The Murderer's Memories

by T. S. Nichols

  They were nearing the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel now, heading for New Jersey along with a few hundred other cars. “Back to square one, then?” Cole asked, though he didn’t expect an answer.

  Chapter 6

  ONE DAY, FOUR HOURS AFTER THE FIRST BOMBING

  Half an hour after exiting the Lincoln Tunnel, Cole and Ed found themselves driving through a beautiful, quiet New Jersey suburb. Every house seemed to have a yard as big as a New York City playground and, to Cole’s city-worn eyes, every yard had grass as green as Yankee Stadium.

  “I picked the wrong career,” Ed said as they drove slowly past massive house after massive house.

  “No,” Cole replied, “your dad picked the wrong career. It takes more than one generation to make it to a place like this.” They kept driving. Cole stared out the window. He looked at every house, at every yard, at every tree in every yard. This was Faith’s hometown. Cole wondered how much it had changed since she was a child. He reminded himself that it couldn’t have changed that much. After all, it hadn’t been too long ago that she was running around in these yards, visiting, laughing, growing, learning. He tried to take in every detail, unsure of which one might be the spark that ignited the woman’s memories.

  Ed knew not to speak anymore. He knew what Cole was doing. He could see it in his partner’s eyes. Cole was searching for memories. Ed looked at the clock. They still had ten minutes before they were supposed to be at Faith’s old house, ten minutes before they were supposed to meet Faith’s parents. It definitely wasn’t the type of meeting that you showed up early for. So, instead, Ed slowed the car down even more. He wanted to give Cole as much time as he could to soak it all in.

  They were barely moving now. At first Cole couldn’t tell if they were driving slower or if he’d simply slipped into a memory. Time had its own rules inside of memories. Then Cole’s concentration was broken by the sound of a car horn blaring at them. “Shit,” Ed said, looking in his rearview mirror. An unfortunate Lexus, driven by a middle-aged woman with dyed blond hair, had gotten stuck behind them as they tried to prod Cole’s brain for memories. He pulled the car over to let the woman pass them.

  “Let’s just get to Faith’s house,” Cole said to Ed when they pulled back into the street.

  They were only two turns away. Cole thought that he’d recognize the house once they got close to it, but he didn’t. He was actually surprised when Ed stopped the car. “You sure this is it?” he asked, staring up at the large white house.

  “Unless they gave me the wrong address, this is the place.” The front of the house had large curtained windows facing the yard and the street. Cole saw one of the curtains move to the side and caught a glimpse of a woman’s face peeking out. Then the curtain fell back into place. “Are you ready to go in?” Ed asked.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Cole answered as he opened the door.

  Once out of the car, Cole breathed in deeply. He was trying to smell the air and feel it entering his lungs. Even if the smell and feel of the air didn’t trigger memories now, they would eventually become part of the extraction. The aroma of trees and freshly mowed grass did begin to trigger memories, but Cole pushed them aside because they were all old memories, ones he had recalled before, memories that had belonged to another dead stranger but that were now as much a part of Cole as his own memories were. In that moment, seconds away from meeting the parents of a woman who was either the first victim of a horrible crime or the crime’s perpetrator, he wanted those memories. They were pastoral and peaceful and beautiful. He was happy to still have them. He didn’t have time for them now, though.

  Cole and Ed began walking along the stone path leading toward the front door. Cole reminded himself that these parents gave up their daughter’s memories for this investigation. They gave up their last chance to see the world through her eyes, to be with her again and again, to learn from her. They gave all that up because they wanted to help however they could. “Because our daughter would have wanted it that way,” Cole was told the mother had said. They wanted to help. They thought their daughter’s memories would help the police to find out why it happened. They were looking for meaning. They didn’t know their daughter was a suspect.

  It was a long walk from the car to the front door. “They know we’re here,” Cole said to Ed as they approached the door.

  “Do you want to knock or should I?” Ed said.

