Intent to Kill

by James Grippando

“Have a seat, Babes.”

  The doctor sat in his armchair. Babes didn’t like the recliner other patients used. The leather felt icky against his fingertips. Knowing what an issue it could be for his patients, Dr. Fisch had several other chairs to choose from. Babes pulled up the oak chair with the straight back and no armrests. He sat with shoulders rigid, legs together, the palms of his hands flat atop his thighs.

  “Tell me what’s the matter,” the doctor said in a soothing voice.

  “I did something,” said Babes.

  “Something good? Or something bad?”

  Babes didn’t answer. The lighting in the room was all wrong. It was so bright. He wished it were four o’clock in the afternoon, his usual time.

  The doctor said, “Did you do something good or something bad?”

  “Something…bad.”

  “Okay,” said Dr. Fisch. “You want to tell me about it?”

  It was like a spotlight, all that light coming through the window. Like a white-hot light of interrogation.

  “Babes, can you tell me about it?”

  Where the heck is all that light coming from?

  “Babes?”

  It was that damn morning sun. The sunlight was reflecting off the windshield on the white van in the parking lot, cutting through the office window, and hitting Babes right in the eye.

  I wonder if that’s a police van.

  “Babes, I need you to focus for me, all right?”

  An unmarked police van, shining that light in my eyes.

  “They’re here,” said Babes.

  “Who’s here?” said the doctor.

  The light was getting brighter—at least it seemed brighter to Babes. But he couldn’t move. He could only sit there in his chair and take it.

  “Babes, tell me who’s here.”

  I can’t take it anymore!

  Babes launched from his chair and dove toward the window.

  “Babes, don’t jump!”

  The doctor sprang into action and tackled him. The two men collided and tumbled toward the window. Their momentum carried them straight into the glass, and suddenly a thousand pellets of shattered safety glass were showering down on them. The doctor fell to the floor with Babes landing on top of him.

  The door flew open and the receptionist hurried into the doctor’s office. The piercing sound of her scream made Babes cringe.

  Babes tried to help Dr. Fisch to his feet, but the old man needed a moment, and Babes was too apoplectic to give it to him. The blood on his brow sent Babes into a panic.

  “Don’t touch him!” said Susan, a look of horror on her face.

  Babes was shaking uncontrollably. “I think—Dr. Fisch thought I was going to jump through the window. I just wanted to close the blinds.”

  “Get away from him! Go sit in the corner!”

  Babes did as instructed as she went to her boss.

  “Dr. Fisch, are you all right?”

  “I…I don’t know,” the doctor said, grimacing. “Oh, my head.”

  She was calling the doctor’s name and asking him how many fingers she was holding up. Babes heard only fragments of what she was saying. He was trying to listen, struggling to focus, but that light from outside stole his attention all over again. Now it was shining on the pellets of glass on the floor, making them glisten like diamonds. It was all wrong. All this light, the doctor down on the floor, Dr. Fisch’s receptionist now blaming Babes for something he didn’t mean to do.

  And the unmarked police van was still in the parking lot. “Daniel, stop!” he heard Susan shout, but his legs were moving and his mind was made up as he raced out the door.

  Run, run, run!

  21

  RYAN’S CELL PHONE VIBRATED. HE RECOGNIZED EMMA’S NUMBER, BUT he was on the air with no cohost and couldn’t take her call. He was eager to hear about the meeting at the Modern Diner, so he returned her call at the next commercial break. She didn’t answer.

  “Thirty seconds to air,” said his producer, a young woman named Beatrice.

  “Come on, answer the phone, Emma.”

  The door to the studio opened, and Jock walked in from his doctor’s appointment.

  “Thank God you’re here,” said Ryan.

  “What the hell?” said Jock, shielding his eyes from the light. “Is this talk radio or a tanning salon? I need sunglasses in here.”

  Ryan switched off the sunlamp. “Sorry. It’s part of my bright-light therapy.”

  “Your what?”

