As soon as Cole’s eyes were open, he reached for a pad and a pen. He kept pads and pens littered all over his apartment so that they would never be far from his reach. It was important to write everything down as soon as he remembered it. He could revisit memories and try to pull additional information from them, but that first time was as close as he would get to unfiltered truth. As soon as he got the pen in his hand, Cole began furiously scribbling down every detail: her name, his name, what he looked like, where she was from, every single detail that he could remember.
It was a start. This is how it worked. First Cole had to solve the mystery of her life, then he could solve the mystery of her murder.
Chapter 7
“Her name was Meg,” Cole told the small room full of cops. Ed was there. So were two other junior officers who were going to help them canvass the Queens neighborhood where the two garbagemen found Meg’s body three days before. So far, the canvassing had been a bust, and they didn’t have any other leads. Information was key and a name was a good start. The more information you can give people about a missing person, the more likely they are to remember something. “Her name was Meg,” Cole repeated, holding up a picture that had been taken of her face at the morgue. “She was from Kansas,” Cole said. “She met a boy named Matt on the bus ride here.” Matt meant something. Cole could sense it from the memory. “He looks like this.” Cole held up a police sketch that he had worked on with one of their sketch artists earlier that morning.
“Could he be the killer?” Ed asked.
Cole shook his head. “No,” he responded. “He wasn’t involved with the murder, but if we find him, he might be able to tell us more about our victim and about anyone who might have had a motive.”
“How do you know he didn’t have anything to do with the murder?” one of the two junior cops asked.
“Because I know,” Cole replied. He didn’t have the time or the patience to explain how he knew. He knew the way he always knew. He remembered, and his memory of Matt was a fond one. If he’d had anything to do with her murder, at least anything that Meg knew about, it would have infected all her memories of him.
“You want us to go door to door?” Ed asked, intentionally changing the subject.
“I want you to show these pictures to everyone in the neighborhood,” Cole responded. “Oh, and one last thing. I don’t know if this will help us at all, but she was gay.”
“You think that might have had something to do with her murder?” Ed asked.
“I don’t know,” Cole answered, “but it might help us find out more about her.”
So the four of them went back to the neighborhood that Ed had already canvassed alone twice. They mapped out a twenty-block area surrounding the Dumpster where they’d found Meg’s body. They each had copies of Meg’s postmortem picture and the drawing of Matt. They split up and, one by one, knocked on every door. They asked every person in that twenty-block radius if they’d ever seen Meg or Matt before. Ed had already talked to many of them, and seeing the pictures didn’t change their answers. Nobody seemed to know anything. Still, Cole stared at as many of them as he could to see if anyone might be holding back, to see if any faces might trigger new memories. He didn’t have any luck. Meg’s memories weren’t so easy to crack. The triggers were out there. He just had to find them.
They split up and worked for five hours without stopping and without finding a single goddamn thing. They got the same blank stares door after door. On a couple of occasions, Ed called Cole over to look at a room, a door, or a picture that he thought might help trigger a new memory. Once, he asked Cole to come look at a basement that seemed like it could have been the one from Meg’s memory. The owner of the building let them in willingly. Cole only had to step into the basement for a second to know that he wasn’t in the right place, that he had no memory of it.
At the end of another busted day, Cole said to Ed, “It’s not here. We’re not in the right place.”
“What do you mean, Cole?” Ed asked, more than a little upset. He’d just spent three consecutive days exploring this neighborhood. “This is where they found the body.”
“Yeah,” Cole conceded, “but this isn’t where she was killed. This isn’t where he lived. She’s got no connection to this place.”
“So you think the killer dumped her body here?”
“Yeah,” Cole confirmed, almost as unhappy about it as Ed was.
“That would mean he could be from anywhere,” Ed said.
Cole looked at his watch. “We should go home,” he said. They were all getting frustrated. The three other cops were frustrated with the case and with Cole for making them treat the case like something important. It wasn’t that they didn’t care about the dead girl. They simply weren’t sure it was worth it, walking around with no leads, trying to solve the murder of someone whom nobody seemed to miss, anyway. It seemed like they were simply shooting into the darkness. They didn’t know what Cole knew. This was how it worked. When the memories came to him it would seem like luck, but it wasn’t. He knew what he was doing. Besides, even if they doubted whether all of this was worth it, Cole had no doubts. It was worth it to him. He was haunted by the memories, and he loved being haunted. He found beauty in every memory, no matter how hard the lives of these forgotten souls had been. He didn’t just love being haunted—through their memories Cole grew to love the victims, even if nobody else did. But he needed the other cops’ help and he didn’t want to press his luck, so he decided to send everybody home. Besides, he had someplace he was supposed to be and, if he didn’t hurry, he was going to be late again. “Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”
Chapter 8
Cole took the subway straight to the restaurant. He didn’t have time to go home or clean himself up after his day at work. He didn’t even have time to clear his head. He spent the whole subway ride going back over the case and over the few of Meg’s memories that he’d been able to recall. He was beginning to get frustrated by his inability to access the other memories that he knew were in his head.
