"Did you treat them all like that?"
"I told you. I don't remember them all."
"What about this one? Doreen?" The pictures of Doreen were more primitive, no more than blown-up snapshots, the kind a child might take with a point and click camera. They did not belong with the rest, strictly amateur.
"No."
"She was in the mental hospital with you."
"I was never in a mental hospital, except as a visitor. You know that."
"Cole, you spent five years of your life in mental hospitals. Even you know that."
Cole turned his face to the window. "That was Nicholas."
"Stop it, Cole."
The sunlight through the blinds cast a shadow of stripes across Cole's face, a shaft of it struck his eyes making them glint steely bright. "Stop what?"
"Assigning your bad memories to Nicholas. Do you remember Doreen?"
His voice lowered a register. "No."
"She killed herself."
"I don't remember."
"You were there when it happened. You screamed through the night when it happened."
"I don't remember." He turned his attention back to Fitapaldi, the crease between his eyebrows deep and hard, but his voice was dull and emotionless, resigned, defeated. "Why are you doing this? What did I say on that tape? I killed him, didn't I? You are just trying to get proof of my insanity, aren't you? You want to drive me over the edge, don't you? It's all right. It's what I want."
Only the slight tremble of his hand as he raised it to rub his temple betrayed him. "If -- If I can't have her... If I can't have Trissa, I'd just as soon be mad, stark, raving mad. Psychiatry created this monster you see before you. It is your duty to destroy it. Or -- or send me to Duncan. He'll do the job for you. He's so damned good at it."
"Doreen. Do you remember Doreen?"
"Yes! Yes, it is our memory, Nicholas's and mine."
"They're all your memories, the memories of both in the one."
Cole closed his eyes. "She loved me. She wouldn't call it that, but it was love just the same. And I should have -- I should have known. I should have saved her. She was like an angel in the snow, a shattered angel."
"You were fifteen, Cole. How could you have known?"
"I should have."
"You've had enough for today."
Startled by the abrupt end of the interview, Cole shook his head and leaned forward. "Did I kill him?"
"I don't know."
"Play the tape."
"I don't think it is a good idea."
"Play the tape. How much worse could it be?"
"Worse."
Cole held his hand out flat in front of him, and when, after a moment's concentration, it stopped shaking, he nodded. "I'm ready for it. See? May I smoke?" Without waiting for an answer and before it could start shaking again, he plunged his hand in his pocket to search for his pack of cigarettes.
"I've never seen you smoke before."
"He smokes. Nicholas. It's his bad habit, but it sometimes gets the best of me. It's not allowed in here, is it?"
"No."
Cole twisted the pack and tossed it in the waste can. "Play it."
Fitapaldi started the tape. As it played, Cole paced the floor. When it ended, he raked his hands through his hair then shoved them in his pockets. "Thank you for your effort, Doctor. I asked for cure or destroy. I can't quibble with the outcome. It's very clear what I must do now."
"Cole, stay here tonight. The effect of the drug could last up to seventy hours. Take the time to let your head clear before you make any unalterable decisions."
"The decisions were made long ago." Cole took the tape from the machine and shoved it in his pocket.
"Cole."
"Yes."
"Do you remember Cynthia?"
"Yes." Cole slumped in the chair, his fist clenched in the center of his chest. "When we were at the cemetery, it was Trissa's face I saw in the grave, not Cynthia's. I thought it was a hallucination. Not a memory. Do we call the police and have them come for me?"
"We should work this through first. It is only a partial memory at this point. The drugs, your emotional state, even my questions, I'm afraid I botched them badly -- all these things could have influenced your thought patterns."
"You can't blame the questions when you don't like the answers, Doctor." Cole took a deep breath and rose from the chair. "I believe it would be more dignified if I go to the station. Will you drive me?"
"Do you remember killing Bob Kirk?"
"They are looking for someone who buries his victims then forgets them." He tapped the pocket with the tape cassette. "I believe that is my pattern. Shall we go?"
*****
Cole saw Henry Chancellor in his office plucking index cards off a bulletin board labeled Person or Persons Unknown.
The detective who had admitted them to the outer office called out, "Hey, Chancellor, someone here for you."
Chancellor's head whipped round, then jerked back, a double take that would have put Ray Romano to shame. "Brewer! What the hell? And hand in hand with your psychiatrist? What goes here?"
"I've come to turn myself in."
"For what? Bizarre behavior at a funeral? Living in sin with your sweetie? Scoot along home and make your confessions to your shrink. I got more important things on my mind."
"Living in sin?" Brewer repeated, looking a bit muddled by the phrase. "No. No, I'm here about Bob Kirk's murder."
"Yeah? What about it? Have you dredged some memory from that fogbound brain of yours? Let's have it." He reached for a blank index card and his felt tip pen to record the information. "I'll add it to the stack."
"I did it. I killed him."
"What?" A blob of ink oozed onto the card. Chancellor ripped it in half and reached for another
"I murdered Bob Kirk."
