The Ghost Writer

I always wanted to be a writer. Words came easily and I enjoyed playing with them. I was blessed with a facility for both clever repartee and for debate. And I was reasonably good looking - definitely a plus for the back cover of a book. Throughout college I envisioned studios contacting me and vying for the rights to produce my latest thriller. Season One – Ten Episodes. It would be a hit, leading to who knows how many seasons after that. I didn’t age in my fantasies. I also didn’t do a lot of creative writing.

Turned out I am good at research and my writing skills are top notch. I just don’t have the imagination it takes to be the next Lee Child or Tom Clancy. I was lucky enough to get a job doing research and polishing documentaries for SkyHigh Enterprises, the big publishing/streaming conglomerate whose only problem globally is finding enough content. Then eight months ago Ricky Johns, one of their top ‘creators’ had some kind of midlife crisis which manifested when he was found sitting in his underwear on the hood of his Challenger in the picnic area of the West Trail trailhead at Griffith Park. It’s cold in Los Angeles in February. They asked him what he was doing, and he told them he couldn’t think anymore. He is currently on an extended hiatus. He apparently still finds thinking a challenge.

Ricky’s descent into darkness was my big break. In a moment of institutional panic someone recommended me to replace Ricky on his assignment – ghost writing the biography of the world-famous Dr. Jackson Grey, the scientist who had captured the potential of nuclear fusion in a power box that could be used for a mall, an apartment complex or an individual house. Ricky had made a good start. The book was outlined with proposed chapters detailed and summarized. Elon Musk, who had several joint ventures underway with Dr. Grey, was writing a forward to the book. Dr. Grey had written several chapters himself and had been so involved that much of Ricky’s job was simply to keep the manuscript organized and make sure the book moved forward and remained interesting. I took over where he had left off. I met Dr. Grey in person only once when the book was in final editing. It was published, flew off the shelves as expected then went into production for a 10-episode streaming series. My name wasn’t associated with the project publicly. However, it did gain me some company cred, and I was assigned my next project – ghost writer on the Matthew Booker autobiography.

Matthew Booker was the son of the late California State Senator-then-Governor Dabney Booker. The good Senator had served three contentious terms and even the dead intern in his office that last year didn’t derail his bid for Governor. Seemingly immune to fallout from scandal, ‘Boss’ Booker served two terms as governor, blocked by state law from running for a third term. He died one year after retiring from politics. People joked that he couldn’t take the shock of not being in charge of everything.

It had long been rumored that Matthew was a handful. His father’s money and clout kept him out of the spotlight as a child and teenager, and he had joined his father in Sacramento as an unofficial aide at 21 when he left college for reasons that were never clarified.

Matthew was about the same age as me - 32 – and was a total waste. A quick internet search brought up the pictures everyone has already seen of his naked body on a bed covered only by what appeared to be an underage girl, and the famous closeup of him snorting a line of either coke or baking powder (depending on who you want to believe) through a rolled-up bill. His only real use in life was his alleged ability to act as a shill for his dad and help sweep “donations” into several shell companies that enriched the family’s lifestyle.

With Daddy Dearest dead and gone, Matt had turned his attention to Hollywood. Evidently the family name still had star power because Matt had scored a contract with SkyHigh to produce a book and a subsequent series for TV. Whereas Dr. Grey had preferred to hold tightly focused Zoom meetings because his work was significant and his time valuable, Matthew Booker insisted that SkyHigh send a writer to his mansion in Bel Air. The studio arranged a pass for me to enter the enclave on an on-going basis for the next 3 months. So here I was.

The huge modern glass and concrete structure had been inherited from his father. It was absolutely stunning and sat on the top of one of the rolling hills in the area. Matt and his retinue spent their days outside by the pool. I occasionally saw gardeners, and a pool service team came by once, but there did not appear to be any house staff. The living area was messy. At one point I wandered into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was lots of beer, a bottle of ketchup, a jar of salsa and a few carryout Styrofoam containers. Nothing else. It smelled bad.

We fell into a routine. I would arrive between 10 and 11:00 a.m. Most of the time they were awake. They started the day with booze, and it appeared to be the power fuel they depended on. The groupies would sit in the hot tub or float in the pool on an inflated flamingo. Matt would sit and talk. He was shallow and had nothing of interest to offer other than dropping the names of famous people.

