Authors: Tim Kizer
“Yes. She’s fine.”
“How did you get Vincent’s phone?”
“I borrowed it. How does the medicine taste, David?”
“What medicine?”
“Your own medicine. Get it? How does it taste? Doing time for a crime you didn’t commit.”
“Please don’t hurt my daughter.”
“How many innocent people did you put in prison?”
“I’m sorry about what happened to you, Tom. The system isn’t perfect, we all know that.”
“Who’s Tom? My name’s Ben. What happened to ‘it’s better that ten guilty persons escape than that one innocent suffer’? Are you familiar with this expression, David?”
“Yes. It’s called Blackstone’s formulation.”
“That’s right. Do you agree with it?”
“I’m very sorry about what happened to you, but please understand that I was just doing my job.”
“This is bullshit! You enjoyed it. Prosecutors
love
having power over people’s lives. I know your kind very well. You can destroy a person’s life without breaking a sweat. You force innocent people to take plea bargains, you break their spirits, you bring them to financial ruin.”
“I’m not a prosecutor anymore.”
“You’re a child killer, David. That’s what the government says.”
“You’re right. I’m a child killer.”
“Bye-bye.” Tom hung up.
3
When Devon was twelve, his father took him to his boss’s house to watch the Super Bowl. His father’s boss, Paul Hallahan, was a man of means and owned a beautiful six-bedroom mansion, whereas Devon’s family lived in a small two-bedroom apartment in a working-class neighborhood.
Also attending the party were his father’s coworker and five men who didn’t work at his father’s company. Besides Devon, there were four other children in the house, two of whom were Hallahan’s kids. An hour after the game began, Hallahan saw they were out of beer and said to Devon’s father, “Mike, why don’t you go get us a sixpack from the kitchen? No, better make it two.”
Devon was dying to call his dad’s boss’s name and say, “Go get the fucking beer yourself, you asshole!” But he kept his mouth shut because he was a big boy and knew the consequences of such a move.
With a servile smile, Devon’s father sprang from the couch and hurried to the kitchen. He didn’t even ask if he could wait until a commercial break. Devon was embarrassed that his father acted like an obedient dog, caring nothing about what his son might think about his undignified behavior. It was then that Devon realized that the only thing that mattered in this world was power. Power—the ability to make others do what you want. His father’s problem was that he had no power. Michael LeRoy was a lowly accountant with a pitiful salary, and he remained a humble cog who supervised no one until he retired.
His father seemed to be satisfied with his lot, and Devon hated it. He often asked his old man why he wasn’t striving to be the one in charge, to be rich, to be powerful.
“Do you like being ordered around by other people?” he would ask. “Do like being a nobody? No one’s afraid of you.”
His father would smile vacantly, sigh, and then stroke him on the head with his soft pale hand.
“Money and power are not the most important things in life, son,” his dad would say. “Everybody can’t be the boss, everybody can’t be rich. And let me tell you something: I don’t want anyone to be afraid of me.”
“So what? Why do
you
have to be a nobody? Let the other people be your minions. I want you to be the boss.”
His father would make no reply, shrug, and then go to the living room to work on a report for his boss. Hunched over a pile of papers, punching buttons on a printing calculator, he looked pathetic.
When Devon was thirteen, he had sworn to himself that he would do whatever it took to become rich and powerful. He had vowed to be ruthless and relentless in the pursuit of his goals.
To be successful, you needed to be ruthless and relentless, even when dealing with friends and family. Contrary to what the Bible said, the meek were not going to inherit the earth.
Devon had devised a plan, and he was going to execute it because he was ruthless and relentless.
“We have to kill her,” Devon said. “I think she’ll run to the cops as soon as we let her go.”
“You think so?” Tom asked.
“Yes. And we have to kill him, too.” Devon pointed at Vincent.
“You promised you’d let me go,” Carol whimpered.
“The thing is, I don’t trust you,” Devon said.
“You have the videos. I’m not going tell anything to the police. You don’t have to kill me. Please!”
“I’m sorry, Carol, but we have no choice.”
“I’m your sister, Tom,” Carol whined. “Are you going kill your own sister?”
“You stopped being my sister when you sold out to David,” Tom said.
“I didn’t sell out. I love him.”
“Same difference. How can you love the guy who put your brother in prison? You’re a traitor, Carol.”
“Do you have another gun?” Devon asked.
“No,” Tom said.
“Use this as a silencer.” Devon grabbed a pillow from the couch and handed it to Tom.
