by JP Bloch
“I don’t know, Esther. I have a bad feeling about this client.”
“Oh, go for it,” she replied merrily. “It sounds like fun. Didn’t you always want to be a detective when you were a kid?”
I tried to remember back that far. “Not at all. I wanted to be . . . I don’t know, really. But it wasn’t a detective. I wanted something more. I can’t explain it.”
“Are you saying you wanted to be a fireman?”
I laughed. “Sure, why not?”
That very evening, I rang the buzzer at the apartment of Betsy’s ex. I figured it was better to show up than to call him; he was more likely to talk to me if I was right there. A man’s voice came on the speaker and asked who I was. I said I was Randall Van Sant, PI, and that I was looking for a missing person who apparently had been the best friend of Betsy’s ex-husband.
After a long pause, he buzzed me in.
"ARE YOU DR. JESSE FALCON?”
Having bid farewell to my bewildered family at Betsy’s house, and then enduring a silent ride to the police station, I was roughly dragged inside. Though I was not handcuffed, they treated me like I was. They led me through a corridor in which many busy, noisy people utterly ignored me. I guess they figured I was just another scumbag, like they saw every day. Finally, I was deposited in a private room with no windows. I assumed I was being taped or watched through a one-way window. It was hard to sit there as if nothing was wrong. But finally a bald detective wearing rolled up shirtsleeves and a bow tie slammed the door and shouted at me. “Are you Dr. Jesse Falcon?”
After mulling it over in my mind, I finally answered, “I want to talk to my lawyer.”
The detective opened his mouth in shock, as if he could not believe I would say this, that his interrogation of me could not possibly be over, given all the plans he had.
“What a big baby,” the detective finally said, getting his revenge on me. “Okay, I’ll get the little boy his little lawyer.”
“I’m sure she’s already on her way.” But he slammed the door shut on his way out and didn’t seem to hear me.
I pretended to be very calm and made a point of avoiding eye contact with the wall where the one-way window would’ve been. I still did not know what I was doing here, though obviously I kept hoping it wasn’t about the identity theft. Still, I wasn’t stupid enough to think it could be about anything else. Fortunately, my problem-solving skills had been getting a lot of exercise as of late, and I was already making plans: Ondine could fashion a plea bargain if I returned the money, which I could if I absolutely had to. If I didn’t have enough, I could work out a payment plan. I could offer to show how I broke into Jesse Falcon’s accounts to help them catch some other crook. Or if I did go to jail, my mom could have custody of Scotty, and Sequoia could take him to visit me.
Finally, Ondine arrived. The look on her face told me it was bad news. Despite all my cool, detached planning, the reality of the trouble I was in made me shudder. So much had happened so quickly that only now did I know true fear.
“I told you to call someone else next time,” Ondine scolded.
“I forgot,” I answered. It was the truth, and I hoped she’d see the humor in it.
She did not. She roughly threw down her briefcase and matter-of-factly sat down across from me. “They think you murdered someone.”
Oh my God! They must’ve found Biff’s body. I was so careful. But there had to have been a trace of my DNA on him. And they linked it to me, instead of those mob guys. Only they thought I was Dr. Jesse Falcon. Between the bank robbery and the hospital records, my own bank transactions—plus the fact that the real Jesse Falcon now lived in my city—it wasn’t hard to see why they’d confuse us.
I laughed, not knowing what else to do. “Murder? Who would I have murdered?”
“Someone named Linda Goldstein. She lives—I mean, she lived—across the country. Don’t worry, they turned off the microphones. It’s the law.”
It took me a few seconds to gather my thoughts. “I never even heard of Linda Goldstein. And I’ve never even been out that way.”
“Well, she’d been in a coma, and as soon as she snapped out of it, someone turned off her monitor. The autopsy showed why her heart stopped beating. They did a little digging and found out that this baby she had wasn’t fathered by her husband, but by the guy they think killed her. Who, incidentally, has a wife. That’s Dr. Jesse Falcon.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Now, would you be so kind as to explain to me why they think you are said Dr. Falcon?”
