by Alan Lee
Jennings was trying and failing to read All This Marvelous Potential, a book about Robert F. Kennedy. Jennings didn’t care a thing for politics but the youngest, quietest, most pious of the Kennedy family fascinated him. RFK didn’t fit with the Kennedy kin and he’d died too young. This was the third book he’d purchased about the man but now the words kept blurring. It was late and he was in bed.
The phone rang. His optimism grabbed onto the hope that it was Daisy.
But, no, it was someone else—Kelly Carson, the attractive, depressed, dog-walking step-daughter of Peter Lynch. Jennings rebuked himself for his accelerated pulse; he was no high school boy pining for a phone call. Without getting up from his bed, Jennings glanced at the time and answered.
“Hello Kelly.”
“You remember me, Dan.”
“Of course.”
“Is this too late? Ahh man, I didn’t know it was that late.”
“No, I’m not sleeping much,” he said.
“Because of Peter? Shit. I shouldn’t have told you that stuff.”
“Somebody should be worried about him. May as well be me.”
Carson made a snickering noise. “That’s wild. That’s a wild way to see life. You’re a do-gooder, huh.”
“Maybe. How’re you?”
“I’m high.”
“On?”
“Usual shit. Plus OxyContin.”
“Not wise, Kelly.”
“I know.”
“I was on opioids for a while.” Jennings was lonely; anxiety was on the prowl and the intimate voice in his ear wasn’t unwelcome and he had no desire to quickly disconnect. Besides maybe he’d learn something useful about Lynch.
If only it’d been Daisy.
“Why?” she said.
“Traumatic injury.”
“But you quit it?”
“Fast as I could.”
“Probably a good idea. Probably a gooooood idea.”
“Life’s hard enough without addictions.”
“You’re a frickin’ Boy Scout, is what you are.”
Jennings adjusted his head on the pillow so the phone could lay beside him unsupported. He laced his hands over his stomach. “I read a lot too. How lame am I.”
“Deep down all I want,” said Carson, “is for a tall handsome guy who reads to love me the rest of my life. So maybe not so lame. But he’s gotta have tattoos and a record, so you’re out. You’re out.”
Jennings had tattoos. But he kept quiet about it.
“I’m calling…” she said. “I bet you’re wondering why. This isn’t a drunk dial.”
“Sounds like it is.”
“I mean…kinda, but not really. I didn’t know who else to call. And when we talked you seemed, you know, trust wordy.”
“Trustworthy.”
“Shut up,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“So if this isn’t a drunk dial, what is it?”
“I stress about Peter. I think he’s outside my window. He’s not, but I think he is. Like he’s everywhere. So I just wondered…wondered if you were still chasing him.”
“I am. And getting nowhere.”
“Has he hurt anyone?”
Yes, my friend Daisy. Scared the hell out of her in the backseat of a car.
“No,” said Jennings.
“That’s good. That’s good. And Benji? He’s okay?”
“As far as I know. Maybe you can help. I talked to Kabir Patel, the journalist. He mentioned some girls went missing in California. Do you know anything about that?”
“Normally I’d hang up,” she said, “but, Dan, I’m high. Drunk and high, caution to the wind. So here goes. I suspect Peter kills prostitutes who anger him.”
Carson had trouble with the word suspect. Sounded like suptect.
“Why do you suspect that?”
“Cause he’s a psycho.”
Sociopath, more likely.
“He had whores, Daniel. Maybe not whores but stupid girls. Maybe both. He didn’t hide them after my mom moved into a different bedroom. He couldn’t kill my mom but he could kill the whores.”
“You think he’s a serial killer?”
“No. No because I looked it up once. A series… a serial killer does a bunch because he has to, does it the same way over and over, and maybe for no reason, I think? Peter does it cause he gets angry. He likes to discs…discipline. But he’s no idiot, he knew my mom would be missed, knew I would be missed, but the whores? Some of them, illegal aliens or trafficked girls, no one would miss them. Or, I mean, no one could do anything about it if they were. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”
“Do you have proof?” said Jennings.
