I Know Everything

by Matthew Farrell

  Tommy jogged toward Susan as she climbed out of her sedan. “Hey, can you grab my recorder out of the glove box in my car?”

  Susan nodded and opened the Accord’s passenger door. She leaned in, opened the glove box, and rifled through a pile of papers, maps, and a garage door opener until she found the small recording device. She took it and walked toward the officers standing guard, her shield draped around her neck.

  “She’s with me,” Tommy shouted.

  The two officers nodded and let her pass.

  “Hey, you okay?” Tommy asked, stopping when he saw her. “You look a little pale.”

  “Shoulder’s barking.” She handed him the recorder. “Haven’t taken my pain meds all day.”

  “You wanna sit this one out? I can catch you up.”

  “Just tell me what happened. What’d you find?”

  They started walking toward the building. Susan could smell the scent of charred wood and metal wafting through the air.

  “We have arson and a homicide.”

  “Randall?”

  Tommy shook his head. “Looks like it’s Peter Reems. The inspector found the accelerant in his office, so we’re figuring that’s where the fire started. Gasoline. Campus security called Peter’s house, and his wife said he was heading up here to do some work. Once they got the blaze under control, they were able to get inside and found the body. It’s too damaged for a normal ID, but the inspector confirmed that there is a slash wound across the neck. Cut deep enough to get the tendons and jugular, so it’s likely he was dead prior to the fire. We’ll need dental records to ID and an autopsy for cause, but everything indicates that it’s Dr. Reems.”

  Susan stared at the building and found the window on the first floor that was part of Peter Reems’s office. There was still smoke snaking out from inside as two firefighters pulled down what remained of an interior wall with an axe and a Halligan bar.

  “We also have security footage of a maroon Subaru Legacy entering the main gates about twenty minutes before the fire was reported,” Tommy continued. “We followed the car on the video and got a good look at the plate this time. It’s Hooper’s Subaru. Randall was driving. Wasn’t even trying to hide himself this time.”

  Susan gently closed her eyes, listening to everything around her. The crackle of the radios, the shouts of instructions, the buzzing of the gas-powered tools the firefighters used to cut through the office. These were all sounds she was familiar with, but this time they seemed alien. “Why would Randall kill his friend? Peter was trying to help him.”

  “Maybe Randall’s past help,” Tommy replied. “Maybe he finally realized that, and the only thing he can do at this point is keep his secret. I don’t know. Could be tying up loose ends, maybe? Maybe he’s killing everyone who knew about his dissociative disorder, and then he’ll try to escape?”

  Susan opened her eyes and nodded. “So then what if Randall didn’t kill Amanda for the money or because she was going to leave him? What if he killed her because she’d learned about his dissociative identity disorder? Think about it. Living a normal life was all he ever wanted. At one point he was a renowned doctor of psychiatry. He was a professor at a prestigious school. People knew him in academic circles. But he lost all of that the moment he agreed to go to Gary Anderson’s house. So he moves to the West Coast, adopts another identity, and is living like a regular guy. No violence. He meets Amanda and they eventually get married. Still no violence. He’s living the life he wants to live. But then Amanda discovers the truth, and his life isn’t normal anymore. So Sam is born to set things right again.”

  “We’re reaching,” Tommy said. “But there could be something there.”

  “Who else knows about his disorder?”

  “I’m not sure. We’d have to see his recent records, and I’m guessing most of that information just went up in flames.”

  Susan began to walk back toward her car. “Let’s get back to the barracks and take another look at the records we have.”

  Tommy reached out and grabbed her arm to stop her. “Hold on,” he said. “We know about his disorder. We know.”

  “But he doesn’t know we know. You just got the medical records, and we went straight to Peter’s house to get the full story.”

  “What if Peter told Randall we knew before Randall killed him? What if Randall . . . got it out of him somehow?”

  Susan pulled her phone from her pocket. Her shoulder was a constant throbbing. She wanted nothing more than to take a shower, pop a Percocet, and go to bed. She needed to recharge, but there was so much more to do. “I’ll call my house and make sure everyone is okay, and then I’ll contact the unit in front to give him a heads-up. I’ll meet you at the barracks.”

  Tommy let go of her arm. “No. I’m not leaving until I know everyone’s okay.”

  Susan dialed and waited, staring at the man she’d thought could have been involved in all of this. She now realized how foolish that was. She owed him an explanation and an apology.

  “Hi, honey.”

  When Susan heard her mother’s voice, a wave of relief she hadn’t known was building washed over her. Everyone was fine.

  59

  Even though Beatrice had told Susan that everyone was okay, she was certain she could still hear worry in her mother’s voice, and she was anxious to get home. Unfortunately, it was three more hours before she and Tommy finished overseeing the evidence collection at the university and notifying Peter’s family. That had been particularly brutal. She’d watched Peter’s son try to absorb the news, and all she could think was that she hoped her kids would never have to go through anything like that. She tried not to think about it.

  As she pulled onto her street, the clock on the dashboard read a little past eleven. Most of the lights were still on at the house, which was unusual at this time of night. She’d told her mother not to wait up for her. She peered over the steering wheel, and her breath caught in her throat.

