into my palm and dry-chew them. It's over.
I start to take off my earphones; then I hear him. His voice is small, and it seems as if it's painful for him to talk.
“I wanted a record,”
he says. “
I didn't
want people to think I was just screwed-up like
the two kids who did the Columbine shooting.
They were weirdos who were into guns and
homemade explosives. I want people to hear my
real voice. So they'd know⦔
“So they'd know what?”
Loser1121 is fighting tears, and he isn't winning. He's breaking apart.
“So they'd know that I love my mother and
I love my sisters.”
“Then why are you going to end their
lives?”
I ask.
He raises his voice in frustration.
“Because I love them. I just told you that.
They've always tried to protect me against him.”