“Nope. I got nothing except OxyContin and Xanax and Cymbalta.”
“Do you know anything about a field?”
“Nnnnnope. What about a field?”
“I don’t know. I’m lost.”
“Oh man, listen, I gotta go,” she said.
“That was quick.”
"My Sonata is kicking in.”
“What’s that?”
“A pill. For sleeping.”
“You’re on too many meds, Kelly.”
“And you have a sexy voice, Daniel. Want to talk dirty while I go to sleep?”
“Maybe next time.”
“Right but call me again. Tell me how…” Pause for a throaty yawn. “…how it’s going. Because I’d feel better… if I didn’t think he was out my window.”
“You bet.”
She said, “I really hope…you’re okay…” Based on her noises, Carson fell into sleep then. She said something else but it was gibberish and her breaths deepened. Daniel didn’t hang up. Her breathing was a comfort. Like he wasn’t alone. He didn’t disconnect because the sound made him feel better.
“I’m losing my mind,” he whispered to himself.
39
Francis Lynch strode through the Roanoke County Police station like a wraith, pale and other, not checking his pace at the front desk. The cops knew who he was, the judge of 23rd Judicial Court; they watched him pass silently and they shared glances freighted with meaning.
Francis knocked on an office in the back and Chief Gibbs looked up over his reading glasses. He’d been peering at something on his computer screen.
“I mighta guessed.”
“Good afternoon, Chief. My God you look old.”
Gibbs grunted and Francis seemed to enter without moving. He twitched off his black leather gloves, finger by finger.
“I heard the news.”
Gibbs said, “What news?”
“You know what news.”
“I want you to say it.”
“Craig Lewis was murdered.”
“Yeah, and what’s that to you?”
“Years ago we were acquaintances and I valued him highly. Recently I saw him at dinner with Daniel Jennings. The same Daniel Jennings my brother has mentioned twice.”
“How were you and Craig acquaintances?” said Gibbs.
“Chief.”
“You were gay lovers.”
For a long moment, Francis held Chief Gibbs with his eyes, a stare hardened from his omnipotence on the bench. Gibbs, however, wore the armor of fatherhood and his years with the badge, and the resultant friction threatened to turn the little office ugly.
“If you weren’t such an ass, you might not be alone in the world,” said Francis.
The sharp rebuke stole Gibbs’ breath. The words stung in places Francis didn’t know about. Gibbs couldn’t reply, not even to apologize, though he would never. He hadn’t told a soul about his diagnosis. And he might never, better to die alone.
Francis said, “For the moment, perhaps you can act like the chief of police instead of an old bastard. You can remember that fathers should care, not humiliate. You can remember that I am a judge who will potentially see this case very soon and you are charged with apprehending the culprit.”
Gibbs nodded and swallowed. Waved his hand to dismiss the subject.
/> “I cared about him. That’s what’s important,” said Francis. “Did Peter kill him?”
Gibbs leaned back, chair squeaking. With one hand he removed his reading glasses and let them drop onto his desk. The other hand pressed against his hip. “Your brother never goes to that gym. But he did that morning.”
“Damn it.”
“Don’t slouch, boy. Stand up straight like a man. I can’t tell you that forever.” Gibbs pivoted his computer monitor for Francis to see. He’d been watching surveillance video.
His detectives had nabbed a copy of yesterday’s gym circulation log and they were combing through the video to eliminate suspects. The ME had declared the approximate time of death and police were already making calls on the members who left soon after. Twenty-one men on their list.
Gibbs pressed play; on screen, Peter Lynch arrived at the gym.
“That’s Peter,” said Francis.
“He swiped his card at 8:33.”
“He’s wearing a cap. Why would he wear a cap?”
