Page 50 of Coming Home

Everything had gone through accordingly to plan. Legally, he was now Anthony Abbott. He thought his new name had a regal ring to it and matched his new face. He had seen Dr. Knott today, with the plastics man dismissing him, saying his job was now done. Knott had complimented him on his new look, that of no glasses. A month earlier, he had undergone LASIK surgery, correcting the nearsightedness which has caused him to wear glasses. Without the heavy frames—and with his new nose and chin—Gerard McGreer no longer existed.

He smiled into the mirror, admiring the dental work he had undergone two weeks ago. He had done so under Anthony’s name, having his teeth capped, giving him a brilliant smile. He had practiced for hours in the mirror, perfectly an easy smile which would disarm others. He would let the oral and eye surgeons both live because they had no way to link Anthony to the old name and face of Gerard McGreer.

But Dr. Knott was another matter.

He had spent the past couple of months learning the plastic surgeon’s routines and knew he had a gambling problem, which is why Knott had squeezed his patient for the additional fees. He knew now that Dr. Knott owed over four hundred thousand in gambling debts. He had also taken out second mortgages on his L.A. home in Bel Air. And his secondary homes in Aspen and Malibu. He decided to leave enough clues so the police would believe that in desperation, Dr. Knott decided to end his life due to the massive debts, rather than have the criminals he owed do so for him.

Composing a beautiful suicide note for Knott, he had explained in it how Knott was in debt and how the thugs he owed had threatened to break both his hands if he failed to pay by a certain deadline, which had arrived. The note explained that surgery was his reason for living, giving back to those who needed his skills in order to make for a better life. Gerard thought it some of his finest work.

He printed out a copy of the suicide letter now, folding and placing it inside his pocket, along with the barbiturates he would mix in alcohol for Dr. Knott to down. It would be a combination of Nembutal and Seconal which, according to the Internet, would be quite effective.

Using a throwaway phone, he called for a rideshare, the account attached to a fake credit card. Anthony walked two blocks for his pickup, making a mental note to dispose of the phone and wipe the credit card account from the rideshare company. The driver of the mid-sized sedan dropped him six blocks from his true destination, his storage facility, which held all kinds of treasures. Entering it, he climbed into the dark, eight-year-old sedan he used for his work. It was a Chevrolet, nothing flashy to draw attention. He regularly changed the license plates.

He drove it now to Bel Air and parked three blocks from Dr. Knott’s residence. He had found the floorplan, along with recent pictures, through a sloppy real estate agent who hadn’t taken down any of the photos since Knott had purchased the home two years earlier.

The alarm system presented no challenge because Dr. Knott had already halted payments to the security company, telling them that he was going through a rough patch and promising to take up payments soon if they would leave the equipment in place.

Entering without a problem, thanks to flimsy locks, he stopped in the surgeon’s study and claimed a bottle of Glenmorangie Grand Vintage 1990 Single Malt Whisky, cited as one of the best available. He had already crushed the barbiturates into a fine powder and now poured it into the bottle, which was three-quarters full, capping it and sloshing it thoroughly so as to mix the drugs well.

Next, he sat at the Dr. Knott’s desk, powering up the computer. No password was required, which he thought sloppy on Knott’s part, but it made his job all the easier to do. He pulled out the paper from his pocket and, opening a word document, typed the letter, reading it softly aloud to see that no typos were present. A man like Knott would want his suicide note to be meticulous and error-free.

He hit print and the printer softly whirled, spitting out the single page, which Anthony then signed, having practiced the physician’s signature until he had perfected it. He left the printed copy in the center of the desk and even left the computer on in order to help the police and the coroner establish the time of death.

The basics taken care of, he now headed upstairs to the primary bedroom. The surgeon lived alone, his third divorce behind him. The numerous divorces and alimony and child payments had been another drain on Knott’s income, as had been his lavish lifestyle.

Stepping into the darkened bedroom, the only light he saw was from a clock sitting atop a bureau. It read two minutes until two. He moved to the bed and heard the soft snores of his doctor as he placed the whisky bottle on the nightstand. With his gloved hand, he turned on the bedside lamp.

Unfortunately, Dr. Knott slept with a sleep mask, and so the light had not disturbed him. Gently, he nudged the surgeon’s shoulder several times until Knott awoke with a start. He pushed the mask back to where it rested on the top of his head and blinked rapidly several times, his face showing confusing and then surprise as his groggy mind identified who stood next to the bed.

“You?” asked the plastic surgeon. Understanding then dawned on the man’s face.

It didn’t surprise him. The doctor was, after all, quite bright. Bringing the pistol he had brought into view, he said, “I would like to thank you for the remarkable work you did on me, Dr. Knott. I am thrilled with the results. You have an amazing talent and a wonderful bedside manner. However, we are going to need to bring our relationship to a close.”

The plastic surgeon visibly trembled, yet he gazed steadily into his intruder’s eyes and said, “There’s no need to do that, Anthony. You are a new person, thanks to my handiwork.”

“I am,” he agreed pleasantly. “Now, pick up the bottle and drink. Call it a toast to your final, lasting success.”

“If I refuse?” Knott asked defiantly, sitting up, bracing his back against the headboard.

He took a step forward and placed the cold muzzle of the gun directly against the good doctor’s forehead. “Then I will pull this trigger,” he promised quietly. “Of course, that would only be after hours and hours of exquisite torture. While you are an expert at changing a person’s looks, I, on the other hand, am an expert in bringing pain and humiliation to others. I could share with you all that I will do to you. I’m very good at the details, as well as the big picture, as they say. In the end, though, know that you will have suffered such agony that you will beg for death.”

Dr. Knott slowly nodded, obviously resigned to his fate. All in all, he thought the surgeon was taking things quite well.

“I’ve written a lovely suicide note for you,” he explained. “I’ve already printed it out in your office downstairs. I signed it myself. I must say, my forgery skills are improving. If the police think to have it reviewed by a handwriting expert, they most likely will find any shakiness or hesitation could be attributed to you already having taken the barbiturates waiting for you in your Glenmorangie.”

“Would you like me to go to the office or remain here?” the surgeon asked dully.

“Oh, here is fine,” he said cheerfully. “You’re the kind of man who would want to go easily, falling asleep against your luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets. I did choose the best bottle of whisky you owned, hoping that would make you happy.”

His tone then changed from cheerful to dead. “Now. Drink, Doctor.”

With shaking hands, the plastic surgeon retrieved the bottle from the nightstand, unscrewing the top and placing it on his nightstand. Knott took a long pull on the whisky and placed the bottle in his lap, sighing.

“I suppose if I have to go, this is the way to do so. You must know of my debts.”

“I do. Drink again,” he urged, more gently this time.

It took twenty minutes for the physician to consume all the alcohol. At the end, he was so sleepy that the bottle fell from his fingers to the floor. A bit splashed onto the carpet, while a small trace amount remained inside the bottle.

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