by Mike Pace
Problem was, he’d only have a split second—no moment to reflect, no time for second thoughts—and he wasn’t certain he could pull the trigger. Which left one option. He needed to be near Janie when midnight rolled around to protect her.
He stepped out of the shower and, without bothering to dry off, quickly found his phone.
“B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, and Bingo was his name…”
Tom sang along with Janie and Angie who belted out the song from the backseat. He was proud of his daughter, who’d taken it upon herself to cheer up her cousin. They were heading back to his apartment after a trip to the movies and burgers at Chili’s. During the ride to the theater, Angie barely spoke, but now she appeared a bit more animated.
Tom had concluded that the chances of him pointing a gun at a total stranger and pulling the trigger were slim, so the only real path open to him was to protect the girls from Chad and Brit. At first, he’d been surprised how readily Gayle had given up the girls for an overnight. Although, upon reflection, he could imagine the stress of having to deal with Angie on top of everyday motherhood responsibilities, so maybe the prospect of a day and night off would be welcome.
He still held out the slim hope that absolutely nothing would happen. However, if Chad were real—at least as real as a devil’s disciple can be—Tom and his new buddy, Mr. Ruger, would be standing guard throughout the night. At one point he found himself hoping that maybe Chad would go for the low-hanging fruit and take one of the other girls, but he instantly became disgusted with himself for such a vile thought, and barred his mind from ever going there again.
It was a little after eight by the time they got back to his apartment. He’d already outfitted the couch with a pillow and blanket for himself so the girls could use the bed. Since it wasn’t a school night, they gathered on the couch with a bag of Oreos and watched the Disney Channel.
His phone rang. He tensed, then realized four more hours had to pass before he might—would?—hear from Chad and Brit.
It was Gayle. Probably wanting to know if he could keep the girls a little longer.
“Tom, Gino made bail.”
“What? On a murder charge?”
His tone of voice didn’t go unnoticed. “Daddy, is that Mommy?” asked Janie.
He saw Angie’s face blanch. The reference to murder left no doubt in her mind whom he was talking about. “Yes, sweetie, it’s Mommy.” He got up and walked into the bedroom. “What happened?”
“There was a bail-review hearing yesterday. He drew a softhearted judge. She found the death was the result of an alleged crime of passion. Gino had no priors and strong community ties. She ruled he wasn’t a threat to the community and there was no risk of flight. He was just released this afternoon after posting his half of the company as bond.”
“How’d you find out?”
“He just called me. Said he was house bound, wearing one of those ankle monitors. He wants to see Angie. She’s not permitted in his presence without an adult, and my first instinct was not to let that child anywhere near the man, even with someone else present. I told him we’d check with child services in the morning and get back to him. Then he started crying, begging to just see her for a few minutes. He says he needs to tell her how sorry he is and how he didn’t mean it.”
“And—?”
“Look, I witnessed him beat my own sister to death, so no one has more reason to hate the man than me. I can’t explain it, but a part of me believes he may have had some kind of seizure. You’ve seen them together. Never a hint of violence, and if he’d ever laid a finger on her, she’d have told me. I’m torn. What I saw in the kitchen was a monster. But that’s just it. A monster, something that wasn’t real. Not the big teddy bear I’ve known for years.”
“So—”
“I told him you’d swing by for a few minutes.”
“Are you nuts?”
“You should’ve heard him, Tom. There was something in his voice. I said the only way I’d authorize it would be if you were present at all times.”
“Jeez—”
“You go to the door, he answers it, he says what he has to say, you leave. That’s the deal, and he readily agreed. Angie will probably be nervous, so you can take Janie with you to keep her company.”
“But if you’re right and he went tilt—”
“He sounded normal. Upset, but normal. Not like he was going to take his own life or anything. As I said, hard to explain.”
Take his own life. A horrible thought occurred to Tom. No, no way. He looked into the bedroom at the two innocent faces watching him, worried, wondering. Could he really take a chance? His voice rasped as he spoke.
