The Shadow Killer

“Why? Just to prove one more time that I can’t do anything right?”

“Killing your family isn’t right,” I say.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Suddenly he sounds confident. I’m losing ground.

“You’ve only known me a couple of minutes,” he says. “I’ve known me fourteen years. So have the people in my family. They know I’m a loser. Every time they look at me, I see it in their eyes. But after tonight, they’ll never have to look at me again.”

“Where are you now?”

“Still up on the third floor in my room. You know what comes next. I sent you the blueprint. I’m going downstairs to close my sisters’ eyes. Then I’ll close my mother’s eyes, and then I’ll close his eyes.”

“Your father’s?” I ask.

“Don’t do that! You knew who I meant!” His voice cracks. He takes a breath. “Then I’ll come back to my room, and that will be the end.”

“Please, don’t do this,” I say. My voice is as weak as my words.

“Too late, Charlie D. It’s time to get started. I have my father’s knife. But guess what?” His laugh is childlike but haunting. “It’s not his knife anymore. It’s mine.”

My pulse is racing.

“Stay on the line-please.” I rack my brain for something-anything-that will keep him from breaking our connection. As long as he’s talking to me, he’s not killing the members of his family. “Why did you send me the blueprint?” I say. “If you didn’t want to be stopped, why did you call in tonight?”

He doesn’t answer. In the silence, I can hear my heart pounding. It’s too late. I reach for the bottle of aspirin, shake two into my palm and dry-chew them. It’s over.

I start to take off my earphones; then I hear him. His voice is small, and it seems as if it’s painful for him to talk.

“I wanted a record,” he says. “I didn’t want people to think I was just screwed-up like the two kids who did the Columbine shooting. They were weirdos who were into guns and homemade explosives. I want people to hear my real voice. So they’d know…”

“So they’d know what?”

Loser1121 is fighting tears, and he isn’t winning. He’s breaking apart.

“So they’d know that I love my mother and I love my sisters.”

“Then why are you going to end their lives?” I ask.

He raises his voice in frustration.

“Because I love them. I just told you that. They’ve always tried to protect me against him.”

“Does your father hurt you physically?”

“Not physically. He has other ways. And my mother and my sisters always tell me my father is wrong about me. They say I’m a good person, a worthwhile person-they believe in me.”

“Then why do you want to…to ‘close their eyes’?”

“I don’t want them to spend the rest of their lives having people look away from them because they’re the family with the boy who killed his father.”

“So you’re killing your mother and your sisters to protect them.”

“It’s the only way,” he says miserably. “I’ve thought about it a lot. I’m going to hang up now.”

The line goes dead. I stare at my computer screen. Nova has written the intro for the next song. I make no attempt to hide the anger in my voice when I read her words. “This is for all you dads who believe it’s your way or the doorway: Waylon Jennings with ‘Only Daddy That’ll Walk the Line.’”

As Waylon delivers his warning to the woman who’s been stepping on his toes, I bury my face in my hands. Nova’s on the talkback immediately. “We’ve caught a break. The police were able to trace 1121’s call.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The tension drains from my body, but the relief doesn’t last. I try to imagine how the cops will handle the situation. There are no good options. The time for the police psychologist is long past. Loser1121 is walking a razor-thin wire. If the police storm the house where he lives, the shock will knock him off the wire. Once he hits the ground, he’ll move quickly. He’ll kill until the cops bring him down.

Sometimes when we have a truly desperate caller, I can find a way to connect by putting myself in his place. I close my eyes and imagine myself in 1121’s head. I can feel the walls closing in. Panic rises in my throat. I can’t get air into my lungs. It’s too much. I open my eyes, pick up the picture of Lily, focus on the moment when she held the dandelion and force myself to breathe deeply.

I’m in control again, but I can’t forget 1121. Lily holds the dandelion as if were a magician’s wand. Loser1121 was once a boy who knew the enchantment of dandelions. He shouldn’t have to face the end of his life alone. Through my earphones, I hear Waylon Jennings delivering the final warning to his wayward wife. In seconds I’ll be back on the air. I call Nova on the talkback. “What’s 1121’s phone number?”

“It’s on your screen,” she says. “I sent it as soon as the police traced the call, but Charlie, the number was a dead end. It belongs to a woman named Mavis Durant here in the city.”

I look at the blueprint 1121 sent in. “The surname of his family starts with a K. The initials don’t fit,” I say.

“Neither does anything else,” Nova says. Her voice is bleak. She knows we’ve reached the end of the road. “Charlie, Mavis is eighty-three years old. She lives in a retirement home here in the city. The police are on their way to talk to her, but they believe the story she told them when they called her.”

“What did she tell them?”

“That one day last month, she left her purse on a bench in the park by the legislature. The purse was turned in. There was nothing missing but her cellular phone. She didn’t report it because the phone had been a gift from her grandson and she didn’t want him to think she’d been careless.”

“And she didn’t cut off the service?”

“No. She said she never used the phone anyway. The phone company’s records bear out her story. The phone wasn’t used until tonight.”

“Loser1121 was saving it,” I say. “I’m going to call him.”

“I’d better check with my friends in blue about that,” Nova says. Her exchange with them is brief. She’s back on the phone almost immediately. “They say go ahead and place the call. We haven’t got anything else.”

Since they arrived, the cops in the control room haven’t had much to do but look stern and alert. Finally, there’s at least the possibility of action. As I tap in the number, they spring to life, but apparently 1121 has turned off his cell. I give Nova and the officers the thumbs-down sign. My bag of tricks is empty. I flip on my microphone. I don’t have to cast around for an effective tone. The urgency in my voice is the real thing.

“My name is Charlie Dowhanuik. And you are listening to ‘The World of Charlie D’ on what, even for us, is a weird and scary night. In the last few minutes, I’ve been talking with a troubled friend. We don’t know his name or where he lives-he could be anywhere. The point is we have to find him, and we have to help him. He calls himself loser1121. If you have any idea who 1121 might be, email us at [email protected] or text us. We want to leave the phone lines open in case he decides to call in.

“1121, I hope you’re still with us. You have no idea how much I hope that you’re still up in your room and that you stay there. I know right at this moment you feel your whole life sucks. But take my word for it, life has a way of getting better.”

I check the control room to see how I’m doing. The faces of the cops are stony, but Nova gives me a small and encouraging smile, so I plow on.