Memory Hole

by Douglas Jern

  “Uh-huh, and what about the tower?” asked Zachary, confused.

  “The tower is where I am, Top. Neither too low nor too high. You can see farther than you can from down on the ground, but not so far that you lose sight of the little things. I’m in a position to tell the officers on the street not to make mountains out of molehills, and to remind the higher-ups that every molehill can be a mountain to someone. I can do more good where I am now than if I tried to climb any higher. You see where I’m coming from?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” said Zachary. He looked at Leo, who had begun searching the car with unabashed fervor, digging through a molehill of his very own. He sighed. “You know what I don’t get? Why did Captain Caulfield assign me to take care of Leo? You’d think he’d pick someone more qualified. You, for example. I’m not half the mentor you were to me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  “I’m sure he had his reasons,” said Maxwell. “If you ask me, I’d say it’s as much for your sake as for Leo’s.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe putting you together with an enthusiastic youth like Leo is a way to remind you of the energy you used to have. A chance to see your present with fresh eyes.”

  “Is that how you felt when you were mentoring me?”

  “Exactly. I try to keep an open mind with all young detectives I train, and I often find that they have almost as much to teach me as I them. I think you might discover the same thing with Leo.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Zachary after a moment’s reflection. He had to admit that there were times when Leo’s optimism, though it often bordered on naivete, could be infectious. Maybe there was hope for Zachary yet, if he just accepted it.

  “Well, I assume you can take care of things here, so I’m taking off,” said Maxwell and stretched his back. “Good talking to you, Top.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “No problem. See you around.”

  Zachary watched Maxwell walk away, then turned back to the crime scene. As he took the first step towards the Ferrari, a voice called out to him.

  “Excuse me.”

  He turned around and stood face to face with a bearded man wearing a wrinkled jacket, jeans, and a trilby, clutching a notepad in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other. He was leaning forward over the yellow tape as if he were eager to take in every detail of the scene in front of him. Oh great, press. Why hadn’t Maxwell shooed them away already?

  “Are you in charge of this case? May I ask your name?”

  The reporter clicked his ballpoint pen and peered at Zachary, who decided to brush him off politely but firmly.

  “Detective Zachary Zimmerman,” he said, producing his ID from his shirt pocket. “I’m sorry, but I can’t make any comments at this time. If you would excuse me, I have to get to work. Good day.”

  The reporter inched forward, ballpoint pen poised like a harpoon over the notepad, ready to spear whatever tasty morsel might show itself.

  “Has there been a murder? Do you have a suspect? I heard you arrested someone here not long ago. Is he the perpetrator? Would you say you caught him red-handed?”

  Zachary clenched his fists at his sides and felt a muscle under his right eye twitch. “I told you, buddy: no comment. Now beat it. Some of us have work to do.”

  He walked over to Leo without paying the reporter any further notice.

  “Find anything?”

  “Nothing so far, sir,” said Leo with a frown. “No license, no registration, nothing.”

  “Did you check the trunk?” asked Zachary while he put on his gloves.

  “Yep, nothing but a lug wrench, a couple of blankets, and a first-aid kit.” Leo sighed. “Guess we’re stuck, huh?”

  “Don’t say that. Did you look under the seats?”

  Leo slapped his forehead. “Oh man, I can’t believe I forgot!”

  Zachary bent down and ran a hand under the driver’s seat. About halfway through, his hand brushed against something. He worked his fingers around it and fished it out. It was a wallet made of black leather.

  “Well,” he said, holding the wallet up before Leo’s face, “you’re lucky I was here. You could have missed out on an important clue. First rule of detective work, kid. You always gotta check everywhere. Guess they didn’t teach that at college, did they?”

  Leo hung his shoulders. He looked absolutely crestfallen, and Zachary realized he might have gone a bit too far. How many times had he himself screwed up as a new recruit? Too damn many to count. How many times had Maxwell demoralized him with sarcastic comments? Not even once.

