His Name Is John

by Dorien Grey

  I’m John Collina! John Collina! I have a name!

  Elliott could feel the relief.

  You’re sure? It’s not just because I say you are?

  No! No! I know it, now. But I couldn’t have known it without you. Thank you, Elliott!

  John had called him Elliott! It was the first time John had ever acknowledged him as an individual human being, and not just a window through which he was looking in an effort to find himself. To Elliott it was a seminal moment.

  But…

  But what?

  Did you and I know each other…before?

  Yes.

  Were we friends?

  Yes, we were friends. What do you remember about…before?

  Bits and pieces…like fragments of dreams, but I know they weren’t dreams. It’s so hard to describe. But there are more of them all the time. It’s all coming together, but not fast enough!

  Do you remember your family?

  Yes, I…sort of, but again, not clearly, not fully. I know I do not like my father. Do I have a sister? I think I do.

  Marie.

  Yes, Marie. I like Marie.

  And you have a brother, Al.

  Al. Isn’t Al my father?

  No, your father was Vittorio.

  Oh. I’m…I’m getting…confused. Can we stop now?

  Sure.

  And when he opened his eyes to look at the clock, it was seven forty-five.

  * * *

  He could not recall the last time he had felt so good. It was as though he had just been separated from a Siamese twin. There was a sense of mild euphoria knowing that John had made a giant step toward what Elliott could only think of as independence.

  He had rather hoped that once John realized who he was, his entire memory would immediately return, including the details of his murder and the knowledge of who killed him. But he resigned himself to the fact that as in any case of retrograde amnesia, John had to rediscover things at his own pace.

  He found it both interesting and ominously significant that John had his brother and his father confused. Hardly a surprise, though, considering how much alike Vittorio and Al were. He thought it a little odd, though, that John had not mentioned his mother.

  A call from the demolition company informed him they had received the necessary permits and that the work would begin Thursday. Finishing up some final calculations, which confirmed that the Elmdale four-flat could indeed be a worthwhile investment, he called the owners to set up a Wednesday meeting to discuss the selling price, after which he believed he would be able to make an offer contingent upon an inspection by his crew.

  Feeling a bit guilty about his behavior the previous night at dinner, he made a point to call Cessy, and after verifying that Mrs. Priebe would be leaving Sunday, invited her and the family out to dinner Thursday night. Cessy thought it was a great idea and told him she’d check with Brad and get back to him.

  “I hope you’ll ask Steve to come along,” she said, never passing up an opportunity to push her brother down the aisle. He grinned to himself, but said nothing.

  * * *

  As he was having his before-dinner drink and watching the news, the phone rang.

  “Elliott, Brad. Dinner Thursday’s fine, though you don’t have to.”

  “I know I don’t, but I want to see your mom again before she goes back, and I don’t want Cessy to have to keep feeding me two times in one week. I figured we could go to Castlemare—I think your mom would like it.”

  “That’ll be great,” Brad said. “We can arrange the logistics later. I just wanted to let you know, too, that we’ll be seeing Al Collina tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock at his office. We won’t even bring up the Sheffield incident—that’s up to the fire department’s arson squad—but at least we can get a feel for what he might know about his brother and some of the other things we talked about. I’ll give you a call to let you know how it went.”

  “I really appreciate that, Brad. I know you’re going way beyond the call of duty on this.”

  “Well, John Doe was murdered. He had a real name when he was alive. Whether he was John Collina or not, and whether Al had anything to do with his death or not, we owe it to him to check out every possible lead.”

  “Our John Doe is John Collina, and Al killed him. I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  “I admire your conviction,” Brad said. “So we’ll talk later.”

  Elliott hung up the phone with a new appreciation for his brother-in-law, and realized that maybe they were both more sentimental than they cared to let on.

  * * *

  Is it true?

  Is what true?

  What you said to Brad. About my…brother?

  I’m afraid so. Do you remember anything about him?

  No. But I don’t think I like him very much.

  Do you know why?

  I’ve been trying to remember. Really. But…he was not nice to…Marie. When we were children. That’s when you and I were friends, isn’t it?

  Yes… Can you remember anything at all about your childhood?

  No. Just feelings. But they’re strong feelings. Do you really think my brother would kill me? How could he do that?

  I really wish I could tell you.

  Maybe it would be better if I don’t remember.

  No! You’ve got to remember, if you can. Keep trying.

  I will. I have been.

  * * *

  Wednesday passed quickly. He had set up a ten thirty meeting with the owners of the Elmdale building. Somewhat to Elliott’s surprise, the owners had a lawyer—the wife’s brother—present. The lawyer’s presence didn’t bother him as much as the fact that the sellers had not mentioned that he would be there. Still, he could understand their natural concern, and had gone through enough negotiations himself to know what he was doing. He was confident he could spot anything suspicious or not totally aboveboard.

  He quickly determined the lawyer was just there as silent reassurance for the owners, and actually was grateful for his presence when he was able to resolve a couple of questions on which they may otherwise have been confused without the lawyer’s presence.