  Ryan’s doctor had theorized that he was having trouble falling asleep at night because he was cooped up in a windowless studio all morning, not getting enough bright light. But Ryan didn’t have time to explain this to Jock.

  “Never mind,” said Ryan. “Can you cover? I have to make a phone call.”

  Jock nodded and slipped on his headphones. Ryan stepped out into the hall and kept punching Emma’s number until she answered.

  “How did it go?” said Ryan, no time to say hello.

  “I think it was Babes who showed up,” she said.

  “What do you mean think? Was it him or not?”

  “He was standing across the street and ran away before I could get a close look, but I’m almost certain it was him.”

  “So you’re saying Babes is your tipster?”

  “The posting on the AG’s Web site said to meet at the Modern Diner on Monday at nine A.M. The only way for Babes to get that information was to enter a password that no one but the tipster would know—the sender’s address for the Brandon Lomax e-mail.”

  “The what e-mail?” said Ryan.

  The line went silent.

  “Are you telling me that the drunk who killed my wife is Brandon Lomax?”

  There was another brief silence, and Ryan could almost feel Emma backpedaling.

  “That e-mail came from an anonymous source,” she said. “We’re a long way from verifying that Brandon had anything to do with the accident.”

  Ryan fell back in his chair, not quite believing what he was hearing. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Because I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. Ryan, you have to keep this between us. I slipped. Please, be professional about this.”

  The door opened, and the producer popped her head into the hall. “Two minutes,” said Beatrice. “The show is Jocks in the Morning, not just Jock.”

  “This is important,” Ryan told her.

  “You called in sick last week. Now what is it?”

  Ryan gave her a look that said he had both the pope and the president on the line.

  “Fine,” Beatrice said. “But the last segment is both of you together.”

  The door closed. Ryan could talk again.

  “I’m on your side,” he said into the phone, “so don’t worry about the slip. I can help you with Babes, but I want to know more about Lomax.”

  “Well, we need to slow down a little,” said Emma. “So far we have no one but an anonymous tipster saying that Brandon is guilty. To be totally upfront with you, he actually has an alibi. His wife says they were together at the time of the crash.”

  “I’m no lawyer, but I’m sure prisons are full of guys whose only alibis were their wives.”

  “That’s way too cynical. Brandon and Sarah Lomax are two amazing people.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “How amazing?”

  “Two of the finest people I’ve ever met.”

  “Really? Just how close are you to the Lomaxes?”

  “Are you suggesting that it’s clouding my judgment?”

  “Have you considered that possibility?”

  “Have you considered the possibility that the accident was Chelsea’s own fault?”

  Ryan’s mouth fell open, but no words came. He’d never seen this side of Emma.

  Emma breathed away some of the tension on the line. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  Ryan had obviously hit a nerve by attacking the Lomaxes, but he knew
Emma was still his only ally. He couldn’t afford to push her away.

  “It’s okay. I probably deserved it. As dedicated as you’ve been to this case for the past three years, I shouldn’t have questioned your professionalism.”

  “No, I was out of line. Please, don’t let what I said make you question my commitment to the case.”

  “I won’t. But…”

  “But what?”

  “I want to see the e-mail. After three years, we should be able to operate on at least that level of trust.”

  “All right,” she said, her voice laden with reluctance. “I’ll have it hand delivered. But it’s for your eyes only. Not even Paul and Rachel can see it.”

  “Agreed.”

  Ryan’s cell phone blipped, signaling another call. He checked the display. “Speaking of Chelsea’s parents, it’s my mother-in-law calling on another line.”

  “You want to call me back?” said Emma.

  “No, hold on for a second.” He took the call and immediately knew that Rachel was upset, her voice racing. She wasn’t making much sense.

  “Slow down and take a breath,” said Ryan. “Now tell me what the problem is.”

  “Babes just called on his cell. He was crying and sounded like a scared child. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. He just said he’s not coming home, not ever, and that we shouldn’t come looking for him.”