  What were the odds that Faith had ever knocked on her own door? Maybe now that she was older? What were the odds that she didn’t have her own key to her childhood home? No, knocking wasn’t likely to bring back any memories, but something else might. “You can do it,” Cole said to Ed. “But don’t knock. Ring the doorbell.”

  Ed pushed the doorbell with his thumb. Cole listened. Chimes began to echo inside the house. Even through the door, he could hear the sound reverberating, like wind chimes after a gale. This must have been the sound the house made when Faith had friends over when she was a girl. Cole waited for the rush of memories. And he waited. And then the front door opened.

  A tall, lean man stood in the doorway. He was wearing brown corduroy pants and a navy blue sweater. He wasn’t wearing shoes, and his white athletic socks showed beneath the cuff of his pants. “Mr. Williams?” Ed gave Cole a moment to look the man over, then stretched out his hand.

  “Yes,” the man said, meeting Ed’s hand with his own. “Come on in.” After shaking Ed’s hand, Mr. Williams extended his hand to Cole. Cole hesitated for a moment. “You must be the Memory Detective,” Mr. Williams said.

  Cole finally reached out and shook the man’s hand. “My name is Cole.”

  Now it was the man’s turn to look Cole up and down, this grown man who had recently come into possession of his deceased daughter’s memories. He looked worn and tired. He also looked like he had a million questions, so many that he couldn’t pick one to ask. “You can call me Carl,” he said to them instead.

  “Would you like us to take our shoes off?” Ed said as he entered the house.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Carl said. “My wife—” Carl stopped as if he didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

  Ed slipped his shoes off. Cole leaned down and began to untie his own. “Is your wife here?” he asked while looking away from Faith’s father.

  “She is,” Carl said. “She plans on coming down. She just needed a minute.”

  “We understand,” Ed told him. Cole finished untying his shoes and slipped them off his feet. He wondered how long they had known, when exactly they found out that their daughter was no more.

  “Can I get either of you anything? Something to drink?” Carl’s voice wavered as he tried to hold it together.

  “No,” Ed told him. “You don’t have to do anything like that.” Carl led them into the dining room so that they could all sit at the table. The house was like a small palace. Even though Ed was doing all the talking, Carl kept glancing furtively back at Cole. Meanwhile, Cole stared at Carl and still nothing came to him.

  “I haven’t remembered anything yet,” Cole said to Carl without taking his eyes off of him as they took seemingly random seats at the table.

  “Huh?” Carl was caught off guard by the statement.

  “I know you’re wondering,” Cole said to him. “You’re wondering what I know about your daughter’s life—what I know about your life—but I haven’t remembered anything yet. Have you ever done a memory transfer?” Cole asked Carl.

  “No,” Carl replied. “My little sister inherited my mother’s memories. My father didn’t want to burden anyone with his.”

  “What about your wife? Has she ever inherited someone else’s memories?”

  Carl shook his head. “No.”

  “Well, sometimes it takes a bit of time for the memories to come. That’s particularly true if you didn’t know the person whose memories you’ve inherited.”

  Carl nodded to show that he understood.

  “That’s why we’re here,”
Ed said to Carl. “We’re hoping to speed up the process, to make your daughter’s memories come quicker since we don’t have a lot of time.”

  “She had nothing to do with the bombing,” Carl blurted out. “You must at least know that, right?”

  “We don’t know anything yet,” Cole answered him. “We’re here trying to figure everything out.”

  “She was a sweet, caring girl,” Carl said, tears welling up in his eyes. “She cared about people. She cared about everyone.”

  “Were you close to her?” Ed asked. “Even after she graduated college and moved to the city?”

  “Yes,” Carl said. “We saw her at least once a month. She came home every few weeks and we’d also go into the city to have dinner with her.”

  “Did anything change recently? Did she begin to act differently in any way?”

  Carl shook his head. “I feel like I’ve had this conversation before. There’s nothing.”