  Although by the end of their meeting he knew exactly how much he was going to offer, he did not want to appear too eager, so he told them he would get back to them later in the day. He ran some errands, stopped at Unabridged Books to pick up a mystery Steve had recommended to him, then went across the street for coffee at the Caribou, where he ran into a couple of friends he’d not seen in a while, and spent some time catching up. Returning home around two, he called the owners of the Elmdale four-flat to initiate the offer-counteroffer dance. They told them they’d talk it over and get back to him with an answer.

  He’d just hung up from a check-in call from Steve when Brad called.

  “Things are starting to move in our John Doe case,” he began.

  Elliott noted Brad still was not totally convinced by his story or fully accepted that John Doe was indeed John Collina.

  “We met with Al Collina this morning, and showed him Doe’s photo. He denied that it was his brother, and of course he flatly refused our request for a DNA sample. He’s got a pretty solid alibi for the night Doe was killed—he was at his mother’s wake in Lake Geneva, with his wife and daughter. Which doesn’t mean he didn’t have someone else do it for him.

  “And there’s been another really interesting development. Remember Little Joe Donnelly, the body in your basement?”

  “Hard to forget a body in the basement,” Elliott said.

  “Yeah, well, the cause of death was pretty obviously a gunshot wound to the head, and forensics found the bullet still inside the skull. Other than determining it was from a thirty-eight, it was too distorted to even try to trace it to a specific weapon. But there was also a second bullet, lodged between two vertebrae in the spine they apparently hadn’t bothered to check. Maybe they figured that after all this time it didn’t matter.

  “It did.
When they were preparing Donnelly’s remains to return to the family, someone realized that no comparison had been run on the second bullet, which was largely intact, so they finally did it. And guess what? The gun that killed Little Joe Donnelly in 1927 also killed our John Doe.”

  “How can they possibly know that? The same gun used in two murders nearly eighty years apart?”

  “Every gun has a unique bore pattern, which is etched onto the bullet when it passes through the barrel. As soon as they put the Donnelly bullet in the computer system, it kicked out a match to the bullets found in John Doe.”

  “But the same gun after nearly eighty years? Is that possible?”

  “A gun’s just a piece of metal—or several pieces—after all, and with the proper conditions and care, there’s no reason a gun can’t last almost forever.”

  “So what does this mean?”

  “It’s all circumstantial, of course, but since Vittorio Collina was implicated in Donnelly’s death, it’s not impossible that he might have had the gun hidden somewhere, and that Al found it. Al probably didn’t even know about Donnelly, and he might have figured that a gun that old couldn’t possibly be traced.”

  “So what’s the next step?”

  “We’re going to show Doe’s photo to Sister Marie, to see if she recognizes him, and ask her for a DNA sample.”

  “Ah, I’m afraid that won’t help.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Marie was adopted. She’s not genetically related to Al or Johnny.”

  “Damn! I didn’t know that—or had forgotten if I did! Well, if we want DNA, we’re just going to have to find a way to get it from Al. We’ll see what she says about the picture.”

  “Good luck!”

  “Thanks. Nobody said police work was easy. So, we’ll see you tomorrow? Do you want to meet us here, or shall we just meet at the restaurant?”

  “Why don’t we meet at Castlemare at around seven thirty? I’ll call for reservations as soon as we hang up.”

  “Sounds good. We’ll see you there.”

  * * *

  I told you.

  Told me what?

  About the man in the basement. That there was more. I just didn’t know what it was.

  Did you know about the gun?

  No. I don’t like guns. I don’t like to think about them.

  Of course. I’m sorry.

  Don’t be sorry.

  So, no more thoughts or memories about your…about Al Collina?

  No. I don’t like to think about him either.

  Well, Marie will recognize you.

  I don’t want her to see that photo. I don’t want her to see me…that way.

  I understand that, too, but without her identification…

  I know. But maybe you can ask Brad not to show it to her. Maybe it’s enough that I know who I am.

  You can’t believe that! It’s not enough! You deserve more!

  We all deserve more. What happened to me happened. It can’t be changed.

  No, it can’t be changed, but whoever did this to you has to pay for it. He took your life!

  And his will end, too, someday. I still can’t believe my brother could have done this. I don’t want revenge.

  But justice would be nice.

  Yes, it would.

  And you’ll get it, I promise.

  * * *

  Thursday morning he took a drive down to the Sheffield property to see if the demolition crew had arrived. He drove down the alley intending to park in the parking area behind the building, but a large bulldozer, a smaller end-loader and a dump truck had taken up all the space. Going around to the front, he saw several workers carefully taking down the new fence he’d had put up in front of the building, which, apparently, the demolition company intended to salvage for resale. A larger end-loader, engine running, sat half-on the sidewalk waiting to move closer. The sight gave him a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  He found a parking place a block or so north, and started walking back to the site. He noticed Collina’s building was all but entirely leveled, and that the building on the north side of it was now also in the demolition process. Apparently Collina’s condo complex plan was going on as planned. And directly in front of that he saw Al’s car, though Al was nowhere in sight, which was fine with Elliott.