It took three weeks to submit a draft offering chapter divisions and preliminary material for a couple of those chapters. SkyHigh had a deadline in mind and this pace was unacceptable. I was starting to worry about my job. Matthew had no sense of responsibility. Frustrated, I reminded him that SkyHigh could terminate the contract if he didn’t produce. He got nasty. The cocaine appeared. He insisted I partake. I slammed my laptop closed, shoved it into my backpack and left.

The following day was spent at SkyHigh’s LA headquarters conferring with my boss and representatives from Content, Talent and Legal. There were phone calls to Matthew, who claimed he could not understand why I left so precipitously. He was definitely high. A working truce was arranged, and I was back by the pool at the Booker mansion in Bel Air the next morning.

I worked hard to keep Matt talking. Part of my job, of course, was to capture Matt’s own voice and convey that to the reader so seamlessly that I disappeared in the process. The difficulty was that Matt’s voice was whiney when he wasn’t angry, boisterous when he wasn’t bullying. He seemed to have no empathy, and a narcissistic sociopath was not going to resonate with the public. I fixed it by just making up a great personality for Matt and writing for that guy. Anyone who had ever dealt with him would know it was BS, but the books were going to sell, and the series would be made. I just wanted to finish the job.

It was Tuesday, August 12th. I was feeling good. My management strategy was working, and the project was less than one month from completion. I was on track to make deadline. Corporate was pleased. I stopped by Sherman’s and picked up sandwiches, a large container of their potato salad, and a six-pack of bottled water. I had a small expense account that I was careful not to abuse. I figured this would cover myself and Matt and whoever else had spent the night, maybe keep Matt sober and move the project forward. Plus, I was hungry, and I love everything on Sherman’s menu. If I had to choose a last meal it would be something from Sherman’s.

Matt was just crawling out of bed when I arrived. He hadn’t had time to dull his appetite with a liquid meal and immediately grabbed the roast beef sandwiches as I unloaded the paper bag from the deli onto the marble kitchen counter. I took a pastrami and a water and followed him out onto the patio. I switched on the recorder.

We had covered his three-year college career, the skiing with celebrities, the trips abroad with foreign students. Not one story had anything to do with academics. Now we jumped into his departure from academia. He was smirking.

“You want to know the truth?” he challenged.

“Of course. Truth sells. Tell me.” I dared him with a smile that I hoped conveyed only professional interest.

“There was this girl at uni,” he said, his eyes drilling into mine. “Beth. Blonde, real leggy. Bit of a tease, that one. She claimed I raped her. The slut. She actually filed a complaint. But they couldn’t prove anything. My dad got involved. He told them to shut it down or he would make sure their precious university never got another penny from the state or the feds. Told me not to put up with shit like that. I went back to Sacramento with him. Got me a nice condo and I started going to his office a lot to help him out, learn the ropes. You can learn more by participating in politics than you can listening to some stupid professor drone on in a poly sci class!”

He paused, leaned back and looked up at the few clouds floating overhead and finished the water in his bottle with a couple of swallows.

I sat there through the whole story, visually checking for the green light at the base of the mike on the table, not touching my keyboard. Now I nodded, “Probably very true!”

“Did the university ever contact you again? Did they apologize,” I asked, appealing to his ego. “And Beth. What happened to Beth?”

He looked at me slyly. “Yeah. Beth. Gotta go pee.”

Matt got up and went into the house. A few minutes later I got up and went to the kitchen to get another water and check out the leftovers. There was one lone corn beef sandwich and some potato salad. I got a spoon and a couple of paper towels and took everything outside. The narrative was getting interesting. I wasn’t sure how truthful Matthew was, but we were plowing new ground. And it made me hungry.

I was halfway through the sandwich when Matt came back outside. He had stopped in the kitchen for a beer. He had missed some of the white powder around his left nostril. His demeanor had changed. He was high, cocky, aggressive. He sat down. I nodded, acknowledging his presence. I kept eating.

Suddenly he said, “You really want to know about Beth?” He banged his fist against the top of the patio table. I was glad it wasn’t glass.

I looked up at him, sensing that I needed to frame my answer carefully. But I didn’t get a chance to say anything.

“I killed the bitch,” he said, matter-of-factly. “She left school and went up to live with her aunt in Oregon. I found her and took her out and showed her what a real rape looks like. Then I cut her. Showed her what happens to people who get in my way.”

I thought I didn’t shock easily, but I was wrong.

“C’mon, man,” I said, looking at him incredulously, “You didn’t!”

A sly, wicked look transformed Matt’s face. His eyes looked like black voids. Little hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

“Come with me,” he ordered.

