Identity Thief (2 page)

Probably much of the time he thought he was the parent in the family and Betsy and I were his embarrassingly immature children. He was
too
happy to be by himself, and I worried that he wasn’t making friends his own age.

In the dim morning light, I saw Scotty’s map of the Milky Way that I had tacked to the ceiling and wall posters of video game characters I did not understand. His glasses were set on his nightstand, where an opus entitled,
Petey Learns to Pitch
lay. Petey, I could see, was a basset hound. Scotty wanted a pup more than anything, but we were waiting until he turned ten. In the meantime, his hamster, Porky, had curled into sleep after playing on his wheel all night.

As I sat on the edge of his bed, I could tell he was awake but pretending to be asleep. I had a passing thought about how people of all ages pretended to be asleep when they weren’t, usually for unhappy reasons. Scotty sat up, pretending to yawn; it was doubtful he’d become a professional actor. There was a suspiciously crinkly sound in the sheets, which as a parent I took to mean he was hiding something under his blanket.

I put my index finger to my lips, which he knew meant let’s not wake up Mom.

“Hey, Slugger,” I whispered. “Let’s see what you have here.”

I pulled back the blanket, and to my horror, saw a
National Enquirer
. On the cover was a blurry photo of a movie star in a bikini, the headline proclaiming the monumental news that she’d gained weight. A smaller headline chimed that the First Lady was a lesbian.

“What the—”

“Relax, Dad. Mom lets me read them with her. She says you wouldn’t like it, so it’s one of our secrets.” He reached for his glasses. “The pictures are
unfathomably
interesting. That’s spelled U-N-F-A-T-H-O-M-A-B-L-Y.”

I wondered what other bizarre secrets they shared but decided not to ask. “Did you have any fun dreams?” Scotty sometimes drew pictures of his dreams, which tended to be space adventures.

He shrugged. “Not really.” With a studious expression, he flicked on his bedside lamp and turned a page of the
Enquire
that I quickly grabbed and set aside. I wasn’t sure what to tell him, but I planned something along the lines of
Daddy will be taking a business trip.

Scotty craned his neck to see my suitcase in the hall. He looked at me imploringly. “Dad, don’t leave,” he whimpered, damn near breaking my heart. In his precocity, he already knew what was happening. Some kids knew the word “divorce” by the time they were out of diapers.

“Scotty, I—”

“I know, I know.” He reached for his glasses. “Mommy and Daddy don’t get along but you still love me, and blah-blah-blah. I
hear
you fighting. I’m not a child, you know.”

“I know, son.” In spite of myself, I bit my lip to keep from smiling.

“I won’t live with Biff.”

I thought about asking him why he thought Biff was moving in—besides of course the fact that he was, per Betsy’s own words the night before—or what Scotty thought went on between grown-ups. But I decided it was not the best time to get into how babies get made.

“You’ve never liked your Uncle Biff, have you?”

“I hate him.” I was taken aback by the ferocity with which this seven-year-old boy spoke. “He’s not my uncle, and he’ll never be my dad.”

“Just why do you hate Uncle—I mean, Biff, so much?”

Scotty looked away. “He makes fun of my glasses and says no one will ever like me. He says he’s going to cook Porky for dinner. He says . . . he says you and Mom had to get married because of me. You know, stuff like that. But only when it’s just me and him.”

“‘Him and me,’” I corrected through force of habit. Then, to make sure, I asked, “Is there anything else?”

He moved his fingers around on the bed in a kind of nervous twitch. “No.”

Somehow, I knew he really meant,
yes
. I took his face in my hands and looked into his eyes sternly but with love. “Tell me. Whatever it is.”

Scotty was quiet for a long minute. Finally, very softly, he said, “He touches me. You know, like, down there.” He pointed to the buttoned front slit in his pajamas. “He says it’s the only way I’ll . . . I mean, my thing down there, will get big.”

Everything I’d been through with Betsy evaporated. It was like wondering if you should appeal a parking ticket and then finding out you’re charged with murder. I felt a heartbreak I didn’t know was possible. Finally, I asked a stupid question. “Scotty, why didn’t you tell me?”

“He’s your best friend. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Oh my God.” I held my son tightly, mussing up his hair. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know.” I could feel the breath of his muffled voice against my chest. I think we both cried, but it didn’t matter. It was something beyond tears.

