The Murderer's Memories

by T. S. Nichols

  That was the third out and it was Ivan’s team’s turn to take the field. Cole could feel Ivan’s excitement building as he ran toward his place at shortstop. They didn’t waste too much time with warmups. They only had one ball, so they each only had one chance to touch it. The catcher zipped the ball to the second baseman, who threw it to the left fielder, who threw it to the right fielder, who threw it to the third baseman, who threw it to the center fielder, who finally threw it to Ivan at short, who gunned it to first. Then the first baseman tossed it to the pitcher so they could start the inning. Cole recognized how similar this memory was to the last memory he’d had of Ivan playing baseball. It was different too, though. The memory came alive in the differences. His teammates were not the same ones as before. The sky was a slightly darker shade of blue. The temperature was at least a few degrees warmer. The pitcher struck the first batter out and Cole could remember Ivan’s disappointment. An out was an out, but Ivan preferred it when they hit to him. The second batter flew out to right field. Ivan stayed on his toes, dropping his glove all the way to the ground between his legs. He was like a cat, still until it was time to pounce. The third batter finally hit the ball toward Ivan. It was a screamer. It bounced once off of the grass. Cole remembered that, in the other memory, Ivan went to his left. This time, he took two steps and then dove to his right. He felt the ball pop into his glove at the same time that his chest hit the ground. It was the greatest feeling in the world. That’s how Cole remembered it, the feeling of a baseball landing at the back of his glove. Ivan slid on the ground for a foot or two and used his free hand to pop back up onto his feet. The batter was fast, and running hard. He wasn’t fast enough, though. Cole could feel it. He reached into his glove with his right hand and, in one fluid motion, grabbed the ball and threw a bullet to the first baseman. The runner was out by a good step and half. Ivan’s already dirty uniform was covered in dust. “Nice play, Ivan,” the third baseman said, smacking Ivan on the butt with his glove as he ran back toward the dugout. Ivan looked up at the batter. The batter was staring at him, shaking his head. He’d been sure he had a hit and it turned out to not even be close. When the batter made eye contact with Ivan, he gave his rival an appreciative nod. Ivan nodded back. Cole wondered how many more memories Ivan had like this one. He hoped there would be many.

  Cole could have lived in that memory. He could have bathed in it for hours. His mind would have let him. Ivan’s memory of that day, that game, was fully intact. Cole remembered what he’d been told, though: Focus on memories of isolation and loneliness. Focus on memories that made them feel powerless and without purpose. This memory wasn’t going to do anything for his case. That boy playing baseball back in Puerto Rico with his friends was barely the same person that worked construction in New York over twenty years later. So Cole shook off the memory and continued his walk.

  When he got home, he sat on his couch and closed his eyes. He tried to remember the bombing again. It came to him quickly. It felt the same as the first time, robotic and impersonal, but everything was a little bit fuzzier. Cole knew that would happen. The memories decayed and become less trustworthy with each access, as other thoughts and ideas could slip into them. He couldn’t risk recalling this memory too many times without specific triggers because every time he remembered it, he’d have to trust it a little bit less. Still, he had to keep trying. If he could just make it a bit farther, he could figure out who the bomber was. Everything came back to him again, every horrid, happy detail, every child’s laughter. Then the bomber looked up at the clock and everything went blank again—everything but the date and time of the second bombing. It was useless without new triggers.

  After failing to remember anything more useful, Cole poured himself a bowl of cereal and then sat down at his computer. While it was booting up, he took a few bites of cereal and decided he would start with Faith’s file. Even though he still suspected that Ivan was the murderer, he tried to keep an open mind. Besides, he hated having memories that he knew were in his head elude him, and he knew Faith’s memories were in there. He didn’t know how he knew. He just did.