Although the nearest house was seventy yards away, it was still a good idea to muffle the gunshots.
Devon grabbed Carol by the arm and pulled her up from the couch.
“Please don’t kill me!” cried Carol, mascara running down her cheeks. “Please!”
Devon dragged her to the center of the room. She began to wriggle, trying to break free. For some reason, she didn’t scream for help.
“Shoot her now!” Devon yelled.
Holding the pillow to the muzzle, Tom fired the pistol. The bullet hit Carol in the back. Moments later, her body went limp, and Devon let it fall to the floor.
They moved Vincent to the living room, and Tom shot him in the head through the pillow.
“What are we going to do with the bodies?” Tom asked as he cut the rope that tied the investigator to the chair.
“We’ll bury them in the woods. There’s a good spot fifteen miles west of here.”
It was a lie. They were not going to bury the bodies in the woods.
Devon cut the rope off Carol’s ankles and picked up the pistol. Tom removed the cuffs from Carol and Vincent, checked them for blood stains—there were none—and then put them in a drawer.
Devon could see no blood stains on his clothes or shoes. He would get rid of his shirt, pants, and shoes anyway when he returned to his hotel, just in case.
“Do you have a show tonight?” Tom asked.
“Yes.”
“What time do you want me to pick you up?”
“Ten.”
As Tom searched for people who had been wrongfully convicted in Pima County (he did it out of curiosity, just to see how bad things were there as far as justice was concerned), he had come across Michael Camp, who had spent six years in prison for a rape he hadn’t committed. Unlike Tom, Camp had gotten lucky: his conviction had been overturned. When Tom discovered that David Miller had been the prosecutor in Camp’s case, he decided to recruit the guy to help punish David and to be their fall guy if necessary. He called Camp, suggested that they meet and have a chat. Camp hadn’t showed up, and Tom had come to the conclusion that Camp wasn’t angry enough with David Miller and therefore wasn’t going to be a good partner in crime.
Michael Camp was a pussy and had no self-respect. He was one of those meek people who counted their blessings and took it lying down. Tom, on the other hand, had guts. He had pride. He was a passionate man. Devon had a lot of respect for him. He liked Tom. He sympathized with him. But he had to do this.
Devon sat down on the couch.
“Are you ready?” Tom asked.
“Yes.” Devon patted the couch next to him. “Let’s have a little rest.”
“It’s five-forty.”
The fact that Devon held the gun in his hand didn’t seem to concern Tom. Why would it? They were friends.
“I know.”
Tom sat down next to Devon. “We were really close before she married this motherfucker.”
“You and Carol?”
“Yes.”
Devon turned his face to Tom and said, “Oystercatcher.”
Tom’s lids slowly closed. Tom fell into a trance.
Devon ordered him to move to the chair to the right of the couch, and he did. Devon stood beside Tom.
He had never killed anyone in his life. He had never even wounded anyone. And he wished he didn’t have to kill Tom.
Devon pressed the muzzle to Tom’s right temple. It had to be the right temple because Tom was right-handed.
His heart thumping hard, he slipped his finger into the trigger guard.
One move of his finger, and Tom Powell would be no more. He would turn into a lifeless pile of meat. Whatever was going to happen in Tom’s future would not happen.
Although he had murdered three people, Tom was a nice guy. If Devon were sure that Tom would never get caught by the police and that another private investigator wouldn’t come knocking on his door, he wouldn’t take Tom’s life.
Feeling a wave of warmth coming over him, Devon pulled the trigger. A shot rang out, and Tom’s head slumped to his chest. Devon put the gun on the floor to the right of the chair, then checked his shirt for blood.
He didn’t enjoy killing Tom, but he didn’t hate it, either.
Devon looked at his watch. 5:46.
He couldn’t take Tom’s or Carol’s car because that would be risky: the police might wonder who had driven that car to Houston and they might figure out that Carol had had one more accomplice. He was going to walk a mile and a half from Tom’s house and call a cab. He would make the call from the disposable phone that he had purchased this morning specifically for this purpose. The show started at eight, and he was sure he was going to get to the venue on time.
Devon went to the kitchen, took a plastic grocery bag from the drawer by the stove, then returned to the living room and put Tom’s laptop in the bag. He decided it would be too risky to leave the laptop in the house because it might contain information that could lead the police to him.
After placing the bag with the laptop on the desk, Devon walked over to Tom’s body, pulled the keys from Tom’s pocket, and headed for the guest bedroom, where Annie stayed. When he reached the guest bedroom door, he stopped and listened.
