by Tim Kizer
And still: what the hell was so special about Kelly’s corpse?
5.
When they were about to leave the hotel for a restaurant, Frank had another small breakthrough. As Marilyn checked her text messages, she suddenly remembered that she had taken a picture of Peter Warner with her phone and offered to show it to Frank. The photo albums on Marilyn’s cell turned out to be disorganized, and they had to go through a dozen of her personal pictures before bumping into the kidnapper’s snapshot, which, honestly, was of little use: all you could see was a blurry image of a Ford Explorer moving through a parking lot.
“I had to wait till after he dropped me off,” Marilyn explained. “I didn’t want him to see me taking his picture.”
As Frank examined Warner’s photo, he realized he had seen a familiar face on two of the pictures that he had just flipped through. The excitement over the new discovery was so intense that Frank couldn’t wait to have a closer look at the face that had caught his eye.
“Let me find Graham’s picture and show it to you,” Frank suggested when it had become clear that he couldn’t positively identify the driver of the Ford Explorer. Then he went back to the photos of the mysterious Alex: he had finally remembered who that familiar face belonged to. “Who is this guy?” Frank asked, pointing at the snapshot, which showed Alex standing alone in front of some fountain.
“Do you remember him?”
“I think I’ve seen him before.”
“It’s a friend of mine.” A look of curiosity came over Marilyn’s face. “How well did you know him?”
“I don’t remember. But I’m sure I met him a few times before the car crash. What’s his name?”
“Alex. Do you remember how you met him?”
Frank shook his head and said, “I think I asked him to help me with something important. Do you have his phone number?”
“Yes, I do, but he hasn’t been answering his phone in the last couple of weeks.”
Frank entered Alex’s number into his cell’s phonebook and then had Marilyn email him both of Alex’s pictures.
“Do you know where he lives?”
After hesitating for several seconds, Marilyn replied, “I’m afraid you can’t talk to Alex right now. He went missing two weeks ago.”
He went missing almost at the same time Kelly did. Could it be just a coincidence, buddy?
Of course it was a coincidence. How in the world could these two events be connected?
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Frank said, wrinkling his forehead. He was ashamed to realize that he was unsure what had upset him the most: the disappearance of a human being, or the fact that his only promising lead had gone cold.
As they walked to the elevator, Frank asked, “Was Alex missing a leg?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering.”
6.
Frank thought of spending the night at the hotel with Marilyn, but eventually chose to go home.
Did this decision have anything to do with the fact that Kelly’s relatives were monitoring his house and his absence could somehow give them the wrong impression about him? He would be lying if he said that it didn’t. You see, he had to be cautious. He had to avoid rocking the boat for the time being.
When Frank was about to fall asleep, Marilyn called him and said that she had just found the key to Alex’s apartment, which had been given to her for safekeeping two years ago.
“I thought I’d lost it, but it turned out I haven’t,” she said. “We can go take a look at his place tomorrow morning if you want.”
They agreed to meet at Alex’s apartment at ten in the morning.
Chapter 12.
APARTMENT
1.
When Frank crossed the threshold of Alex’s apartment, he froze for a moment, having realized that another bombshell memory was about to emerge.
There had been women among Kelly’s lovers. It was hard to believe, but he had no doubt he’d seen her meet at least one woman.
By the way, he had taken a cab to get here as his paranoia had reached a new level: he’d begun to suspect that Josephine and her people might have installed a tracking device on his car. He could be wrong, of course, but better safe than sorry. He had asked Marilyn to take a taxi, too.
It was a regular one bedroom apartment with mundane interior. Scanning the prosaic furniture of the living room—a green couch with two matching armchairs, a wooden dining table, a TV stand with a flat-screen TV—Frank asked himself what exactly he had expected to find here. He noted that the place was surprisingly clean for a bachelor pad.
Okay, discovery number one: there was no safe in the living room.
Yeah, you mean the safe you stuffed your wife’s body into, pal?