  “Hold on a second, Rachel. I have Emma on the other line. I’m going to do a three-way.” Ryan patched her in and recapped for Emma.

  “Did Babes say where he’s going?” he asked Rachel.

  “No. But he had just been to see Dr. Fisch. His receptionist called me right before Babes did. Babes had some kind of…something went wrong. Dr. Fisch got injured.”

  “Injured?” said Ryan. “How?”

  “It’s not clear,” said Rachel. “Dr. Fisch swears that Babes wasn’t trying to hurt him. He thought Babes was going to jump through the window. Babes was very upset.”

  “About what?” asked Ryan.

  “He wouldn’t tell Dr. Fisch,” said Rachel.

  Emma said, “Did Babes say anything about being at the Modern Diner this morning?”

  “No, no. Not to me, at least. He was hysterical, talking crazy. He said someone is after him. Some businessman with a big leather briefcase.”

  “Oh,” said Emma, and Ryan picked up on her reaction immediately.

  Rachel was still talking, but she was simply repeating herself. Ryan said, “Anything else, Rachel?”

  “No, I think that’s everything.”

  “Okay. Have you tried calling Babes back?”

  “Yes, of course. It rang once and went to his voice mail. That means he turned his phone off.”

  “If Babes calls again, you call us immediately. We’ll take it from there.”

  “All right.”

  They said good-bye, and as quickly as he could disconnect Rachel, Ryan’s question for Emma popped out of his mouth: “What’s up with the guy and the briefcase?”

  She told him about the man at the counter in the Modern Diner, the one who looked like he was trying way too hard to look legit.

  Ryan said, “So it definitely was Babes you saw across the street from the diner.”

  “I’d say so.”

  He shook his head. “I’m still having trouble buying Babes as the tipster. Why has he stayed silent all this time? Why did he come forward anonymously?”

  “Those are good questions,” said Emma.

  Ryan ran his hand through his hair. “I need answers.”

  “We need to find Babes.”

  She was right. Whatever it was that had scared him off, Babes was now like a big kid on the run, a grown man, living in the distorted world of Asperger’s syndrome, who was fighting to stay one step ahead of his parents, Ryan, Emma, the police, and everyone else who was searching for him—including, perhaps, Brandon Lomax.

  And maybe even that guy with the briefcase at the Modern Diner.

  The door opened. It was the show’s producer again. “You’re live in one minute,” she told Ryan.

  He was about to protest, but then a thought came to him. “I’m ready,” he said.

  Beatrice smiled, a little surprised, as if she had expected a quarrel. “Good.”

  As the door closed, he told Emma, “I’ve got an idea.”

  “Why does that make me nervous?”

  “No, this is perfect. Babes never goes anywhere without his earbuds and portable radio. He listens all day long. And he never misses my show.”

  “You’re going to talk to him on the air?”

  “Live,” said Ryan. “Just like the producer ordered.”

  22

  BABES DIDN’T STOP RUNNING UNTIL HE REACHED ONE OF THE oldest cemeteries in Rhode Island, a good two miles away. He was headed for his favorite hiding spot.

  Listed on the National Register of Historic Places, the North Burial Ground dated back to the eighteenth century and was the final resting place for everyone from the founders of Brown University to former governors and senators. Babes’s destination was a huge nineteenth-century stone crypt that was like a small chapel. Everyone buried there was named Dawes. The last member of the Dawes family to be laid to rest there died in 1921, and the surrounding graves were even older, so no one ever visited this section. Only Babes.

  Please, God. Make Dr. Fisch be okay.

  Unfamiliar places were generally tough for Babes, especially after an event as stressful as his visit to Dr. Fisch’s office. But the Dawes family crypt was like his home away from home. Babes had been going to the crypt since he was eleven years old, and it was his secret. He happened upon it after a particularly brutal day of teasing in sixth grade. He wished he were dead, so naturally he had walked to the cemetery to select a burial plot. Soon he was fascinated. He started memorizing names and dates on tombstones, and this special (albeit morbid) interest eventually led him to the oldest part of the cemetery, where he first laid eyes on the impressive Dawes family crypt. It was the most quiet, beautiful place he’d ever seen, completely removed from the chaos of the real world, with no one to tease or bully him.

