Intent to Kill

by James Grippando

  Babes closed his eyes tightly, very tightly, until he finally forced himself to stop rocking. He checked his watch. Almost ten o’clock. Ryan would be on the air only a few more minutes.

  Babes drew a deep breath. Weird, but even though thousands of people would be listening, the idea of calling Ryan at the station and talking live on the air—letting his secret be known that way—was less scary than speaking to him face-to-face. Especially when he could call from the safety and familiarity of his favorite hiding spot.

  He removed his earbuds and let the radio play through its loudspeaker. Ryan was still jabbering, and the sound of his voice was comforting.

  Babes knew the call-in number. He’d heard Ryan say it so many times on the air, he could have repeated it in his sleep. He took another long breath and powered on his cell phone.

  Slowly, one fateful digit at a time, he punched out the studio phone number for Jocks in the Morning.

  23

  EMMA TUNED IN TO JOCKS IN THE MORNING JUST IN TIME TO HEAR Ryan’s on-air appeal to Babes. Some of her favorite F.M. stations aired out of Boston, but this was her first visit to this end of her A.M. band. Sports talk radio was not her thing.

  Sorry, Ryan.

  Apologies seemed to be the order of the day. That mean retort about Chelsea—“Have you considered the possibility that the accident was Chelsea’s own fault?”—was completely unlike Emma. But Ryan had no idea how much it had hurt to hear him question her objectivity, to have him throw the Brandon Lomax conflict of interest in her face. It stung for so many reasons. Because it mattered to her what Ryan thought of her. Because she was committed to finding out what really had happened to Chelsea. Because she prided herself on her professionalism. And because she feared that her personal feelings for Brandon Lomax might indeed be getting in the way. Childhood memories aside, Lomax had hired Emma right out of law school and groomed her to be one of the top felony prosecutors in his office. Their lives were completely intertwined, personally and professionally.

  “We’re back, knuckleheads,” she heard Ryan say after the commercial. “Shake out the cobwebs, light up the phone lines, tell me what’s on your mind.”

  She stopped her car at the red light and listened. Oddly enough, hearing Ryan on the radio made her feel good. Just the sound of his voice was enough to make her forgive him for bringing up the Lomax issue. And that worried her. Ever since the party at Marble House—when Ryan had asked if she was with someone, and then looked so disappointed when she’d told him that she was—she’d felt somewhat off balance around him. It had already gotten her into trouble when she’d slipped and mentioned Brandon Lomax and the tipster’s e-mail in the same sentence.

  Maybe that was a blessing.

  Ryan had forced her to be a little more sensitive to her biases. He was right about the alibi: Sarah Lomax was beyond reproach, but plenty of good wives have lied to save their husbands. Now, thanks to his wife, Sarah, Brandon Lomax had an alibi that was airtight. Too airtight.

  “Lines are still open,” said Ryan. “Okay, let’s talk sports and corporate sponsors. TV announcers are forced to say the full name of stadiums every time they mention a venue: AT&T Park, Coors Field, and so on. It’s no longer the Home Run Derby, it’s the State Farm Home Run Derby. We don’t have replays, we have Aflac replays. Soon we’ll be hearing routine plays called like this: ‘Top of the first Holiday Inn-ing. Josh Becket on the Boone’s Farm strawberry hill. He shakes off the 1-900-ASTROLOGY sign from the catcher, hurls a Jiffy Lube slider, and it catches the outside corner of the Wedgwood china plate for a Don Carter Bowling Lanes strike.’”

  Emma wasn’t listening. She was busy trying to heed Ryan’s earlier words and to be more objective about Brandon Lomax. Her effort suddenly brought to mind a strange conversation with the case manager right before the attorney general left office to run for the Senate. During their talk, Emma had felt pushed to send the Chelsea James vehicular homicide off to the cold case files sooner than normal. But maybe the pressure hadn’t been coming from the Criminal Division’s case manager. Maybe it was coming from Lomax himself, in an attempt to make sure that the case didn’t rear its ugly head after he was gone.

  “Dude, you there? You’re on Jocks.”

  There was garble on the radio.

  Ryan said, “Caller, you have to turn your radio off. I can hear it in the background.”

  There was silence.

  “That’s better,” said Ryan. “Now what’s your question, pal?”

  Finally, the caller spoke. “Hi, Ryan. It’s me.”

  Ryan froze. He had been keeping an eye on his cell phone, hoping Babes would call. He hadn’t expected him to dial in to the station. The producer had put him through without realizing who it was.

  “Hold on a second, Babes. We’re going to take our listeners straight to a commercial, and then you and I can talk in private.”

  “No! I want this on the air.”

  His shrillness both chilled and worried Ryan. “Okay, Babes. Take it easy. We’ll stay on the air.”

  “Don’t think you can lie to me! I turned my radio down, but I didn’t turn it off. I’ll know if we go off the air.”

  Ryan could hear the echo of their conversation in the background. “That’s fine,” he said. “But you need to turn the radio way down, Babes. There’s a few seconds’ delay between our phone conversation and what you hear on the radio. I don’t want you getting confused.”