Oh, come one, not this nonsense again. He had not killed Kelly. He couldn't have killed her. It was foolish to even think about it.
Why not? You were jealous, you saw Kelly kissing her lover. You tracked them down at least three times, remember? You killed her, and you did it in the bathroom because you believe it's easier to hide traces of a murder there than in the other rooms. You see, the other rooms have wood floors, carpets, velvet drapes, and various furniture, which could easily absorb Kelly's blood that you expected to spill. A typical bathroom, fortunately, has fewer things that soak up liquid—-think towels, toilet rugs, and the like—-and if they get stained, you can quickly replace them.
“Does Alex live alone?” Frank asked, slowly pacing around the room in search of familiar objects.
“Yes, he does. He used to live with his girlfriend, but they broke up five months ago.”
“Looks like he’s a very tidy guy.”
“I’ve been helping him keep the place clean.”
You should pay more attention to Bluth, buddy. With all those blood stains in your bathroom, his big mouth could do some damage. One drop of blood is all those CSI geniuses need, you know. And what if this guy has already gone to the police? He didn't call you after that meeting at the coffee shop; he might have decided that you were of no commercial interest to him anymore. He reported you to the police, and soon cops will you descend on you with flashing strobe light and cuffs. Most detectives have the guilty-until-proven-innocent mentality; they will believe Bluth and throw handcuffs on you in no time.
Nonsense. Kelly was alive. He would never have committed murder because of jealousy. Jealousy wasn’t something he would risk a life sentence for. He’d better try and remember those women Kelly had met. Where had he seen them? On trains? And when had he first found out that Kelly was a bisexual?
Frank eased into one of the armchairs, settled back, and tried to recall if he had sat in this armchair in the past.
You think it was here that you and Alex developed the plot to kill Kelly?
“When was the last time Alex rearranged the furniture?”
“Maybe a year ago. Does anything ring a bell to you here?”
“Not yet.”
What did you do with the body, pal? Did you transport it in your car? Bluth says he saw you taking her body out of the house. You wrapped the body in a bed sheet and whisked it away under the shadow of the night?
Or maybe you cut the body to pieces, cooked, and ate it?
Or fed her meat to stray dogs?
Frank frowned.
No, he wouldn't eat Kelly's meat. He’s not a cannibal. His imagination is out of control today, that’s all.
Were there any other murders? Is it possible that you are a psycho killer and simply forgot about it after the car crash?
It must be a joke. Ha-ha, the joke of the year. Now, back to reality.
He should focus on Kelly's lover; it was the clue that would lead him to Kelly, to the living and breathing Kelly. He hadn’t killed her. He was not a maniac; he was a level-headed accountant who had gone through a little shake-up a month ago and lost some memories in the process.
Speaking of lovers, what is Marilyn going to tell Graham when he calls her? Isn't it time
for her to skip town? If she tries hard enough, even Graham, with his access to police resources, will be unable to find her. Graham is not omnipotent, and neither is Josephine. Marilyn can hide at her cousin’s place while you kill them all, one by one, with your trusty gun. Yes, a mini blood bath might solve the problem. Picture this, buddy: Josephine with a bullet hole in her forehead, Graham with a crater the size of a saucer in his chest, Albert with a bloody jumble instead of a face, Ron missing the back of his head.
As Frank walked into the bedroom, which looked as ordinary as the living room, his smell memory kicked in and he registered the first vague feeling that he had been in Alex’s apartment before the car crash. Then the realization crept into his mind that Alex’s couch and armchairs appeared painfully familiar to him.
Frank patted one of the pillows that lay on the bed, hoping that it could help him remember if he had touched the pillows before.
There was no safe in the bedroom either.
“I checked my cell-phone statements from the last five months and couldn’t find any record of Alex calling or texting me,” said Frank as he scrutinized the clothing inside the closet. “Did he have another phone number?”
“I don’t know. If he does, he never gave it to me.”
