The Memory Killer

by J. A. Kerley

  “Donnie left Prestwick behind a mirror store?” Gershwin said.

  “A discount mirror outlet, every size and shape of mirror you could ever want.”

  “Meaning?”

  I pushed aside the mess on my desk to give me a place to rest my heels. “Donnie knows. I don’t. Appearance, mirror to the soul, a reflection of whatever. It may make no sense to us even if we knew what it meant to him.”

  “You said he’s changing shape?”

  “His madness is changing shape. Something spurred him into extreme violence, and he liked it.”

  “Enough that his next move is cutting out a man’s tongue?”

  “Violence is replacing sex, or they’re now the same. He’s probably getting more release from suffering than sex.”

  “Donnie took Prestwick, tore off his face, and dumped him. He kept him what, sahib … thirty-something hours?”

  I blew out a breath. “The more violence, the less time he needs to keep them.”

  “Concentrated thrills. You have my next question figured out, right, Big Ryde?”

  I pulled my feet from the desk and leaned forward, nodding at Gershwin.

  “Donnie’s next step, Zigs? It’s when he discovers that murder is the ultimate thrill.”

  Debro was in the second bedroom of his apartment, the room he’d filled with flasks, bottles, a water-cooled condenser and a compact centrifuge, all ordered from Edmund Scientific three years ago, before he moved closer to Miami. The few chemicals he needed were simple, set off no alarms, and were easy to acquire.

  He pulled the propane burner from the base of the flask and checked the output from the condenser: fourteen cc’s of yellowish fluid, the product of ten pounds of the seeds and inner bark of black locust trees, extracted via centrifuge, unnecessary adjuncts precipitated out, the remainder distilled to a concentration containing the glycoside robitin, and the alkaloid robinine, both toxic, the solution ready for final filtration.

  Debro wore a respirator over his mouth, nose and eyes. Connections could not be perfect in his makeshift lab, and a sniff of vapor would turn his muscles to rubber and he’d puke the floor, shit his pants and pass out. When he awakened hours later he’d be nearly unable to stand, and for days would feel like he’d been hit by a train.

  That was the black locust. A single drop of his jimson weed extract – seven hours of work to turn a bushel of leaves and stems into a half-ounce of extract – and a brain would generate pictures that made nightmares look like Disney cartoons.

  The dieffenbachia? Chew it like gum and pretty soon all you could do was make a croaking sound. Getting to its essence was an old-school process: run the leaves through a food processor, put the mush into alcohol until the active chemical leached into the C2H6O, then process it to a kind of syrup with just enough viscosity to flow, a single drop turning your voice into a cold croak in minutes.

  Debro knew this all from experience: he’d been his own lab rat.

  He only tried the smallest doses for himself … he wasn’t crazy. And he hadn’t had anything else to do back then but gain knowledge. But his pursuit had needed a larger sampling of effects, allowing him to gauge results from flu-like illness to incapacitation all the way to … well, the ultimate overload.

  Luckily, Florida was chock-full of lab rats available for experimentation. He’d known many of them by name and exactly where they lived or hid. They were called illegal immigrants. The indocumentados.

  Debro had conducted his special experiments many months ago, his sombrero-topped lab rats supplying the major input in dosages of his magic potion. It took under a week to discover the outside parameters … from mild sickness up to death. You basically just averaged the two extremes.

  Olé! he thought with a smile. A very instructive week. Gracias amigos!

  Debro decanted the black locust extract into a small bottle, ready to mix with the other compounds. If he knew his quarry – weight, age and fitness level – he could pre-fill the dropper with his mixture and not have to go to a bar’s bathroom and make adjustments on the fly.

  Or, like Prestwick, Debro could knock him unconscious outside his home, jam a needle in a thigh, hold him down when he came to, sick and terrified. You put more in a syringe because you wanted them to drop fast. A bar you wanted sick first, frozen throat, then the visions. You watched them clutch their bellies and run to the bathroom. If circumstance allowed, you could control from there. Or wait until they went home and simply climb in a window or break down the door. By then they were usually sprawled on the floor in their own puke and swatting the air or picking invisible things from their skin.