Suddenly I let go of him and stood up. “Scotty, you’re coming with me. Now.”

He sighed with impatience. “Well, obviously.”

Scotty knew exactly what to pack and without making a sound. With hamster cage on board, I left a note saying,
Scotty
and I are visiting Mom.
That way, Betsy couldn’t say I kidnapped him; I was a custodial parent informing the other custodial parent of our son’s whereabouts. I had to get custody of Scotty. Sole custody. Biff should rot in jail. But first, I wanted to get us both the hell out of there. I decided as long as I got Scotty to a safe place, I could talk to a lawyer later in the day. It occurred to me that Biff and Betsy would dismiss what Scotty said as a ploy to get back at them. And did I want Scotty to testify in court and be traumatized even more than he already was?

My mom was a decent old broad—or rather, an indecent one—who’d made hating Betsy into a hobby. Besides, I didn’t know where else to go on such short notice with no money. Despite all the hours I’d worked, I’d rarely socialized with the people back at my job. I had no real friends.

I was almost at Mom’s place when I realized there was something else I should do. Something I had to do to maintain any sanity at all. Making the first illegal U-turn of my life, I drove to the rich part of town, where Biff lived in an imposing, humorless mansion with his snooty parents—although I happened to know they were in the Bahamas. (After all the years I’d known them, they still treated me like a stranger.)

“Wait here,” I told Scotty, who was drawing an imaginary picture on the car window.

Biff had the same bedroom he’d always had, which meant I could climb up a tree and a trellis to break in like I always could, especially when we were teens. I knew it was also the servants’ day off. Biff would be alone in the house, unless he was fucking some bimbo—or hell, molesting a child. His bedroom itself looked out on the enormous grounds, which included a pool, tennis court, stables, and wooded area. The nearest neighbor must’ve been a mile away. This served us well during many a boyhood prank. And, I figured, it would serve me well now.

Biff was alone in his designer bed, sleeping away without a care in the world. He fell asleep—or rather, passed out—with his clothes on, including flip-flops. His fancy bedroom was the usual chaotic mess it became after only one day of the maid not picking up after him. (Biff changed his clothes about a hundred times a day.) I stood over Biff for a moment, swallowing back the urge to puke. I wanted some cleansing ritual to erase the feeling of ever having known him. I woke him up with a hard shove.

Biff moaned, but then at the sight of me, he smiled. “Hey. What are you—?”

Gathering everything inside me, I punched him in the face. His skull hit the headboard hard, and I could see his nose drawing blood.

“What the fuck?” He studied the blood while rubbing the back of his head.

I shook his shoulders; his head kept hitting the headboard but I didn’t care. “You stay away from my son. Yes,
my
son. If you speak to him, if you get within a mile of him, I swear I’ll kill you. And then I’ll dig up your grave and bring you back to life and kill you again.”

Opening his nightstand, he pulled out a small handgun. “Get out! If you don’t, I’ll . . . I’ll shoot you. And my dad will hire a good lawyer so I won’t have to go to jail.”

I wisely stepped back, raising my hands in surrender. “Betsy says Scotty looks like you. I’ll bet that’s why you did it. You really want to fuck yourself. Biff’s true love is Biff.”

“You shit. You fuck. No one talks to me like that. You’re
nothing
, you know that? Nothing.” Biff held a Kleenex to his nose as he took aim at me. A shot went off. Either because I ducked or because he was lousy shot, he missed me. I could see the useless bullet burn into a pile of clothes on an overstuffed chair. He leapt out of bed; one of his flip-flops made him slightly stumble. But he quickly steadied himself and took aim.

“Easy now, Biff.” With my hands still raised, I stepped toward the window. “You don’t want to—”

“All my fucking life you’ve told me what to do. Always so superior. The good little poor boy. Like we’re fucking Goofus and Gallant. Do you know how much I’ve always hated you?” I heard his pistol click. “Now you’re finally suffering, like everyone else. No job, no money, a fucked up kid, a wife who hates you. Oh, and by the way—you’re gonna die.”

I should’ve kept my mouth shut, but I couldn’t help it. “When have you ever suffered for a minute in your life?”

“Fuck you.” The gun was aimed straight at me.

I flinched, closing my eyes. A shot went off; it nearly pierced my eardrum.

