Legally Dead (8 page)

The first man floated free in space, his radio still operational. “That wasn't supposed to happen,” he blurted. The shuttle crew, Houston, and the entire world heard his last words: “Damn it, Lyle!”

He never uttered another word, although he apparently remained alive and conscious for some time. A rescue attempt failed. Plans for a recovery mission were still under way.

Lyle was the engineer who designed a virtual-reality simulation used to train astronauts in such repairs. He had taken them through the procedures in a wind tunnel, in space suits, over and over.

Now that man, Lyle Gates, a lifelong NASA employee, sat in Venturi's kitchen and explained how he had become a scapegoat, damned by a hero's last words, and blamed by coworkers and superiors for a freak accident that was not his fault.

During the chaotic press coverage that followed the accident, coworkers pointed fingers, made accusations. The national media anticipated an indictment. But it never happened. Gates was forced off the job, his reputation ruined. Divorced by his wife, shunned by family and friends, the press continued to hound him.

The goal of every major news organization was to land “the get,” the interview in which Gates finally confessed to acts of carelessness, incompetence, or downright malice against the heroes he saw soar to heights that he could never achieve.

He explained it all to Venturi.

While he was training the lost astronaut, he had carefully demonstrated the proper technique and warned repeatedly against overtightening a mechanism, that if stripped, would loosen and cause the arm to swing the other way.

“He made a mistake,” Gates said. “When he said my name, he remembered our sessions and realized what he'd done wrong. He knew he'd been properly instructed. I don't believe he intended to damn me with his last words, but that's how it sounded. He knew he screwed up but didn't want to admit it to the world. So he never spoke again. That wasn't the legacy he wanted to leave.”

Gates said he had urged more training sessions before the mission. But none of his memos were found.

“My mistake was that I devoted too much time and energy to the job. I neglected my family and pissed off coworkers who were unwilling to make the same sacrifices.

“But to me it wasn't a job, it was a mission, it was my identity,” he said softly. “I loved working for the program. The men and women who venture into space were my heroes. I would have died to protect them.”

His words had the ring of truth.

“I think the best way to waste your life,” he said, “is to go to work for a government agency.”

“You're preaching to the choir,” Venturi said. “If what you say is true, it's a damn shame the spacewalker didn't man up to his mistake. But surely, with your background, there are other lines of work you could pursue outside the space program.”

“There are. I could design video games, software, virtual-reality tours. I'm interested in biochemistry as well, specifically the field of nutrition. But they won't let me.”

Every time he found a new job, word leaked out and the media pack invaded, disrupting business until he was fired.

“I'm more hated than O. J. Simpson, who is still treated like a hero by some people. The only person I ever hurt was myself.

“I was investigated by everybody from a grand jury right up to a U.S. Senate committee. But I was never indicted. There was nothing to indict me for, not a single shred of evidence. But some things you never live down. Life isn't long enough.” He finished his soup and swallowed a small, tentative sip of the whiskey.

His expression made it clear that he didn't even like the taste.

“What's with your clothes?” Venturi asked. “Why are they all too big?”

Gates smiled ruefully. “When I ran out of money I told my landlady I was moving to Chicago. I didn't want to be reported missing. Then I traded my clothes and shoes with some homeless men who live under the MacArthur Causeway bridge. I remembered reading that police can often identify human remains by the labels and the sizes of their clothes, belts, and shoes. They release the information to the public and hope someone will recognize it. If my remains were found, I wanted the information they released to be all wrong.”

Damn, Venturi thought again, he seriously wanted to disappear.

“How did you get way out there? I didn't see a car.”

“A small, flat-bottomed boat. I scuttled it in another lake about two miles east, then slogged over to where you found me. It took a couple hours. Didn't see another soul. I thought it would work,” he said, voice flat.

“It almost did.”

“Sorry to be so much trouble.” He gingerly fingered the scalp wound, then studied his bandaged wrists.

“I won't apologize for ruining your plans.”

They talked till dark. Gates, still queasy from his near-death experience, wasn't hungry but didn't refuse more soup. Venturi heated it for him and, because he didn't want to stay up all night to protect the man from himself, dissolved two Ambien in the bubbling broth.

He showed him to a guest bedroom with an adjoining bath after removing anything Gates could use to hurt himself.

“I have personal issues of my own to work out,” he said, “and I've also had run-ins with the press, so do me a favor, Lyle. Don't do anything crazy in my house tonight. Get some rest. Things always look better in the morning.”

Lyle promised. But, as a precaution, Venturi offered him a pill for pain. It was actually another sleeping pill. Lyle gratefully washed it down with water.