“You’ll figure it out.” Gibbs fast-forwarded. “This is later, about an hour and a half before Lewis was killed in the shower.”
On screen, tracked by three separate cameras, a man wearing the same cap and scarf emerged from the locker room, left the gym, and walked to the far Jaguar.
Francis leaned closer to the screen.
“Is that Peter?”
“What do you think?”
“It must be. So he’s not the culprit, if he left before…” Francis’ words trailed. He was puzzled.
“That’s what my detectives think too.”
“Play it again please.”
Gibbs did. Francis once more watched his brother arrive and then leave. His face hidden behind a scarf and sunglasses and cap.
The ruse was good. Except Francis had grown up with Peter, knew him, could recognize his posture and gait in the dark. The second man wasn’t Peter. It had to be Homer, the man Peter employed on his farm, both men bearded. Homer had left in Peter’s clothes and Peter remained behind, probably in the locker room.
The implication slapped at Francis—it had happened again.
Peter had done it again and the awful truth was they’d known he would. Had been waiting for it.
“You see what I see?” said Gibbs.
Francis fiddled with his gloves.
“You see it,” said Gibbs.
“Does anyone know?”
“They don’t suspect a thing. He tricked’em good.”
“What will you do?”
“What I always do.”
“He’s still stringing up rabbits by their ears and you’re still pretending not to see, Chief.”
“And what would you have me do, Judge?”
“Arrest him.”
“Here you were telling me fathers should care.”
“Arresting him would be for all our benefits, including his.” Francis plucked a black handkerchief from his jacket pocket and pressed it to his mouth, the left side.
“A father can’t do that to his son. Nor should his brother. We can’t. Our hands aren’t exactly clean. You know Peter, he’ll implicate us and laugh doing it.”
“He can prove nothing. And he’ll kill that girl next.”
“Daisy,” said Gibbs.
“Yes.”
“Can’t blame him there. A girl looking that good should be married by now. Not dating boys like Peter Lynch.”
“They’re dating?”
“He texted me. Told me he was taking her out, but…”
“But what?” said Francis.
Gibbs knew how the date had ended. His evidence locker had held his son’s hair, until he got word of it through back channels. No reason to let Francis worry.
“But nothing. You don’t care about Peter anyway.”
“That’s unkind,” said Francis. “I see him for what he is. He’s sick. Remember the psych evals? The apperception, the anger inventory, the clinical multiaxial, God, those were eye-opening reports even to me, a teenager. The court nearly mandated restraints.”
“After he broke your mouth.”
“Peter needs help. He’s needed it for decades.”
“That’s what I’m doing. I’m helping,” said Gibbs.
“You’re enabling. What about Daniel Jennings?”
“The Green Beret. Haven’t heard anything from him. I expect I will after he finds out about his ol’ pal Craig Lewis,” said Gibbs.
“He’s determined.”
“He’s trouble. For all of us. Trouble I can’t afford right now.”
“I know he worries Peter.”
“He turn you on? Pretty boy, isn’t he.”
“Don’t be lewd.” Francis turned to go. “And yes he is.”
“That limping soldier might get himself strung up by his ears, he don’t be careful.”
“We should end this.”
“What’cha got in mind, Judge?”
“If you won’t arrest him—”
“I won’t.”
“Then we need to deal with him as a family. Before we’re out of time.”
Gibbs leaned forward to pick up his reading glasses. Thought about putting them on but didn’t, had no desire to watch the surveillance video again. “Maybe we’re already out of time.”
40
Jennings hadn’t slept well after his phone conversation with Kelly. The exhaustion was accumulating. He felt like he walked through the school day on a tightrope, poised to plunge into despair and madness, the rope vibrating under the strain.
Peter kills prostitutes.
Because he’s a psycho, Dan.
And that was before Dean Gordon called an emergency Academy meeting after school.
The faculty and staff filed into the auditorium, sitting in cliques like the students did. Hathaway lowered into the seat next to Jennings without speaking. She looked better for her time away.
