She didn’t need to add “read journal” to her mental checklist. The journal was safely nestled in her oversized shoulder bag. She knew, because she’d checked every few minutes to make sure it was there.
Kelly had only read a handful of entries and the revelations therein unnerved the hell out of her. Once again she pondered the question of whether she was better off knowing the gruesome details of her father’s secret life or if she should quit reading now, before she waded too far out into the water and couldn’t find a safe way back. She could ponder all she wanted… she already knew the answer.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone walking down the street in her direction. She didn’t hear any voices, but could make out the heavy breathing of a thickset dog and the tapping of a cane.
Kelly immediately assumed the worst. This could be trouble. Was she being paranoid or sensible? It didn’t matter. Her ride would come along any minute, but in that minute bad things could happen.
Very bad things.
Tightly clutching her shoulder bag, she quickly turned back toward the hospital, and right into a ‘no parking’ signpost that stood between her and safe harbor. She hit the post hard with her left wrist and forearm, jarring loose her shoulder bag, which tumbled to the ground.
Ignoring the pain, Kelly lunged for her bag. As she did, she heard a loud growl as a pugnacious dog bore down on her.
She turned in terror, expecting any moment to be in a life-and-death struggle with a Pit Bull whose sole intent was to rip out her throat. Instead, she was staring down a hundred pounds of piebald, slobbering bulldog.
“Henry!” The voice coming out of the dark belonged to an elderly woman. She emerged a moment later, moving as quickly as her knobbly geriatric legs could carry her. “Henry! Stop right there!”
The bulldog halted its advance a foot from Kelly. Henry barked a friendly greeting as his stubby tail kicked into high gear and saliva dripped from his jowls. A bright red nylon leash trailed behind him.
“He’s friendly,” said an aged man as he made his way forward with the use of a highly polished, twisted walnut walking stick.
“Are you all right, dear?” asked the woman. Without waiting for an answer, she forged on, “We’re so sorry. Henry belongs to our daughter and we’re taking care of him tonight.”
“He’s a little much for us,” said the man, “but this is the first time he’s pulled away.”
Kelly had gotten to her feet and slung her bag back over her shoulder. “I’m fine. I just stumbled.”
The woman got a closer look at Kelly and smiled. “You’re Dr Harper’s daughter, right?”
Kelly returned the smile. “Yes.”
The woman’s smile stayed on her face, but turned sad. “He was a wonderful man. He operated on both of us. Saved our lives.”
“I’m glad,” Kelly said warmly.
“We were so sorry when we heard what happened,” offered up the man. “We lit a candle for him and made a contribution to the homeless shelter in his name.”
Kelly teared up. It was just one more story of how her father touched the lives of so many people in the city. “That’s very kind of you.”
The woman reached out and gently stroked Kelly’s cheek. “He’s with the Lord, looking down at you now.”
Kelly’s unspoken thought was, “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Fortunately, her Lyft driver pulled up at that moment and provided her with a graceful escape.
Kelly arrived home thirty minutes later. Her plan was simple: wash her face, brush her teeth, and fall into bed. But as she set down her shoulder bag, she felt the pull of her father’s journal.
Sleep could wait.
32
(David’s Journal)
Two months have passed since Benedetto dangled a repugnant offer of employment in front of me like tainted meat before a malnourished wolf. I’ve documented my initial reaction to becoming a hired killer. Nothing could change my mind about flushing all sense of morality (and legality) down the drain. I’ve spent my entire career helping others. I swore to embrace the Hippocratic Oath to uphold ethical standards. In any definition of the word, assassination falls well outside the bounds of ethical standards.
But the reality of life has once again come knocking. It’s the reality of the clinic being on the verge of defaulting on a score of overdue bills, and Jessica’s ongoing treatments being threatened by my inability to cover her expenses. Medical insurance covers the basic minimum, but Jess needs, and deserves the best treatment possible, regardless of cost.
