The Shadow Killer (5 page)

“Does your father hurt you physically?”

“Not physically. He has other ways. And
my mother and my sisters always tell me my
father is wrong about me. They say I'm a good
person, a worthwhile person—they believe
in me.”

“Then why do you want to…to ‘close
their eyes'?”

“I don't want them to spend the rest of
their lives having people look away from them
because they're the family with the boy who
killed his father.”

“So you're killing your mother and your
sisters to protect them.”

“It's the only way,”
he says miserably.
“I've thought about it a lot. I'm going to
hang up now.”

The line goes dead. I stare at my computer screen. Nova has written the intro for the next song. I make no attempt to hide the anger in my voice when I read her words.
“This is for all you dads who believe
it's your way or the doorway: Waylon Jennings
with ‘Only Daddy That'll Walk the Line.'”

As Waylon delivers his warning to the woman who's been stepping on his toes, I bury my face in my hands. Nova's on the talkback immediately. “We've caught a break. The police were able to trace 1121's call.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
he tension drains from my body, but the relief doesn't last. I try to imagine how the cops will handle the situation. There are no good options. The time for the police psychologist is long past. Loser1121 is walking a razor-thin wire. If the police storm the house where he lives, the shock will knock him off the wire. Once he hits the ground, he'll move quickly. He'll kill until the cops bring him down.

Sometimes when we have a truly desperate caller, I can find a way to connect by putting myself in his place. I close my eyes and imagine myself in 1121's head. I can feel the walls closing in. Panic rises in my throat. I can't get air into my lungs. It's too much. I open my eyes, pick up the picture of Lily, focus on the moment when she held the dandelion and force myself to breathe deeply.

I'm in control again, but I can't forget 1121. Lily holds the dandelion as if were a magician's wand. Loser1121 was once a boy who knew the enchantment of dandelions. He shouldn't have to face the end of his life alone. Through my earphones, I hear Waylon Jennings delivering the final warning to his wayward wife. In seconds I'll be back on the air. I call Nova on the talkback. “What's 1121's phone number?”

“It's on your screen,” she says. “I sent it as soon as the police traced the call, but Charlie, the number was a dead end. It belongs to a woman named Mavis Durant here in the city.”

I look at the blueprint 1121 sent in. “The surname of his family starts with a
K
. The initials don't fit,” I say.

“Neither does anything else,” Nova says. Her voice is bleak. She knows we've reached the end of the road. “Charlie, Mavis is eighty-three years old. She lives in a retirement home here in the city. The police are on their way to talk to her, but they believe the story she told them when they called her.”

“What did she tell them?”

“That one day last month, she left her purse on a bench in the park by the legislature. The purse was turned in. There was nothing missing but her cellular phone. She didn't report it because the phone had been a gift from her grandson and she didn't want him to think she'd been careless.”

“And she didn't cut off the service?”

“No. She said she never used the phone anyway. The phone company's records bear out her story. The phone wasn't used until tonight.”

“Loser1121 was saving it,” I say. “I'm going to call him.”

“I'd better check with my friends in blue about that,” Nova says. Her exchange with them is brief. She's back on the phone almost immediately. “They say go ahead and place the call. We haven't got anything else.”

Since they arrived, the cops in the control room haven't had much to do but look stern and alert. Finally, there's at least the possibility of action. As I tap in the number, they spring to life, but apparently 1121 has turned off his cell. I give Nova and the officers the thumbs-down sign. My bag of tricks is empty. I flip on my microphone. I don't have to cast around for an effective tone. The urgency in my voice is the real thing.

“My name is Charlie Dowhanuik. And you
are listening to ‘The World of Charlie D' on
what, even for us, is a weird and scary night.
In the last few minutes, I've been talking with
a troubled friend. We don't know his name
or where he lives—he could be anywhere.
The point is we have to find him, and we have
to help him. He calls himself loser1121. If you
have any idea who 1121 might be, email us at
[email protected] or text us. We want to
leave the phone lines open in case he decides
to call in.

“1121, I hope you're still with us. You have
no idea how much I hope that you're still up
in your room and that you stay there. I know
right at this moment you feel your whole life
sucks. But take my word for it, life has a way of
getting better.”

I check the control room to see how I'm doing. The faces of the cops are stony, but Nova gives me a small and encouraging smile, so I plow on.

“Your experience isn't unique. I didn't have
a lousy relationship with my father—I didn't
have
any
relationship with him.

“He was a big shot in politics, and he was
never around. I tried everything to get him to
pay attention to me. I wasn't an easy kid. I was
born with a birthmark that covers half my face.
In a weird way, being a freak was liberating.
I had nothing to lose—so I took a lot of chances.
My mother used to say that I didn't have
friends, I had fans. Other kids hung around me
just to see how far I was going to push it.

“What I'm trying to say is that I grew up
fine without a father. You can too. There are
people who can help you, 1121. I can help you.
Just call. You have our number,
1-800-555-2333
.
Please just call.”

CHAPTER NINE

I
stare at the two rows of lights in front of me. Each row has eight lights— one for each phone line. The bottom light goes solid when Nova answers it. When she puts up the line for me to take the call on air, the top light goes solid. When we're going full tilt that means sixteen greenish-yellow lights are blinking at me. Tonight there's nothing. The lines are dead. The lights are dark.

Nova sends the intro for the next tune. I open my mike and announce the title on air.