  “Look,” he said, not sure how to continue. Leo looked up at him with a forlorn expression. “Life throws you curveballs all the time. But hey, at least you learned something, right? What’s the first rule of detective work?”

  “Always check everywhere?” said Leo. He seemed to have cheered up a little, and Zachary thought he might yet get something out of this mentor thing after all.

  “Attaboy,” he said and gave Leo a light thump on the shoulder. “Now, let’s see what we got here.”

  Zachary opened the wallet and thumbed through its contents. There was a considerable amount of cash, but no credit cards. Whoever owned this wallet preferred to shop anonymously. Among the dollar bills was a folded piece of paper. Zachary unfolded it and read:

  On August 7, 10 AM,

  stop near 7-Eleven west of Rivertree Park.

  Exit your vehicle and wait.

  Do not be late.

  H.M.

  The note was typed and printed on ordinary paper. No letterhead, no name, no handwritten signature. Just the message, and the initials “H. M.” They didn’t ring a bell.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” muttered Zachary.

  “You think this note was for the victim?” said Leo, peering at the piece of paper.

  “Looks that way,” said Zachary. “Someone wanted him to come here at ten today. As soon as he shows up, Jeffrey Greenwood beats him to death.”

  “It can’t be a coincidence,” said Leo.

  “Still a bit early to say,” said Zachary, rifling through the remaining bills in the wallet. “But it’s definitely fishy… Oh, what’s this?”

  Tucked away between two twenties was a receipt. It had been crumpled up, as if the wallet’s owner had shoved it in there in a hurry. Zachary smoothed it out.

  “Himdad’s Kebab and Falafel,” he read. “From last night. Well, well…”

  “You know the place, sir?” asked Leo.

  “You could say that.”

  Zachary smiled. It looked like the morning wasn’t going to be a complete waste, after all. He had found a lead.

  11:28 – Laura

  “He did what?!”

  The sudden exclamation sent Julius leaping off the couch and dashing out the cat-flap like a furry bullet. Julius was quite literally a scaredy cat who hated sudden noises and would flee the house at the slightest provocation. He was often the first to greet visitors ringing the doorbell—if cannonballing between their feet so fast they nearly fell over could be considered a greeting.

  She’d promised to look after him and feed him while Brianna was in the hospital with a burst appendix, an unexpected disaster that had struck right in the middle of the dress rehearsal for her troupe’s contemporary reimagining of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. A slight complication during surgery had landed Brianna in the hospital bed for at least a week, leaving Laura with the ungrateful task of looking after her paranoid pet.

  Paranoia was a trait the cat shared with his master; Brianna would sometimes get up in the middle of the night and walk through each room of the house to check for intruders, and always slept with a loaded gun in the drawer of her bedside table. Taking care of Julius while his eccentric owner was indisposed, but never too unwell to call home to assure herself that the house was still standing, would have been taxing enough under normal circumstances.

  But right now, Laura Greenwood
couldn’t care less about the neurotic disposition of the housecat. Her brother had been arrested and charged with murder. This was going to be one hell of a day.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to keep your voice down a bit, miss.”

  The man on the phone, a police officer with the unlikely name of John Doe, spoke calmly. He probably dealt with this kind of mess every day. Laura didn’t envy him, but neither did she have the patience to be considerate. Still, working herself into a frenzy would not help her brother, and her brother needed her right now. She took a deep breath, readjusting her grip on the phone.

  “I’m sorry. This is all just very sudden.”

  “I understand, Ms. Greenwood,” said Doe. “As I was saying, your brother is in police custody. We caught him beating a guy to death in the street. You may want to get in touch with a lawyer. Your brother says he doesn’t know any and that he wanted to talk to you first.”

  “Can I talk to him?” Laura was gripping the phone so tightly her hand was starting to ache. It took all her willpower to stop herself from shouting in frustration.