I opened my eyes and saw Biff lying on the floor, a bull’s eye gunshot right through his forehead. His face was pretty much unchanged. He wore the same indifferent expression he usually wore.

One long second later, I looked over and saw Scotty holding a smoking gun. “Is he dead?” He looked up at me calmly, like any kid asking his dad a simple question.

“Jesus, Scotty. Where did you—I mean, how did you—” I grabbed one of Biff’s dirty T shirts to test for a pulse or heartbeat. I’d watched enough TV to know not to put fingerprints on his body. Biff was dead as a rock. The bullet, I could see, went straight through his head to the other side, as if there’d been nothing inside it at all. There was merely a slight discoloration on another of his shirts on the floor, and what you might call a token puddle of blood.

Scotty adjusted his glasses. “It’s an easy climb up here. I watched what you did.”

I stuffed Biff’s T-shirt into my jacket pocket. “I don’t mean, ‘How did you get up here?’ I mean what are you doing with a gun?”

“Biff showed me his gun collection. I stole it when he wasn’t looking.”

“But how did you know how to use it?”

Scotty shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone? I was aiming for his throat. The jugular vein. That’s J-U-G-U—”

“But Scotty, why?”

He rolled his eyes. “Get real, Dad. I saved your life, in case you didn’t notice. I figured you’d need help because Biff is—I mean,
was
such a jerk. I’m glad he’s dead. Now you and Mom can get back together.”

“Oh, Scotty.” For a minute or so, I just stood there, staring into space. I didn’t cry, I didn’t reach out to him. I could only stare. I was numb. My son murdered the man who molested him. I couldn’t come up with a way to react.

“Since it was Biff’s gun, we can stage a suicide,” Scotty excitedly offered. “I saw this TV show once where—”

“Scotty, we’re going straight to the police.” But then I looked at my son, thought about all that would happen to him if I turned him in, and I realized I couldn’t do it. Maybe I should’ve, but I couldn’t. I had to think fast. “I mean, no, we’re not. And we’re also not ‘staging a suicide.’ Christ, where did you learn to talk like that? It’s too risky. We’re going to have to clean up instead and get rid of the body.”

Scotty smiled with admiration. “Whatever you say, Dad.”

My not quite eight-year-old son. A murderer. Sexually molested. I would deal with that later.

Fortunately, Biff’s head fell onto more scattered clothes, which meant there was no bloodstain on the carpet. I wrapped Biff’s body and bloody clothes in a bed sheet and threw it out the window, aiming carefully so that it didn’t get caught in the tree. I put both guns in my jacket. Though it grossed me out, I wiped the nosebleed from his Kleenex on the bed to mix with the trace of blood on the headboard. Then I wiped it all away. It would look like he had a nosebleed and tried to clean it up. I knew where Biff kept his passport in his dresser. I got it out and pocketed it. Next, I got his wallet from the floor and took out a credit card. On his laptop, I made him a reservation for that day to fly to the Bahamas. I took one of his suitcases and packed it with his passport, wallet, and some clothes and tossed it out the window next to Biff’s corpse. In spite of myself, I laughed a little when the suitcase landed on his groin.

I sent his parents an e-mail saying I (meaning Biff) was on my way to join them. “Biff” confided that he needed to get away from Betsy. He told them that he agreed to move in with her because he was afraid to stand up to her since she was such a bitch, but he really wanted nothing more to do with her. I next sent a message to Betsy from Biff, saying that, I, “Biff,” would be joining my parents to milk them for more money but would be in touch soon.

I signed it with all of Biff’s love.

Next, I wiped away any trace of fingerprints except for objects I knew Scotty and I hadn’t touched and picked up all the shell casings. I made sure our shoes had left no discernible imprint in the carpet.

Scotty studied me intently throughout, especially when I stuffed the body into the trunk of my car. As we drove, I found a large, empty fast-food box by the side of the road, put the guns inside the box, and tossed it into a town litter can. By the time anyone would want to find it—if such a day would come—the guns would be long gone into a landfill. We drove to an old dirt road. I buried the body deep into the woods, carefully arranging leaves and sticks in a natural, random-looking way on top. I knew that burying bodies in the woods was pretty common as murders go, but Biff hated being out in nature, so searching the woods was unlikely to be a top priority. I drove to another area to bury the suitcase. I made sure our footprints and tire treads were covered over.