The restaurant was in the Village. The subway from Queens took almost an hour. He would have taken a cab if he’d had any extra money. Instead, he arrived twenty minutes late. Considering his history, Cole couldn’t even be certain that she would still be there. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d left. The dinner had been her idea, but Cole knew better than to use that as an excuse.
Cole rushed into the restaurant and immediately saw her sitting in the corner at their old table. She was sitting with a glass of wine in front of her and a book in her lap. She knew he would be late. She understood him. That was the reason they weren’t together anymore. Because while she knew Cole, the real Cole, the genuine Cole, with each passing day it became harder and harder for Cole to know himself. Harder and harder for Cole to differentiate his own memories from the memories of the murder victims in his head. But when it came to memories of her—her dark hair, her blue eyes, the deep curve of her bottom lip—Cole was almost certain those memories were all his own. “Allie,” Cole said as he neared her table.
Allie looked up from her book. Then she put it down on the table and stood up. “Nick,” Allie said as she leaned in to give Cole a hug. She still used his old name—the one he’d used before everything changed. “It’s good to see you.”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Cole apologized as he sat down at the table across from her.
“That’s okay,” Allie said, “I was able to get some reading done.” She looked at the half-drunk glass of wine at the table. “I’m already on my second glass of wine, though. I hope you don’t mind. Do you want something?”
Cole considered it. Sometimes drinking freed stuck memories but at the risk of altering them. He decided to wait. He wasn’t that desperate yet. “I think I’ll just order an iced tea, if that’s okay with you. You’re not going to be upset if I let you drink alone, are you?”
“No, I won’t be upset, Nick,” Allie said, doing her best t
o cover the lie. “Drinking alone is something I’ve actually become quite good at. How about some food? Do you want to get something to eat?”
Cole shook his head. It was strange, hearing someone call him Nick. Allie was the only one who still did it. He couldn’t remember exactly when he started telling people to call him Cole. There was no single event that had made him switch. It was an accumulation of memories. After a number of the memory transfers, Cole simply didn’t feel like the same person anymore. The Nick he had been became just another set of memories in his head. “I’m really not that hungry,” he answered before even thinking about the fact that she’d invited him to dinner.
“You’re on a new case, aren’t you?” The melancholy in Allie’s voice was turning quickly to genuine sadness.
“Yes,” Cole admitted. “She was a nineteen-year-old girl. Somebody bashed her head in with a hammer and then threw her body in a Dumpster in Queens.”
Allie reached for her glass of wine and finished it off in two gulps. “I didn’t ask you to tell me about the case, Nick.”
“Yeah, but you brought it up.”
“I only brought it up because you don’t eat when you get new memories. I don’t care about the case.”
“You don’t care that a nineteen-year-old girl was killed and that we don’t know who she is and that her killer is still out there?”
“Until you catch him, right?” The sarcasm dripped off of Allie’s words.
“Yes,” Cole answered her. “Until I catch him.”
Allie shook her head. Cole couldn’t tell if the look on her face was disappointment or disgust. Maybe it was both. “I know you think I should care, Nick, but I don’t. That’s the truth,” Allie admitted.
“She was murdered in cold blood, Allie. She was hit in the head with a hammer, and there is no one else who can help her. How can you not care?”
Allie shrugged. “I don’t care because I don’t know her. I care about you. I know you. I loved you. And I know that what you’re doing to yourself is not healthy.”
“Fine,” Cole said. He hadn’t expected everything to fall apart so quickly. It usually took a little bit longer. “I’ll order some food and I’ll eat. Here.” Cole passed Allie a menu. “You can order for me. Anything you order, I’ll eat every bite.”
“It’s not about the fucking food, Cole.” Allie nearly spat out the name she so despised. She’d never asked him why he’d changed his name. She knew it was another form of Nicholas, so switching from Nick to Cole signified change but not complete transformation. Maybe she would have been happier if he’d changed his name to something completely different: John or Mike. “You know it’s not about the food. It’s about what you’re doing to yourself.”
“And what exactly am I doing to myself?” Cole asked as if he didn’t know. He knew what he was doing to himself even better than Allie did, though he would never admit it.
Allied waited a moment. “You’re losing yourself, Nick,” Allie finally answered him. “Don’t pretend you don’t know that. With every one of these cases, more of you slips away. You’re losing yourself to this insane addiction of yours.”
“Addiction?” Cole asked. “To what? Solving the murders of people who have no one to turn to?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Nick,” Allie said. “You know what I’m talking about. You might not know me anymore, but I still know you. You’re addicted to their memories. Solving the murders is a means to an end for you. You’re addicted to the rush you get when their memories come to you for the first time. I didn’t notice it until the third or fourth case but even then, you’d begun to change.” Allie had promised herself that she wasn’t going to cry, and she fought as hard as she could to keep that promise. “Don’t forget that there are people who care about you, Nick. There are people who care about the real you; the one buried under all those layers of other people’s sad lives. We’re trying to help you. We’re trying to save you, Nick. Fuck this Cole bullshit. We want you to come back to us.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Cole asked.
Allie looked at her empty wineglass. No waiter had come since they started arguing. “I talk to Steve sometimes,” Allie said. Steve was Nick’s best friend from high school. The two men had stayed in touch until about three years ago. “I talk to your mom. She worries about you more than anyone.”