“I’ll gather up the girls.”
CHAPTER 14
Tom considered leaving Janie in the car, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Both girls huddled behind his legs as Gino came to the door. When Gino saw Angie, he couldn’t hold back his tears. He bent down and opened his arms.
“Baby—”
For a moment, Angie hesitated, then she ran to her father and buried herself in his embrace. Gino swept up his daughter.
“Baby, I’m so sorry. I swear to you, I didn’t mean to hurt Mommy.”
“Aunt Gayle said you just got sick and germs went to your brain and made you do it, but you didn’t really mean it.”
“Maybe Aunt Gayle’s right, honey.” He looked at Tom. “Thank you. I know bringing her over wasn’t an easy decision.”
“No problem.”
“Uncle Tom’s going to take you home now,” said Gino. “But tomorrow, we’re going to talk to the court lady and see if you can stay longer next time.” He hastily added, “With Uncle Tom or Aunt Gayle present, of course.”
Tom glanced down at his daughter. His mouth felt full of cotton. “Uh, look, if you want us to come in for a few minutes, I don’t see any harm.”
Gino smiled from ear to ear, and without another word, carried his daughter into the house. Tom and Janie followed and closed the door. They moved to the family room, Gino and Angie refusing to let go of each other.
“Why don’t Janie and I go into the kitchen and have a soda so you two can talk,” said Tom.
Gino nodded. “Take off your jacket and make yourself comfortable.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep it on. Little chilly in here.” He walked into the kitchen with Janie following close behind. She sat down at the kitchen table and he poured a couple of Cokes over ice. If ever he needed a little something to take the edge off, it was now. He opened Gino’s liquor cabinet, retrieved a half-filled bottle of Jack, and poured two fingers into his Coke.
“Is Uncle Gino going to jail?” asked Janie.
“I don’t know for sure, but he probably will. He did a very bad thing.”
“I know, he killed Aunt Rosie. But you know what?”
“What?”
“I don’t think he meant it. I think it was the brain germs.”
How was he supposed to respond to that? Tell her she’s right, and the only reason Uncle Gino smashed Aunt Rosie’s brain to mush was because her father goofed up and decided not to murder anybody?
“I think it was the brain germs too, honey, but that will be for a judge and jury to decide.”
“If he goes to jail, who’s gonna take care of Angie?”
“We all will, sweetie.” He looked through the door to the family room, where he saw Gino sitting inches from his daughter talking earnestly. Tom couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he didn’t need to. Gino would be explaining how he loved her mother and he doesn’t know what got into him. And maybe he did get sick, and the sickness made him do it, and he loved her very much, and no matter what happened, she needed to be strong.
Tom glanced at the kitchen clock—almost eleven thirty already. His chest tightened. Could he do this? He drained his drink and reentered the family room.
“Sorry, but it’s after eleven,” said Tom. “Need to get these girls to bed.”
“Catchin’ a cold? Your voice so
unds funny.”
“Sore throat. Bug goin’ around.” Forget about my throat, you should feel the battery acid sloshing around in my stomach.
“You need to take care of yourself,” said Gino.
“Yeah.” This time his throat was so tight, the word was barely more than mouthed.
“Angie, you go on back to Janie’s house with Uncle Tom,” said Gino. “I’m going to talk to Aunt Gayle tomorrow, and we’re going to work something out so maybe you can come home. Would you like that?” She nodded, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and gave Gino a last hug.
“You girls go on out to the car and lock the door,” said Tom. “I’ll be out in a minute. I need to talk to Uncle Gino.”
Janie took her cousin’s hand and walked her out of the house. Tom watched to make sure they were safe, then closed the door. Gino turned to him.
“I want you to know I didn’t mean to kill her.”
“I know. Let’s go into the kitchen to talk.” Gino followed Tom into the kitchen and sat down while Tom pulled two beers from the fridge.
“Don’t think I’m supposed to be drinkin’,” said Gino.
