“Well, I don’t think we’re going to figure out the psychology of domestic violence and come up with a way to prevent assholes from beating their women,” Hank said. “What we need to figure out is how to keep one particular woman safe from one particular asshole. As far as I’m concerned, there is only one way to ensure that Ryan never has to be hurt again. Brandon needs to go in the ground. You’ve obviously thought about it and feel like there is no way to coax her into making the decision to leave, and I agree. You’ve gotta take action while nobody knows what you know?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I told Mandy that even if I have to go to prison to protect her, that’s what I’ll do. On the other hand, I’d sure like to get it done cleanly and stay off of the radar of the radar as a possible suspect.”
“No shit!” Hank exclaimed. “I don’t even want to give the authorities a reason to consider the possibility that either one of us was involved with his death. We aren’t going to be stupid about this. We need to make sure that we have rock solid alibis. I know that this can be done without leaving a trail for the cops to follow, but we are going to have to plan out every detail and carry the plan out perfectly. I’m on board, though. This guy is toast.”
“I have a few thoughts on how and when this can happen but, so far, I’m stumped on the alibi issue. I figured that I needed more than just having you say that I was with you. It seems to me that, to really be rock solid, an alibi needs to be verifiable through more people than just your best friend or your spouse, and I definitely don’t want to ask anyone else to lie for me.”
“Fuck no!” Hank said. “If you ask someone to provide a false alibi, then you are at the mercy of their conscience. Plus, most people have big fucking mouths, so we can pretty much count on the fact that anyone we ask to cover for us will, eventually, end up betraying us. This has to be completely airtight. I agree that being seen by a number of people in a public place is the best way to establish where you are. Keep in mind, buddy, we don’t just have to fool the cops —that part’s easy.”
“What do you mean? I don’t think anyone else is going to be looking for someone with a motive.”
“You’re forgetting the one person who knows you have a motive and will immediately consider the possibility that you could be involved,” he said.
“Oh shit,” I said, as the realization hit me, “Ryan! Even if we make this look random, she’s still going to, at least in the back of her mind, consider the possibility that I found out about Brandon and got rid of him to protect her. I don’t think she’d turn me in, but hell, I didn’t think she’d stay committed to a wife beater to begin with. Maybe the hold he has on her will continue even after he’s dead. Even if she didn’t turn me in to the police, though, she’d definitely hate me forever. That fate is almost as bad as going to prison.”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d go that far,” he replied. “I mean, I don’t want to lose the love of my kid, but I’d take that any day over having to worry about getting ass fucked in the prison shower every day for a twenty-year sentence. Just keepin’ it real here, brother.”
“Yeah, you’re right there,” I admitted. “Of course, life in prison would be way worse, but suffice it to say, losing Ryan would totally break my heart. We need to plan this down to the smallest detail and complete it in such a way that neither Ryan, nor the cops, will ever have a reason think that Brandon’s was killed by someone he knew. I think we need to make it look like an act of random street violence, like he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. That way, no one will have a reason to explore his life and try to determine if he had any enemies or any reasons for wanting him dead.”
“Good thinking,” he replied.
We did some basic brainstorming for the rest of our tattoo session, but had to wrap up the conversation when my artwork was complete and Jake promptly stopped, took off his headphones, and said, “What do you think?”
He’d been finishing up the coloring of a demonic looking skeleton playing a drum set on my left shoulder that he had been working on over the last several months. It was finally complete, and I thought it looked awesome. It looked just like what I had pictured when I initially described it the piece to him.
“Dude, that rocks!” Hank said, as he checked it out. “Literally, IT ROCKS! Oh, man! I’m so freakin’ hilarious!”
“Good one,” I said. “If you’re twelve, that is.” Once again, Hank’s opinion of his own sense of humor was a bit overblown. He may not be very funny, but he certainly had a positive self-image. More importantly, he was a loyal friend. I mean, how many people do you know that will literally help you devise and carry out a serious crime, with extremely serious consequences if you are caught, when they have nothing to gain personally by the outcome? I felt a tremendous camaraderie with him, and I knew that when our mission was complete and Brandon was out of the picture, I would owe him my loyalty and my own willingness to help him with any similar problem that might arise in his life. I knew this, but I never stopped to consider the likelihood of Hank calling on me to return the favor someday. At this point, it was full steam ahead with planning Brandon’s departure from planet earth with little thought being given to the eternal debt that I would owe my best friend.
Needless to say, the plotting was over now that Jake was no longer deaf to our comments. I hung out until Hank’s work was finished and then we both took off. In the parking lot we talked a bit more about what needed to be figured out. We needed a place and time, an untraceable weapon, and a rock-solid alibi for our crime. I told him that I’d be working on a plan and that I’d be getting back to him in the near future to discuss things further. We embraced in a bro-hug and jumped in our respective vehicles.
