Memory of Murder

by Kathleen Creighton

  At the same time, he felt twinges in his side where the knife wound he’d received during a recent domestic violence case hadn’t completely healed yet. He’d shot and killed the guy, a righteous shoot if there ever was one, and had just come off administrative leave due to officer-involved shooting-his first-and the mandatory visits with the department shrink, who had suggested he might benefit from some mild antidepressants. Which he’d refused, of course. He didn’t need pills. What he needed was to see some evidence that his efforts-and those of his brother and sister officers-were having some effect in keeping the whole damn world from going to hell in a handbasket.

  Would this wild-goose chase he was on do the trick? Probably not, he thought, but it couldn’t hurt, either. He’d hear what Susan Merrill had to say-if she was coherent-and what was the worst that could happen? He’d conclude it was the Alzheimer’s talking, and he’d have had lunch and spent an interesting afternoon in the company of an attractive woman. A very nice, very classy, attractive woman.

  He felt a little smug about the fact that the word “sexy” hadn’t even entered his head.

  Until now.

  Driving sedately and self-consciously, keeping one eye on the detective’s anonymous dark sedan in her rearview mirror, Lindsey still had plenty of time to wonder, for the umpteenth time, whether she was doing the right thing. She was honest enough with herself to know that, right or wrong, she was doing this more for herself than her mother. As painful as it was to see her mother so fragile and frightened, what she hated more was the feeling that her own world was spiraling out of her control. Again.

  Trent had once accused her of being a control freak. It had been during one of the counseling sessions she’d agreed to attend with him in the weeks leading up to her decision to divorce him, once and for all. She remembered the counselor regarding her in that way he had, fingers steepled in front of his chin, eyebrows raised, and asking her what she thought of that. What she thought, of course, was that Trent was wrong, that she didn’t see how wanting to have some degree of control over one’s own life made one a control freak. It seemed to her that a control freak was someone who wanted to control other people’s lives.

  Lindsey had no desire to control anyone else’s life. Just her own. She had no problem taking responsibility for her own bad choices-marrying Trent had probably been one of those-but she couldn’t stand it when things happened to her that she had absolutely no say in.

  It had not been her choice to have a miscarriage.

  Miscarriage-what kind of word was that? It sounded as if she’d made some sort of minor error, dropped something, or stumbled over something. She’d done nothing of the sort, she’d done nothing wrong. There had been absolutely nothing she could have done to prevent her baby from being born too early, so early she couldn’t possibly survive. That was the hard truth of it, no matter what euphemism they used: Her child had died. And there had been nothing she could do to save her.

  No, she’d been unable to do anything about that, but she had been able to keep it from ever happening again. The doctors had told her the odds were she would never be able to carry a child to full term. Rather than take the chance of enduring that kind of loss and pain again, she’d made the decision that had eventually destroyed her marriage. Trent had been furious with her-had tried to bully her into changing her mind. But it’s my body, she’d told him, heartbroken that he’d seemed incapable of understanding how she felt. It’s my choice. And that was when he’d accused her of being a control freak.

  Why was she thinking about this now? Surely not because Detective Cameron had mentioned his daughter, who was almost ten, which happened to be the age her daughter would have been, if she’d lived. No, not because of that. It’s been ten years…it can’t be that. Surely not after so long…

  More likely, it was this thing with her mother, watching her change right before her eyes and being unable to stop the slow inevitable slide that was taking her further and further away…seeing the terrible toll it was taking on her father and being unable to do anything to help him. All this was making her feel powerless all over again. Going to the police with her mother’s story was at least doing something. Taking action. Taking control.

  Even if nothing came of it, even if Detective Cameron decided it was just the Alzheimer’s playing tricks with her mother’s mind, she told herself, at least she’d done that-taken control.

  Then, in her mind she saw those eyes, Alan Cameron’s eyes, steely blue and intently focused, gazing back at her in the rearview mirror, looking at her as he’d asked her questions. A chill shivered through her, and she wasn’t so sure that was true about taking control. Not anymore.