Was the girl asleep? Could she have slept through the gunshot that had killed Tom?
Tom had given Annie a sleeping pill to keep her silent six hours ago. Devon believed six hours was enough for the sedative to have worn off.
He slipped the guest bedroom key into the lock and turned it.
Chapter
29
1
He opened his eyes and saw a white wall in front of him. Then he realized he was lying on his back, which meant that what he was looking at was not a wall but a ceiling. His mind was empty. He had no thoughts.
Was it possible to think about nothing?
Well, being aware that his mind was empty was a thought, wasn’t it? It was a trivial, useless thought, but a thought nonetheless.
He couldn’t remember his name. He had no idea what day it was.
He raised his head and looked at his arms. His arms were fine. He saw a heart-rate monitor on his right index finger. He bent his knees, wiggled his feet, and curled his toes. His legs were fine, too.
“Oh, you’re awake,” a woman’s voice said.
The voice belonged to a nurse. She was short and solidly built, and wore a blue uniform.
“Is this a hospital?” he asked.
“Yes,” the nurse said. “Memorial Hermann Hospital.”
“Where? What city?”
“Houston.”
“What happened to me?”
“You were shot in the head. You’ve been in a coma for four months.”
“I can’t remember my name.”
“Your name’s Vincent Daley. What do you remember?”
“Nothing. What day is it?”
“November twenty-ninth.”
He’d been shot in the head and survived. He must be a very lucky guy.
2
On November 30, Vincent had a visitor. He didn’t recognize the man, so he asked who he was.
“My name’s David Miller,” the visitor said.
David Miller. The name didn’t ring a bell.
“Are you a friend of mine?”
“I was your client. You’re a private investigator, do you remember that?”
“No.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Not too bad.”
“I’m so glad you’re alive.” David smiled.
“Me, too.”
“Can you walk?”
“I can move my legs, but I’ll have to relearn to walk.”
Fortunately, he did not have to relearn to talk, unlike many patients with gunshot wounds to the head.
“I want to thank you for finding my daughter. Her name’s Annie.” David gave him a picture of a young girl.
“Did she go missing?”
“She was kidnapped. You were shot in her kidnapper’s house.”
“Who kidnapped her?”
David took his phone from his pocket and said, “It was a fake kidnapping, and my wife was behind it. She made a video confession. Let me play it for you.”
The video was one minute and three seconds long. David’s wife said, “My name is Carol Miller. My husband’s name is David Miller. Right now David’s in prison for killing our adopted daughter, Annie. I want everyone to know that my husband is innocent. He didn’t kill Annie. Annie’s alive. I made it look like she was murdered by David because I wanted him to go to prison. I framed my husband to get control of his fortune. Greed is the root of all evil.” Carol paused. “I’m truly sorry for what I did. David, if you’re watching this, I hope you’ll forgive me.”
When the video ended, David said, “I believe part of Carol’s motive was revenge. Tom spent six years in prison, and it was me who put him there.”
“Were you the prosecutor on his case?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your wife now?”
David hesitated, then said, “She’s dead. The cops think her brother, Tom, killed her. And they think it was Tom who shot you. Do you remember who shot you?”
“No. Was Tom her accomplice?”
“Yes.”
“Where did they hold your daughter?”
“Tom’s house.”
“Did they arrest Tom?”
“Tom committed suicide shortly after he shot Carol.”
“Did he hurt Annie?”
“No.” David pocketed his phone. “After Tom killed himself, Annie went to a neighbor’s house and told him about the dead bodies.”
“How is she doing now?”
“She’s doing fine.” David cleared his throat. Tears welled up in his eyes. “I’m going to pay you a million dollars for what you’ve done for us. I’ll wire the money to your bank account today.”
“Thank you.”
“What are the doctors saying? Is your memory going to come back to you?”
“There’s a chance it will eventually come back.”
David opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Annie drew this for you.” He gave the drawing to Vincent.
It was a picture of a four-legged animal with a short tail and hanging ears, which looked like a dog. Written in clumsy block letters in the upper left corner was: “GET WELL SOON, VINCENT!”
“It’s her puppy, Rocco,” David said.
“Tell Annie I liked it very much.”
When David left, Vincent shut his eyes and tried to remember David, Carol, Annie, and Tom. He couldn’t.
He was glad the story had a happy ending. The bad guys were dead, and the little girl was alive. He might never remember what had happened to him in Tom’s house, and that was fine with him.
THE END
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