Gideon

by Grant Rosenberg

  “Kelly, I have no agenda. No ulterior motive. This isn’t something I chose to do. It’s something I promised your father, because he wanted you to know the truth.”

  Despite Kelly’s contemptuous glare, Benedetto pressed on. “After Musselwhite died, your father underwent a long and painful metamorphosis. He struggled for months with what he’d done. Not only was he living with a horrible secret, he was breaking his solemn promise to you. Throughout it all, he kept coming back to the same conclusion: Musselwhite deserved to die and his death undoubtedly saved the lives of other potential victims.”

  Kelly was lightheaded and her legs were leaden. She eased herself back into the chair. “About a year and a half after my mother died, my father started acting strangely. I was afraid he was going into another tailspin.”

  “That timetable coincides with what I’ve told you.”

  For the first time, she began to consider that maybe, just maybe, all of this was true; that her father actually killed the man who murdered her mother. But, her father… a killer? It was unimaginable. Wasn’t it?

  Benedetto was speaking again, but Kelly couldn’t understand what he was saying. It sounded like she was underwater. He paused, then asked if she was all right. Kelly could make out the words, but they were just words. They had no meaning.

  Nothing made sense.

  She had no idea how long she sat there, her mind trying and failing to deal with the information that Benedetto had imparted. It was like the first time she’d tried marijuana. Ideas and thoughts had floated through her mind like wisps of smoke. Disconnected, without substance or definition. Amusing notions had flitted around her head, teasing her with their brilliance, but flaming out as quickly as they materialized. That was then, and this was now. She forced herself to come back to the present.

  Kelly refocused, looked at Benedetto like he was a complete stranger, then glanced down at the pile of cash on the table.

  “Did he steal this money from Musselwhite?”

  Benedetto reacted as if he were offended on behalf of David Harper. “Absolutely not. You father was no thief.”

  “You just told me he killed a man. Stealing a few thousand dollars would be like jaywalking in comparison.”

  Benedetto cautiously continued, knowing that what came next would further shatter Kelly’s world. “After Musselwhite’s death, rumors began. A rippling of underground hearsay, things posted on dark web message boards. Wild, totally unsubstantiated theories about how Dominic Bruno had somehow arranged for Musselwhite’s death. The stories coalesced into an urban myth that there was a shadowy person who’d made it happen without leaving a trace.”

  Kelly was dumbstruck with this information. “That’s why Bruno insisted on telling my father about Musselwhite? Because he hoped my father would carry out revenge?”

  “No one pushed your father to take action against Musselwhite, just like no one pushed him toward the choices he made afterwards.”

  “Afterwards?” Kelly was already devastated by what she’d been told, and she correctly sensed she wasn’t going to be too thrilled with what came next.

  “People began believing the myth was true. That there was someone who could provide a discrete and valuable service.”

  “Okay, stop right there! Even if I believed that my father was capable of killing Musselwhite, which I don’t, you’d never convince me that he, what, became a contract killer?”

  Benedetto didn’t react. No nod. No shake of the head. He just looked at Kelly with sympathetic eyes.

  “Answer me!”

  “I think you know the answer.”

  “I think it’s all bullshit! I’m not going to sit here and listen to these lies!”

  “No one’s forcing you. You can leave whenever you’d like. I’m only carrying out your father’s wishes.”

  “To inform his daughter that he killed people for a living.”

  “You’re trivializing the facts.”

  Kelly was exhausted and felt a pounding headache coming on. The voice in her head came back, this time screaming for her to get far away from this man and pretend none of this ever happened. But an infinitesimal seed of doubt had been planted, and that was enough to keep her captive to hear the rest of the story. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, wishing she’d stuck with that meditation class and mastered how to center her chi.

  “All right. I’ll play along. No more interruptions. Just fulfill my father’s dying wish and lay it all out for me and I’ll be gone.”

  Benedetto nodded. “Once I told him about the whispers in the ether, he did what any sane person would do. He walked away. In the meantime, I had a highly skilled and discrete computer expert run a string search on some of the most obscure and heavily encoded message boards. This resulted in an extensive list of individuals who were eager to get in touch with the mythical hit man.

  “About two months later, your father called me. He’d finally found some degree of peace with what he’d done, and was considering helping others in similar situations to find the same level of closure.”

  Despite her promise of no interruptions, Kelly couldn’t help herself. “My father was a gifted doctor. He took an oath to save lives.”

  “Which is precisely what he felt he was doing. He only took assignments where he was absolutely convinced the world would be better off if the target was eradicated.”

  “And you acted as the middleman, providing him with these ‘assignments’?”

  “I screened the requests, the majority of which were either completely absurd or thoroughly unwarranted, and then reviewed the remaining ones with your father.”

  Kelly drew upon every ounce of patience she had to continue with this insane conversation. “And these people who were making inquiries; did they have any idea who the mystery assassin was?”

