For Want of a Memory

by Robert Lubrican

  "There is no God, because God would not have made nights like this," she muttered.

  "It's not night anymore, technically," pointed out Lou Anne.

  "Well, whatever it is, I don't think it was invented by any divine being," said Jessica. "Your boyfriend made it through the night."

  "He's not my boyfriend!" squealed Lou Anne.

  "He regained consciousness, too," said Jessica, settling down onto a stool at the counter. "I need coffee."

  "He did?" Lou Anne already had the coffee poured and set it in front of her friend. "What did he say?"

  "If he's not your boyfriend, why are you so interested?" Jessica sipped the coffee and made motions indicating it was too hot.

  "I found him in the middle of nowhere, almost dead!" yipped Lou Anne. "I ruined my coat saving him. I'm allowed to be curious!"

  Jessica leaned forward and lowered her voice.

  "He's got a nice dick," she whispered.

  Lou Anne's eyes widened and she looked shocked. Then she thought about the image of Jess peeking under a sheet and burst into a fit of giggles.

  "You're awful!" she giggled. "There is something seriously wrong with a woman who checks out a guy's privates when he's almost dead."

  "I wasn't checking him out," said Jessica, her voice injured. "I was giving him a sponge bath. It's part of my job."

  "Probably the part that's responsible for you deciding to be a nurse at all," snorted Lou Anne, grinning. "What did he say when he woke up?"

  "He has amnesia," said Jessica.

  "Really?"

  "Doctor Massouf thinks he was shot."

  "Get out!" squealed Lou Anne.

  "Yep," said the nurse. "Head wound. He was lucky it was only a glancing blow. Personally, I think that's why he has amnesia. He can't remember his name. Naturally, Mitch is all interested in him, like he's some kind of criminal or something."

  "Well ... " Lou Anne shuddered. "If he got shot, doesn't that suggest he travels in the wrong crowd?"

  Jess waved a hand in the air negligently. "People get shot all the time these days," she said. "It could have been a drive by shooting, for all we know."

  "In the middle of bumfuck Connecticut?" Lou Anne sounded dubious.

  "He was all cut up by broken glass," said Jessica, lowering her voice. "Doc Massouf thinks he was in a car when he got shot."

  "Well then, there goes your drive by shooting theory," said Lou Anne. "If somebody shot him in a car, they somehow dumped him in the middle of the road, because there was no car anywhere near where I found him."

  "I still can't believe you picked him up and got him in your car," said Jess, looking admiringly at her friend. "He's a big one ... in more ways than one." She giggled.

  "You are so bad!" laughed Lou Anne. "I bet you played with it too ... didn't you ... huh? Didn't you?" She poked her friend as she insisted the nurse had molested her unconscious patient.

  "I had to get it clean," said Jess loftily. "I had to get all of him clean." She leaned back. "Besides. You would have liked it. I know you would. It's been years since you've seen one."

  Lou Anne stood up. "And it will be fine if it's more years until I see another one," she said. "The last one I saw got me pregnant and then took off with its owner. I don't need any more of that!"

  "Girl, you're crazy," said Jessica. "Here you are in the prime of your life, a knockout beauty, and you're avoiding one of the most fun things you can get your hands on."

  "Like you know," snorted Lou Anne. "You're the only virgin I ever met, including in high school." She grinned.

  "Shhhhh!" said Jess, leaning forward. "Not so loud! That's a secret! People will think I'm odd if they find out."

  "You are odd," laughed Lou Anne. "You're the most gorgeous woman I know. If I ever went gay, it would be your fault. When are you going to quit being so picky and find you a man?"

  "There are no men!" snorted Jess. "Not in bumfuck Connecticut." She stopped. "Well, come to think of it, there is an interesting man here now. Maybe I'll get to know your road kill a little better. He seems like a nice enough guy."

  "He's probably a mobster or something!" squealed Lou Anne.

  "Nah," sighed Jess. "He says he's an author."

  "An author ... you didn't tell me that before. I thought you said he had amnesia."

  "He does, but he remembered that he's an author." Jess sipped her coffee.

  "What kind of author?"

  "Beats me," said the nurse. "I'll remember to ask him." She looked up at Lou Anne slyly. "Unless you want to ask him yourself. He'd probably be very appreciative of the woman who saved his life."

  "Dreamer," laughed Lou Anne. "Sometimes your imagination cracks me up."

  "Gotta run," said Jess, standing up. "I need my beauty sleep, so I can go in and sweep John Doe off his feet tomorrow, and endear myself to him, so that when he remembers he's a millionaire, he'll be my sugar daddy."

  Lou Anne stopped laughing.

  "Don't go doing something stupid, Jess. Sometimes your imagination scares me half to death, too."

  "He's a good guy," said Jess. "A little old for me, but a good guy. I'm sure of it."

  "Tell him I said hi," said the waitress, waving goodbye to her friend.

  "Tell him yourself," said the nurse. "I'll warn him you're coming."

  She was gone before Lou Anne could object.