  And when they regained consciousness, days later, their memories were empty. It was a triumph. And the triumphs would soon continue.

  Debro set a syringe and a dropper on a white mouse pad on his table, his staging area. He closed his eyes and ran a picture of his quarry through his head, a recent photo: 155–165 pounds. He’d average the weight and load his equipment for 160 pounds.

  Debro picked up the syringe and felt a tingle of delight. He would soon have another.

  All that remained was gauging the punishment.

  Patrick White stared at the mask of bandages covering the former face of Billy Prestwick. Throughout the morning various specialists had been in, cosmetological surgeons, mainly, carefully peeling back the dressings to study the area. Several of the seasoned physicians had winced when beholding the damage. They retreated to the hall where Patrick heard them talking in low tones, comparing the relative merits of several procedures.

  Billy was starting to have moments of consciousness, though he was heavily sedated. When Patrick asked Dr Costa why Billy was coming around while the others had taken much longer, he’d speculated since Billy had only been kept for three days, his abductor hadn’t pumped so much of the incapacitating mix into him. The others had been dosed for days longer, the toxins accumulating over time.

  “Ohhh fuuu-ck,” Billy moaned, a tube-laden arm reaching toward his face. Patrick stopped the hand, set it back on the sheet, patted it.

  “It’s me, Patrick. You’re in the hospital and you’re safe.”

  “Ha’ happ’n?” Prestwick said, recognizable words: What happened? Patrick breathed out in relief, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath. It was the first indication Billy was returning to Billy. That was both good and bad.

  “You were, uh, kidnapped, Billy. Like the others. But you’re alive and back safe and sound.”

  “K’nap?”

  “The others were gone for a week or more. You came back after three. Guess he got tired of you.”

  The hand started to rise again, Patrick holding it tighter.

  “Hap’n face?” Prestwick asked. “Cn’t see.”

  “Your eyes are fine, Billy. The monster beat you up a bit. Just rest, right? Get better and we’ll get you back to barhopping in no time, right?”

  “uh, uh … y cn’t I tlk?” Why can’t I talk?

  Patrick closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling his eyes well with tears. Now was not the time to tell Billy he had no lips.

  “It’s the bandages, buddy. Don’t talk. Just relax. Sleep and get better.”

  Prestwick’s head rolled to the side, worn out by the effort of communicating. His breath settled into the rhythm of sleep and a slight snore rattled from the dark mouth-hole of the dressings. Patrick set Billy’s hand on the bed, choked back his emotions, wiped his eyes on his shoulders, and stopped in the bathroom to rinse his face with cold water. He looked at himself in the mirror and made a bright smile rise to his face. He slapped his cheeks to make them remember the smile’s shape.

  Time to go to work. It would be a long day.

  42

  Prestwick’s story was too grisly to cover up. Though the depth of the horror was not conveyed – “extensive facial wounds” was the phrase repeated by radio and television newscasters – the story was widely disseminated. I knew that a man with three TV monitors in his room could
n’t miss seeing the story.

  Rather than call, I went to the shop. Jonathan sat behind the counter, staring disconsolately at a stack of video games as he stuck price tags on the cases. It was the first time I’d seen him without the knit cap, his dark hair highlighted with green.

  “I’ll be damned,” I said, trying to lighten the kid’s long face. “I thought you were born in that hat, never took it off.”

  “Gary wants to be alone,” he said. “He shut me off this morning, first time ever.”

  It was an odd remark, but I chalked it up to the kid’s eccentricities. “You look down, Jonathan,” I said as I walked to the counter. Save for me and Jonathan, the store was empty.

  “Gary’s acting like he used to. He makes me run to fast-food joints. He had three bags of McNuggets for breakfast. Not that I’ll be doing it much longer.”

  It sounded like the long-time clerk was thinking of quitting. “C’mon, bud,” I said, “don’t give up on him. He needs friends more than anything.”