I could tell Ondine was really pissed off at me. Her worst suspicions about what I might really have been doing all this time were about to be confirmed. I didn’t like the thought of Ondine being mad at me. She had this way about her that made you not want to disappoint her. Rationally, I knew she could not harm me, yet I was afraid of her moodiness.
At least I knew this Jesse Falcon guy was a total creep. But now I would have to explain everything to Ondine. I knew about privileged information between lawyer and client, but I also knew lawyers were sworn servants of the court and supposedly were obligated to report any known wrongdoing.
In the end, I told her about the identity theft, but not about what happened to Biff, in order to protect Scotty. I said that Sequoia knew nothing about anything.
Ondine tapped her fingers on the scratched tabletop for a minute, deep in thought. Then she stood up, grabbed her briefcase, and said, “I’m going to go have a talk with the DA. I may be a while. Say nothing to anyone. Even if they offer to get you a Coke.” She paused to look at me. “You stupid son of a bitch.”
Her ire gave me pins and needles down my shoulders. But if that was the worst of it, I’d survived.
As I waited for Ondine to return, I amused myself by making mental lists, thinking about old TV shows, one dumb thing after another. At one point, I said to myself, This is how it must feel to be Scotty. I wondered how he managed at all, especially after everything he’d been through. It was strange, but though I did what I did to protect him, I’d never really stopped to feel unhappy for him. Not until I was sitting alone at a police station, wondering if I would go to jail or what.
I held back the urge to bawl like a baby, in case people were still watching me.
It was a good two hours before Ondine came back into the room with the same detective who tried to grill me before, plus this surprisingly friendly man who was an assistant district attorney. He smiled cordially as he shook my hand and sat down.
“My client,” Ondine began, “is willing to plead guilty to grand larceny. Two years’ incarceration and five years’ probation. In exchange for helping you find the real Jesse Falcon.”
“You see, Dr. Falcon,” joked the DA with a nudge of his elbow, “we think he may be responsible for more than one murder. In the past eighteen months, there’s been four patients in that same hospital who died by someone turning off their monitors. In each case, the patient had awoken from a coma. We also think he may have pushed Mrs. Goldstein off a building, which caused her coma in the first place. This was while she was pregnant with his child. His former receptionist confirmed they were having an affair. Taking his money—so what? It’s the least the bastard deserves. I’m guessing you’re new to identity theft, am I right? Maybe no job, no money?”
I wanted to know how he would know this much about me without knowing anything about me, but I guessed that’s why he was a detective. “Yeah,” I admitted. “I mean, yes, sir.”
“Our deal’s only good if you bring him to us,” added the detective. “Obviously, you’re clever on the keyboard, so we’re sure you can locate him. Our own expert hackers have come up empty-handed. We’re guessing he’s changed his name and gone underground. We’ve tried talking to his daughter. She claims she hasn’t heard from him, even though we didn’t say what we wanted him for. And he used to call another precinct about someone stealing his identity, but then the calls stopped. Now even his bank acco
unts are gone.”
I hadn’t been able to get into Jesse Falcon’s accounts recently, and I almost blurted out loud, Oh, that explains it. Fortunately, I caught myself in time.
“I . . . I only did what I did because I couldn’t find a job. Honest.” I felt I had to say that.
“Not another word,” warned Ondine. “You’re not going to get a better deal than this. Two years up the river—that’s like nothing. Take it. And thank the Good Lord that you stole from a serial killer.”
Two years in prison didn’t sound like nothing to me. I knew it was better than twenty years or two hundred years. And I always knew I might get caught. But Sequoia, Scotty, and I were finally about to have a normal life together. Thinking about Scotty visiting me in jail was different from the reality of it happening. It seemed to me it would be the final blow to what had to be an extremely fragile state of being. No, I wanted us all settled and living together. Scotty would get therapy, and he would form a positive bond with Sequoia and finally have a real mother.
“When you say ‘bring him to you,’ you mean give you his address?”