  Benedetto shook his head. “Shortly after Musselwhite died, Dominic Bruno was killed in prison. Your father’s identity remained a secret. It wasn’t long before the legend began to grow. There was a man out there who was not an ordinary mechanic. A man who was a brilliant maestro and made each hit look like an accident or natural causes. His modus operandi was that he had none. The mystery man needed a name and the moniker of Gideon, ‘the biblical Destroyer’, stuck.”

  “Gideon, sure. Why not?” As Benedetto’s narrative grew more elaborate, Kelly’s disbelief was compounded. “You make him sound like some kind of comic-book superhero.” She picked up one of the cash bundles. “What’s this, then? Blood money?”

  “Operating money. Expenses come with the job and leaving a credit card trail is obviously unwise. The remuneration for your father’s services was funneled into a brokerage firm after passing through a complex layer of companies. Payouts were done over an extended period of time to keep the amounts under the government’s radar.”

  “You not only lined up hits, you also laundered the money?”

  “I did what was necessary. I have no illusions as to the illegality of my role in this.”

  “So why do it?”

  “That, I’m afraid, is personal. There’s still some money in the holding account, in addition to what you have in front of you. The proceeds were used to keep the clinic open, as well as provide care for your sister. That was another significant reason your father took the jobs. He believed the benefits of helping others outweighed the moral and ethical lines he crossed.”

  “I said I’d hear you out. I can’t begin to imagine what con you think you’re working, but I’m not biting.”

  “I understand, and so would your father, which is why he wanted me to give you this.” Benedetto opened the drawer of a side table and pulled out a well-worn, thick leather journal. “He kept copious notes.”

  He offered the journal to Kelly, who instinctively pulled away. If this really was her father’s journal, then everything she just heard was true. She couldn’t let that be the case. She didn’t want to touch it. She didn’t want anything to do with it. Benedetto placed the journal atop the p
ackets of cash on the table.

  Kelly asked the obvious question, “Why would any intelligent person keep a journal detailing how or why he murdered people?”

  “David needed an outlet to express his thoughts, so he wrote them down. Also, he knew that what he was doing was so utterly out of character and impossible for you to believe, he wanted you to have a record of it in his own hand. You father made a vow not to keep secrets from you, and this was his way of fulfilling that promise.” Benedetto tapped his finger on the journal’s cover. “He kept it hidden at his house, and per his wishes, I retrieved it upon his death.”

  As Kelly’s doubt slowly began to erode, she was assaulted with the ramifications of the story Benedetto had told her. “If, for the sake of argument, all of this is true, do you think my father’s death was intentional? That he was murdered as some kind of payback?”

  Benedetto’s face remained passive, thoughtful. “It’s certainly possible. Hit-and-run accidents occur with great frequency, but given your father’s involvement with the illicit side of life, it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that he was targeted.”

  “But if his identity was a tightly held secret…?”

  “I’m hoping it’s remained a secret. If his identity has been compromised, you and your sister may be in danger. My associate is continuing to monitor the dark web and any mentions of Gideon are automatically flagged. If there is any link to your father, I’ll contact you immediately.”

  Kelly stared at the journal on the table and shied away from it like it was a hissing snake about to strike. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “It’s up to you. You can burn it, hand it over to the police, or put it in a safe deposit box and forget about it.”

  “After what you’ve told me, how could I possibly forget about it?”

  “There is another option. Embrace it.”

  “You mean accept what my father had become?”

  “Or carry on his legacy.”

  Kelly couldn’t believe this man; this intelligent, successful attorney had just suggested that she become an assassin. She didn’t dignify it with a response.

  “Before you make any decisions about what to do with the journal, take it home and read it. And I’d urge you to do it soon.”

  22

  (David’s Journal)

  The world as I knew it ceased to exist the day Mary was murdered. Prior to her death, I saw every day as a celebration of life; every challenge as a hill to conquer; every tick of the clock as a moment to be savored. I’d experienced my share of death in the hospital and I was aware of how precious, and yet how tenuous life could be, but when Mary’s life was stolen from her, the lens through which I viewed the world shattered and my outlook became skewed.

  Mary wasn’t the only casualty that day. My precious daughter Jessica had a future that promised nothing but joy and success. Every room she walked into was lit up by her exuberance and her buoyant personality. Now she spends her days lying in a hospital bed, oblivious to the past, unaware of the present and having no concept of the future.

  For forty-seven years I lived a blessed life, brimming with happiness, prosperity, a loving and beautiful wife and two remarkable daughters. I never once imagined that someone would come along and destroy all of that. I never imagined a heartless, savage animal like Clarence Musselwhite.

  Once Mary and Jess were taken from us, I knew life would never be the same, but had no idea that this is where I’d end up. Mary’s death left me devastated. Not only because she was gone, but because of the way in which she died. The post-mortem exam revealed she’d been raped and strangled. Musselwhite then beat her with a blunt implement – the coroner surmised a baseball bat – fracturing her skull, breaking her jaw and splintering three ribs. My precious Mary was monstrously violated, then her body brutally destroyed.

  After the killer finished with Mary, he turned on Jessica and continued his onslaught, crushing her temporal lobe and leaving her to die at the bottom of the staircase. Death didn’t take her that day, but perhaps that would have been a kinder outcome.