  He’d reached his own property and was about to find and speak to the foreman of his demolition crew when he heard his name being called. Turning around, he saw Al Collina approaching, cigarette in one hand, can of soda in the other.

  “Smith! I want to talk to you!” He strode over like a bantam rooster.

  “What can I do for you?” Elliott asked, vowing not to let the bastard rattle his cage.

  “How about calling off your boys, here.” Al said. “I’ve already got a crew on my site. What say you let me take the whole thing off your hands, save you a ton of money, and I’ll buy it all flat out. You walk away with no worries and a nice piece of cash.”

  He quoted a figure, and Elliott just stared at him.

  “Very generous of you, Al,” he said, “but I’m thinking of having the property rezoned for commercial use and putting in an auto junkyard.”

  Collina looked at him, not sure at first whether he might be serious, then took a long drag on his cigarette, and shook his head.

  “Last chance,” he said. “You won’t get a better offer.”

  “I’m not looking for an offer,” Elliott replied.

  Taking a last swig from his cola, Collina dropped his cigarette butt into the can and tossed it casually onto Elliott’s property.

  “You always were a pain in the ass,” Al said, then turned and strode away without looking back.

  Elliott smiled and walked over to pick up the discarded pop can.

  * * *

  Castlemare, though small and relatively new, was fast developing a reputation as one of the best Italian restaurants in the city, and it lived up to its reputation. Even Mrs. Priebe was impressed, which was, to Elliott, the ultimate sign of approval.

  On the way out of the restaurant, after the handshake and hugs good-bye, Elliott asked Brad to wait a moment while he went to his car. Returning with a small paper bag, he handed it to Brad.

  “What’s this?” Brad asked.

  “A pop can and a cigarette butt,” Elliott replied “and Al Collina’s DNA.”

  * * *

  “Can I ask you a really stupid question?” Steve asked as they lay in bed after another Saturday night get-together.

  Elliott turned on his side to face him, and propped himself up on one arm.

  “Sure,” he said, a bit puzzled.

  Steve sighed. “Please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not trying to get anything out of you, but I was just curious: how come every time I ask you to do something, you always say yes?”

  Elliott laughed. “Well, that is an unusual question. What made you ask it?”

  Steve shrugged, looking a bit embarrassed in the dim light coming from the partly open bedroom door. “You didn’t answer me.”

  “Well, the answer is, why wouldn’t I?”

  “Questions don’t answer questions,” he said. “What I’m wondering is…don’t you date other people?”

  Elliott wasn’t quite sure he understood—or wanted to understand—what Steve was getting at. “I’m a one-at-a-time dater,” he said. “I’ve never been good at juggling three or four guys at the same time. Why? How about you? You a juggler?”

  Steve’s face clearly reflected the fact that he wished he’d never brought the subject up.

  “No, I’m not a juggler. I guess I’m pretty much like you in that regard. It’s just that I feel like I’ve been taking up a lot of your time, and I don’t want you to feel…well, obligated.”

  Elliott shook his head slowly. “I don’t feel obligated to do anything. I could easily have asked you the same question and said the same thing. If you want to see other guys, I sure can’t stop you—I left my handcuffs and leg shackles a
t home. You’re a big boy, and you can do what you want.” He said it with a lot more assurance than he felt, and mentally began preparing himself for the other shoe to drop.

  Steve scooted over closer to him. “Jeez, no. That’s not what I meant at all! Damn! I knew I wasn’t going to say it right, and I didn’t. All I wanted to say was that I don’t want to put you in a strangle hold. I’m not seeing anyone else, because I don’t want to see anyone else. I was just trying to see if we’re on the same page on this.”

  Elliott grinned and reached his free hand out to slide it over Steve’s chest.

  “We’re on the same page,” he said.

  * * *

  Having had a call on Saturday morning from the owners of the Elmdale property, countering his offer at only slightly more, Elliott had agreed, contingent on a walk-through inspection by his team. On Monday he called Ted, Arnie and Sam to coordinate on a time, then called the owners to confirm.

  As always with an impending new project, he was energized by the prospect and began going over the notes and rough sketches he’d made from his first visit to the property. He did some more sketches, concentrating on the basement conversion, which would require the most basic work.

  He’d talked with Cessy over the weekend, but not with Brad. Mrs. Priebe had safely returned to New York, and the family was settling back into its routine. Cessy, of course, asked about Steve and wanted to know if a definite date had been set for his gallery showing. He relayed the information he’d received from Steve, that the show would open in three weeks, and he was awaiting the arrival of a number of paintings his parents were shipping to him from California. He also assured her that Steve would be sending them a formal invitation to the opening, which pleased her.

  He rather hoped he might hear from Brad Monday night, and while John had withdrawn to the periphery of his consciousness for the weekend, Elliott could sense that John, too, was awaiting the results of Al’s DNA analysis, which would officially confirm the identity the circumstances of his death had denied him.

  Brad didn’t call, and while he realized that something as complex as DNA testing undoubtedly took time, he sensed that John did not. That was confirmed shortly after he fell asleep Monday night.

  He didn’t call.

  He’ll call as soon as he knows anything.