As I drove home that day, I felt a tremendous weight on my shoulders of what I was no longer just considering—it was what I was planning. I had to admit to myself, as I imagined the actual act of taking someone’s life, that this was not going to be as easy as it once seemed. I think most everyone has heard a news story about some psychotic monster who has targeted an innocent individual or family and carried out an unthinkable act of terror and violence. I was sure that many people, like myself, had fantasized about what they would do to protect themselves and their loved ones if it came down to a kill-or-be-killed situation. I had no doubt that there were plenty of folks who, when considering this theoretical scenario, would claim that they’d gladly pull a trigger or inflict a stabbing wound on such an individual in order to rid the world of his worthless ass.
It becomes much more difficult, I can assure you, to actually pass definitive judgement and condemn an individual to capital punishment when you are no longer considering a theoretical situation. When you are thinking about it in terms of real actions impacting real lives, it becomes exponentially more difficult to consider. However, when you know that you are taking the opportunity to protect your daughter from the pain and anguish—not to mention the risk of losing her own life—being forced upon her by a vicious predator, you realize that you have one of two personalities. Either the type of person who can hope that you’ve misread all of the signals and that your child will be the one who escapes her foretold fate, or, the type of person who will do whatever it takes to protect your innocent daughter who lacks the ability to protect herself.
Every time I asked myself which category I belonged to, the answer was always the same. I knew that I would rather die than watch any of my children endure the horror that Ryan had already endured, not to mention the perpetual mind-fuck that many predatory males put their victims through as they repetitively beg to be forgiven and promise to change their ways.
By the time I arrived at home after meeting with Hank at the Black Boar that day, I knew that my decision had been made. In order to protect my oldest daughter, I’d chosen to become a criminal—a murderer. Although the idea of taking the life of another human being literally sickened me and the thought of planning such a crime scared the hell out of me, I knew there was no other option.
Regardless of why he was the way he was, Brandon had become a monster who had hurt my little girl, and would continue to do so, likely escalating over time. I had the opportunity to choose to either slay the monster or live with the eventual consequences of his actions. In my mind, the choice was obvious and undeniable. Brandon would die, and I would bear the burden of the emotional trauma my horrific task would leave in its wake. Such was my fate.
Chapter 32
Brandon’s parents had unknowingly helped me by providing the presumed motive for the crime which would result in the murder of their son. When he graduated from college, they bought him a limited-edition Rolex watch, which cost around twenty-four thousand bucks. Needless to say, it was a beautiful timepiece and Brandon loved it. As is true of most people who drive an extravagant car, wear an overpriced suit, or purchase an obscenely expensive watch, what he loved was the exclusivity and the opportunity to demonstrate to people he was able to afford such an extravagance. Being the total douche that he was, he would flash it around in front of any set of eyes fortunate enough to behold it and bring it up in conversation as often as possible.
“I may not have the newest car in the lot, but at least I have the Bentley of watches.”
“I don’t worry too much about identity theft, because my biggest asset is on my arm.”
“Sometimes I hate my job and think about quitting, selling my watch, and living off the money as I travel the world for a year or so.”
These are just a sampling of the comments I couldn’t help but overhear. Keep in mind, though, the fuckwad turned my stomach and, as a general rule, I avoided being within earshot of him as much as possible. I can’t even fathom a guess about how many others in his life had been fortunate enough to find themselves at the receiving end of similar boastful comments.
One evening, about six weeks prior to when Mandy and I put two and two together and figured out what was going on with Ryan, we had bumped into our jackass son-in-law in a parking garage below the Buffalo Wild Wings restaurant on Lemmon Avenue in Dallas. We were just about to climb the stairway leading up to the street level, where we would find the entrance to the Heavenly establishment where worthy souls were invited to consume premium buffalo chicken wings, craft beers, IPA’s, and other culinary masterpieces. Just to be clear, I was a big fan of B-Dubs and on the day that Lizzie told me that she had gotten a job as a cocktail waitress there, I literally teared up and began salivating at the same time; it’s the little pleasures.
As we approached the stairs, the nearby elevator dinged, and the door started to open up. I was wondering what kind of lazy bum takes the elevator in a building with only two floors, or three if you include the underground parking garage, but still. I tend to be a bit judgmental.
As the elevator door slid open, a lone figure stepped out and nearly collided with us.
“Whoa,” he said, as he looked up from his watch, which he had been fastening on his left wrist. “Excuse me—oh hey, what are y’all up to?”
Christ on a crutch. Are you freaking kidding me? I can’t even travel to a favorite restaurant and engage in my gluttonous rituals without running into my least favorite family member along the way? I considered these thoughts as I tried to keep the involuntary scowl off of my face.