  I pleaded with the police to see the crime-scene photos. The inspector tried to reason with me, but I convinced him I could handle it. After all, I’d seen thousands of anatomical photos and read dozens of autopsy reports. The inspector warned me that seeing clinical photos of patients couldn’t compare to seeing brutal photos of loved ones. I knew that intuitively, but I insisted, explaining it would give me the closure I desperately needed. I was a fool. I should have listened to him. The images, which will forever haunt me, drove me to the precipice where I now stand.

  The subsequent darkness that enveloped me couldn’t be eased with drugs or alcohol, but if Kelly and Jessica weren’t in my life, I’m convinced I would have kept trying, using more opiates until I achieved my goal of making the pain finally go away. Poor sweet Jessica lies in a bed, blissfully unaware of her mother’s death. I had to stay strong for her. And Kelly, my vibrant beacon of light, gives me a reason every day to fight the demons that whisper in my ear at night.

  In Kelly, I see so much of Mary. At first it was somewhat off-putting. I’d catch a glimpse of my daughter and for a brief moment I’d think my wife was in the room and that everything that had happened was merely a horrific lucid nightmare. But then reality would kick in and I’d know that the events of the past were real, and that the angel in the room was my daughter. I began to cherish those moments and savored the memories they evoked. Kelly was always special, but after that unspeakable day, she became so much more so.

  There’s one other powerful thing that carried me through the day. Revenge. The police assured me the case against Clarence Musselwhite was a lock. The District Attorney said he’d seek the death penalty. Even though I took an oath to save lives, I knew I wouldn’t be satisfied until Musselwhite was strapped to a chair and administered a lethal injection.

  But Musselwhite never went to court. He died of a heart attack, or so the story went. It was an egregious turn of events. I needed him to suffer. He got off much too easily. I craved for him to experience intense pain and fear, and I never felt an ounce of remorse for harboring those emotions.

  For months afterward, I lived with the anguish of losing Mary and Jessica, and the bitterness of wanting their attacker to have faced a more violent and painful ending… but I had to get on with my life. I managed to compartmentalize my memories and emotions and focus again on living in the present. I vowed to make the most out of each day. And then, two weeks ago, I got a phone call… a call that changed everything.

  Musselwhite was alive. His “heart attack” was a story concocted by federal agents. He had information that was critical in putting a mob boss behind bars, and in exchange Musselwhite was placed into witness protection. He got a new identity, an apartment in Flagstaff and a monthly stipend paid for by US taxpayers. This monster who’d ruthlessly killed my wife and destroyed my daughter’s life was playing golf in the Arizona sunshine, drinking beer and getting a tan, while he should’ve been rotting away on death row.

  The man who presented me with these details was a lawyer named Benedetto. After hearing my enraged reaction, Benedetto did something extraordinary and shocking: he offered to give me Musselwhite’s current address. It took me several moments to understand the implication; he was providing me with the opportunity to seek vengeance.

  At first I thought this was someone playing a bizarrely cruel joke, but I couldn’t fathom who might go to such lengths to concoct a story like this, and to what end? If it was some kind of barbaric scam, what would possibly be the payoff? I suspended my disbelief long enough to hear what else Benedetto had to say.

  As he elaborated on the behind-the-scenes machinations that went into Musselwhite’s release, it became more apparent that Benedetto was laying the groundwork that could result in Musselwhite’s death… at my hand. It was a ludicrous notion. I was a doctor, for God’s sake, not a hit man. Despite Mary’s death and my violent outburst at hearing this story o
f the government faking Musselwhite’s death and arranging his release, I’d never intentionally take another person’s life.

  As the days dragged on, the idea of actually killing this despicable criminal started to gnaw at me like a hungry rat nibbling on cheese. The notion that had been planted with Benedetto’s disclosure had begun to take root. I knew, of course, that this was a sick but satisfying fantasy. It’s a popular theme of movies, but Liam Neeson doesn’t have to deal with the reality of committing murder and then facing the consequences. However, that didn’t stop me from contemplating the infamous perfect murder. If I was morally bankrupt and could bring myself to kill another person, how would I do it?

  There are three basic considerations: 1) Musselwhite’s death would have to look like an accident; 2) there could be no trail leading back to me; and 3) he needed to suffer an excruciating death.

  I’ve now spent a torturous week filled with emotional and moral turmoil. I’ve been sleeping less and drinking more. A bad combination, given that I must be clear-headed. I told Kelly I was attending a medical conference in Arizona over the weekend. It’s the first time I’ve lied to her since I assured her that Santa was real, contrary to what her know-it-all friends in first grade told her.

  Rightly or wrongly (I suspect it’s the latter), I’ve made up my mind. I know it won’t bring Mary back and that Jessica won’t magically regain consciousness, but tomorrow I leave here with the intent of killing Clarence Musselwhite. I’ve formulated a plan that fulfills my ‘basic considerations’, and now it’s a question of whether or not I’ll go through with it. I’ve convinced myself that the world will be a better place without Musselwhite in it. At least, that’s the justification I’m using in what may be a futile attempt to assuage my guilt.