  The producer barged into the studio, nostrils flaring, her face red with anger. She flashed the cut sign across her throat.

  Ryan spoke into the microphone. “Bear with me, Babes. My producer wants me to hang up, but I’m not going to let you go. I know she wouldn’t want it on her head if you were to hurt yourself.”

  Beatrice glared at Ryan, flashed two fingers, and left. Ryan had control of the airwaves for only a couple of minutes.

  “Babes, where are you?”

  “I can’t tell you,” he said, his voice quaking.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you come home?”

  “No! I can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Because…” His voice cracked. Ryan could tell that he was crying.

  “Babes, why can’t you come home?”

  “Because I did something bad.”

  “Dr. Fisch is going to be fine. He knows you weren’t trying to hurt him. You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “Well, that’s good. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I did something else that’s even worse. Much, much worse.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Ryan. “You can always come home, no matter—”

  “No, you’re wrong! You don’t know, Ryan. You just don’t know!”

  “You’re right, Babes. I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “I—I’m trying.”

  “Do you want to go off the radio?”

  “No! This is how I want it.”

  Ryan wasn’t sure what to do. Part of him wanted to take the rest of the call in private. But he was afraid Babes would hang up if they went off the radio. Babes obviously had something bottled up inside of him, and he wanted it broadcast for everyone to hear.

  Babes was ready, Ryan realized, to lose his anonymity.

  “Babes, was that you outside the Modern Diner this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you know to go there?”

  “Because I got a phone call yesterday.”

  It wasn’t the answer Ryan had expected. He knew about the link on the attorney general’s Web site—and that there was a password that only the tipster would know.

  “Somebody called you?”

  “Yes, on my cell. They said that they knew what I had done, and that if I wanted to stay out of trouble with the police, I had to go to the Modern Diner at nine o’clock Monday morning
.”

  “Who called you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He said he knew what you had done. What does that mean? He knew you were sending Emma anonymous tips?”

  “Well…no. Maybe that’s what he meant. But that’s not what I thought he was saying.”

  “What did you think he was saying?”

  “I can’t tell you. You’re going to hate me.”

  “I will never hate you, Babes. I love you. Your mom and dad love you. We’re your family. We will always love—”

  “No, you won’t! You’ll hate me. You should hate me!”

  “Babes, what did you do?”

  “I…” His voice broke again.

  The sobbing was audible, and in his mind’s eye, Ryan could see the tears streaming down his brother-in-law’s face. Babes seemed to be slipping beyond reach. The only person Ryan had ever known to calm Babes in a meltdown like this one was Chelsea, and for the millionth time since her death, Ryan wished she were there.

  “Babes, I’m listening.”

  “I—that’s why I put the flowers on her grave that said it was no accident. I did it,” he said softly.

  “You did what?” said Ryan, bracing himself.

  More sobbing. Finally, Babes answered in a booming voice that shook Ryan to his core.

  “I killed my sister!”

  24

  BRANDON LOMAX WAS NOWHERE NEAR A RADIO ON MONDAY morning. He had a very private meeting in his home with Dr. Calvin Overstreet. Dr. Overstreet didn’t normally make house calls, but a candidate for the U.S. Senate couldn’t be caught visiting the office of a psychiatrist. Their relationship went back almost twenty years, and during that time Overstreet had never breathed a word to anyone about Lomax’s battle with alcohol.

  “Have you slipped again?” said Overstreet. He was a slight man with a soft voice and a salt-and-pepper beard that was neatly groomed.

  Lomax checked his watch. “It’s ten-forty in the morning, and I’ve had four scotches. Is that a slip?”

  “Sounds like we need to get with the program.”

  “Screw the program. That’s not why I called you.”

  “Okay. Then how can I help you?”

  Lomax paused. He hated to sound desperate, but he was exactly that. This morning’s attempt to bribe the anonymous tipster had been poorly conceived. He’d hired Sal the thug, who seemed street smart in the ways of bribery and extortion. But there were too many logistical problems in meeting up with a target who could be identified only after revealing himself to Emma. The plan was doomed the minute Sal had entered the restaurant with a briefcase full of cash and waited at the counter, in Emma’s plain view. Fortunately, the dope had the good sense to get up and leave before she became too suspicious. It was the kind of half-baked plan that flowed from a position of weakness—worse than his decision to hire a private investigator to interrogate Chelsea’s parents. Knowledge was strength. If Lomax was going to be strong, he needed to know the truth about the night of Chelsea’s crash.

  “I want to talk to you about the recovery of lost memories,” said Lomax.

  “Intriguing. From your childhood?”

  “No. There’s a night—” he said, then stopped himself. As much as he trusted Dr. Overstreet, he still didn’t feel ready to pinpoint his possible involvement in Chelsea’s accident. “There’s a night in my fairly recent past when I drank too much and simply can’t recall anything about it.”

  “Well, let’s dissect that a little. When you say you can’t remember anything, do you remember whom you were with?”

  “I know I started the night alone. Drinking.”

  “Do you remember what triggered it? The drinking, I mean.”