  Faith’s full name was on the front page of her file, along with her birth date and the day she died. The page didn’t look very different from a tombstone. Cole clicked forward. Quickly, the tombstone came to life. The file was in chronological order. First came copious baby pictures. Pictures with Mom. Pictures with Dad. Pictures with Grandma and Grandpa. Cole flipped through those quickly, knowing that these were from before Faith would likely have the fixed, coherent memories that develop along with language. Language helps the brain to make sense of, and therefore organize, memories. So Cole didn’t even slow down until Faith was six years old. He simply kept clicking forward, scrolling through picture after picture. They were all somebody’s memories. They were simply very unlikely to be Faith’s.

  Cole stopped on the photos of Faith’s sixth birthday. By this time, according to the file, Faith had already begun horseback riding and chess lessons. She had won multiple awards for chess. She took her riding lessons on a dark gray horse named Charcoal. There was a picture of the horse in the file, a beautiful animal with strong shoulders and a proud chin. Cole was sure that this picture would trigger something in his head, but nothing came. He had a chessboard in his closet. He set up a game on his kitchen table and began to play himself. First he moved a white piece. Then he went to the other side of the table and countered. Then he moved another white piece. He made ten moves, five for each side, before he determined that chess wasn’t going to trigger any of her memories either.

  At age seven, Faith was the flower girl in a cousin’s wedding. She wore a pink dress and had red and white flowers woven into her hair. In the photos, her smile was so wide it almost went past the ends of her face. Still nothing. When Faith was eight, the family went to Disney World. The pictures did trigger memories inside Cole, but they weren’t Faith’s memories; they were from other dead people whose memories Cole had taken. When Faith was nine, she started piano lessons. Cole clicked on the link to an audio file from her first recital.

  The sound was sweet and unskilled. Cole could hear the hesitation before each note but then, when the note was played, it was played with vigor. Cole could feel a memory coming on. “One more time, Ivan,” a warm voice echoed inside Cole’s head. “Remember to bend your fingers. Your fingers are hammers. Use them like hammers. Build me a palace.”

  “But Grandma, I want to go outside to play baseball.”

  “You will. But first, you will make music.”

  “Why, Grandma?”

  “Ivan, sweetheart, you don’t need a reason to make music. You make music because you are alive.”

  The audio file ended. “Jesus, Ivan,” Cole mumbled to himself, “didn’t anybody ever teach you to share?” He continued to flip through Faith’s file. With every page she grew older. Cole was watching a whole life fly by him in a matter of minutes. Parties. Report cards—Faith was an excellent student. Vacations. More report cards. More vacations. Her parents were smiling in every photo. So was she. Pictures in front of the White House. Pictures in front of the Grand Canyon. Pictures on the beach in the Caribbean. Every so often, Cole would choose a picture and stare at it. He would clear his mind and try to fall into the photo, but he couldn’t. Something always held him back. He saw pictures of Faith with her first boyfriend, the two of them dressed up before a junior high school dance.

  Faith’s entire yearbook was saved in the file, though it was a generic version and not the one that was signed by her friends. Cole made a note to ask her parents for her actual yearbook. Cole flipped through it, trying to find every time Faith was pictured or even mentioned. She was a member of a handful of random clubs: an environmental club, a future leaders club, Key Club, whatever that was. She was part of the chorus in the holiday concert. She was voted the friendliest person in her class. Cole flipped to her senior photo to read her quote. He looked at the words beneath her name: “I prefer to be foolis
h when I feel like it, and be accountable to nobody.” —Willa Cather. Cole admired the quote, but he couldn’t tell if it had really meant anything to Faith because all of her memories stayed hidden. These weren’t the triggers he needed anyway. You don’t trigger memories of isolation and loneliness by looking at vacation pictures and a yearbook. People don’t advertise those feelings. They hide their isolation and loneliness from the world. They smile and suffer in silence. Cole closed the file. He wasn’t finished yet, but he needed a break.

  Chapter 10

  TWO DAYS AND ONE HOUR AFTER THE FIRST BOMBING

  Cole opened his eyes with a start. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then he realized that he was staring at the wall in his apartment. He’d only meant to take a short break but had fallen asleep on his couch, and suffered from strange dreams. This wasn’t unusual when he inherited new memories. It was almost like they were trying to figure out how to settle into this subconscious. He couldn’t recall anything that made any sense. He only remembered hearing strange music and smelling exotic aromas and being very, very afraid. He felt like somebody had tied his stomach into a series of knots.