“One beer.” Tom set the can of Bud in front of Gino and wondered why his former brother-in-law didn’t comment on his shaking hand. Gino popped the top and took a long sip.
“What the hell am I gonna do?” asked Gino, dropping his head into his hands.
Tom cleared his voice. He needed to sound as normal as possible. Normal. What a joke. “You killed her, even though you know you didn’t mean it. I’m afraid you’re going to be sent away for a long time. Maybe the rest of your life.”
“If I go to jail, what’ll happen to Angie?”
“I swear to you that Gayle, Dave, and I will take care of her as if she were our own daughter.”
Okay, what he was about to say next would be the first step down the road to hell. Road to hell. Funny. But couldn’t he simply bring the girls back inside, partner up with Mr. Ruger, and watch over them till after the clock struck midnight? And what were the chances absolutely nothing would happen?
The chances. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Could he really take the chance his daughter would die within the next few minutes?” No. He took a deep breath.
“Gino, I think it would be helpful for you to write a note to Angie. You know, something she can keep with her always.”
“Probably should. Maybe tomorrow—”
“You could do it tomorrow, but why not now? I’ll give it to her tonight. Think it’ll make her feel better.”
“Guess you’re right.” He nodded at a cabinet drawer. “Rosie keeps a pad and pen in there.”
Tom walked to the cabinet, which fortunately was behind Gino. He pulled a pair of transparent latex gloves from his coat pocket and tried to slip them on, but his hands were shaking so badly it took twice as long.
“I know my life’s over, Tom. Rosie’s gone. And I’m going away for a long time. Got a nice insurance policy. Was thinking—”
“Probably feel the same way in your shoes.” Jesus, did he really just say that?
Tom retrieved the pad and paper, then pivoted and quickly set both items down on the table. Gino was so lost in thought that he never noticed Tom’s hands.
The big man stared at the blank tablet. “Don’t know what to say.”
“It doesn’t have to be long, just say what you feel. How sorry you are, ask for forgiveness, you know, that kind of stuff.”
Gino picked up the pen and began to write. Tom watched over his shoulder.
Dear Angie, I’m so sorry for what I did. I loved your mommy very much. My heart breaks for you. Please forgive me.
“Guess I should say I’ll see her tomorrow.”
Tom pulled the Ruger from his jacket pocket.
Gino looked up, startled. “What’s goin’ on? That looks like my gun.”
Tom had rehearsed in his mind what he would say, and the words rushed out. “You’re right. You’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison. You’re going to die there. You want Angie to see you like that? Remember you like that?”
Tom looked at the clock. Four minutes.
“She’s going to need money for college and a wedding. I know you want her to have a nice wedding someday. Gayle and I will do what we can, but college is so expensive. You said you have a life insurance policy.”
Three minutes.
Gino stared at the gun. Tears poured from his eyes. He whispered, “You think I’ll go to heaven?”
How was he supposed to answer that one? Sorry, Charlie, but you’re headin’ south. In the great scheme of things, lying seemed so inconsequential.
“God knows you didn’t mean to kill Rosie. I’m sure He will forgive you and allow you to enter His kingdom.” He could barely get the words out. The acid in his stomach had refluxed up into his esophagus, setting it on fire. He needed to stop this nonsense.
Another glance at the clock. Two minutes.
Tom turned off the safety and, using both hands to steady the gun, handed it to Gino.
Gino wrapped his large right hand, a tough construction worker’s hand, around the grip. He stared at the gun, but his eyes appeared distant. He put his finger on the trigger and took a deep breath. “Don’t know if I got the guts to do it.”
One minute.
Tom kept telling himself the man sitting in front of him beat an innocent woman to death with his bare hands. A life for a life.
He gulped, his words just above a whisper. “You want me to help?”
“You’d do that for me?”
Of course, I’d be pleased as punch to assist you. No, no, don’t mention it. Least I could do.
Thirty seconds.
Tom wrapped his hand around Gino’s trembling wrist as the man lifted the gun, pointing the shaking barrel at his temple. Tom wedged his index finger inside the trigger guard on top of Gino’s thick finger.