“What am I supposed to do, let murders go unsolved?”
“You’re a cop, Nick. Just be a cop.” Cole looked at her but had no answer. “But you won’t do that,” Allie finished.
“I can’t,” Cole admitted. Allie waited for him to say more. He didn’t. He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t want to admit how right she was.
Allie looked into Cole’s eyes. She was beautiful. He missed her. At least, in that moment, he missed her. “I’m not trying to get back what we had, Nick. I’ve given up on that,” Allie said to him. “I just care about you and want to save what little of you is still left.”
“I care about you too,” Cole said. She laughed. “Don’t laugh,” Cole said. “I’m serious.”
“I know you think you’re serious, Cole.” She didn’t spit out the name this time. Still, it sounded strange coming out of her mouth. “I used to be special to you.”
“You still are.”
Allie’s smile was small and condescending but still beautiful. “Yeah, but now you have so many special people in your head and most of them are people you never even met. It kinda makes me feel a little less special, you know?”
“With you it’s different,” Cole said, wishing his words were truer. He had loved her once. He remembered that, and he couldn’t remember falling out of love with her.
“Is it?” Allie asked. Cole nodded. “Then tell me how we met.”
Cole didn’t hesitate. “We were in a bar in the East Village. I was playing pool with Steve. You called winner. I took one look at you and Steve didn’t get another chance to shoot.”
Allie smiled. This time her smile was genuine. “Now tell me about the first time we made love.”
Cole opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He began to search his brain. The memory was in there somewhere. Lots of first times came into his mind—in the backseats of cars, in cramped dorm rooms, in parents’ basements—but Allie wasn’t in any of them. After a few minutes, Allie stood up. “I’m going to go, Nick,” she said sadly. She reached into her purse for her wallet.
Cole shook his head. “I’ll get the check.”
“But you didn’t eat or drink anything,” Allie replied.
“Please,” Cole pleaded.
“Okay.” Allie took a few steps away from the table. Then she turned back toward Cole. “I hope you find her killer—the girl’s,” she said. Then she gathered up her strength and walked away.
As soon as Allie was gone, Cole motioned for the check. The waiter brought it quickly, happy to see them go. Cole gave him a credit card. The waiter returned a minute later with the check and a pen. Cole wrote down a tip that he hoped was big enough to make up for the scene he and Allie had caused and for the fact that he didn’t eat or drink anything. Then he pressed the pen into the paper and began to sign his name. He didn’t look down at the small slip of paper until he was finished writing. When he did, he expected to see his signature on the bill, but something else was written there. It was an address. Instead of his name, Cole had written the words “17 Scudders Lane.”
At first glance, the words meant nothing. He began to search his brain for any meaning or at least for some sort of recognition, but he couldn’t find anything. He knew it was only a matter of searching the right parts of his mind, though. Cole didn’t waste any time. He flipped the check over so that he could write on the blank side. He pressed the pen into the paper again and wrote. This time, he didn’t stop after the first three words. He kept going. He watched as the words appeared unconsciously on the paper: “17 Scudders Lane, Wichita, KS 67212.” The whole address seemed to emerge in front of him. Cole closed his eyes and be
gan writing again, this time concentrating not on the address but on the memory of writing it. As he wrote, he remembered writing it on the back of an envelope. Then he remembered writing it on multiple envelopes: 17 Scudders Lane, Wichita, KS 67212. When he finished the address, he closed his eyes and wrote it for a fourth and final time. He focused everything on that small, simple act. This time, Cole didn’t merely remember addressing a letter: A whole flood of memories came pouring over him. He almost fell into them, into a full immersion. He remembered a sister, a younger sister. He remembered laughter and fighting and teasing and loving. All at once, he had more memories in his head than he could make sense of. She had a sister, Cole thought. Meg had a little sister. Then he opened his eyes and looked down at the paper again. It was her family’s address. She’d been writing letters to her little sister.
Cole took the check with the address written on it and put it in his pocket. He had enough cash in his pocket to cover the bill, and he dropped it on the table. Then he walked away. It was finally starting.
Chapter 9
Cole didn’t make it very far from the restaurant. Even in the late evening, the Village street was crowded with people. Cole needed to be alone. He needed quiet. He turned away from the crowds and began walking down a street lined with old townhouses. Soon the bustle was gone and the street was relatively quiet. His head was spinning. He needed to sit down and focus.
Cole made it another five or six blocks. Then he found an empty bench facing the empty street. He sat down, put his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. He’d be able to get the memories to come. Once he found the memories inside his head, he could almost always retrieve them again. It was a skill that he’d mastered about half a dozen murders ago. Still, he sat for a second with his head in his hands and tried to ready himself for what he was about to endure. It wasn’t that he didn’t want the memories. He did. He wanted them more than anything. He wanted them so badly he was on the verge of physical pain. Still, he had to ready himself. Nobody’s memories were free of sadness and loneliness and pain, and the people whom Cole was assigned to help often had all of those feelings in spades.
The Memory Detective Page 4