  Pacific Gardens was nice enough, Alan thought, as those kinds of places went. Spanish in style, with a red tile roof and arches and a tiered fountain in front of the main entrance. The lobby looked more like a middle-to-high-end motel than a rest home, with potted palms and brightly upholstered chairs, and simulated terra-cotta floor tile, no doubt because real Mexican clay pavers would have been unkind to wheelchairs and walkers.

  The front desk was manned by a friendly Hispanic woman with a nice smile who greeted Lindsey by name. As she signed them in, Alan’s eye wandered down a wide corridor, where, through open double doors, he could see several of the residents of the facility sitting in wheelchairs, shawl-draped shoulders hunched, gazing blankly at a flickering television screen, frail ghosts of the people they’d once been. He flashed briefly on the two old people in their blood-soaked bed, and knew a moment of not empathy, exactly, but knowledge, at least. Maybe even understanding.

  Lindsey beckoned, and he followed her through the lobby, through double glass doors that opened automatically before them, out into spacious grounds, expanses of lawn shaded by huge pines and landscaped with lots of palm trees and bird-of-paradise, bougainvillea and lily-of-the-Nile. Roses and other flowers still bloomed in well-groomed beds, even this late in the fall. Wide pathways of smooth asphalt-again, for the accommodation of wheels and walkers and shuffling feet-wound through the gardens, connecting areas both sunny and shady where benches and tables offered opportunities for rest and reflection.

  Yeah, a nice-enough place, he supposed, but it gave him the willies, anyway.

  He wondered how much a place like this must cost. Plenty, he was sure. Lindsey had assured him her dad could afford it. He’d been a banker-vice president of something or other-before he’d retired, and had made wise investments, most of which had survived the economic meltdown. He’d also had the foresight to purchase long-term-care insurance, for both himself and his wife, because, Lindsey said, he’d told her he didn’t want them to ever be a burden on her.

  She’d said that with a fierce kind of pride, Alan had noted, as if being a good financial planner was proof positive a man couldn’t possibly also be a cold-blooded killer.

  “Mom lives in the assisted living section,” Lindsey explained as they navigated the curving, branching pathways at a brisk pace. “She has her own apartment-for now. Later, she can be moved into the main building where she would have more supervision and care.”

  She knocked on the heavy wooden door of a single-story Spanish-style bungalow that appeared to be divided into several small apartments, then called out, “Mom? It’s Lindsey.” She waited a moment, then took a key out of her pocket and threw an explanation over her shoulder as she unlocked the door. “Being able to lock her door makes her feel safe. I have a key and the staff has one, of course.”

  “But not your dad,” Alan said.

  She shook her head, and her voice was low and breathless. “He’s not allowed to visit her at all. Can you imagine? She’s been married to him for over forty years, and won’t even let him come and see her.”

  She opened the door and stepped into the apartment, calling again, “Mom? Where are you? It’s me, Lindsey…”

  Behind her in the doorway, Alan paused. Through the tiny living room and an open sliding glass door, he could see a woman in an e
nclosed patio garden area, surrounded by pots filled with flowering plants. Hearing Lindsey’s greeting, she turned, wiping a gloved hand holding a trowel across her forehead. Her face broke into a smile.

  “Oh, Lindsey, what a nice surprise. Did you bring me pansies? Oh-” She had started toward her daughter, then caught sight of Alan and hesitated. A look of uncertainty crossed her face-briefly. Then the smile returned, but more polite now-even determined-than pleased. “Oh-I see you’ve brought a friend.” She came in, pulling off her gloves.

  “Do I know you?” she asked as she extended a hand to Alan, and her smile grew apologetic. “Forgive me-I forget…things, you know.”

  “No, ma’am, we haven’t met.” Alan found that he had softened his voice and was holding her hand gently, the way he would if he were dealing with a victim of violent crime. “I’m Alan. Alan Cameron.”