Then Venturi hid the pill bottle.

He checked an hour later to be sure the man was still breathing. Lyle Gates looked younger in sleep, the stress lines not etched as deeply in his face. Venturi locked the bedroom door from the outside so his houseguest would not escape.

He'd learned long ago: Never trust a man who is not afraid to die.

He drank coffee, ate a sandwich, booted up his laptop, and Googled Lyle Gates. Hundreds and hundreds of hits came up: vitriolic editorials, politicians launching investigations, citizens demanding justice, and zealous reporters' interviews with relatives, teachers, and childhood friends who described Gates' lifelong passion and his disappointment when he failed to make the grade.

Gates had offered to undergo a polygraph test. When he did, the press reported he had passed, then listed all the methods that cheaters use to beat lie detectors, along with quotes from experts explaining that sociopaths and psychopaths can often pass polygraphs despite their obvious guilt.

So much for the unbiased mainstream press,
Venturi thought. He began to believe that through no fault of his own, Gates' life had been short-circuited by events totally out of his control. He would go down in history as The Man Who Killed The Astronauts, probably out of jealousy, or to sabotage the space program that rejected him. No way to salvage that future.

Or was there? Wide awake at 4 a.m. Venturi paced the shadowy room, mind racing, recalling the fiery crash of a commuter train in London.

The estimated toll was high—more than one hundred rush-hour passengers missing and presumed dead. But workers who cut apart the molten metal once the wreckage cooled were shocked. All the victims they expected were not there. Dozens of waiting body bags went unused. And for months after the crash numerous sightings of people who'd been presumed dead were reported. Many survivors had embraced unexpected disaster as an opportunity to escape, hoping to shed their identities as snakes do their skins.

The news accounts had fascinated him. He had realized then that winning the lottery was no longer the world's most popular fantasy. Caught in frustrating and stress-filled lives in a world of traffic jams, voice mail, e-mail, and marital malaise, people now dreamed of a chance to start over, free from the baggage of the past.

Who wouldn't want a fresh start, a new life?
he thought.

He and the dog strolled in the bright moonlight along the canal bank behind the house. He had spent the last several years creating new identities and new lives for people who didn't deserve them.

Why couldn't I,
he wondered,
give a new start to someone who actually deserved it?

He laughed aloud at the idea, wishing that Maddy was there to share it. She would have loved it.

Could Lyle Gates, the would-be suicide, thrive again and fulfill some other dream? The possibility intrigued him.

Such a fascinating experiment would be a huge challenge. Lyle Gates could not simply be whisked away and relocated by federal agents. He'd have to be declared legally dead. There had to be proof, a corpse, eyewitnesses, or irrefutable forensics.

He never slept. At dawn his mind was still racing.

He had to find a way to kill Lyle Gates.

He woke up the only person he trusted.

“Bad night at the funeral home,” Danny mumbled into the phone, his voice groggy. “An all-night viewing for a member of Brigade 2506.”

“Didn't know many were still alive.”

“One less now. Fought to the last bullet during the Bay of Pigs invasion, was shot and captured. Some of his Santero friends showed up last night for a ritual to raise the dead. I was cool with the drums, but then they brought in the goat and the chickens. Some mourners objected. Others didn't. When I laid down the law that no animals would be sacrificed on the premises, all hell broke loose. A Brigade vet pulled a gun. Half a dozen others drew down on 'im. Everybody else ran out the door. Think they were running away? Hell, no! They were running to get guns from their cars. Had a situation on my hands.”

“Damn. What'd you do?”

“Locked half out, the other half in, got it under control, and barely managed to keep the cops out of it. Convinced 'em that all the shots fired had nothing to do with us, that it was a brawl that spilled out of a bar around the corner.”

He yawned. “Had a few bad moments. We almost wound up with more corpses than caskets. Made sure that the wounded and maimed all went to hospitals in different jurisdictions.

“A dozen detectives from Miami to Coral Gables to Hialeah and the Beach must be scratching their heads, trying to figure out what the hell went down. They never tell the truth, you know.”

He paused, then raised his voice. “It's these damn Cubans! They lie for the hell of it even when they don't need to! Every last one is crazy! Especially the women!”

Venturi heard Luz attack as she called him a son of a dog in Spanish.

He heard squeals, pleas for help, screams of laughter, and bedsprings bouncing. Tickling sounded like the weapon of choice.

“Should I call back?” Venturi asked.

“No, no, buddy,” Danny finally gasped. “I've got the crazy Cuban woman pinned down and under control. Hey, we thought you were coming by last night.”