Twenty seconds.
Gino looked up to him, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. “Tom, I just want to say—”
Don’t you understand? There’s no time to hear what you JUST WANT TO SAY!
Ten seconds.
He felt Gino’s finger tighten, but not fast enough. Tom closed his eyes and squeezed.
The sound of the gun, amplified by the kitchen tile, reverberated through every cell in Tom’s body. Gino’s head crashed to the table. Tom jerked his hand away, and the gun fell to the floor. Tom couldn’t move. His entire body shook.
Gino Battaglia was dead, his brains splattered across the tile floor. His sightless eyes stared up at Tom.
He glanced up at the clock. Time of death: 11:59 p.m.
Tom couldn’t stop screaming.
CHAPTER 15
Tom was beyond exhaustion. The DC forensic team was finishing up; Gino’s body had been photographed in situ, then taken away. Tom had just finished telling the detective his story for the third time.
The cop’s name was Percy Castro. Late fifties, overweight. If Tom had to describe the detective in one word, it would be “rumpled.” His clothing was rumpled, his thinning hair rumpled, and even his face appeared rumpled. Broad shoulders, huge hands, he was several inches shorter than Tom. His blue eyes, shrouded by heavy lids, signaled intelligence: this wasn’t Castro’s first rodeo.
After calling 911, Tom had telephoned Gayle, and she’d come and taken the girls back to Arlington. Tom had made sure neither girl entered the house, but Angie sensed something was wrong. When she asked if her daddy was okay, Tom didn’t have the strength to lie, so he said that her daddy had decided to go see her mommy in heaven. When she burst into tears, he’d held the child tightly, not letting go until Gayle arrived which, fortunately, was five minutes before the cops.
Tom knew there was no way he could eliminate microscopic traces of blood, so after pocketing his gloves, he actually smeared more blood on his clothes, and made a point of picking up the gun and setting it on the table. The gloves were not to cover fingerprints, but powder blowback—th
ank you, CSI.
Castro gestured Tom toward the couch in the living room. As soon as Tom sat, he sunk so deep into the plush cushion his knees were almost at chin level. The cop took the straight-back chair opposite him, creating a line of sight downward to Tom, and exaggerating Castro’s role as top dog.
“So, tell me what happened,” said Castro. The cop’s deep, ragged voice suggested he was or had been a heavy smoker.
Tom had been smart enough to prepare and rehearse his story in his head on the drive over. He’d figured if he actually went through with the plan, he’d be too shaken up to concoct a cogent explanation on the spot.
“I took Angie over to see Gino. When I was about to leave, Gino called me back to the kitchen and offered me a beer. He had in front of him a pad of paper with writing on it.”
“Didn’t it look like a suicide note?” asked Castro.
“I was in a hurry to leave and get the girls home. I glanced at it and the writing appeared to be the beginning of a letter to his daughter. Gino hugged me, which was strange, and made me promise to take care of Angie when he was gone. I assumed he meant when he was in jail.”
“Where were you when he pulled the trigger?”
“Just as I reached the door, I heard the shot and rushed back to the kitchen. Gino was slumped over the kitchen table. At first, I couldn’t tell for sure whether he was dead, then I saw the wound. I retrieved the gun from the floor, put it on the table. I figured Gino must have either had the gun in his pocket or it had been in a drawer. I called 911 and Gayle, my ex-wife.”
“Why did you disturb the gun on the floor?”
“Didn’t see it at first, then accidentally kicked it when I checked on Gino. I picked it up to get it off the floor.”
Tom had designed his story to explain why he had blood on him and why he may have had fingerprints on the gun—he didn’t trust himself that he could’ve wiped his prints perfectly clean. The note was powerful evidence: Gino had a perfect motive to take his own life and obviously there was no reason for Tom, a member of one of the most respected firms in Washington, to tell anything but the truth. Best Tom could tell, Castro bought every word.