  Lomax phrased his answer carefully. “I had an important business meeting with some men in Boston. It went very badly.”

  “Then what?”

  “I left in my car and was driving home to Providence. Didn’t get far. I stopped in the first bar I saw in South Boston.”

  “Do you remember the name of it?”

  “No. It was just a place to get drunk, and the name wasn’t important. I started drinking scotch, and from that point on, my memory is gone.”

  “What’s the next thing you can recall?”

  “Waking up the next morning in my house.”

  “Was your car in the driveway?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you left the bar in Boston and somehow drove to Providence, and you have no memory of it.”

  The doctor had zeroed in on the heart of the problem. Lomax said, “I know that must sound unbelievable.”

  “No, it’s more common than you can imagine,” the doctor said. “Harvard did a recent study on college students nationwide and found that fifty-one percent of those who drink have experienced blackouts.”

  “But I was conscious until I got home.”

  “A blackout and passing out are two different things. In fact, they’re mutually exclusive. A blackout is a period of amnesia during which a person is actively engaged in behaviors—walking, talking—but the brain is unable to transfer new information from short-term to long-term storage. You can experience a blackout and appear only moderately intoxicated to the outside world.”

  “So I’m no different from the average college student?” Lomax said with a sardonic smile.

  “Not exactly. One of the most famous studies in this area focused on alcoholics in a laboratory setting. Their blackouts ranged from nine hours to three days.”

  “You can’t get into much trouble in a laboratory setting.”

  “No, but the literature is replete with wild accounts of things alcoholics do during blackouts. Driving a car, traveling long distances for several days, selling real estate, having intercourse with multiple partners, body piercing, tattooing, self-mutilating. Even committing murder.”

  The last item on the doctor’s list struck an ominous chord. “Do these memories ever come back?”

  “It depends. Memory impairment of the fragmentary type can often be recovered with cueing or the simple passage of time. But alcoholics are more likely to have the en bloc form, meaning the complete impairment of memory formation.”

  “So my memories are gone for good?”

  “Not necessarily. But we may have to try some unconventional methods.”

  “How unconventional?”

  Dr. Overstreet paused, as if expecting some resistance. “How would you feel about hypnosis?”

  Lomax laughed, but the doctor’s expression stopped him. “You’re serious?”

  “Completely.”

  “And if it doesn’t work, what do we do next? Voodoo? A séance?”

  “Hypnosis actually has quite a solid backing in the scientific community.”

  “All right, Doctor. I’ll bite. Tell me how it would work.”

  “The first step is for you to believe that it will work. So if you’ll indulge me a little further, let me give you some background.”

  Lomax checked his watch. He had lunch with a Rotary Club on his campaign schedule. “You have three minutes.”

  Dr. Overstreet nodded, then stroked his chin like the professor he was, and Lomax sensed another one of his infamous monologues coming.

  “One of the earliest applications of hypnosis was in the reduction of pain during medical procedures…”

  As the doctor waxed on about Charcot, Freud, and “hysterical” women, Lomax retreated into his thoughts, aching for another scotch and wondering how he had ever gotten himself into this tragic mess. Alcoholism was part of his family, and he was sure he’d inherited it from his father. Four years earlier, he’d thought he had it beat, but he ended up replacing one addiction with another: gambling. Before he knew it, he had a mountain of debt he could never repay on an elected official’s salary. A year later, when the “bill collectors” showed up, he came within hours of personal and financial disaster. He finally found a solution—but not before he’d started drinking again.

  “Hypnosis today has ma
ny practical applications…”

  None of this drinking was Lomax’s fault, of course. Those bastards who’d backed him into a corner on the gambling debts were the ones who’d knocked him off the proverbial wagon. If it weren’t for them, he would never have gotten drunk on the night Chelsea James was run off the road. He never would have been on the road that night…if he was indeed on the road. He still didn’t know. Couldn’t remember. But as the doctor had just pointed out, Lomax had somehow driven his car from that bar in Boston back to his house in Providence.

  It must have been me.

  “So tell me,” said Dr. Overstreet, “what specific day are you trying to recall?”

  Lomax hesitated. “What are the chances of success?”

  “There is a danger of false memory. Many recalled childhood sexual-abuse cases have been criticized on that ground. But I feel that I have been able to attain reliable results.”

  There was a knock at the door. Lomax had given his housekeeper a strict order for no intrusions, and she was not one to disregard his instructions lightly. He excused himself and went to the door. His campaign manager was there, his eyes wide with excitement.

  “I need to talk to you immediately,” said Josef.

  “I’m in the middle of something important. That’s why I didn’t answer my cell.”

  Josef leaned closer and spoke softly, so as not to be overheard by anyone inside the study. “Chelsea’s brother just phoned in to Ryan James’s radio show. He confessed that he was the hit-and-run driver who killed his sister.”

  “Praise God!” he said, unable to contain himself. He locked Josef in a back-slapping embrace.

  Josef broke away, his happy expression evaporating. “You’ve been drinking,” he whispered, but his tone was harsh. “I can smell it.”

  Dr. Overstreet said, “Do we need to do this another time, Brandon?”