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Someone older, for sure. He knew, given her daughter’s age, that she had to be in her upper sixties, maybe even early seventies-which wasn’t all that old nowadays, he reminded himself. It was probably the Alzheimer’s association that had him envisioning someone lost-looking, gray-haired and fragile, like the ghosts he’d glimpsed in the recreation room off the front lobby.

  Susan Merrill looked far from fragile, though she did have quite a bit of gray in her dark hair, which was thick and shoulder-length, like Lindsey’s, but worn in a style reminiscent of another era-a pageboy, he thought it was called. Not exactly up-to-date, but on her it looked right. She was tall, slender and fit-looking, with skin that showed some sun damage-testimony to the fact that she belonged to a generation that had grown up believing a deep tan was a sign of health. Her eyes were fringed with the same dark lashes that made her daughter’s so arresting, but their color was hazel, a mix of green and gold that changed with the light.

  “Mom,” Lindsey said, “this is Detective Cameron. He’s a policeman.”

  Susan Merrill gave a faint gasp and jerked her hand back. She looked at her daughter, a brief, startled glance, but Alan thought he saw hope flare in her eyes when they came back to him, just before they changed again and grew shuttered and wary.

  “Well, my goodness, isn’t that nice,” she said, with a new vagueness that Alan thought didn’t quite ring true. She turned back toward the patio door, the gloves clutched in her hand fluttering with apparent agitation. “Lindsey, did you bring me pansies? You said you would bring me pansies.” Her voice was thin and high, like a child’s.

  “I brought you pansies yesterday.” Lindsey threw Alan a helpless look and went after her mother. “Mom, I told-”

  “Well, I used them all.” Now, the voice was clipped, impatient. “You can see-there, and there and there. And I need some more-for these pots, here, you see? I need-”

  “I’ll bring you some more pansies,” Lindsey said wearily. She gently removed the gloves and trowel from her mother’s hands and laid them on a wrought-iron patio table, then guided her into a matching chair. “Mom, I told Detective Cameron about your dreams. He wants-”

  Susan’s sharp bark of laughter interrupted her. “She thinks they’re dreams,” she said angrily to Alan. “They’re not dreams. They’re memories. Memories, Detective. I still have some, you know.” She looked away, swallowing repeatedly, hands moving restlessly on the wrought-iron tabletop, and after a moment came a whispered, “I can remember.”

  Alan sat in the other chair and leaned toward her, hands clasped loosely between his knees. “What do you remember, Susan?” he asked softly.

  She threw him a look full of fear and distrust and shook her head.

  Lindsey gave an exasperated hiss and opened her purse. She took out a small framed photograph, plunked it down on the tabletop in front of her mother, then crouched down beside her chair. “Tell him, Mom. Tell him who this is.”

  A look of loathing darkened Susan’s face. With jerky, uncoordinated movements, she turned the photograph face down on the table and pushed it away from her. “I know who you think it is,” she said bitterly. And then, to Alan, “She thinks I’m crazy. But I’m not. That man-the man in that picture-is the man who killed my husband. And me.”

  “Tried to kill you, Mama,” Lindsey said, as she settled into a more comfortable position on the patio pavers.

  “Whatever.” Susan waved that off as if it were a detail of no importance. “He shot me, Detective. I saw his face, as clearly as I see yours.” Then she hesitated, looking less sure. “Except…it was dark. I think. Yes-I’m certain it was dark-nighttime. But there was light on his face. I saw that face. And then he shot me. And-” She broke off, her face contorted with fear.

  “Tell me what you remember,” Alan prompted, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t jar her precarious emotional state. He put his hand over hers, quieting their restless movement. “It’s all right…you’re safe here.”

  Watching the way those forbidding features seemed to soften when he spoke to her mother, Lindsey felt a peculiar fluttering sensation inside her chest. How gentle he is. So patient with her.

  But, she reminded herself, he probably had plenty of practice in dealing with emotionally traumatized people. Just part of his job. A skill he’s perfected. His game face. Her eyes burned, and she tore them away from him and focused instead on a pot filled with blue and yellow pansies.