The DA laughed. “His head on a silver platter with a side of parsley would be even better, but we’ll settle for an address. Don’t worry, you’ll have access to state-of-the-art equipment to track him down from prison. Or should I say hack him down. Get it?” He laughed some more.
I would never involve Sequoia in this in a million years. But I did know he was living here in town, so I didn’t think it would be that hard to find him. “How’s this sound? I bring him to you in person, no jail time at all. A suspended sentence.”
Ondine said, “You’ll have to excuse my client. He’s kind of a dope.” She turned to me. “This is a serial killer. Now how are you going to protect yourself? I’ve got news for you. You ain’t no cop.”
“You don’t know for certain if he’s a serial killer. And anyway, the other victims—am I right in guessing they were all women?”
“Right you are,” said the DA. “And to answer the question I’ll bet you’re going to ask, all fit the same profile as Mrs. Goldstein. Say, you’re pretty good. Too bad you didn’t become a shrink or something instead of a crook.”
I got the impression that the DA had a certain begrudging respect for criminals, as long as they didn’t physically harm anyone. Jewel thieves and people like that. He seemed to think I was some sort of identity theft mastermind, capable of ruling the world from my keyboard.
“We’ll give him protection,” said the detective, which surprised me, and made the heaviness inside me dissipate. Was he overruling Ondine and agreeing with me? “If he meets the guy, we’ll set up a wire. We’ll also give him a hotline he can call anytime. Serial killers usually stick to one MO. Ex-comatose women are Jesse Falcon’s cup of tea. Lord only knows why.”
“And if something happens to him anyway?” asked Ondine, trying not to show how shocked she was.
The detective shrugged. “It’s a chance he seems willing to take.” Then he smiled at me. “Tell me something. Who is she?”
It took me a second or two to catch on. “Never mind who she is. But she’s worth it. And so is—” I was about to say my son, but I obviously didn’t want to mention him, either. “And so is staying out of jail. I’d rather be dead.” And I realized this was true.
“So two years’ suspended sentence, five years’ probation?” Ondine asked.
“Seven years’ probation,” replied the DA. “Take it or leave it.”
Ondine quickly looked at me. “We’ll take it.”
“I’m really not a bad guy,” I said. “I made a mistake. If this Jesse Falcon is a serial killer, I can redeem myself by catching him.”
“Our sentiments exactly,” said the DA, offering his handshake.
“Handshakes are sweet,” said Ondine. “I want an iron-clad agreement in writing.”
I called Sequoia to come and get me and told her that I wasn’t in any trouble after all. The cops had mistaken me for someone else. I didn’t like lying to her, but it felt better than telling her that her estranged uncle was possibly or probably a serial killer.
Sequoia kissed me with relief, and with arms linked, we walked to her car.
“I assume the move is still on?” she asked casually, as if to make sure about what she already knew.
“Uh, no. I’ve decided we need to stay here.”
Sequoia pulled the car over so fast that the breaks squealed. For her, this was a very big deal because she normally drove as if the slightest error would mean certain death.
“You decided? What about me?” She hit the horn with her fist.
I think a lot of men go through this with women. You see how far you can push the old-fashioned bit about men being in charge. Because the thing is, sometimes women do acquiesce, even though they don’t like to admit it. Unfortunately for me, this was not one of those times.
“I guess that came out wrong. I meant to say that you were right in the first place. That Scotty needs stability.”
Her anger melted about halfway back to pleasantness. “Well, that’s a little better, I suppose. But we still need to discuss this. As partners. As equals.”
“Oh, absolutely. But think about it. We can get back most of the rent deposit. We all have our lives right here. Why move to the other side of the country?”
She put her head on the steering wheel. I could tell I was exasperating her or maybe was giving her a headache. “Do you perchance recall the identity thief stuff? My Aunt Esther and Uncle Jesse are living here now. You were the one who said we had to get away.”
“We only think they’re living here. And even if they are, so what? You don’t speak to them, and they don’t know who I really am. If the cops are going to catch me, they’re going to catch me. And as long as we don’t steal anymore, that might never happen.”