  “It ain’t that. Look.”

  Jonathan tapped the keyboard on the checkout counter, then turned the monitor my way. It’s an industry e-newsletter. This is in the advertising section.”

  I leaned close to the page and read a block of text highlighted in a red box.

  RENOWNED COMIC-BOOK SHOP FOR IMMEDIATE SALE

  An established South Florida comic-book store with an international reputation and sideline in games is immediately available as a turnkey operation. Over $385,000 in current inventory (prices conservatively estimated), 1900-sq-ft store has same-sized full living quarters above and is for sale or lease, with excellent terms. Superbly maintained building is priced 20% below market value for quick sale.

  This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer for the serious collector who has always dreamed of owning a business. Owner must leave business for health reasons.

  No reasonable offer refused.

  The reply address was a Gmail account. “That’s Gary’s addy?” I asked.

  “He’s got fourteen of them, last count. He never uses this one, but I knew about it. The description can only be this place.”

  “I want to talk to him, Jonathan,” I said, looking for the hidden cameras. I’d caught glimpses of the video feed on Gary’s upstairs monitors and saw the camera swing to catch the forensics techs when they’d entered.

  “He don’t wanna talk to anyone, not you, not customers. Like I said, he even shut me off.”

  “Tell him I’m down here.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever.”

  I walked to the front window. The surveillance had changed position to the far side of the street. When I turned back, Jonathan had slipped the hat back on and was staring at me. I jumped as speakers in the walls bloomed with Gary Ocampo’s voice.

  “I don’t want to talk today, Detective Ryder.” He sounded defeated.

  “Gary …”

  “Go away. Please just … go away. I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

  “If it’s about Scott … that’s just life, Gary. If I had to count the times I’ve hit on women who shut me down, I’d need an accountant.”

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t do ANYTHING! What I TRIED TO DO WAS …” he stopped.

  “Was what?”

  “I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO THE POLICE. I CAN’T.”

  “I’m not here as a cop, Gary. I’m here as a friend.”

  “YEAH? HOW LONG IS THAT GONNA LAST, YOU THINK?”

  “We have to talk, Gary. It’s about Donnie.”

  I heard his voice break down. “I’m … shutting you off, Detective. Turning my monitor off. For the last time, go away and leave me alone.”

  I looked at Jonathan, cocking his head like listening for the buzz of the mics. “Gary’s gone. He shut it all down.”

  “Can I elevator up to see him?”

  “Not unless he wants. He turns the downstairs off when he wants to be alone.”

  “He get depressed like this often? This kind of mood?”

  “I been working for Gary for six years, since I was seventeen. He used to get sad or crabby a lot. Some days he’d just lay up there and watch TV and eat. Then he hooked up with that weight thing at the university.”

  “A change?”

  “He started to lighten up. Both ways. No more bags of White Castles and football-sized burritos. People visited at night, y’know … heavy people working on their shit together. I was sometimes still here and heard people laughing. It was cool. Not only did Gary go out for group meetings, he even wanted to … he got all excited the last few months.”

  I rapped the counter with my knuckles and flicked a wave. I was halfway out the door when Jonathan called, “Detective?” I turned.

  “He likes you,” the kid said. “You think maybe you could talk him outta selling the place? I mean, like when he gets outta this pissy mood?”

  “He’d know you found out he was selling the biz, maybe get pissed off.”

  “If he stays in business he needs me to run the place. I know everything that goes on, stuff even Gary don’t know I know. It’s like it’s my place, too.”

  “Gary ever talk to you about his dreams, Jonathan? About going to Rio?”

  “He never told me. But it comes in the mail, the travel brochures and cruise stuff. All that Brazil and Rio stuff. It started back when he was doing that group thing with the weight. I think he sends for the same stuff over and over just because he likes getting it.”

  I retreated from the shop more worried about Gary Ocampo than when I’d entered. Behind the anger was a deep sense of depression, like his world was falling down a rat hole and there was no way to save it. It seemed his fingersnap decision to sell the shop was, like the broken diet, a form of running away.