He wondered why a few teachers were crying.
"Daniel, are you not sleeping?” Hathaway peered into his face with concern.
“It’s gotten difficult.”
Hathaway took his hand and squeezed, and a surge of serotonin hit his bloodstream. The intoxicating power of human contact. She said, “That’s the worst. Because of Peter Lynch? Or because of PTSD? Or because of…?”
When she’d taken his hand, she hadn’t laced her fingers between his. But some primordial awareness told him that if he tried it would not be unwelcome.
Dean Gordon took the microphone on stage.
“Good afternoon. So, uh, listen…” Gordon paused to clear his throat and pat at his tie. Ice trickled down Jennings’ spine; he’d been in debriefings like this before. “I wish I knew some gentle way to say this. There isn’t, but undoubtedly it shouldn’t be communicated through email or the speaker system. The Academy has suffered a great loss. Our friend and our humanities instructor, Craig Lewis, died over the weekend.”
Gasps around the room and from Hathaway. In the back, Jennings stood up and gripped fistfuls of his hair. No one noticed him except Gordon and Hathaway. His sanity ruptured with a pop, a sound he heard between his ears like a guitar string breaking.
“He was found at the Carilion Wellness Center Sunday evening in the shower. He’d been…dead for hours, apparently.”
“What happened to him?” said Jennings but his voice wasn’t working and only Hathaway heard his croak.
“I asked the police to let me break the sad news to you. They’ll be asking us questions soon because unfortunately…” Another pause. “Because unfortunately they suspect foul play.”
Another volley of gasps.
Someone in the front asked, “Murder?”
Gordon replied with a nod, dramatic. “They think so. Obviously, if anyone has information that could help the police identify the culprit…well, they’d like to hear from you.”
More questions from the audience. Gordon didn’t know anything other than what he’d already said.
Hathaway emerg
ed from her fog and she discovered Jennings was gone. Thirty minutes later she left the auditorium and went to her classroom for tissues, passing Jennings’ room—he wasn’t there.
Oh no.
She hurried to his apartment and knocked. No answer. And his truck was gone from faculty parking.
Hathaway paced the lawn, crying and shivering, feeling small and alone. She called his phone. Ringing…voicemail.
“No no.” She called again, and he answered now. “Daniel! Where are you?”
“I’m killing Peter Lynch,” he said.
She barely recognized his voice.
The line disconnected and a cold drizzle began to fall. Hathaway tried again but it went straight to voicemail; he’d powered off the device. After the beep she cried, “No, Daniel, please don’t! You’re too important! Call me back!”
She hung up and dialed 9-1-1, her thumb shaking and frozen over the Call button…
41
Jennings hadn’t powered off his phone but he’d activated Do Not Disturb.
He had Lynch’s address but nothing was marked clearly in Bennett Springs. He motored Route 740 in the dark for twenty minutes with Google Earth open before deciding he had the correct unmarked driveway.
Windshield wipers smearing the rain. He kept the heater off because the chill was reviving him. Sanity was returning like the tide, inch by inch.
Killing Lynch still felt like the right thing to do in his enervated mental state but he’d arrived at Lynch’s ranch without a weapon. He’d violated the first standing order for Roger’s Rangers—don’t forget nothing. Maybe that was divine providence, maybe not.
He was furious with God and didn’t trust him.
Lewis murdered in the shower. Found hours later.
It had to be Lynch, and Jennings was equally culpable. He’d let Craig take the pistol and Craig had opened fire and now he was dead and it was Jennings’ fault.
Jennings parked in the mud off 740, sheltered by bare trees.
No. No it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t fired those rockets…
Clenched his eyes. No rockets! No Apache helicopter. He wasn’t in Afghanistan. He meant, he hadn’t killed Craig.
He bore some responsibility but now wasn’t the time for placing blame. Now was the time for…