Gideon

by Grant Rosenberg

  I honestly don’t believe I’ll have the nerve to go through with this. Many years ago I took skydiving lessons, and once I got up in the plane and it was my time to leap out into the endless blue sky, I froze. I yearned to experience soaring through the air, but an overwhelming sense of self-preservation washed over me. My lizard brain took control of my body, and despite my extreme embarrassment, I backed away from the open door and clutched the straps that hung from the side of the fuselage until my hands were numb.

  The question is, once I see Musselwhite, will I take the leap or not?

  I honestly have no idea, but I intend to find out.

  23

  Kelly sat motionless, staggered by what she’d read. She was eager to continue, but was filled with apprehension. This journal written in her father’s concise hand was stupefying. She felt like she was tumbling down a steep endless hill, catching only fleeting glimpses of earth and sky.

  Kelly bowed her head between her legs and took long, slow breaths until she regained her equilibrium. Once her world stopped spinning, she began to critically analyze what she’d read. Was her father a killer? It was impossible, and yet, not. In a matter of hours, everything she thought she knew about the man that raised her was in question. She’d patterned her life after him. He’d been her role model, her shoulder to cry on, her…

  The knock on the door resounded like a gunshot and shattered Kelly’s concentration. Her mind was in a muddled haze when the second knock jarred her back into harsh reality.

  Kelly rose and tentatively crossed to the door. She was wracked with a fear that had no rational basis, but gripped her just the same. “Yes?” she said, her voice wavering.

  “It’s Pete.”

  She was suddenly paranoid. Why was he here? Had he come across the truth while he was investigating her father’s death? Did he know about ‘Gideon’?

  From the other side of the door, “Kelly? You okay?”

  She took a long moment to center herself, then opened the door wide to allow her boyfriend entry.

  Pete’s face was etched with concern. “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s just been a hell of a day.”

  “I’d say a hell of a week. I don’t mean to push it, but do you feel like company?”

  Kelly pasted on a weak smile and opened her arms, allowing Pete to engulf her in a warm embrace. Kelly looked over Pete’s shoulder and spied the journal sitting on the coffee table, open for all the world to see.

  “The bedroom,” she cooed into his ear.

  Pete swept Kelly off her feet and carried her across the room, breezing past the journal whose secrets, for the moment, remained hidden from outsiders’ eyes.

  Some time later, Pete propped himself up on one elbow and lightly brushed a stray hair from Kelly’s forehead. Her face had a sheen of sweat from a lovemaking session that was far more intense than usual.

  “I’m going to be sore tomorrow,” he said with a grin.

  “That’s reassuring. I’d hate to think you could contort into those positions without pulling a muscle.”

  She sat up, pulling the sheet with her to cover her breasts. The intimacy was over.

  “Any news about my father?” she asked.

  Pete was about to comment on the time and place of this line of questioning, but thought better of it. He knew Kelly was desperate for information.

  “Not yet.”

  Kelly’s face flushed. “So whoever did this is going to get away with it?”

  “Your father’s death is a priority for the department.”

  “Are you still looking into the possibility it could’ve been deliberate?”

  “We’re exploring every angle, but we haven’t found anything that leads us to believe your father was intentionally run down. There’s nothing in his past to indicate someone would want to murder him. Can you think of anything we’re missing?”

  Kelly betrayed no emotion. There was plenty she could think of, but nothing she could share. However, she wanted to get out ahead of any information the police may find elsewhere.

  “Not really. My father had threatened to fire one of our doctors, Nathan Curtis, but there’s no way Nathan would...” She didn’t bother to finish that absurd thought.

  “Were there any patients in the past few months who were angry at him, or who made threats?”

  Kelly shrugged. “A few pill seekers who got turned away. There was a homeless man who made some empty, incoherent threats. I don’t know his name. We called him ‘The Hollow Man’. He quit coming around a few weeks ago.” It was a fool’s errand for Pete to consider any of their patients, but she didn’t want him to think she was hiding anything.