Frank took out his cell-phone, pressed the video camera icon, and began shooting the bedroom. For some bizarre reason, he couldn’t resist wondering if he and Alex had had sex in this room.
“Are you remembering something?” asked Marilyn.
The trip to Utica last August had turned out more successful than his previous attempts to shadow Kelly. Had it involved Alex? No, he met Alex months later.
“I think I’ve been in this apartment before.”
Yes, you managed to pull it off all by yourself, buddy. You went through her bag every day, looking for tickets, and one day last June you saw the roundtrip train tickets to Utica... No, there were no return tickets. You opened the bag when Kelly was in the shower and couldn't catch you in the act. With little hesitation, you decided to have another shot at tracking Kelly and her lover down. Kelly was going to Utica on Saturday, four days after you had found the tickets, so you had plenty of time to prepare. On Thursday, you installed a friend finder application on Kelly’s cell; the app, which used the phone’s internal GPS chip, was an excellent way to quickly locate Kelly in case you lost sight of her, which was your biggest headache. And you got lucky, buddy: she took that phone with her to Utica and left it on the whole time. You planned to uninstall this software right after Kelly returned home as you didn’t want to risk your little trick being exposed. On Friday, you drove to Utica, rented a car, and parked it by the train station at the overnight lot; chances were Kelly would go all the way to Utica, and a rental car seemed to be more convenient for tailing her than a cab. You felt well prepared and were eager to dig more dirt on your wife. When Kelly announced that she was going to pay her college friend in Syracuse another visit over the weekend, you smiled and asked her to pass your regards to Cindy.
“Have you remembered what Alex was helping you with?” asked Marilyn.
Frank shook his head.
“I also couldn’t find any emails from him.” He stepped over to the small desk standing in the corner of the room. “But I might have forgotten the email address I gave him.”
Yes, buddy, you were smart enough to use a throwaway email address to communicate with your accomplice. Too bad, you forgot the address.
“Or maybe you deleted them all,” said Marilyn.
How about Josephine? Could she have deleted Alex’s emails? If you managed to find someone to help you hack the Windows login password on your laptop (after countless attempts to guess it by yourself), it’s reasonable to assume that she had been able to do the same while you were in the hospital.
Then Frank headed for the bathroom. He doubted he would find anything of interest there, but saw no harm in checking it out.
“Last night I remembered that Alex had given me a ride to your place a couple of times. Maybe that’s how you got to know him,” said Marilyn.
“That’s probably how it happened.” Frank approached the shower cabin and slid its door aside.
“And I think he actually mentioned to me that you and he were working on something big.”
“He never told you any details about it, did he?”
Something big. Would you call a murder conspiracy a big thing?
“No. He might have thought I didn’t need to know.”
“Do you think it’s somehow connected with his disappearance?”
Marilyn shrugged her shoulders. “That’s possible.”
Look at Alex’s bathtub, buddy. It doesn’t have claw feet like the one in your bathroom. You know, the bathroom where you killed Kelly. Your poor wife had no idea what was waiting for her as she undressed before taking a shower. You tried to strangle Kelly first, but you under-strangled her, so to speak, and she survived. So you had to use a knife. That’s how it happened, pal, don't deny it.
Frank froze for a moment and then shifted his eyes to the sink.
You grabbed her by the throat, dragged her out of the shower cabin, and began to throttle her. The bathroom was filled with hot thick steam, and you breathed it in.
What the hell did all this mean?
Your amnesia is starting to crumble, buddy. Please receive another message from the bowels of your memory: you tried to strangle Kelly. You rushed into the bathroom, pulled your wife out of the shower, and began choking her from behind. Stop lying to yourself already, buddy. You have just remembered killing Kelly. You can’t remain oblivious to something like this forever; murdering your wife will surely find its way to the forefront of your memory even if you resist.
“Have you remembered how you met Alex yet?” asked Marilyn.