  Ed was asking the right questions, the appropriate ones based on the facts. But he wasn’t asking anything that was going to be of any use to Cole. It wasn’t facts that Cole needed. He kept staring at Carl, listening to the sound of Carl’s voice. “Did you have a nickname for your daughter?” Cole asked.

  Carl stared back at Cole. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “A nickname? What did you call her when she was growing up?”

  A woman’s voice came from the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen. “He used to call her Bunny.” Everyone looked up. Faith’s mother stood before them, a glass of water in her hand. She looked at Cole. “Did you know you’re sitting in my daughter’s seat?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Cole answered, though he knew that when Carl led them to the table, he wouldn’t have considered picking a different one.

  “We bought this table when she was nine. We chose our seats the first night we brought it home and never strayed, not even for a night.”

  Cole turned back toward Carl. “Can I hear you say it?” he said.

  “What do you want me to say?” Carl asked, confused.

  “Bunny,” Cole said. “Try to say it like you would have said it to her.”

  “I don’t understand,” Carl muttered.

  “Yes, you do,” Cole said to him. “It might help bring your daughter’s memories back.”

  Cole closed his eyes. Everything went dark. “Hey there, Bunny,” a voice, gravely but comforting, called out through the darkness. Cole waited. No one else in the room moved or made the slightest sound. A few moments later Cole opened his eyes again. Everyone was staring at him. He shook his head.

  “It didn’t work,” Cole said. They all looked disappointed, Carl most of all. “Maybe the two of you should just tell me about your daughter.”

  Carl opened his mouth to speak. “First,” Faith’s mother interjected before he could get a word out, without even bothering to introduce herself, “what can you tell us about the bomber?” She took her seat at the table and waited for a reply.

  Ed glanced at Cole. They hadn’t discussed how much they would tell Faith’s parents.

  “Evelyn,” Carl pleaded with her. “How’s it going to help?”

  “I want to know,” Evelyn said. “They won’t tell us anything and I want to know. We’re trying to help you. The least you could do is tell us something.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ed answered her. “We’re not at liberty to release any of that information yet.”

  “And we’re not even sure who the bomber was yet,” Cole added. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Evelyn asked. Everyone was quiet. It took her and her husband a moment before it began to dawn on them that their daughter might be not merely a victim but a suspect. “What are you implying?”

  “Fine,” Cole said, trying to make sure he didn’t lose control. “What do you want to know? If you’ll help us, I’ll tell you what I can.”

  “Cole,” Ed admonished him, “we’re not supposed to say anything.”

  “I’m sorry, Ed, but we don’t have time for games. Let’s just get this over with.” Cole looked back at Faith’s mother. “What do you want to know?”

  “What can you tell us?” Carl asked.

  “It’s a man?” Evelyn asked. Cole nodded in response. “How old?”

  “He was just shy of forty,” Cole responded.

  “What did he look like?” Evelyn asked.

  “Brown hair, brown eyes. On the tall side. Thin but fit. Hair a bit curly. Does that help you?”

  The room was quiet for a moment as Faith’s parents built up the courage for the next question. “Was he a Muslim?” Carl finally asked.

  “We don’t think so,” Cole responded. Carl leaned back in his chair, disappointed that assigning blame wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped. “He was Puerto Rican. He grew up Catholic but he didn’t seem to be very religious. He worked as a contractor. He had an apartment in Queens. He’d never had a run-in with police.”

  “Then why would he do this?” Evelyn asked, tears welling up in her eyes. “Why would he do this to our daughter?”

  “We don’t know,” Cole said to her with as much sympathy as he could muster. At first, he spoke to both parents. “We’re trying to find out if he did do it and, if he did, why. Your daughter’s memories can help us get to the bottom of this. The first thing I want to do is to make certain your daughter couldn’t have been the bomber. So, if you don’t know of any reason why your daughter might have taken her own life and twenty other people’s with her, then please just tell me about her so I can try to start remembering things.” Cole turned to Evelyn. “Listen, I know what you gave up in letting me have your daughter’s memories. I know you could have taken them but they asked you to let me have them. I understand the sacrifice you made. Now don’t let that sacrifice go to waste.”