  Pete said he’d follow up on Nathan and the street people in the neighborhood. You never knew where an investigation would take you. “Had there ever been a break-in at the clinic before the other day?” he asked.

  “No. I’m sure my father would’ve mentioned it. Why?”

  “The timing was too coincidental.”

  “Do you think it could be related?”

  “Probably not, but I’m not a big believer in coincidence.”

  Pete’s phone buzzed. He didn’t have to apologize. Kelly knew that a homicide cop was always on call.

  “Yeah?” As he listened, his eyes grew larger. “No shit. I’ll be there in ten.” He disconnected. “I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta roll on this.”

  Pete got out of bed and as he slipped into his pants, he looked back at Kelly, “I promise to keep digging until I have all the answers.”

  She forced a smile. “I know.” Unfortunately, that could be a very big problem.

  The fact was, she wanted answers, too, and the only way she was going to get them was to dive deeper into the journal, which she intended to do the moment Pete left.

  24

  (David’s Journal)

  I never imagined I’d intentionally take another person’s life. In medical school they try to prepare you for that rare Sophie’s choice when two lives hang in the balance and you can only save one. I was put in that position once, early on in my career, and prayed I’d never have to make that decision again.

  And yet just days ago I willingly put myself in a much greater morally tenuous situation. The decision whether or not to become a murderer.

  Clarence Musselwhite had been living under the pseudonym Dave Richardson in an apartment complex on Camelback Road. Indoor and outdoor pools, a shiny fitness center and a putting green. His two-bedroom apartment was setting the federal government back $2,500 a month. The more I learned about him, the more incensed I became.

  I spent two hours at the pool, propped up on a chaise, a book on my lap and a Diamondbacks cap shadowing my face. I observed Musselwhite as he shamelessly, and unsuccessfully, hit on women twenty years his junior. He was in his mid forties, his skin leathery brown and his thinning hair bleached by the Arizona sunshine. I caught a glimpse of the crook of his left arm, which featured a fresh needle mark to go along with the dozen others that had scarred over. Musselwhite was defiantly abusing his freedom. He was a rapist and murderer who was openly injecting illegal drugs into his veins, and yet he didn’t have a care in the world.

  At least that’s what he believed.

  I watched as he downed three beers, chasing the last one with a double whiskey sour. This detestable excuse for a human being was living the high life without a scintilla of remorse for his past actions. Any indecision on my part was evaporating with each passing minute.

  Between the sun, the alcohol and the drugs, Musselwhite began to nod off. Fortunately, he eschewed a mid-day nap in the scorching heat poolside and headed up to his apartment.

  While I’d conceived a detailed plan, I knew it had to remain flexible, since I had no way of anticipating all the variables in play. My hope was that an opportunity would present itself and I’d figure out how to proceed as I went along. I waited for thirty minutes, slid my novel into my backpack, then casually headed toward the apartment building.


  I climbed the stairs to the third floor, and made my way down to 303 without seeing another person. I listened at the door for a full five minutes before I slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and took out an electric lock-pick. Moments later, the tumblers fell into line and the door opened. I quietly slid inside and gently closed the door behind me.

  My heart was pounding so hard I was certain the sound was audible throughout the apartment. What if he was awake? What if someone else was in the apartment with him? What if he wasn’t there at all? What the hell was I doing there? The moment of truth was upon me.

  The next decision I made would shape the rest of my life.

  It came back to one very basic emotion. Revenge. Bad for the spirit, but good for motivation. I could’ve left the apartment, gotten back in my car and put this insanity behind me, but my rage toward this man was all-consuming. I’d come to do a job and I was determined to see it through.

  I silently set my backpack down on a chair and withdrew a hypodermic needle. I contemplated the needle for maybe thirty seconds, which felt like an eternity.