  Cole looked at his watch. He’d only been asleep for two hours. That was good. He needed sleep but since he didn’t really have the time, a quick power nap was probably his best option right now, though his head still felt groggy. He couldn’t tell if he was still tired or if his body was still reacting to the dreams. He didn’t bother trying to remember them. He knew that they couldn’t be trusted anyway. Memories sometimes fibbed. Dreams lied all the way to their core. He thought back past the dream, trying to remember what he’d been doing before he fell asleep. He remembered looking at Faith’s file, and how Ivan’s memories barged in whenever he tried to find one of hers. He thought about opening Ivan’s file but decided against it. If he was going to get anywhere, he needed more tangible triggers.

  Cole picked up his phone from his desk. When Ed answered with a gruff hello, an image of flapping yellow silk flashed before Cole’s eyes and then was gone.

  “I’m going to the mall,” Cole told his partner.

  “Why?” Ed asked. “Did you remember something?”

  “Nothing useful,” Cole admitted. “That’s why I want to go. I’m hoping the mall will trigger something. Do you want to meet me there?”

  “What good am I going to be walking through those ruins? They’ve got forensic units for that. I’m no good there.”

  “Then what are you going to do?” Cole asked.

  “I’m going to start interviewing Ivan’s coworkers, see if I can find any friends.”

  “What about Faith?”

  “Jesus, Cole. We don’t have a lot of time. I have to start somewhere. I’m playing the odds here.”

  “Okay,” Cole agreed. “Let me know if you meet anyone that I should talk to.”

  “Will do.”

  Cole hung up the phone. He didn’t want to go to the rubble alone. The memory he had when he first woke up from the procedure was bad enough. He was afraid of what he might remember when he actually visited the scene of the bombing. He had to do it, though. He had to see what else he could remember. What is lonelier and more isolating than blowing yourself up in the middle of a crowd of people?

  Cole went outside and hailed a cab to take him to Queens. He had the cabbie drop him off five blocks from the ruins of the mall. He wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t want the cabbie to know where he was going or because he wanted to walk a little before he got to the scene of the bombing.

  The area around the wreckage was cordoned off by police. Cole had to show his badge to even get near where the entrance used to be. Most of the mall was still intact, but a large hole appeared to be blown out of the middle of it and the surrounding structure seemed broken and sagging. The building was empty. Cole could tell by looking inside through the gaping hole. The stores were all still stocked. Cole could see toppled mannequins, bright red and blue dresses strewn about the floor of one store. In another, dust covered a glass counter, hiding all the jewelry locked beneath it. Nothing inside moved, though. Everything looked dead.

  Cole walked slowly toward the sagging, ruined building. Somebody stopped him when he was about twenty yards away. “You can’t go in there,” the man said with a practiced tone of authority.

  “I have to,” Cole told the man who was trying to stop him.

  “We’re not sure if it’s structurally sound yet,” the man answered Cole. “We’re still running tests.”

  Cole stared into the mall, hoping something would come to him from out there, but nothing was coming. He knew that nothing would. He had to go inside. “I don’t have time for tests.” Cole pulled his badge out and showed it to the officer, who was at least five years younger than Cole.

  The young officer looked down at Cole’s badge and read the name. “You’re—” the young officer started.

  “That’s me,” Cole cut him off. “I have no interest in dying but I need to go inside. You guys want to tell me if there’s anywhere specific that I should avoid?”

  “Get me a helmet,” the officer yelled to one of the others guarding the mall’s perimeter. A moment later somebody came back with a bright yellow hard hat. He handed the hard hat to the young officer, who handed it to Cole as if it were some sort of ceremony. “Just wear this and don’t touch anything,” the young officer advised, shaking his head.