  “Okay,” Evelyn said through her choked-back tears. “What do you want to know?”

  “Just tell me about her. I need to know whatever you can tell me that might help to trigger her memories because, so far, I’ve got nothing.”

  “She was a sweet girl,” Carl started. Now he began to cry as well. “She always was a sweet girl. Even when she was little, she always cared about other people.”

  “Give me examples,” Cole prodded them. “I need something specific.”

  Carl looked at Evelyn. “What about in fourth grade?” Evelyn said. “That girl’s birthday party?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Carl said. “There was a girl in her class in the fourth grade. Her name was Erica. I don’t think she was full-blown autistic but she was definitely on the spectrum. She only lived here for two years. Her family moved here when she was in third grade and moved away when she was in fifth. We never got to know her parents.

  “Anyway, when Faith was in the fourth grade, she got an invitation to Erica’s birthday party. Neither Evelyn nor I had ever heard Faith talk about this girl before. When we asked Faith about her, all Faith would tell us was that she was a new girl who was kind of quiet. The problem was that Faith had an important dance rehearsal at the same time, so we actually told her that she couldn’t go to Erica’s party. We didn’t think it would be that big a deal. We RSVP’d that Faith couldn’t go and thought that was the end of it.

  “Well, it turned out that this poor girl had invited every single girl in their class to her birthday party and not a single one of them showed up. Faith found out the next Monday. Some of the other girls in the class were making fun of Erica for it. Faith was absolutely devastated. At first she blamed us.” Carl shot Evelyn a quick glance and Evelyn chuckled softly through her tears. Then he continued, “Faith said that it was our fault that Erica’s birthday was ruined because we wouldn’t let her go to the party. We tried to apologize to her, to explain that we didn’t know, but she wouldn’t even talk to us. We heard her cry herself to sleep that night.

  “She seemed better the next morning. Then she told us why. She said that she wanted to invi
te Erica over to our house that weekend. We agreed, as long as she was sure that was what she wanted. I hate to admit it but we were a little worried that it could go badly for Faith at school, that she might end up getting teased too, but we didn’t fight her on it. There never was much use in fighting Faith. At the time, we didn’t know half of Faith’s plan.

  “As it turned out, this wasn’t just a play date. Faith wanted to make up for everything. Remember, she was only nine years old at the time, but on Wednesday she asked Evelyn to drive her to the mall and Faith used her own allowance money to buy the girl a birthday present. She wouldn’t let us even chip in. It was almost like she wouldn’t have paid her full penance if we did. Then on Friday, she asked us to help her bake a birthday cake.

  “So Erica came over on Saturday and Faith gave her a little one-person birthday party. And she gave Erica the present that she bought her. We put candles in the cake and all sang happy birthday to her. Evelyn and I were just amazed at our daughter.”

  “What happened?” Cole asked. “How did Erica react?”

  “Well,” Carl answered, “like I said, she was somewhere on the spectrum so I don’t think she really knew how to react. I mean, she blew out the candles on the cake and she said thank you but her response was all pretty tepid. Faith was really upset when Erica left. She thought that the girl was still mad at her for missing her party. There really wasn’t anything we could say to her to cheer her up. Later that evening, though, Erica’s parents called us to tell us how much they appreciated what we had done for their daughter. We explained to them that it had all been Faith’s doing so they asked to talk to Faith and they thanked her and told her Erica was beside herself with joy. It was only after that phone call that Faith finally seemed happy again.”

  “What happened after that?” Cole pressed.

  “Not much. I mean Faith and Erica didn’t really become close, but Faith did stick by her. Every month or so, they would do something together, until Erica’s family moved. When they left, Erica gave Faith a card, a thank-you card for being her friend.”