  As I approached the bedroom, I heard snoring. Luck was on my side. The door stood open and I looked in to see Musselwhite asleep atop the bed, a can of beer and an ashtray with a half-smoked joint on the side table. In the corner of the room, propped up against the wall, was a sawed-off baseball bat. The bat that destroyed my family. It took superhuman restraint not to grab the bat and smash Musselwhite into a pulpy mass of blood and bone shards. However, that would’ve made it damn impossible for investigators to conclude his death was an accident. Better to stick with the plan.

  Thick pile carpet absorbed my footsteps and Musselwhite didn’t know he had company until I slid the syringe precisely into his latest puncture mark. As the needle went in, I depressed the plunger and injected him with a lethal dose of curare, a rare poison I’d picked up years ago during one of my Doctors Without Borders trips to South America.

  Musselwhite bolted up into a sitting position, completely disoriented. He barely had time to spew out “who the fuck are you?” before paralysis began to take hold. His eyes grew wide as his diaphragm started to shut down. I explained to him in vivid detail what was happening to his body. As I wrote earlier, one of my main objectives was to make Musselwhite suffer a slow and painful death. Curare poisoning is particularly cruel because the victim is awake and aware of what’s happening as his body functions slowly cease.

  As his life ebbed from his body, Musselwhite formed a word with his lips. It was either “who?” or “why?”. He only needed my name to fill in both blanks. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, followed by a pathetic and extremely unsuccessful silent plea for help. I stood by and watched, forcing myself to take in every second of his death throes. I owed it to Mary and Jessica.

  Finally, it was over. I’d avenged my wife and daughter.

  I wondered what they’d think if they knew I’d become a murderer.

  25

  (David’s Journal)

  It’s been a month since my trip to Arizona and I’ve lived with constant anxiety that any minute there’d be a knock at the door and I’d open it to find myself face-to-face with the police. I was confident I’d covered my tracks and left no clues at Musselwhite’s apartment. I hadn’t taken a plane or a rental car, hadn’t stayed in a hotel, and I hadn’t made any cell phone calls (I’d left my phone at home in the off-chance that I could be tracked through the internal GPS – I read online that’s possible). The Scottsdale PD determined Musselwhite’s death was a heart attack (it was technically asphyxiation due to paralysis of the diaphragm, but I wasn’t about to correct them).

  Despite the police department labeling the death as “natural causes”, I felt little relief. Like the narrator in Poe’s “The Telltale Heart”, I was racked with guilt and feared that if confronted by the police, I’d sing like a canary.

  For the first week after my trip to Arizona, I felt ill. I was ailing both mentally and physically as I tied myself into Gordian knots trying to justify my actions. I couldn’t keep food down and sleep was futile. I’ve always been an active dreamer, and in the days following my return home, my nocturnal film festival featured images of extreme violence and death. In my nightmares, Musselwhite was alive, taunting me about how he killed Mary and threatening to do the same to Kelly and Jessica.

  As the weeks dragged on, the graphic memory of the traumatic event slowly started to loosen its claws on my psyche and become less of a dominant thought in my day-to-day life. I slowly grew more confident that my arrest wasn’t imminent and that I’d gotten away with the crime.

  My association with Benedetto was over. Since he’d been the conduit to my “interaction” with Musselwhite and that chapter in my life was now closed, there was no reason for any future contact. Or so I thought.

  And then the letter arrived.

  It came to the clinic via courier and I found it amidst a stack of bills, some of which were past due. The letter was addressed “Personal” to my attention. There was no return address. I assumed it was another solicitation for a random charity, a credit card application or one of my favorites, an invitation to hear the virtues of the Neptune Society.

  I nearly fed the envelope unopened into the shredder behind my desk, but my curiosity got the better of me. In retrospect, I should’ve trusted my initial instinct and converted the unopened envelope into confetti.