"I see." Popping the top back on his pen and tossing it in the side drawer, he rooted for a sharpened pencil stub in the clutter. "And could you describe how the hell that happened? Was that before or after he beat you to a bloody pulp?" He abandoned his search for a functional pencil and stood. "Just a second, let me get a scribe over here. You sure you don't want to have a lawyer here with you, or does this shrink of yours double as a shyster?"
"I'm here because I drove Mr. Brewer here." The doctor drew himself to his full height, which brought him to about Chancellor's breast pocket. "I do not accept or condone what he is doing."
Chancellor motioned him over to the water fountain and leaned over to whisper loud enough for half the room to hear, "Yeah, well, that makes two of us. What's the matter, Doc, you got no better control of your patients than this? Why don't you take him home and work on him a little longer? He don't look like he belongs out in public yet."
Cole knew he looked more than a bit harried and wild-eyed, his face drained of all color except for the green, yellow, and purple rays that radiated across his jaw from the bruise behind his ear.
Chancellor studied him a moment. "Potts, get in here. Bring a pad."
When they were all settled around a table in an interrogation room, Chancellor leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "Okay, Brewer, 'fess up."
Brewer's voice was calmer and steadier than he had expected. "I killed Bob Kirk. We had an argument. We fought. I punched him. And he fell."
"That's it?"
"More or less."
"How about more? What did you hit him with?"
"My fists." Brewer had them clenched on the tabletop. Chancellor wasn't impressed.
"And?"
"And. And a brick from the alley."
"What did you do with this brick when you were done with it?"
"Threw it in a trash bin."
"Anything else?"
"I dragged his body to the cemetery and I buried it."
"How did you get into the cemetery?"
"Under the fence. The dogs must dig."
Chancellor nodded in agreement. "They must, I guess. It's in the nature of
dogs. Can you show us this spot where the dogs dig."
"If I can find it again."
"You found it okay that night. In the dark. Beaten half dead. Dragging a body that must outweigh you -- by what -- forty pounds, at least. And the shovel, don't forget the shovel. Where did you get the shovel, by the way?"
"In the garage. It was in the garage."
"Kirk's garage?"
"The one behind his house, yes."
"Could you describe the shovel?"
"What? It was metal, with a wooden handle."
"Very apt. I know just the one you mean now. We'll mark it exhibit one. Go on."
"That's about it. I tried to get away but I didn't make it. I collapsed into the ditch where they found me."
"And did your wife -- did Teresa Kirk know anything about any of this? We know she's not your wife by the way, in case I forgot to mention it."
"Not my wife."
That cracked his eerie calm all right.
"So she can testify against you, if it goes that far. But go ahead, answer my question."
"Not my wife," Brewer repeated dully, like a stuck phonograph. "Trissa had nothing to do with this. I did it all on my own. I went to meet Bob Kirk. He deserved killing, so I killed him. Then I buried him. That's all there is to it."
"But what about your car?"
Brewer's placid face cracked in a frown. "I don't remember where I put the car. I intended to go back for it but I collapsed in the ditch. You know the rest."
"We found it."
"Good."
"Very good for you, actually. We found your car tucked, pretty as you please, in a vacant garage down the alley from Kirk's. Do you remember stashing it there? Was that before or after you killed Kirk?"
"After -- No, before"
"Fine. Now all we have to do is wait for the fingerprints and the final lab reports to apply for a warrant and arrest the -- oh, when was the last time you were in the trunk?"
"I don't know. I keep my cameras back there when I carry them. I put shopping bags back there, just like anybody else."
"And what about the blood?"
"Blood?"
"We found blood back there."
"Kirk's?"
"Don't you know?"
"I remember now." He knew he was starting to scramble. His voice had thinned and shook a little. "I put the body back there, at first, then I changed my mind."
"You changed your mind and decided to drag it to the cemetery under the fence where the dogs dig."
"Yes."
"And what if I said it was your blood?
"My...? Was it? I have no answer for that."
"How about this? You crawled into the trunk yourself, at first, then changed your mind. Kirk's blood was in the front seat. Yours was in the trunk. A whole pool of it, so don't try to say you cut yourself changing a tire or something equally stupid. That's it. Take your patient home, Doc."
"Home? Aren't you going to lock me up?"
"If anybody locks you up, it will have to be the doc. I ain't going to waste the time or the space." Chancellor flipped the scribe's pad shut in disgust and rose to leave.
"Wait." The doctor tried to hold Cole's hand back from taking something out of his pocket. Cole won the brief struggle and held the tape out to Chancellor. "You should listen to this first."
"What is it?"
"Listen to it."
"Detective, that tape was recorded during a privileged session between my patient and myself. During the procedure, he was under the influence of an injection of sodium amytal. None of it could be used in court."
"Is it about this murder?"
"No," Fitapaldi said.
"Then I ain't interested. Go home."
For a while after Chancellor left them, Cole just sat there staring dumbly at the rejected tape.
"Let's go, Cole."
"He didn't believe me. He wouldn't even listen."
"He obviously doesn't think you did it. Your answers were lame if you think about them."