  “Sure. I just thought I’d give you a quick rundown before putting him on the line.”

  “How considerate of you,” Laura said through gritted teeth.

  Officer Doe excused himself, and in his place came a stream of easy-listening music. Letting the music wash over her and turn her brain to mush, Laura looked around the house, seeing the paraphernalia of everyday existence without taking anything in. Brianna’s sturdy old coat hanger in the corner, festooned with sets of spare costumes and wigs, usually a point of bitter contention between Laura and Brianna—the former demanding to stow it away somewhere where it wouldn’t be such an eyesore, the latter insisting on keeping it where it was for ease of access—was now merely a multicolor blur in the background. Brianna tended to win any arguments about the hanger by storming off in a cloud of indignant rage and locking herself in her bedroom, which as far as arguments went was cheating. Laura wouldn’t have minded one of those arguments right now, anything to bring some sense of normalcy back to a world that had suddenly turned on its head. She glanced at the tall chair next to the kitchen counter but dismissed the idea of sitting down. There was no way she could sit down at a time like this. She wanted to be on the move, to act.

  The awful music went quiet, and the line clicked.

  “Lo?”

  Jeffrey’s voice, calling her by the nickname he had used since before he could even walk, sounded small in the sudden silence. For a fraction of a second, Laura was a child again, hearing the voice of her kid brother crying out in fear. A memory, buried deep inside her mind, dislodged itself. It rose in her consciousness like a cloud eclipsing the sun. A vision of bright red on porcelain white, scattered shards of broken glass.

  Breathe one word of this to anyone, and I swear…

  No. She couldn’t go there now. She shook her head and came back to the present.

  “I’m here, Jeff. How are you holding up?”

  “Lo, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did it. I was just walking down the street, just like any other day, and then the guy was there and I… It felt as if my mind split in two, Lo. Like reality wasn’t… real. Oh God, I can still see his face!”

  Jeffrey’s voice broke, and he started to sob.

  Laura was alarmed. Ever since they’d moved out of their childhood home, relieved to be free, Jeffrey had maintained an impenetrable façade, seldom letting any strong emotion show in his expression or voice. Laura could probably see through him if she so wished, but she always refrained from prying, out of respect. She knew that he extended the same courtesy to her. Even people sharing a bond as peculiar as theirs required some modicum of privacy.

  “Jeff, I need you to pull yourself together, okay? I’ll try to get over there as soon as I can. We’ll get through this together, okay?”

  While she was talking, she could hear Jeffrey’s sobs subsiding. When she had finished, Jeffrey took a deep breath and spoke.

  “Okay, I’m calm now. Thank you, Lo.”

  “Tell me what happened, Jeff. Tell me you didn’t do it.” It was hard to keep the urgency out of her voice. She didn’t want to upset Jeffrey, but she couldn’t believe he was a killer. She had to hear it from him.

  “I…” Jeffrey sounded uncertain. “I don’t know what’s real. Something happened to me. I can’t explain what. It felt kind of like…” His voice trailed off. Laura realized she was biting her fingernails and thrust her hand down her pocket. She wished she could peek into Jeffrey’s mind, just this once, and see what went on in there. But with nothing but his voice over the phone to go by, she was at a loss.

  “I’ll come visit you as soon as possible. Don’t lose hope, Jeff. Okay?”

  “Okay, Lo. Please get here soon.”

  “Like a shot. I love you, Jeff.”

  “I love you too, Lo.” His voice was cracking again, but he seemed to be keeping his composure. Old habits die hard, indeed.

  She hung up and let out a shaking breath. If only she could speak to him in person. She had to know what was on his mind, even if it meant picking at old scars they’d promised to leave alone.

  If someone had asked Laura when she and Jeffrey had discovered their telepathic connection, she would be hard-pressed to give a precise answer. To her, it seemed like it had always been there. Yet there was one episode that might as well be considered the beginning of their odd mental bond.