  * * *

  Mitch yawned. It had been a long night and the snow was still falling. The department Jeep Cherokee sat by the side of the road, the overheads flashing, to warn any oncoming motorists. He stood looking down the hill, and pulled his uniform jacket closer around him. It wasn't made for cold like this.

  This had to be the place. In the dim daylight, he could see where the vegetation had been crushed as the car rolled down the drop off. The only problem was ... there was no car. The river was there, but it was frozen over and had a good foot of new-fallen snow on the ice. There was no way anybody had gotten a tow truck up there in the middle of the night and pulled the car back up the drop off. That could only mean one thing.

  The car was under the ice.

  There was no blood or other evidence. The snow had covered all that up. Even the mangled vegetation that showed the path of the car was covered over. Only because he knew what it should look like, could he tell that something big had bulldozed a path through it.

  He got on the radio.

  "Hey Dabney," he called.

  There was a ten second pause, then a static crackle.

  "Damn it, Mitch, how many times do I have to tell you not to use my first name on the radio? I'm the goddamn Chief, you little piss-ant!"

  "I'm sure the FCC will fine me a dime for using your name," said Mitch into his mike. "While they're fining you ten thousand dollars for cussing up a storm on the public airways. You want to know what I found or not?"

  "Pembroke two, report," came the voice on the radio.

  Mitch grinned. "I found it," he said.

  "Good work, Pembroke two. Give me the twenty and I'll send a wrecker out there."

  "Might be a problem with that," said Mitch. "Actually I only think I found it. I think it's under the ice, and I mean all the way under the ice. It's going to take major work to get it out of there."

  "Goddamn it, Mitch," crackled the chief's voice over the radio. "Why dint you say so in the first place? We ain't got the budget to recover a goddamn car from under the ice. Haul your ass back here, and you better bring me some damn good pictures too, you got that?"

  "Sure thing, Dabney. Over and out."

  Mitch shut his door and then wondered why he hadn't done that already. It was cold as a witch's tit in the car. He checked the thermometer he carried. It read twelve below zero. He should have left the car running, but he liked to be able to hear his surroundings when he was out in the woods. He fired it up now and tried to turn the heat up. It was already maxed out. Dabney was foaming at the mouth on the radio, but he didn't pay any attention to that. Instead he got out his digital camera
and, once he had warmed his fingers up a bit, got back out.

  He took what he knew would just look like scenic shots of the river and all the snow. He took one of the path the car had made through the brush, too, just for fun. He knew the pictures would look like somebody's vacation photos of a winter wonderland, and he knew Chief Whittaker would be pissed. That was okay, though. Getting Whittaker riled up was about the only excitement the men ever had in Pembroke.

  As he carefully negotiated the slippery road back to town, he wondered if maybe the insurance company would foot the bill for retrieving the car. That would be nice. He'd really like to see that car.

  * * *

  Captain Hildebrand was sweating, but it was almost freezing outside. At least it wasn't sub zero in the city, like it was farther north. Those poor bastards up north were getting hammered. He hugged the file to his chest as he tried to walk in a stately manner to the conference room. He already knew that Chief Richard Hooks would be there, and that Mayor Billsbury would be there. He'd gotten a "courtesy call" from a patrolman who was due for disciplinary action, trying to curry favor, saying that the fucking governor was there too. Apparently he'd accompanied his wife to the city to make sure her interview went okay.

  Hildebrand stopped before going into the conference room to wipe his florid face with a handkerchief. He brushed back his hair with one hand, took a deep breath, pasted his signature smile on his face, and tried to waltz into the room.

  "Good morning, everyone," he said brightly.

  Three men stared at him. Two of them had coffee cups in one hand, and cigars in the other, even though the entire building was a smoke free zone. He wasn't about to tell that to the two most powerful men in the state, however, even though the mayor, Aloisius Billsbury, had put that law into effect himself.

  "Bring us up to speed," barked Chief Hooks. "The governor's a busy man, so just give us the facts."

  Hildebrand wanted to sit down, but none of the other men were sitting, so he opened the file in his hands. Papers slid and floated to the ground around him. Hildebrand flushed crimson and stooped to scoop up the loose papers. He'd have Harper's balls for this. Hadn't the man ever heard of a stapler?

  He sorted through the pages, handing them to the other men piecemeal, until each man had a copy of the report, albeit not in any particular order.

  "We don't need this crap!" snapped Chief Hooks. "Just tell us the status of the case!"

  "Oh. Yes." Hildebrand swallowed. "We have the three kidnappers in custody. They're Moe, Larry and Curly Higginbotham." He couldn't stifle a half hysterical giggle. He did that every time he thought about their names. He struggled on as Hooks frowned at him. "It's an open and shut case. Dozens of witnesses. Plenty of physical evidence. They'll kill for a deal." He blinked as he realized just how poorly he'd chosen his last words. "I mean they'll deal for sure," he almost whispered.

  "No deals!" thundered Governor Custer. "These bastards touched my Chantal, and I want them to fry!"