“Had a coupla bad moments, myself—with somebody I want you to meet.”

“A woman?”

“Michael found a woman?” Luz sounded crushed that he might have done so without her help.

“No, a guy. Not one I'd introduce to your wife and kids right now.”

“Gotcha.”

“Can you stop by here for breakfast? I want you to meet him and then brainstorm with me about an idea I had last night.”

Venturi was frying bacon and eggs over easy when Danny arrived on his Harley. Lyle Gates was still asleep.

“You and Luz sounded like you were having fun this morning,” Venturi said wistfully as he poured orange juice and coffee. “Reminded me of Maddy.” He smiled. “I thought about her a lot last night. You two are so lucky.”

Danny dug into his eggs. “It's not all bliss, you know. Kids screaming, baby crying, no sleep. Luz wanting me to stay home and organize the garage while I'm out trying to save the world. And now another baby's on the way.

“She thrives on it,” he said. “If she has her way, we'll have eleven kids—like Bobby Kennedy. He could afford them. I'm thinking we should stop at four. But she wants a damn platoon.

“Of course,” he said reflectively, “I wouldn't trade a minute with that woman for anything in the world.”

“I know.”

“And the upside,” he said with a grin, “is the cleavage she develops when she's pregnant. I'm looking forward to that.

“So who is the guy?” he asked, mopping up egg yolk with his toast. “Where is he?”

“Still asleep when I unlocked his door.”

Danny stopped chewing, raised eyebrows questioning.

“Had to lock him in last night.”

“Afraid he'd murder you in your sleep? Or escape your hospitality?”

Venturi filled him in.

Danny gave a long, low whistle after Mike finished his description of the slashing, the stabbing, the shooting, and the alligators. Then he smiled.

“Know why he's alive?” he said, picking up his coffee mug.

“I know,” Venturi said. “His name wasn't on the goddamn blackboard in the sky. By the way, you might recognize that name.” He finished the story.

“I remember him.” Danny looked impressed. “Everybody was after his ass. If he was guilty of a damn thing, even negligence, he'da been nailed for sure.”

“Thank you. Here's what I'm thinking.”

Danny cocked his head as he absorbed the details. “You sure you want to get that involved?”

“I'm not saying it'd be easy. But it might make up for some of the shit I did for the Marshals Service—for Salvi specifically.” He shrugged. “Maybe the right word is atonement.”

“You don't owe penance or apologies to anybody, Mike. You didn't write the rules.”

“No excuse. I should have tried to change them, fought harder, and refused to follow them. I could have quit, blown the whistle, and gone to the press. But no, I was too wrapped up in my own personal problems.”

“Which you had at the time, bro.”

“But look at the cost. Two children dead. Two Brinks guards hurt, almost killed. And who knows what other crimes Salvi did while we were ‘protecting him' and not the public? Maybe I can make up for it a little by helping somebody. And think of what an interesting experiment it would be, given what we know about human behavior. My question to you is, do you think we can pull it off?”

“Sure,” Danny said without hesitation. “We can pull off anything we set our minds to, man. Us being alive proves that. Remember Somalia, Afghanistan, Cali? Think about it, bro.

“But it's not just us. What's up with Alligator Man? Is he stand up or screw up? The real question is, can
he
pull it off?”

“Lyle was not exactly at the top of his game when we met yesterday,” Venturi replied. “But he's smart and might want it bad enough. He'd have to work like hell. We would too. It's tricky. We'd need proof of death: a body, evidence, or eyewitnesses so damn convincing that he's declared legally dead, no questions asked.”

Danny bit into a muffin slathered with strawberry preserves, took a bite, half closed his eyes as he swallowed, and gave a satisfied sigh before answering.

“Oh, it's doable, definitely doable.” He patted his mouth with a napkin. “In Miami, man,
anything
is possible.”

Scout stopped slurping and looked up from the bacon and eggs in his bowl, ears cocked and alert. Then they, too, heard the shuffling sound in the hall.

Lyle Gates appeared in the doorway. Despite being middle-aged and unshaven, he looked like a boy dressed up in his father's clothes.

“I smelled coffee and bacon,” he said apologetically. Blinking, he looked around the kitchen, his expression dazed, as though he had not seen it before.

“Good morning,” Venturi said. “Lyle, this is Danny. Sit down and I'll get you a plate.”

Lyle reached out to shake Danny's hand, but jerked his back, embarrassed by the bandages on his wrist.

“Sorry.” He turned to Venturi. “That pain pill really knocked me out. When I woke up I didn't remember where I was at first.”

“Used to happen to me all the time,” Danny said. “Then I got married.”