“No.” Frank shook his head.
Josephine and the gang will come for you for sure, pal. You killed Kelly, now you have to pay the ultimate price. Eye for eye, as they say.
But Josephine wasn’t angry with the Kelly’s killer, was she? All she wanted now was give Kelly a proper burial.
She was only kidding, buddy. Josephine is furious, and very soon you'll see that.
Maybe you should run away? To San Francisco, where your brother lives?
No, Josephine surely knew about Andrew. Besides, he couldn’t hide forever. Hiding from Kelly’s family was a ridiculous idea. Ridiculous, okay? Why should he run away from the good life he had here and roam the country in fear for decades to come? He was not a criminal, he was a nearly model citizen.
Don't be nervous, buddy, everything is okay. These are just memories, ephemeral and invisible currents in your brain; don’t let them spoil your mood. Stay cool, man. You were morally prepared for such a possibility, weren't you? Okay, you murdered your wife, so what? You stabbed her, you made a couple of holes in her belly, big whoop. Once you were done killing her, you put the corpse in a 100 gallon trash can liner in order to prevent the blood from dripping on the floor. The bag was large enough to fit the whole body except the head; you slipped another bag on the top of the corpse to cover the head. Then you wiped off the blood that had splashed on the walls and the floor, and you thought you had done a good job of cleaning the crime scene, but you were wrong. Three drops of Kelly’s blood under the tub had gone unnoticed, which was not a catastrophe because you were the only person who had seen them.
Bullshit, pure bullshit.
“Could we be working on something illegal?” Frank had finally gathered enough courage to go into a darker territory.
“I don’t know. Alex is a rather mild person. The most illegal thing he’s done is smoke weed every once in a while.”
“Do you think he could be helping me kill Marilyn?”
Frank was astonished how easy it was for him to have uttered these words. Alex’s apartment seemed to be having a strange effect on him.
“Did you actually kill her?” Marilyn sounded curious rather than shocked or alarmed.
&n
bsp; “No. I don’t think I did.”
You can claim innocence all you want, buddy, but the fact remains that you killed your wife. You grabbed a knife, went into the bathroom, and stabbed Kelly several times. And you had the good sense to refrain from washing your bloodied hands under the faucet in order to keep the drain pipes free from traces of Kelly’s blood. Then you got rid of her body. You probably buried it somewhere in the woods. Bluth saw you take the body out of the house. Bluth wants twenty grand, and he will get it. Twenty thousand dollars is a low price to pay for freedom.
What? Throw twenty grand at that buffoon? No way! All his talk was nothing but a giant pile of bluff. If Bluth hadn't blabbered that he had seen the body in the car, there might have been a reason to be nervous because in reality Kelly’s body was in the trunk and Bluth would have needed an X-ray vision to see it. In addition, this imbecile couldn’t have witnessed Mr. Fowler place the corpse in the car because the car was in the garage when it had happened and the garage door had been closed. Had it ever occurred to Bluth that one could carry the body from the house into the garage without leaving the house? Kelly did not weigh four hundred pounds, so her body could easily go through that convenient door connecting the house and the garage.
Do you remember where exactly you buried her, buddy? There was a river nearby—or rather, a tiny creek—and you also noticed a sign with the name of the town you had passed before burying Kelly. The forest you had chosen for the grave was several miles away from the town.
Who said he had buried her? He could have cut Kelly up, cooked the meat, and fed it to dogs. Yeah, chop her into twenty pieces, toss them in the oven—it might take two or three batches—and then throw the steaming chunks of baked human flesh to a pack of hungry rottweilers.
But you didn't cut her up, buddy. You moved her out of the house in one piece.
“Are you sure there’s nothing missing from his apartment?” Frank turned around and walked out of the bathroom. “Did he keep a journal? I saw a printer on his desk; where is his computer?”
“I put his old laptop and all his notepads in a self-storage room. I couldn’t find his new laptop; he must have taken it with him.”