  Babes enjoyed his time alone. While other kids had play dates or after-school activities, Babes would come to the Dawes crypt and design a highly complex fantasy world. As a teenager, he pretended that the crypt was an individual town, which he populated with make-believe people and characters, some from TV sitcoms and cartoons and others from the tombstones he saw in the cemetery. Throughout high school, these people were Babes’s real friends, and he liked them because they were exactly what he wanted them to be. He pretended that he was popular, owned a car, and had a girlfriend. These fantasies changed as he moved into adulthood—he dreamed of being a successful adult, married with children, living in another perfect world. He started fantasizing about the future, hoping for a better life in a better town with a woman who loved him and a job that paid him immense amounts of money.

  But one thing in the crypt remained the same throughout his childhood and into adulthood: the baseball-card collection that he stashed away there. He would spend hours memorizing the statistics on the back of each card and converting the players’ names into anagrams. One that still made him giggle was the fabled inventor of baseball, Abner Doubleday. “A barely nude bod,” he said aloud now, bringing back the memory.

  Babes adjusted the volume on his pocket radio. Babes loved his radio. It had cost him all of twenty dollars, and he would never get rid of it. Every morning he clipped it onto his belt, connected the earbuds, and started his day. A single nine-volt battery lasted forever. He could have purchased a more expensive digital model with a more precise tuner, but those were for music freaks who liked to change channels. Babes listened to A.M. all day long, two or three different stations at most, and nothing but sports talk radio. Jocks in the Morning was playing, but Jock was flying solo at the moment.

  “The intelligent half of Jocks in the Morning is back, knuckleheads,” he heard Ryan say ov
er the air.

  Babes surveyed the crypt for a place to sit and listen to the last fifteen minutes of Ryan’s show. Rain from the night before had left the marble floor wet in spots. He found a dry corner near the rose-shaped window of stained glass, drew his knees up to his chest, and listened.

  “Got a special message for a special friend of mine,” said Ryan. “This goes out to my brother-in-law. We call him Babes.”

  Babes stiffened.

  “Babes, if you’re listening, we love you and we miss you. We want you to come home. There’s nothing to be afraid of. We’ll even come get you, wherever you are. So, come on, buddy. Give us a call.”

  Babes switched off the radio, drew up his knees even tighter, and began to rock on his tailbone while biting down on his lower lip.

  Come home, says Ryan. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Yeah, right. Then why was that undercover cop waiting for him at the Modern Diner? Ryan would deny it, of course. He’d say the guy wasn’t a cop. But Babes knew he was one. He just knew it. And now Dr. Fisch was hurt.

  Babes screamed at the top of his lungs. It was one of those long and shrill screams that could curl a person’s hair—the kind that, as long as Babes could remember, had forced his mother to grab him by the hand and run for the exit at restaurants and movie theaters.

  He felt better now. But he still didn’t know what to do.

  The secret is coming out.

  He was sure of it. It was a terrible, dark secret. He was tired of living with it, and he wanted it out. Why else would he have contacted Emma Carlisle in the first place?

  Don’t know what to do.

  The rocking started up again. It wasn’t as if he could control it. Like a reflex, his knees came up to his chest again, his arms wrapped tightly around his shins, and his body was in motion. He was biting down on his lip so hard that he could taste a little blood in his mouth.

  The secret is coming out soon.

  He might have been okay with coming clean, except for one person. His father. Babes knew his father loved him. But neither of his parents had been the same since Chelsea’s accident. Sure, it was a tragedy. They had lost their daughter. But it also drove home the point that a big strapping man like Paul Townsend deserved someone like Ryan James as a son, not a grown man who threw a baseball like a sissy and couldn’t even look another man in the eye when he shook hands. He should have been the one, not Chelsea, who’d been killed in the car accident.