I’ve looked at my options: try to get another loan (I’ve already taken a second and third against my house and don’t have any other collateral); sell the house and use the proceeds to keep things afloat (once I paid off the loans, the proceeds would be negligible); leave the clinic and go into private practice or try to get a job as a surgeon at a major hospital (I assume I could find a job, but competition in San Francisco is fierce and hospitals are turning toward younger/more affordable doctors, which would mean relocating out of town). Last and certainly least is revisiting Benedetto’s obscene offer.
Is my need for financial support sufficient reason to forego my basic beliefs? It’s a ludicrous consideration… or is it?
The more I think about it, the more I see how hypocritical I’m being. I voluntarily killed a man, albeit a man who truly didn’t deserve to be walking the same streets as the rest of humanity, and if left unchecked, he’d have undoubtedly committed more heinous crimes in the future. To me this was the definition of a person who unquestionably got what he deserved.
There are thousands of people just like Musselwhite who are committing terrible offenses against innocent people. Murder, kidnapping, exploiting children… the list goes on. Do those miscreants deserve to die as well?
I’ve never been a political activist. Like most of my associates, I could be classified as a liberal Democrat. I’m pro-choice, a staunch believer in human rights across the board, and a vocal advocate of stricter gun control laws (treating gunshot wounds on a weekly basis tends to make doctors biased). When it comes to capital punishment, I’ve never leaned too far in either direction.
I guess my stance on that has now been established.
Which brings me back to the question: do evil people like Musselwhite deserve to die? If the answer is yes, who should be the one to mete out the punishment? Certainly not me. Why risk everything to bring an unknown criminal to justice, regardless of how reprehensible his or her actions are? I’m not a superhero. It’s neither my responsibility nor my desire to act like one.
It’s terribly naïve to think that stopping one drug dealer is going to stem the opioid epidemic, or that neutralizing a serial rapist is going to put an end to the rampant violation of women in our society. However, taking some of the most vicious violators “off the board” does have a certain appeal.
Starting from the premise that I’d never consider such an outlandish offer to coming around to where I’m now considering it is a tectonic shift in my entire outlook on life. I still have grave reservations, but at the very least, I want more information.
While the following is a huge rationalization, there’s a line in the Hippocratic Oath that states, “I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligation to all my fellow beings.”
Like I said above, it’s been two months since my meeting with Benedetto. Moments ago I contacted him and said I’d like to stop by.
His only question was if I liked Indian food.
33
(David’s Journal)
This isn’t a diary and I don’t sit down every evening to record my experiences and emotions. By and large, nothing too interesting happens in the life of a physician who runs a neighborhood clinic, unless you consider things like the middle-aged woman who was knocked unconscious in a car accident. That wasn’t the interesting fact in this case; it was the cause of the accident… the woman was driving while being pleasured by a remote-controlle
d vibrator being operated by her twenty-eight-year-old boyfriend sitting in the passenger seat. He got a little too playful and when he turned up the speed, the woman had a massive orgasm. Her pleasure was short-lived, as she lost control of the car and slammed it into a street lamp. She was one of the more talked-about patients for weeks.
My reason for keeping a journal is to have someplace to record my feelings about my “other job” and to leave a written record for my daughter Kelly (and hopefully, one day, Jessica).
After my last meeting with Benedetto, I came away convinced that I could make a difference. As outlandish as it seemed, I decided to take on an assignment. The target met my first requirement: in the eyes of anyone (with the possible exception of his mother), he was deserving of eradication. I don’t know (nor do I want to know) who was offering the bounty on this individual, but I didn’t pass judgment on them. Benedetto assured me that the target was not a business rival of the individual requesting the job, so I assumed it was personal. I could relate.
His name was Charles Crane. He went by “Chazz”, which should tell you just about all you need to know. Chazz was a thirty-one-year-old bodybuilder and wannabe stuntman/actor who had a condo in Santa Monica, a few blocks from the Pacific Ocean. He lived off a trust fund and spent his days pumping iron, shooting up hormones and going out on auditions. He spent his nights raping young women.