  The front door of the house was ajar.

  She shut off the car’s headlights and parked at the curb, silently opening her door and pulling her weapon from her holster. She wanted to scream for her mother and the twins to make sure they were okay, but she swallowed it instead. Every maternal nerve in her body pushed her to run into the house, but the cop in her knew that was foolish. She had to stay calm. Control was the key. There was a reason the lights were on and the door was open. Good or bad, she would find out why. But she’d do it carefully. She had to.

  The trooper who’d been watching the house was still parked at the end of the driveway. A sense of relief washed over her when she saw him sitting behind the wheel. She waved at him as she approached. But when he didn’t acknowledge her, that sense of relief quickly became a knot in her stomach.

  The glass on the driver’s-side door was partially fogged up, and she couldn’t see inside. She opened the driver’s door.

  The young trooper, no more than twenty-seven years old, was staring out the windshield, his throat cut. Blood darkened the front of his gray uniform, and spray from his jugular covered the dashboard and steering wheel.

  Just like Peter Reems. Just like Rose.

  Susan felt her stomach lurch. She straightened and caught a glimpse of a figure standing in the house’s open doorway. Randall looked at her and waved, knife in hand. The hue of the red and green Christmas lights strung around the door gave him the evil glow of something supernatural.

  He smiled at her—the most chilling smile she’d ever seen in her life. Then he shut the door, locking himself inside with her family.

  Locking her out.

  60

  No! Please!

  Frantically, she reached into the patrol car and snatched the radio from its cradle. She thought about her mother and the twins inside and wondered how long Randall had been in there. What had he done? That smile. It was haunting.

  “All units, this is Investigator Susan Adler. We have a 10-33 at my home. Address is three twenty-three Briar Court, Fis
hkill. One officer is down. I’m in need of assistance ASAP. Suspect is Randall Brock, and he’s in my house with my mother and my two kids. Possible hostage situation. Hurry!”

  She threw the radio back inside the car and ran toward the house, slipping on the icy bricks that lined the path to the front door. She tugged on the knob and noticed the keyhole had been filled with some kind of glue or silicone. There was no way she could get her house key in there. She ran and checked the living room windows. Locked. Of course they were locked. It was the middle of winter. She ran around back, her feet thumping in the snow, until she reached the patio doors. They were locked as well. Silicone in the keyholes. She looked through the glass but couldn’t see anything. There was no movement inside. No sound.

  Come on!

  She ran back to the front door and aimed her weapon, firing two shots that exploded in the quiet night. The shots splintered the wood around the knob and dead bolt. She kicked the door in, immediately dropping to a shooting position, taking cover behind the doorframe outside.

  The house was still. Susan took a careful step inside, her left arm raised, her right still in the sling. She could see her mother lying facedown, half in the hall and half in the kitchen. Blood pooled around her midsection. She scurried over to her and rolled her onto her back. Beatrice was alive, but her heartbeat was weak. Her eyes were open, trying to focus. A thin line of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth.

  “I tried to stop him. I tried to push him back out. He got me.”

  Susan examined the knife wound. “I can’t tell if it’s bad or not. He got you in the side.” She grabbed a dish towel from the counter. “Try and put pressure on it. Stay down and don’t move. Do you know where the twins are?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see where he went?”

  Beatrice began to cry. “No.”

  “Okay. Stay here. Try and stay calm.”

  “I love you.”

  Susan backed away, slipping her arm out of the sling and swallowing the pain that shot through her as she extended her arm and placed her second hand on the Beretta to steady it. Her adrenaline was trying to push the hurt away. She was focused, tuned in.

  “Randall, come out with your hands up. I’m armed and will fire. Backup is on the way. It’s over. Come out now.”

  There was no reply. She swept through each room on the bottom floor. The living room was empty, as were the dining room, bathroom, and closet. The house was too quiet. She walked into the kitchen as her mother faded in and out of consciousness. She flipped on the patio light and could see her footprints around the door as well as a set of larger prints stamped in the snow leading from the chicken coop up to the patio doors. He’d been watching them. He’d known she wasn’t home.

  She walked into the foyer and turned toward the stairs.

  “Hey, you guys up there? Casey? Tim? It’s Mom.”

  “Mommy,” Tim whined, quietly. It wasn’t quite a whisper, but it scared the hell out of her. She could sense a tremble in his voice like he’d been crying. Again, the instinct to rush up the stairs tried to overtake her, and she fought it with every ounce of strength she could.

  “I’m coming, buddy.”

  She placed a foot on the first step.

  Please, God. Let them be okay. Please!

  “Stay where you are.”

  His voice froze her. Susan pointed the gun toward the stairs and watched as Randall emerged from the darkened second floor. He walked toward her with Casey in one arm and Tim in the other, stopping only when he reached the top landing. That same unnerving smile was on his face. His knife was in his right hand, but that hand was being used to hold Casey against his chest, so his weapon was actually pinned behind her. He pressed Tim close with his bandaged left hand. Both kids had tears in their eyes. They were scared. Tim was trembling.