  I turned down the block and walked past the FCLE surveillance team, saw Michael Rasmussen and Terry Longo hunkered down in a gray van with AAA Appliance Repair on the side, every day a new vehicle. I paused a half-dozen feet from the cruiser and put my foot on a hydrant, pretending to tie my shoe.

  “How’s it going, boys?” I said, barely moving my lips.

  “Like watching paint dry,” Rasmussen said from behind a newspaper. “How about you bag this fucker so we can live somewhere besides a tin can?”

  “You’re getting paid to sit on your ass and watch pretty girls walk by,” I said. “How bad could it be?”

  “I’ll let you know when we see our first pretty girl.”

  I spun back toward the Rover and climbed inside. I was figuring out my next move when my phone rang. It was Jeremy. I pulled into the corner of a seedy car-wash lot, not wanting to yell at my dashboard, and took out my cell. “I’m in my car,” I said. “How about I get somewhere quiet and you can fill me in.”

  “I like to look at those with whom I consult. It’s a professional courtesy.”

  “No time, Jeremy, I’m—”

  “I can work you in tomorrow. Same time as last time, and no stopping in bars.”

  He hung up. I called Gershwin and said I had private business to deal with and it would take all of tomorrow. Then I drove to Matecumbe and sat on my deck and watched Mr Mix-up romp and roll in the yard, deciding there were worse things to be than a dog.

  43

  The next morning I hit Key West at ten a.m., stopping for a cup of coffee at a diner by the docks. My brother had actively returned to my life days ago and was already dancing me around like his private puppet.

  I forswore jumping the gate for a more formal entrance. He opened the door in a white linen shirt, sky-blue slacks and tan bucks and I stepped inside. “When do the plumbers arrive?” I asked.

  “Plumbers?”

  “Or the roofers. Or the crew that’s gonna rewire every lamp in the joint.”

  He pulled an iPhone from his pocket, tapped the calendar and studied for moment. “No one’s working on the house today, Carson. Some furniture is being delivered this afternoon, that’s all.”

  “Will your girlfriend be here to supervise?”r />
  A pause. “Is she supposed to?”

  “It’s what women do, Jeremy. Point and say, ‘I want the couch here.’ When the couch is there, they study it for a few seconds and say, ‘No, I think it’s better over here.’ This goes on for an hour or so, then it’s time to position a table. If you’re going to invent a girlfriend, Jeremy, you need to know how they act.”

  He thought a moment. “Do they really do that?”

  I nodded. “It’s genetic, something to do with nesting.”

  His lips pursed and his brow furrowed; my brother was truly intrigued. “Fascinating, Carson. I’ll watch for signs.”

  I checked my watch to emphasize my hurry for the information. “You asked me here for a reason, right? Your take on Donnie Ocampo?”

  He put his hand on my shoulder and turned me toward the rear of the house. “Let’s repair to the backyard, Carson. Care for a libation?”

  A minute later we were in the large courtyard, lemonade for my brother, sweet tea for me. We sat at a thick glass-topped table beneath drifting palms, a wall of vines and orchids at our backs. Jeremy had the file on the table, waiting. He folded his hands under his chin.

  “The whole affair is a discord, Carson. It’s out of tune.”

  “I need more than that.”

  “You’ve concluded Donnie’s angry at El Blimpo. So why doesn’t he show it?”

  “Didn’t you read the reports? The phone call about Gary’s issues, the threatening letter.” I did the hands-as-mask thing. “The mask at the window?”

  My brother rolled his eyes. “Goofy faces at the window? An angry man would toss a brick through the glass. Or fire a shotgun through it. And only one call from Donnie to his hated brother? Why not buy a burner phone, make a vehement call, toss it out and buy another? Why not a call a day? An hour? Where’s Donnie’s hate, Carson? His need to punish Gravy Ocampo for being a disgusting bag of lard?”