The dossier on him was thin but complete. Chazz wasn’t a complicated guy. He was a defective human being who destroyed the lives of helpless females without giving it a second thought. The obvious question was, why hadn’t he been arrested? Because, while Chazz was detestable, he wasn’t stupid. His MO was to break into the apartments of single women in the dead of night and use chloroform to knock them out. He left behind no DNA. His body was completely hairless, with the exception of faint eyebrows. He didn’t suffer from alopecia; he suffered from the vanity that comes along with bodybuilding. All photos of him showed a bald man who worshipped his bulging and oiled physique.
After Chazz brutally raped the women, he’d disappear into the night. To date, none of the dozen victims could identify their assailant, but all suffered the physical pain of forceful entry, and the mental trauma that came along with that. Police departments across three cities (Venice, Santa Monica and West LA) were working together to find the culprit the Los Angeles Times had dubbed the ‘Midnight Rambler’.
In the case of one victim, the damage was more than traumatic. She was a young actress named Natalie. Her film credits were meager: “Woman On The Phone”, “Young Mother In The Library” and “Head Cheerleader”. Natalie lived the typical Hollywood life: auditions, waiting tables, and the occasional ‘short film’ shot by a friend. One night, Natalie got a visit from Chazz, and awoke to discover she’d been repeatedly raped and sodomized.
She was raised a good Catholic and was a strict Straight Edger. The physical pain of her injuries, combined with the shame of being violated, overwhelmed her. Natalie’s body was found three days later when the massage therapist in the next apartment complained of a terrible smell. Natalie’s death was attributed to a drug overdose, but her injuries were attributed to the Midnight Rambler, who now officially had blood on his hands.
If Chazz rendered his victims unconscious and left no DNA, how did anyone know that he was the rapist who terrorized the Southern California beach communities? Because Chazz frequented dance clubs and liked to party. His drug of choice was GHB, also called Liquid X. It renders a person less inhibited, which is not a good thing if you’re hiding dirty secrets. Chazz got talkative one night and regaled a Bro with details of his sexual exploits, emphasizing that he liked it rough and he didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. The Bro had witnessed Chazz’s pathetic moves at the club, which never resulted in a hook-up, so either Chazz was lying, buying or crossing the line.
The Bro suspected it was the latter.
It happened that the Bro was acquainted with one of the Midnight Rambler’s victims, and some of the salacious details that Chazz lustfully provided were in sync with the injuries she had suffered. Calls were made and options were weighed. Because Chazz had money and connections, the victim’s parents came to the conclusion that turning over this partial information to the authorities wouldn’t result in an arrest or long-term incarceration. And worse case, he may attack their daughter again out of spite.
Which left one option, dealing with Chazz in a more personal way.
And so began a succession of queries through a complicated web of nameless and faceless contacts, eventually coming to the attention of a sympathetic individual who was “connected”.
When the request came to Benedetto, he made a few calls of his own. It didn’t take long for him to be convinced that Charles Crane and the Midnight Rambler were one and the same. He compiled the dossier and then made one final call.
To me.
The more I read, the more I put myself in the shoes of the families whose lives were torn by the brutality forced upon their daughters, and the more enraged I became. Chazz was a scourge that needed to be stamped out. I knew if I took the assignment I’d be crossing into a dark territory from which there was no turning back. But hadn’t I already crossed that borderline?
I took the job.
The dossier on Chazz provided me with all I needed to formulate the ideal plan. He injected himself daily with human growth hormones. HGH was a favorite among bodybuilders as it stimulates the growth, reproduction and regeneration of cells. Basically, it helps build muscle… the primary goal of iron pumpers who spend hours looking at themselves in gym mirrors.
Chazz got his illegal supply of HGH from a company in China. Each morning he had his breakfast of four egg whites, chased with sixteen ounces of Muscle Milk and finished by shooting a dose of HGH into his butt cheek. Over the years I learned that illegal drugs, especially those being produced in places like China or Russia, are often tainted with impurities, some of which can be fatal.