  “Mommy,” Tim said again.

  “I’m here, baby.”

  “I want to get down,” Casey whimpered, looking first at Randall and then at her mother.

  The gun was so heavy in her hand. Her shoulder was burning. Susan held it as steady as she could. “Randall, put the knife down. It’s over.”

  “Randall’s not here.”

  “Put the knife down. We can talk after I know the kids are safe.”

  “No.”

  “Randall—”

  “Randall’s not here!”

  The twins began to cry again as Randall’s booming voice, filled with rage and contempt, echoed through the house.

  Susan remained calm, thoughts burning through her mind, one after the other. Where was that backup? “Sam?”

  He nodded.

  “Sam, let my children go.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “What do you want?”

  Randall took one step down and paused. “I suggest you back up into the living room, or I’ll toss these two beautiful babies right down these stairs. You and I both know the fall will crack their skulls or break their necks. This tread is steep. They’ll be dead before they stop rolling.”

  Susan did her best to stay focused, ignoring the screaming pain in her shoulder. She could feel the joint bulging as if it was about to pop again.

  “Get in the living room.”

  She matched steps with Randall, backing into the living room as he made his descent down the stairs. The gun trembled in her grip. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold it.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

  Randall turned when he got to the landing and shuffled into the hallway. He faced her, twins tucked in front of him with only his eyes and nose showing between their tiny bodies. “I’m reclaiming my life. I’m taking back my identity.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “I know who I am now. I know what I am. I can live with my friends, but only after I keep my truth. And I can’t keep my truth until I silence everyone who knows my truth.” He looked at her, his gaze focused, intense. “My truths are mine. No one else’s. I have to keep them safe.”

  “Put the kids down. They have nothing to do with this. They don’t know who you are or what your truth is. Let them go.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said. “If I put them down, you’ll shoot me. I think I’m going to hold on to them instead. I’ll hold them until you put that gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. Once you’re dead, I promise I’ll let them go. But you need to make the first move. For the sake of your beautiful, wonderful, vulnerable children.”

  Susan dropped to one knee and leaned her elbow on her thigh for support. Her shoulder was about to dislocate again. Her hand shook violently. “I’m not going to kill myself for you.”

  “You’re not killing yourself. I’m killing you, but you’re helping me. It’s the only way I’ll let your children go. I need to know you’re dead. I can’t have my truths out there. Those truths are mine.”

  “I have to—”

  “Stop talking and put the gun in your mouth!” Randall cried. “After you pull the trigger, I’ll put them down, and I’ll leave.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “The old woman is already dead. There’s just you now.”

  Susan thought about Randall’s medical file and some of the notes Peter had written about triggers. “Tell me how you killed your wife.”

  “You know how.”

  “I want to hear the details from you.”

  Randall thought for a moment, his eyes darting back and forth. His brow creased as he glanced toward the floor. “I can’t remember,” he muttered to himself.

  “Tell me how you got Hooper Landsky to Gary’s basement.”

  He shook his head and closed his eyes. He was squeezing the twins closer, gnashing his teeth and grunting. “I . . . can’t remember.”

  The gun was wavering from side to side.

  “Tell me about Peter. Was he dead before you burned him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You burned him like you burned Lily.”

  “No! He was already dead. I wouldn’t do
that ever again.”

  “Can you still hear Lily’s screams as she burned alive in front of you? Can you smell her skin and hair?”

  “Shut up!”

  “Can you hear Gary laughing while his daughter died?”

  “Stop it!”

  “Can you feel Rose’s blood all over your hands and arms?”

  “Stop!”

  “Can you hear Lily screaming as you killed her mother?”

  The kids began to cry.

  “Put that fucking gun in your mouth, or I swear I’ll kill your kids! I’ll do it!”

  Susan paused, the gun almost slipping from her grasp. The pain in her shoulder was making her light headed, and she feared she might pass out. “How, exactly, are you going to kill my kids?” she asked.

  Randall looked at her, head cocked to the side. “I’ll cut their throats like I did to the trooper in your driveway. Like I did to Rose and Peter.”

  “Yeah, but as soon as you do that, I’ll kill you. I thought the point of all of this was for you to keep your truth and get away.”

  “If you don’t put that gun in your mouth, I’ll kill them slow.”

  “Okay,” Susan replied. She had to keep blinking to keep her target in focus. “That could work. I mean, if you started cutting them, I would probably do what you said.”

  “Then do it!”

  “But in order to slit their throats or cut them, you’re going to need that knife. And in order to get that knife, you’re going to have to put my daughter down. You’re holding her with the hand you’ll need, and that knife is useless with it pinned against her and pointing toward the floor. As soon as you drop her, I’m going to open fire and end this. So tell me again: How are you going to kill my kids? Can’t use the knife. Can’t strangle them. You need a free hand for that too. And you don’t even have two working hands at the moment. That bandage is going to get in the way. Can’t even bend your fingers with the splint. Now you’re on the bottom floor, so you can’t throw them down the stairs. What’s your next move, Randall?”