I got up and followed him through the house, up the stairs and into a lavish bedroom. There was a large closet that also served as a small dressing area, and I followed him in. He knelt down, opened a low cabinet and dialed a code into the exposed safe. There was a beep and a steady green light. He turned the handle, opened the safe and pulled out a cigar box labelled King Edward Imperials. I hadn’t seen one of those in a long time. My grandfather used to have them in his study.

Matt looked proud, like a kid pulling his treasure box out from under his bed. But there weren’t any Magic-the-Gathering trading cards inside. There were delicate necklaces and a couple of bracelets. He picked up a thin gold chain with a small, enameled butterfly pendant. “They’ll never find her body,” he said as if discussing a golden Easter egg concealed for a party game, “But if they do, they’ll never find this!”

My brain was paralyzed. I couldn’t think of anything to say. But Matt wasn’t finished.

He lifted another treasure from the box, another fine gold chain, this one with a gold cross with a small diamond in the center. “See,” he said, thrusting it toward me and turning it over at the same time. “There’s her name right there.”

“Barbara,” I said weakly.

“Yeah, Barbara. My dad’s clumsy intern! They decided she twisted her ankle and fell, hitting her head on the corner of the desk so hard that it broke her neck and killed her.”

He laughed, an ugly, rough laugh.

“She asked for it, you know! I didn’t have a choice! I hit her with that trophy, then I was going to cut her when my dad walked in with his two bodyguards. Dad came up with the twisted ankle story. I picked her up and smashed her head really good against the corner of the desk. Then we broke the heel on her shoe and Freddie snapped her ankle. He was a medic in the Army and knew what to do. George and I got out of there and drove to the coast.”

I remembered when they closed the investigation. Her parents had insisted her death was foul play. And they maintained she was never without the necklace that had been a present from them.

“But how did you end up with her necklace,” I asked.

Matt scoffed at the question. “There was a lot going on. I just took it. Even my dad didn’t know I had it. I just wanted something to remember her by. She was really pretty. But what a tease! She deserved what she got! Right?”

My brain was beginning to work. “Right!” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

I was still looking at the trophies in the cigar box. There had to be five or six more. I obviously couldn’t take it from him and lay them all out and count them. I definitely wasn’t going to ask for his memories surrounding each one. The phrase ‘serial killer’ was floating around in my head. It occurred to me that I just needed to get out of there so I could regroup and think about what to do with the information I had.

“Listen, I said as calmly as I could manage. “I need to get going.” I headed out of the bedroom down the stairs and picked up my backpack. I started to put my laptop in it.

I had never given much thought to the hereafter. I was confused when I drifted into consciousness and realized that I was still by the pool at the Booker mansion, but it was dark and felt really late. As I sat there looking at the lights in the canyons below, the events of the afternoon slowly came back to me. And I remembered seeing the knife before it sliced through my throat.

The lights were on inside and I could see Matt sitting on the big sofa with his cigar box on the coffee table in front of him. He had something in his hands that he was examining. I reached out to open the sliding glass door and somehow slid right through it. I was slowly and reluctantly realizing that Matt had killed me. I moved over and stood beside him and saw that it was my watch he was playing with. It seemed destined to join his other trophies.

My backpack was lying on one of the overstuffed chairs. It was open and I could see my laptop. It hit me all at once. I needed to stop Matt. And I knew just how to do it.

Matt had apparently banished all his groupies. It was just him, the liquor and the pills. Sometime just after midnight he passed out upstairs. I immediately accessed my laptop and started typing. There was a learning curve since I didn’t really have fingers anymore. But I found out quickly that it is all about energy and I was full of it.

I finished just before dawn. I saved the manuscript and sent a copy from my work email to each of my three personal email accounts. Then I sent a copy to Marie Jansen from my Sleuth email address. Marie and I were sometimes lovers, always friends and forever soulmates. She was smart and capable. More importantly, she was a senior editor for SkyHigh’s Rotterdam office and there was no legal reason she could not see the manuscript. The subject line for the email was ‘Chapter 16 Urgent.’

Marie knew me and would believe me and would get to the bottom of what made Matt Booker dangerous. She would know who to contact. Matt would have no cover. There was enough detail for the law to come after him.

I confirmed that my laptop, my watch and my backpack were air-tagged. I knew Marie would find them – would find me. I took a look around. Light was filtering through the air outside and a really bright sliver of light beckoned me. It seemed right somehow – tranquil even - so I softly slipped into it.