  Her mother glanced down at her with tear-filled eyes, then raised them once more to Alan. “I wish I could remember more. I try, but…just that. He shot me, and then…darkness. Cold. I remember being cold, and alone, and floating.” She looked up, face alight with triumph. “Yes! I remember floating. Cold, dark, alone…and floating. I think…I must have died. Don’t you think so, Detective? Isn’t that what death feels like?”

  Her eyes searched the detective’s austere features as if he must know the answer to that question, to one of humankind’s greatest mysteries, and Lindsey fought back a sob. Tears were streaming down her mother’s cheeks unchecked, as if she wasn’t even aware she was crying. Lindsey’s fingers wanted desperately to wipe the tears away. Her arms ached to gather her mother close and rock her like the child she was slowly but surely becoming. She forced herself to stay silent, to sit hunched and still at her mother’s feet.

  “What do you remember about the time before you were shot?” Alan asked.

  “I used to dream…” Her mother’s voice was musical, with no trace of the tears, and for a moment it seemed she must not have heard the softly spoken question. “I had dreams…nightmares…that’s what Richard said they were. ‘Just a bad dream, Susie, go back to sleep.’ That’s what he’d say, and so I did. And then…” She jerked upright. “One day, I realized it wasn’t a dream. I was remembering. Only…it was like I was remembering a different life.” Her eyes were wide and bewildered. “A life that wasn’t mine. I had a different name, a husband-oh, I can see his face so clearly. But I can’t remember his name. Or mine. I can’t remember my name.” And now at last a sob came, shaking her slender body like a buffeting wind.

  Lindsey drew her legs up, wrapped her arms around them and rested her forehead on her knees. And she heard Alan’s gentle voice ask: “Who is Jimmy?”

  And there was a gasp, quickly smothered, and laughter mixed with weeping. “Oh, yes, I remember him. I had a baby-no, he was older, but a child. A little boy. That was his name-Jimmy. His hair was dark, like mine, but he had such sweet curls. And his eyes were blue, like his father’s.”

  Lindsey jerked her head up at that-she couldn’t help it-but her mother’s eyes were still riveted on Alan Cameron, as she rocked herself back and forth, as if in the grip of unbearable agony.

  “What happened to them, do you know?” She asked it in a voice that was half sob, half whisper. “What happened to my husband…my Jimmy? Did they die, too? It must have been so long ago…but I feel it-” she touched her chest with a doubled fist “-it hurts so much. It hurts…as if it happened yesterday.”

  Alan shook his head slowly, but before he could reply, Susan
reached out to him, covered his hands with hers, then gripped them tightly. “Can you find them for me? Find out what happened to them? Please…I know I’m losing my mind. In a year…maybe two…I probably won’t even care. Before that happens, I just want to know. I want to know I’m not crazy.”

  Chapter 3

  The plans had been made long before. The boat, the darkness, the weights to take the bodies down. Everything went according to plan. Like clockwork.

  Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

  FBI Files, Restricted Access,

  Declassified 2010

  “So…what do you think? Is she crazy?”

  Lindsey’s voice, speaking aloud the words that had been playing over and over in his own mind, jerked Alan back to the here and now. “What?” he asked, surprised to find they were nearly back to where they’d parked their cars.

  She repeated it, her voice hardened by what he knew was only her attempt to mask an excess of emotion.

  “She seems lucid,” he said, knowing it sounded flat, uncaring-a shrug in words. But he had his own ways of masking what was going on inside.

  “She was having a very good day.” Lindsey’s lips tightened as she pressed the remote control in her hand. The Mercedes gave a welcoming chirp. She looked at him, squinting as the sun, already low in the west this early in November, struck her full in the face. And caught the look of skepticism he’d been careless enough to let show. “What? Do you think she’s faking? Look, I assure you,” she said, rushing on before he could reply, “she’s been evaluated by doctors-the best. We’ve gotten second opinions, and thirds. They’ve done tests.” She paused to draw a strengthening breath. “All agree she is in the early to middle stages of Alzheimer’s.”