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” Cole said. He placed the hard hat on his head and began a slow, lonely walk toward the building. He felt like he was walking into a tomb.

  The memory started almost immediately. Cole could feel the weight of the bomb wrapped around his body again. As heavy as it was, Cole could hardly believe that a bomb strapped to somebody’s torso could do the type of damage that it had done. What he believed didn’t matter, though. It had happened. The bomb ripped through flesh, ripped through concrete, and ripped through lives, not just the lives of the twenty-one dead and dozens injured but of their friends and families too.

  The memory was as strange to Cole now as it had been the first time. Being there, heading toward the rubble, didn’t change that. If anything, the memory felt even more impersonal. Again, he saw the faces of the people wandering the mall that morning, heard the children’s laughter, heard footsteps of a child running past him. Still he felt nothing. Still he remembered nothing that would give him any clues about who the bomber was and why they did it. The memory didn’t bend. It didn’t open up. It had no depth. It was like a movie with no meaning.

  Cole neared the epicenter of the rubble, near where the bomber was when the bomb went off, near where they found the intact heads of the two people whose memories he had had injected into his brain. Cole remembered feeling dizzy and beginning to sweat as the time to trigger the bomb got closer.

  Cole, half in the memory and half out of it, scanned the wreckage of the stores around him. He saw the shattered remains of the jewelry store and the clothing stores and remembered the unsuspecting people who were inside them moments before the explosion. Then his eyes moved down to a toy store. The toys inside had been knocked off their shelves and were covered in dust. Cole didn’t want to think about the people who were inside when the bomb went off. And with that thought, he slipped from one memory to another.

  Cole was shopping now, inside the toy store. He was looking at the stuffed animals on the shelves. He wasn’t sure what to buy. He felt light and happy, though, searching through these toys. He picked up a stuffed monkey that immediately began making monkey noises as he held it. Farther down the shelf was what could only be described as a ball of fur with two big eyes. Cole remembered walking toward it and picking it up. When he squeezed it, the ball of fur began to purr like a cat. It was so odd and yet so perfect. Cole remembered looking at the price tag and feeling relief that he could afford the toy. He was going to buy it. Then he looked up, out toward the center of the mall. Something caught his eye, something peculiar. Cole tried to remember what it was,
to focus, but to no avail. Then the memory slipped away from him. It had taken too long. Cole was back standing in the middle of the mall, staring at the ruins of the toy store. He began walking toward it, hoping that maybe the memory would come back to him. He only took a few steps, however, before he knew the memory was gone. He’d lost it, at least for now, but he knew that there was something there, some sort of clue. It could come back to him again, but not now.

  Chapter 11

  TWO DAYS AND FOUR HOURS AFTER THE FIRST BOMBING

  Bernard woke in a small padded room. The only window was a small square in the door. Bernard guessed that this window was more for people to look in than for people to look out. Still, he walked to the door and looked through it at the interior of the building. The room outside appeared to be empty. Bernard pushed on the door, hoping that they’d neglected to lock it. The door didn’t budge.

  Bernard had survived far longer than he had expected to. He’d been on the run for almost two years. The Company had him now, though. It was time to pay his debts, but he had one more thing he needed to do first.

  Bernard walked back to the middle of his cell and sat on the floor with his legs crossed. He placed his hands, palms up, on his lap. He closed his eyes. Then he began to do the hardest thing he had ever done. He began to try to erase the memories that he held most dear from his brain. He’d tried it before with moderate success, but he’d never had the courage to go all the way. This time, he had to. As much as he didn’t want to let these memories go, he couldn’t stomach the idea of letting anyone else have them. One at a time, he searched his brain for those memories and, once he found them, he thought of them over and over again. However, at the same time, he thought of other things too, about movies and TV shows and stories he’d heard drunken people tell at bars. He knew he couldn’t simply delete the memories, but he thought he could corrupt them to the point of lunacy. He knew that every time you remembered something, your brain had to re-create the memory and, during the re-creation, other memories, other thoughts, ideas, images could slip in.