“Here's Madonna with ‘Papa Don't
Preach.' If any of you out there can weave a
connection between what our troubled friend
is going through and ‘Papa Don't Preach,'
you can have my job.”

Through my earphones, Madonna sings of an unmarried girl pleading with her father to accept her decision to keep her baby. I stare at the phone lines. The first three lines are for local callers. If 1121's call comes in on one of those lines, we might be able to get to him in time.

But the lines stay dark. Madonna's nearing the end of her song. I glance at the control room. It would be reassuring to make eye contact with Nova, but this isn't my night. And there's a new and unwelcome development. Howard Dowhanuik has come into the control room. My father has always dominated every room he enters, and the control room is no exception. He has the body of an aging linebacker—tall, somewhat stooped but still powerful. Suddenly even the cops seem small and vulnerable. My father says a few words to them, bends to speak to Nova and then bingo, he walks through the door to my studio.

I'm not in the mood for company. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He doesn't answer. He just moves toward my desk and stands there, towering over me.

“Get out,” I say.

He locks eyes with me.

“Not until you hear what I have to say.” His voice is deep, gruff and commanding— a good voice for a politician.

“Make it fast,” I say. “I'm back on the air in fifteen seconds.”

“I was listening to your show when I was at Nighthawks. I'm pretty sure I know who loser1121 is.”

I open my talkback.

“Nova, Howard thinks he can identify…”

Nova is curt.

“He told us. I'll keep playing music till you're ready to go back on air.” She pauses. When she speaks again, I can feel her anxiety. “Charlie, don't let your feelings about Howard get in the way. He's all we've got.”

I turn to my father.

“Okay. Shoot.”

Without being asked, Howard takes the chair we use for guest experts.

“Is there any information you're not making public?” he asks.

I open the email note from 1121. After my father reads it, I open the attachments— the picture of the carving knife and finally the blueprint with 1121's route marked out. I turn to Howard.

“Does this fit what you know?”

“It fits.” My father picks up the newspaper I bought at the drugstore, folds it so he's looking at the photo of the political Rising Star and his family. Howard's hands are rough—the hands of a man who still likes to chop his own wood and maintain his own vehicles. His forefinger taps the picture of the boy staring down at the picnic table. “That's 1121,” he says
.
“Josh James Kirkwood. I don't know the girls' names, but the mother's name is Marion.” Howard moves his forefinger to the image of the Rising Star. “You'll recognize this prick. He's the man destiny has sent to save my party from itself—Josh Kirkwood.”

I take the newspaper from him and stare at the picture.

“How did you make the connection?”

My father massages the back of his neck. It's the same thing I do when I'm tense.

“There was a meeting at Kirkwood's house a couple of weeks ago,” he says. “I've been shooting off my mouth about how much I hate the direction the party's going in, so I guess they were hoping to win me over. It didn't work. Kirkwood is a self-righteous, condescending asshole. He was pissing me off, so I left. I was getting into my car when the kid came running after me and asked me if I was your father. I said I was, and the kid—Josh—said that I must be really proud of you.”

“What did you say?”

My father is used to answering tough questions, but this time, he hesitates.

“I said that I didn't know you.”

I thought I was past being hurt by this man, but apparently not.

“At least you didn't lie,” I say.

My father moves closer. I can smell his aftershave. In the days when he was drinking heavily, he used to drench himself in it. For a kid, it was overpowering, but tonight I find the scent surprisingly comforting.

“There's more,” he says. “Josh said I should get to know you because you were a really great person.”

“So we know that Josh's not much of a judge of character,” I say tightly.

My father pounds the table with his fist.

“God damn it, Charlie, this isn't about you and me. This is about Josh.” He picks up the earphones on the desk in front of him and puts them on. “Turn on our mikes. Let's do what we need to do.”

I flick on our microphones and lean into mine. My voice is tense.

“
We have a guest—Howard Dowhanuik,
a political legend in our time, and my father.
Howard and I are going to talk about what it's
like for a boy to grow up in his father's shadow.”

My father's been staring at his hands, but when he hears my words, his massive head jerks up.

“Politics was just my job. I never made a
big deal of who I was.”

“You didn't have to,”
I say.
“There were
people who did it for you. You were always
surrounded by hangers-on, telling you how
terrific you were, how brilliant your last speech
was, how the country would fall apart if you
didn't win the next election. You were always
away—righting wrongs and drying every tear.”

“It wasn't that bad,”
he says quietly.
“I was around. Besides, you didn't need me.
You had a lot of friends.”

“They weren't friends. They were kids who
wanted to catch my act—see how high I'd go or
how fast I'd drive or how many chances I'd take.
Everybody noticed me except the one I wanted
to notice me.”

Howard looks dumbfounded.

“
Is that really what all that crazy behavior
was about?”

I grab his arm.

“It wasn't crazy behavior. I wanted you
to pay attention. I wanted you to look at me.
I wanted you to really see me. 1121, I hope
you're listening. This isn't an act. This is
the truth. I know how you feel. I know what
it's like to be lost in your father's shadow.”
My voice breaks.
“I know what it's like to
have a father who's larger than life.”

Howard's eyes are hooded.

“I wasn't larger than life. I was a scared
Ukrainian kid who earned his way through
university playing football. I ran hard because
I was afraid that if I ever stopped running,
people would see that I was nothing special.”

My father and I lock eyes. I wonder if this is the first time either of us has ever really seen the other. We both earn our living with words, but suddenly neither of us seems to have anything to say. More dead air.