  Inside was a bank draft for $9,500 from a company I’d never heard of, and a handwritten note on a post-it. It said, “For services rendered. Will explain tonight. My office, 8pm.” There was no doubt as to who sent the check, but “services rendered”? The combination of the note and the check were baffling and more than a little foreboding, but I had to admit, Benedetto knew how to pique my interest.

  I had a difficult time focusing for the rest of the day. Fortunately, our patient load was lighter than usual and I was able to make it to the Marina with a few minutes to spare.

  Benedetto had a banquet of appetizers brought in from Acquerello, one of the most exclusive Italian restaurants in the city. I hadn’t come to eat dinner; I had serious questions that needed answers. But when I was confronted with the aroma of garlic, lobster, truffle butter and shaved Parmigiano Reggiano, I was immensely appreciative of his thoughtfulness.

  We shared the incredible food, along with a rich Barolo from the Piedmont area. I don’t know much about Italian wines and have no idea how much this one cost, but it was exceptional. If the aim was to impress me, Benedetto was succeeding.

  As we ate, we discussed the contents of the letter. What services had I provided and to whom? Benedetto relayed to me the portion of the Musselwhite story he’d previously left out: the identity of the crime boss who Musselwhite flipped on. A sweetheart named Dominic Bruno, who, thanks to Musselwhite, had been sentenced to spend the remainder of his years behind bars. Bruno was returning the favor, giving sensitive information about Musselwhite to Benedetto to pass along to me.

  I’d been used. My first reaction was anger, followed by indignity. But before I did something foolish, like toss the rest of my extraordinary wine in Benedetto’s face, I checked myself. I had no one to blame. Yes, I’d been fed information and led down a path that ended in Musselwhite’s death, but it had been wholly my choice. No one put a gun to my head to put a figurative gun to Musselwhite’s.

  Benedetto went on to explain that nobody beside Dominic Bruno knew that I was involved, and that yesterday Bruno was killed by a fellow inmate. The entire scenario had me reeling. How did I come to be caught up in the middle of this bizarre chain of events? And where did the money come from? And was there any more wine?

  Fortunately, the answer to the last question was yes. As Benedetto opened another bottle, he told me Bruno had been extremely grateful and wanted to show his appreciation to me in the only way he knew how… cash. The money had been passed along to Benedetto, who then put it “into the system”. After it went through a legitimate brokerage account, it wa
s as clean as a check from the US Government. Taxes had even been paid.

  Blood money. I wanted nothing to do with it. It sullied the reason for my actions. I killed Musselwhite to avenge what he’d done to my wife and daughter, not because of what he’d done to a mobster. Accepting money was a personal and ethical affront.

  But was it? Second doubts swept over me. I had exacted revenge for Mary and Jessica. I’d watched with grim satisfaction as Musselwhite suffered. Would accepting money for that be an insult, or would it be icing on the cake? The clinic was in desperate need of an infusion of funds. And there were Jessica’s hospital bills. Wouldn’t it be sweet irony if Musselwhite’s death kept the clinic afloat and saved the lives of deserving people?

  Midway through the second bottle, we agreed that Benedetto would set up an account to funnel the rest of Bruno’s $25,000 “endowment” into the clinic.

  By the time the bottle was empty, he had proposed another business venture.

  26

  Pete pulled into a gravel lot at the northern tip of Hunter’s Point that extended into India Basin. Hunter’s Point Shipyard opened in 1870, and after several permutations, finally closed in 1994, leaving behind a large chunk of uninhabited land bordering the bay. It was an ideal place to dump a body.

  The remains of Ernesto “Sad Boy” Juarez had been found earlier in the evening by a few twelve-year-olds who’d come out to the docks to chill (and smoke some tree). One of them took a picture of the body and posted it on his Facebook page. It went viral in less than an hour and the Bayview Station dispatched two uniforms to the scene, where they found the stoned preteens and the corpse. The cops sealed off the area and took detailed photos of the deceased, which were sent out to the neighboring stations, hoping for an ID.