"But he asked about Trissa. He can't think that--"
"No, he just said that to rattle you. His mind is set on somebody else. It wouldn't surprise me if it was the wife, Edie, I believe. Let's go." Fitapaldi touched his elbow and got him to rise.
"Go? Go where?"
"Home."
"I have no home. Didn't you hear him? She's not my wife."
"Let's give Trissa a chance to explain."
"No, keep her away from me. I'll take that hospital room you offered earlier. Lock me up. Chancellor said it's up to you, remember?"
"I think you'd be better off at home." Cole did not protest as he led him out the door.
*****
With no help from either of them, Chancellor or Fitapaldi, Cole locked himself away. The cell was his little room off the kitchen, locked from within and barricaded by a chair. He pulled the shade and sat on the edge of the bed and tried to seal his heart from the sounds of life all around him. If he pretended not to hear for long enough, they would become like the steady crash of the sea to someone living at the beach, easy to ignore, easy to dismiss. But it would take a while. Something in his soul refused to shut them out.
Ruth sang a badly off-key old song as she banged the pots and pans preparing dinner, "The wheel keeps turning, turning, turning, while my heart keeps yearning..."
"If I talk Augusta into giving you a raise, will you cease that caterwauling," Roger asked her sourly.
"Mizewell ask me to give up breathing," she answered and continued just slightly softer.
"But what will this do to Trissa?" he heard Augusta's hushed voice say a bit later during a momentary lull from Ruth. Fitapaldi's answer was low and Cole could not make out the words. It didn't matter. The question was enough.
Cole buried his head in his pillow and tried to shutter the world in sleep. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the drugs that snuffed out consciousness so thoroughly that he did not hear the key turning in the lock, or the chair scraping out of the way, or Trissa tiptoeing in to sit in the dark at his side.
She must have been there when the first vague stirring of his dreaming began, when the dirt of the grave fell in on him and he panted with the effort to keep his heart beating in the heavy, smothering silence.
He awoke in the grayness of dawn to find her kneeling beside his bed, her head resting on his chest, and, God help him, he could not resist brushing her cheek with the back of his finger this one last time.
And he could not make his voice match his harsh and cruel words when, at last, he forced them out. "Get away from me." It sounded more like a prayer, an entreaty, than a rejection, even to him.
She slowly shook her head against his chest and when she knelt back to meet his eyes, she was still shaking it, her chin firm and her own eyes shining with defiance. "Never," she said.
"You're not my wife."
"Then marry me."
"You're as crazy as I am."
"Then we were made for each other."
"I'm poison. People die when they know me."
"People die anyway," she said.
"Doreen."
"Lonny," she countered.
"My mother," he said.
"My father."
"Danny, Jill," Cole recoiled from the hand she reached out to touch him, "Valerie."
"You remember who they are," she whispered.
"I remember their deaths." He stood and straightened the clothes he had slept in, turning his back on her where she still knelt on the floor. "I remember they left me. All of them."
"I won't."
Without a word, without taking the risk of looking at her, he pulled on his shoes, the knots still tied from the night before, and walked out. Jack was in the kitchen, dressed for work, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper.
"Jack, can I borrow your car? I won't be long." He wasn't lying. It shouldn't take long. Just enough time to build up speed and find a convenient bridge abutment or sturdy tree. It shouldn't take too long at all.
"Sure, Nick, you know me, I go in when I go in. Got no clock to punch." He unhooked the keys from his belt loop and tossed them across the table. "Have some coffee first."
From the corner of his eye, Cole saw Trissa in her ice blue nightgown like a ghost in the doorway. "No thanks. Gotta go."
Jack drove an ancient Dodge, one he could park in any part of the city without attracting notice or envious looks. Pity was the most he could expect. It would be no great loss to Jack to have to replace it. Cole turned the ignition and felt the car rumble to attention. For as old as it was, the car had spirit. It should do.
He saw Trissa in the rear view mirror, her bare arms reaching out to him. He shut his eyes and closed his ears to her calling his name, both names. When he opened them again, she was gone.
He headed west on Lindell, not knowing where he would go until he got there. To his left, the park beckoned, the rising sun glinting in the lake, blossoms showering from the trees like snow. Like snow. He remembered the silent snow as it collected him in its frigid peace so many lost months ago. He turned into the park and set the white blossoms to flurry and swirl up from the road as he passed, but there was no peace in them, no peace in a raucous spring shouting life from every treetop and green slope.
Damn, the park was a mistake. The car slowed as if it had a mind of its own, meandering through the looping labyrinth of the parkway. Cole patted his pockets for cigarettes. There was always one last smoke, he appeased himself for his malingering. It was tradition.
But his pockets were flat and empty. Surely, Jack would have some. Leaning forward, he popped open Jack's glove compartment. A black leather belt and holster coiled out like a snake waking from a nap. He took the gun from the holster and pushed it into his pocket. "Thank you, Jack," he whispered. "You can have your car back in one piece after all."
He slowly wound through the park until he found a place, a thick clump of trees beyond the zoo grounds. Maybe it would be a long time before they found him there, time enough to buffer the shock.
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