  "Um ... we don't have the chair any more, Governor," said Hildebrand. He wished instantly that he'd remained silent.

  "Well then we'll just have to bring it back, now won't we?" said the governor, as if it might be the same thing as changing back to the previous picture on New York license plates.

  The mayor hadn't said anything yet, and that was bothering him. It was important to the mayor that his voice be heard in every serious situation, so he spoke. "This had better be an airtight case. No deals. We throw the book at them, is that clear?"

  "No problem!" said Hildebrand cheerily. "Like I said, we have all the perps." He used the vernacular for "perpetrators" intentionally. He thought it made him sound hip.

  "Do we?" Chief Hooks' voice sounded suddenly grave.

  "Well ... " Hildebrand might not be a real law enforcement officer, but he knew politics, and he knew a pregnant question when he heard it. The problem was that he wasn't ready for that question. They did have all of them ... didn't they? Suddenly he wondered. If the chief thought otherwise - and it sounded like he did-then Hildebrand didn't want to sound like an idiot by insisting every question was answered. "What are your thoughts, Chief?" he asked. When in doubt, shift the focus to someone else. That was his modus operandi.

  "I've checked into the three Higginbothams," said Hooks, sounding somehow mysterious. "They're idiots ... losers of the highest magnitude. I'm having a hard time believing that they could come up with all this on their own."

  "You mean there's a kingpin out there somewhere?" asked the governor anxiously. "The ringleader is still on the loose?"

  "Ringleader?" Hildebrand's voice had just a trace of doubt in it. He might not like Harper, but the man did good work, and Harper hadn't said anything about any ringleader.

  "He must be found!" barked the honorable mayor of New York City. "Leave no stone unturned! This despicable mastermind must be brought to justice!"

  "Of course!" said Hildebrand, no trace of doubt in his voice. "We're already working on it." He fumbled through the loose pages in the folder, looking for any trace of information on a fourth conspirator.

  "Why didn't you say so?" asked Chief Hooks, his voice dangerous. "I thought I told you to give us the lowdown."

  "I just hadn't gotten that far," whined Hildebrand.

  "Well, what do you have?" asked the chief.

  "We're ... um ... we're sweating Moe, Larry and Curly," said Hildebrand. That was safe. The men were being questioned, even though all three had lawyered up. "We might have to offer them a deal to get the big man."

  "No deals!" snapped Mayor Billsbury, getting it in while the governor was still taking a breath to say the same thing.

  "Right!" said Hildebrand. "I'll just go make sure the fire is still lit under the detective working on this."

  "Who is that?" asked Hooks.

  "That would be Detective Sergeant Harper," said Hildebrand.

  "That's the man who's interviewing my Chantal," said Governor Custer. "I hope he's not giving her the third degree."

  The governor, as it turned out, knew about as much about law enforcement investigations as he knew about running the great state of New York. In short ... only what he'd seen on TV or in the movies.

  "I'll make sure of that," said Chief Hooks, who knew there was no chance whatsoever of anybody leaning on the governor's wife, but wanted to look capable and in control.

  * * *

  The woman everybody seemed to be so worried about was lounging comfortably in a chair in an interview room. It was the same room that was referred to as the interrogation room. It all depended on who was being talked to at the time. And, in truth, Jean Custer was being treated more or less like any other interviewee that Harper had ever worked with.

  There were a few minor exceptions. The chair she was sitting in, for one thing. It had been appropriated from Chief Hooks' office, because it was leather covered and had arms on it. It was a comfortable chair, something the run-of-the-mill interviewee would never have seen, much less sat in. The other thing was that instead of a styrofoam cup with tap water in it, Mrs. Custer had a dew-flecked bottle of Perrier at her fingertips. That also came from Chief Hooks' office, out of the little refrigerator that the taxpayers of New York City had paid for. They'd paid for the Perrier as well, for that matter, even though it was listed in the official expenditures as "office supplies."

  Jean Custer examined the man sitting in the hard-backed gray government surplus chair across the table from her. She would have described him as "grizzled" to her friends. She wasn't quite sure what that word actually meant, but it sounded impressive. She would also have said he was handsome, though not out loud. She'd never admit she found any man other than her husband handsome ... not in public. He was wearing a gun, which made her damp between her legs.

  She'd always had a fantasy about men with guns. That was one of the reasons she'd left the scene of her attempted kidnapping so quickly. She had been so mortified, after she'd finished beating Larry within an inch of his putrid
life, and after Moe had stopped firing that pistol, to discover that she needed to change her panties. She hadn't been that excited in years, and as soon as she'd gotten home, she'd called her husband. He was already aware of the incident, of course, and had been frantically trying to call her on her cell phone. He hadn't been able to reach her because she'd been calling all her friends, shouting things like, "They tried to kidnap me!" as she passed cars right and left on the freeway, almost running two of them off the road.

  She'd moaned that she needed him, and, of course, he'd left his office to return to the mansion-accompanied by his executive aide and press secretary-where she'd presented him with a little blue pill, right in front of his entourage.