  It was a few days after Jeffrey’s sixth birthday. They had been drawing, sitting side by side at the kitchen table with a heap of paper and crayons scattered between them, and Laura had been wondering to herself where the purple crayon was. Before she could ask out loud, Jeffrey ducked under the table and returned with the crayon in his hand.

  “It was on the floor, Lo,” he said in his usual soft-spoken manner. Laura took the crayon, and as her fingers brushed against her brother’s, the knowledge came to her in a flash that made her blink.

  A few minutes earlier, she had reached for the blue crayon, and accidentally brushed the purple one off the table with her arm. Jeffrey had seen it happen, and now she saw the event in his thoughts as words and images that floated around his head. It was like Jeffrey had an animated comic book thought balloon streaming out from his head, showing through a fuzzy filter how Laura dropped the crayon. With a burgeoning feeling of excitement, she decided to test him. Test herself, for that matter.

  “Jeff, what number am I thinking of right now?” She picked the number three, focusing on it, picturing the round curves before her, while looking at Jeffrey to see if he would get it. He peered at her through half-closed eyelids, eyebrows drawn, mouth clenched, his face a picture of deep concentration, or, if one wanted to be mean, constipation.

  “Three!” he said, almost jumping up from the chair.

  They took turns guessing each other’s thoughts and found that they always knew what the other was thinking, every time. The crayons lay forgotten on the kitchen table. Laura and Jeffrey had found something more interesting to do.

  At first, they had treated their newfound ability as a game. It did not take them long to discover that it was easier to read each other’s thoughts the closer they were, and especially if they were looking each other in the eye. The further apart they were, the quieter the thoughts became, like the TV when you turned down the volume. They could sometimes pick up thoughts from their friends, and more often from their parents, Anita and David. Most of the time, their parents’ grown-up thoughts were a mystery to them, full of long and difficult words that they couldn’t understand, the blurry thought balloons impenetrable and confusing.

  Some things, however, are painfully clear even to a young mind.

  It was Jeffrey who first discovered that their mother was having an affair. The whole family had been in the car on the way home from Laura’s soccer game one day in late July. It had been a sunny day with a mild southern breeze; a perfect day for outdoor sports. Neither Laura nor Jeffrey co
uld have imagined that by the end of the day, their family would be ruined forever. Blissfully unaware of the future ahead of them, Jeffrey had been on the verge of dozing off in the back seat when he suddenly jerked awake.

  “Mommy, why are you thinking about kissing Coach Bentley with no clothes on? That’s gross!”

  Anita, who’d just been about to turn left onto the street where they lived, almost crashed the car. She swerved this way and that before regaining control and pulling over by the sidewalk. Steadying her trembling hands, she turned to Jeffrey.

  “Jeffrey, baby, you’re half asleep. You must have been dreaming,” she said, trying to laugh it off, but one look at David’s leaden expression was enough to know that he was not going to let this slide. He was a big man of few words, sitting in his seat straight as a ruler and still as a statue, a terracotta soldier with a buzz cut, his gaze fixed directly ahead.

  “We’ll talk about this later, Anita. Now drive.”

  Anita drove them the rest of the way home in an uncomfortable silence. Laura had probed her mother’s mind during the ride home and had seen some diffuse images of a man who might have been Drew Bentley, the coach of her soccer team. At any rate, it wasn’t David. Laura hastily left her mother’s mind, wishing she’d never seen what went on in there.

  Their parents argued that night, behind the closed kitchen door, their voices rising into shouts. Laura and Jeffrey huddled together in the corner of Laura’s room, as far away from the kitchen as they could get. It didn’t help a lot. Worse than their parents’ shouting was their angry thoughts, which radiated from the kitchen, unimpeded by walls and doors, straight into Laura’s and Jeffrey’s minds. The waves of betrayal, anger and disgust were like a flood that threatened to drown them.