Chazz lived in a bottom floor condo in a six-unit building. Since it was winter and I was close to the ocean, the weather was chilly, which meant I didn’t stand out in a dark, non-descript coat and baseball cap. I waited in the shadows until Chazz pulled away in his black Mustang Cobra. I checked my watch; it was 10pm. Every Tuesday night he played poker with C-list actors and junior talent agents. Chazz knew that the way to break into ‘the business’ was through connections, and this minor league crew was the best he could manage at this stage of his career. The last hand of the night was always dealt at 1am, getting Chazz home thirty minutes later. It was ample time.
The condo was new construction, which meant the locks were cheap and easy to pick. I slipped inside without incident and glanced around. The décor was chrome, glass and black leather. I’d seen operating rooms that were less antiseptic. The only personal touches were framed photos of Chazz, body oiled and veins popping, holding trophies he’d won in various local competitions. My disdain for this man continued to grow.
The kitchen was equally sterile. Chazz had no sense of style, unless ‘meticulous’ was a style choice. Not a utensil out of place or a smudge on the glassware. I quickly found his stash of HGH in a cupboard, between a box of hypodermic needles and an industrial-sized tub of whey protein.
I closely examined his HGH vials one by one, to make certain that my replacement vials were identical. I’d erased all doubts about this assignment prior to driving south, so I had no qualms about switching out the vials of HGH for vials I’d prepared which were laced with a cleaning solvent called carbon tetrachloride. I chose carbon tet for a few reasons: it was a trace chemical that was commonly found in illegally produced drugs (it was often utilized to wash out steel vats used to make the drug); it was extremely toxic; and it was a chemical cousin of chloroform. The poetic justice was too symbolic to pass up.
Once Chazz injected himself with the tainted HGH, he’d rapidly develop severe nausea and abdominal pain, followed by dizziness and an irregular heartbeat. In a short time he’d
lapse into a coma and within a few hours die of either liver or kidney failure.
I’d made the switch and was headed for the door when I heard the growl of a powerful engine and caught sight through the window of Chazz’s Cobra pulling back into the underground garage. What happened? Was the surveillance information wrong? Was he suddenly sick? The reason didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting the hell out of there fast.
My gloved hand was turning the doorknob when I looked back to the kitchen one last time and remembered that one of the authentic vials had rolled off the counter and was lying under the breakfast table. I’d meant to retrieve it when I was finished, but in my hurry to leave, it slipped my mind. If Chazz found the vial he’d know someone had been in his condo and all bets were off.
I dashed into the kitchen and grabbed the errant vial. I shoved it into my pocket and was moving toward the front door when I heard his keys sliding into the lock. I was trapped.
My brain kicked into overdrive, searching for a plan, but I drew a blank. The intense stress of the situation short-circuited any ability to problem-solve. In that moment, it appeared that my career as a hit man would be over before it began. Suddenly, my feet took command of my body and silently carried me back into the kitchen. The only place to hide was the walk-in pantry. I quietly slipped into the cramped space and gently shut the door. The pantry latch-bolt clicked into place at the same moment Chazz opened the front door. If I was lucky, he’d only returned home because he’d forgotten something and would be heading right back out. It turned out luck wasn’t on my side. I knew I was either going to be exposed, and probably beaten to death by the muscular behemoth, or I’d be spending a few hours in his pantry, holding my breath and praying he didn’t want a late-night snack.
As Chazz moved around the kitchen, I did my best to calm my breathing and remain perfectly quiet. I wished I’d planned better, or that I’d been more careful in the plan’s execution, but I never once questioned my decision to take on this job. In fact, as I uncomfortably stood there with a case of creatine powder jammed into my lower back, my resolve to successfully carry out this assignment grew exponentially. The only thing that separated me from a man who had viciously raped a dozen young women was a two-inch hollow panel door. And yet I wasn’t the least bit afraid. My overriding emotion was the disappointment I’d feel if he didn’t shoot himself up with poison and pay the price for his actions.
Gideon Page 15