Sequoia grinned shrewdly. “I notice you stopped talking about paying him back. How long do you think you really will go without stealing again?”
“I’m done with all that. I can’t explain it, but I know it’s true.”
She arched an eyebrow. “If you say so.”
“I don’t get it. Do you want me to stay a criminal?”
“No, but you do. And you know I’m right, so don’t even try. It’s like . . . it’s like you feel you’re making a sacrifice by giving it up. That means your heart is really still in it.”
“No, it isn’t.” I looked out the window. “Anyway, what I meant to say was that you were right all along, and I was wrong all along. I mean about moving and Scotty and all that. Being in the police station . . . I realized how frail what we have is. Let’s stay put. Let’s not tempt fate anymore.” I took her hand, and she tilted her head in a sigh.
“Okay. I guess we can unpack. What about your mom?”
“We’ll all squeeze into the apartment for now. Until we find a place here in town.”
Mom and Scotty were quite relieved to not have to move. Though Mom claimed to hate living in the city, she found all kinds of stores and activities to keep herself busy. I kept up with my McShrink e-mails and made a few more anonymous TV appearances to great acclaim, while Sequoia looked for what she called the ideal home. She took Scotty with her sometimes when she did her volunteer art projects with needy children, thinking it would help him to see kids that had it much worse than he did. Presumably, none of these kids had shot anyone to death yet, but in a strange way that seemed beside the point. Scotty was doing well in school, as always, and we found an understanding therapist who specialized in sexually abused children. As if reading my thoughts, Scotty told me of his own accord that he’d never tell her specifically about Biff but instead say that some stranger did it to him. This, of course, put a serious damper on the therapy process. It was the best we could all do for now.
Jesse Falcon’s accounts may have vanished, but I was kept plenty busy dealing with the money I’d put into the phony offshore accounts I created in Biff’s name. I next created more fake accounts t
o launder the money from the Biff accounts that I wanted to put to good use. Scotty’s college fund got a major boost, and I bought Sequoia an expensive necklace. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this, yet I had a strong sense the cops didn’t care what I did as long as I caught Jesse Falcon. It was like when you’re a little kid, and you know you’ll get away with stealing from the cookie jar.
Still, it was strange how difficult life made it to ever tell anyone the truth. Even when you really wanted to or needed to or loved someone with every cell of your being, there were at the very least some lies scattered about. And even more likely, there were major whoppers that you told to keep things moving along. In this philosophy class back in college, I read books by all those guys who’d been dead for thousands of years about what is truth. At the time, it seemed mind-boggling. Now it seemed to me that the answer was simple: truth didn’t matter because it’s never given a chance to exist. I lie, therefore I am. The real identity thief is life itself. Maybe death was the only time there really can be truth—but if so, what difference did the truth make? There’s that famous poem in which the author explored the shortcomings of all these different ways of killing yourself and concluded: “You might as well live.” Lately, it seemed to me that the better conclusion was, “You might as well lie.”
Actually, neither lying nor telling the truth was helping me to find the real Jesse Falcon. Supposedly, he was right under my nose, but I couldn’t find any current information about him, even when I tried breaking through court, FBI, and U.S. Marshall databases for name changes. The cops were starting to lose patience, but Ondine kept them at bay. Difficult as it was to do, I even asked Sequoia if there were places that her Aunt Esther and Uncle Jesse used to like to go.
“To Hell,” she replied. “Why would you want to know?”
“Just trying to get a sense of them,” I replied.
Then came a strange weekend. I was alone. Mom wanted to take Scotty to visit some relative who, according to Mom, shouldn’t be exposed to someone like me anymore. And Sequoia said she had to go to this art museum in a nearby city to do some research. The sheer, unfamiliar silence of being only with myself caught me off guard. After a lifetime of doing what I was supposed to do or doing what I was not supposed to do but in any case doing things because I thought I had to do them, I was surrounded by nothing but silence. I’d looked forward to it. “Peace at last,” I told myself. I had visions of eating pizza in bed and taking long naps and catching up on the home team games.