Lyle's appetite had returned. He ate heartily and his color looked better. “Never thought I'd taste one of these again,” he said, buttering a muffin. After his second cup of coffee he seemed alert, though quiet.

He fingered the stubble on his chin. “I was going to shave,” he said, “but I couldn't find a razor in the bathroom.”

Venturi promised to find him one.

Then Gates answered any and all questions:

No, he had never been treated for depression or any other form of mental illness. He was not on medication. Yes, his overall health, physically and mentally, was good, until recently.

“I'm depressed, but not a victim of depression,” he explained. “I have good reasons for my state of mind. Depression didn't cause my problems; my problems caused my depression.”

“Most suicide attempts are once-in-a-lifetime events,” Venturi said. “Most who are saved don't try again.” He asked Gates if he thought it was true in his case.

“Yesterday I saw no other way out,” Gates said matter-of-factly. “Nothing's changed. Don't get me wrong, I loved my life. If I could still contribute and live like a normal person, it would never happen again.

“But right now, I'm living in the moment, enjoying an excellent meal in good company. I thank you for both. But at the end of the day I'm still me, with the same past and no future.”

“What if that could change?” Venturi asked, arms folded.

“It can't.” He shook his head sadly.

“Maybe it could.” Venturi shrugged.

“You can die,” he offered. “Not alone and anonymous in a swamp, but publicly. Officially. Legally dead. A vital statistic. And soon after, somewhere else in the world, you could surface, with a different look, a brand-new name, a different date of birth, and a new occupation.”

Gates looked bewildered for a moment. He licked his lips and sat up straighter in his chair, a fleeting look of hope in his eyes. “Is that possible? Could that actually happen?”

“The federal government does it all the time for witnesses in their protection program. Many are career criminals. Why not somebody like you?”

“Is it legal?” He looked confused.

“Hell, no,” Venturi conceded. “But technically, neither is suicide. Why not try something less lethal?”

“The government…?”

“Wouldn't be involved, at all,” Venturi said. “I just used it as an example.”

“It sounds like reincarnation,” Gates said.

“Exactly,” Danny said, “except you don't have to die or go through puberty again.”

“I've heard about people who fake their own deaths for insurance money or to escape arrest. They get caught. They find them in Australia or…”

“Most do little or no planning,” Venturi said. “They seize the moment, like the people who tried to disappear in the aftermath of 9/11, at the World Trade Center. The trouble was they remained the same people, kept the same habits—they just changed their names. That's sloppy. The FBI was on them like white on rice.

“We, mostly you, would have to do it right or not at all. It would mean hard work, study, and determination on your part. It takes a superhuman effort to change a lifetime of habits and become somebody else. You'd have to leave everything behind. All your personal possessions, your personality, all your likes, dislikes, and quirks, and every other human being you ever knew. No exceptions. You smoke Marlboros, right?”

Gates nodded uncertainly.

“Not anymore. Commit to this and you can never smoke another Marlboro. You'd change brands permanently, or better yet, quit smoking forever. You'd be an entirely new person, with new traits, tastes, and habits.

“People fail because they remain the same person despite changing their names and maybe even their appearances.”

Danny sipped his coffee, his eyes on Gates' face.

“The key to identifying you lies in your past,” Venturi said. “A good investigator would study your background, learn all about your childhood, the schools you attended, your jobs, your friends and associates. He'd want to know your voice and speech patterns, gestures and mannerisms, eccentricities and secrets, the clothes you wear, the cars you like to drive, your hobbies and special interests. Armed with that, a sharp detective would know where you'd most likely go, what you'd do when you got there, even the people you would gravitate to and associate with.

“All those bits and pieces create a picture of you that normally remains unchanged no matter what you call yourself or whatever color you dye your hair.

“So, for this to work, you'd have to permanently break old habits, create new ones, and really become someone else. It's not simple,” Venturi said. “Anything to add, Danny?”

“Nope,” Danny said. “Except that it's permanent. No coming back.”

“Stay here,” Venturi said. “Rest, think about it for a few days, then let us know if you're interested. Whatever you decide, you can never repeat this conversation to anyone.”

“Right.” Danny drew his index finger across his neck, a somewhat empty threat since the man had tried to cut his own throat less than twenty-four hours earlier.

Gates stared at one, then the other, and leaned forward.

“Gentlemen, I don't need thirty seconds to think about it. If the slightest possibility exists that it could happen, that you could help me do it, I want to go for it.” His eyes were eager. His voice rose. “I want it more than anything. I'd do whatever it takes.”

Venturi cut his eyes at Danny. “What do you think?”