It was as if the guy stepping out of the elevator had actually just stepped out of a Men’s Fitness magazine photo-shoot. Brandon was wearing an expertly designed exercise outfit including knee length blue, nylon shorts and a grey hooded sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. His white athletic socks had blue and grey stripes. His court style shoes were grey, with the familiar Nike swoosh in blue. There was no doubt he had taken care to put his workout outfit together with style. As I looked at him, I didn’t see a good looking, muscular, well put together young man. Instead, I saw a worthless tool who was overly impressed with himself and spent a half hour trying on different combinations of exercise apparel, stopping only when he’d achieved the perfect magazine model look. I certainly admit my opinion of him lacked objectivity, but despite his handsome outward appearance, Brandon’s dark soul always seemed to radiate through the pores of his skin and the pupils of his eyes. Once a person was able to recognize his inner ugliness, which defined his existence, his overall appearance would always be repulsive.
“Hey, Brandon,” Mandy spoke up. She detested him only slightly less than I did, but she had retained her ability to hide her true feelings and make casual conversation with him without feeling the need to subsequently purge her stomach contents and undergo an immediate, whole-body bathing scrub down with steel wool and a chlorine-based toilet cleaner. “Lizzie is bartending tonight, so we’re here to eat and visit with her. Where are you coming from? You look like you just worked out.”
“Yep. I usually do my cardio at Title Boxing Gym. It’s on the second level upstairs. I do an advanced kickboxing class Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Today, I was mainly just sparring and doing drills, because I missed my class this morning. I get up early and get my day started with an awesome workout. They have a 5:30am class that lasts an hour. It’s perfect for me, because I like to get my workout in first thing in the morning. You should try it out sometime, Mark. I mean, you’d have to start in the beginner class, of course. But you’d probably be able to work up to the advanced class eventually.”
“Oh, really? Gosh, do you think I could really work up to your level? Wow, I don’t know. Your class sounds pretty elite! I’ll have to see if I can gather up the gumption to get off my lazy, out of shape ass and start out with something less intense than kickboxing though. Maybe I’ll try to walk out to the mailbox and back first.” If you’re going to use sarcasm, you might as well lay it on nice and thick. Jesus Christ, what a dick. Brandon knew I worked out regularly and I was in great shape, so his comment was clearly meant to suggest I was physically inferior to him. So typical.
“Okay, Mark, enough sarcasm. You know I think you’re a stud-muffin.” Mandy interjected, hoping to keep the mild confrontation from escalating.
“I just meant it’s a great workout, but it is pretty intense and people have to work up to it,” Brandon said. For once, he actually seemed a little embarrassed, or awkward at least.
There was really no reason to waste time listening to his bullshit as he tried to extract his foot from his mouth. He truly had no insight into the fact that about ninety percent of what came out of it was offensive in some way to the person he was addressing. Or, maybe it wasn’t a lack of insight, but a profound indifference to other people’s feelings and egos. That’s why I preferred to spend my conversational efforts letting him know what a complete douchebag I thought he was. “I noticed your Rolex. Don’t you have a watch that’s worth less than a new car you can wear to the gym? It seems like you’d worry about damaging it or getting it stolen out of your locker.”
“The club owner lets me lock it up in his office, so I don’t have to worry about it,” he answered.
“Sweet, that way people can still see you wearing it when you arrive and again when you leave,” I said. “I mean, what’s the point of a ridiculously expensive watch if you can’t flash it around in the faces of everyone you come into contact with,” I jabbed at him. I mean, I totally dig cool watches and I had a collection of decent ones, but I’ve always felt like guys who spend that kind of money—or even their parents’ money as was true in this case—on watches are compensating for their little dicks. Maybe I’m just jealous that, although I make a very comfortable living, I don’t have enough money I can spend it on such frivolous purchases. Did I mention I tend to be a bit judgmental? Anyway, flipping him some shit about his watch was just another good way for me to let my son-in-law know I hated just about everything about him.
“Wow, I didn’t realize you were so jealous. Now I understand where Ryan gets it,” he said. This was a new one. He had previously directed all of his disrespectful, trash talk at me. Pulling Ryan into the insult made it twice as offensive, though, and this point was not lost on him, or on me.
I swear to God I almost decked him right there, but Mandy reached out and casually grabbed my right arm. The very one I would have knocked his fucking teeth down his throat with. This simple gesture of restraint reminded me I had nothing to gain and everything to lose by putting my fist in Brandon’s mouth, even though the shit eating grin he was wearing at the moment would have looked so much better with one or more incisors missing and a stream of blood trickling out of it. I wasn’t doing a very good job of controlling my repressed violent streak.
“Brandon, someday neither my wife nor my daughter will be here to save you. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Well, you folks have a nice time. Say ‘Hi’ to Lizzie for me,” he said, with a ‘fuck you’ smile on his face. “Nice running into you.”
Fatal Flaws Page 19