Don't Ever Forget (Adler and Dwyer)

by Matthew Farrell

  “It doesn’t matter,” Cindy said. “They won’t find the car.”

  “Doesn’t mean they’ll stop looking. He had a dashcam. We’re on video. Let’s just hope there wasn’t a clear angle on your face, or this’ll be over before it begins.”

  “A camera?”

  “And a cop was killed. They’ll hunt like dogs to find us. They’ll trace the plate to Rebecca, so they’ll start looking for her right away. When they can’t find her, they’ll start pulling apart her life, and when they come to the old man, they’ll know something’s wrong. We didn’t leave things in the best shape back at his house.”

  Cindy turned away from the window and stared at him, her eyes wet and swollen. “Then we have to stay hidden until it’s done. We can’t risk getting caught. If they know who I am, fine. But they’ll never find me until it’s over. We’ll just have to make adjustments on the fly until then.”

  Trevor sighed, looking out ahead of them. “Okay, but know this: I won’t allow any more screwups. We get this done, and we move on. The faster this is over, the better. We stay hidden until we know what the cops know.”

  “I’m sorry I got you involved.”

  He nodded slowly, his lips curling back to reveal his oversized, jagged teeth. “Yeah, me too.”

  2

  Officer down.

  All hands on deck.

  State Police Investigator Susan Adler hopped from her car and made her way over to the crime scene. The mass of emergency vehicles filled both lanes of the northbound Taconic and one lane southbound, closing the parkway until further notice. The morning traffic was being diverted onto local roads and eventually onto Route 9. Normally they’d be looking to clear the scene and get things opened again as soon as possible. But this was a different circumstance, and the investigators involved would take as much time as they needed.

  State police, EMT, Fire and Rescue, and uniforms from a few local departments milled about, trying to find something to do to be useful in a situation that was still too new to have a direction to go in. Susan crossed the road and walked toward her boss for an update.

  The call had come in about an hour before her alarm was set. Ever since her mother had moved in full-time, it had become an unmentioned tradition for Beatrice to cook the morning meal, but with the twins at their father’s, Susan had been planning to sleep in. Instead, she’d grabbed a coffee to go and gotten to the scene as soon as she could. Everything else was put on hold.

  Senior Investigator Jasper Crosby, a former college football player and respected supervisor throughout the state, was her mentor as well as one of her best friends. He gave her a quick nod when he saw her and broke away from the crowd he was speaking with.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  Susan looked past her boss and saw a covered body lying next to a patrol car. The forensics team was working on both.

  “What happened?”

  “Trooper Kincaid called in a routine 10-38. He reported the plate number and proceeded to investigate. No follow-up report after that, and after two location check-ins passed without dispatch hearing from him, they sent another car out. He appears to have been bludgeoned to death in the roadway, then dragged over there. No shots fired from the trooper and no indication that any firearms were used by the perp.”

  “How long ago was the 10-38 called in?”

  “About three hours.” Crosby walked her closer to the scene. “The car was registered to a Rebecca Hill. We got her address, and I need you to pay a visit. White Plains PD will be waiting for you when you get there. You go in and grab her. If she’s not there, see what you can find. A warrant has already been issued, and a BOLO is being circulated to all area departments.”

  Crosby handed her a piece of paper with the address on it.

  “Be careful.”

  “I always am.”

  “I’m serious,” Crosby said. “I don’t know what this woman is capable of or if she’s working with someone, but she’s already demonstrated her willingness to kill. Watch your back.”

  Susan pulled away from the crowd. “Always do, boss. Don’t worry.”

  “You need a partner on this one. Let me see what Chris and Bill are up to.”

  Susan shook her head. “I said I got it.”

  Before he could respond, she was jogging toward her car. It looked as though a new homicide investigation had begun.

  3

  Susan pulled up in front of Rebecca Hill’s apartment and saw the two White Plains police officers standing out front with the facilities manager. All three had their backs turned to the cold November wind screaming from west to east.

  The apartment building was on Lake Street, just north of downtown. It was a ten-story brick structure that blended in with all the other brick apartment complexes that filled that section of the city. Rebecca lived on the fourth floor. Susan, the two officers, and the super took the elevator.

  “We checked the parking lot, the garage, and a five-block radius in all directions,” one of the officers said. “No Civic.”

  “Okay,” Susan said. “I’ll knock and announce. If she doesn’t answer, we go in. Are you guys ready?”

  The officers nodded.

  They stepped off the elevator and walked down the hall. The facilities manager—Juan, according to the name badge sewn onto his jacket—stayed back by the elevators. Susan stopped in front of a door that was identical to all the others and knocked.

  “Rebecca Hill! This is the police. Open the door!”

  They waited about ten seconds. Susan put her ear against the door and listened. Nothing. She motioned Juan over, and he pulled a set of keys from his jacket pocket. He slid the key into the lock, opened the door, and moved aside.

  The apartment was a one bedroom, neat and decorated simply. White walls, beige carpet, beige tiles in the hallway and kitchen, furniture from IKEA. Nothing that screamed originality or wealth, but it held a warmth, nonetheless.

  Susan and her backup quickly swept the place, moving from room to room, weapons drawn, focused.

  It was empty.

  “Glove up,” Susan said. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Juan remained in the hall while the two officers retreated toward the entryway, allowing Susan to walk around. She put on her latex gloves as she looked at the pictures displayed throughout the space: friends, family, no sign of a husband or significant other. No kids. She picked up a framed photograph of an older woman, frail and thin, and figured it to be the mother or an aunt. Another frame held a photo of the same woman featured in other pictures around the place. Susan figured that was Rebecca. She was with a younger man, sitting together on a picnic table bench, arms around each other, smiling. The engraving on the frame read Brothers & Sisters: A Special Bond.

  “Looks like she has a brother,” Susan called out. “Let’s get on that.”

  “Okay,” an officer replied from behind her.

  There was a small stack of books on the coffee table. Most of them were medical journals; a few romance thrillers poked out from the middle. Nothing appeared to be out of place. Cabinets were closed, doors were shut, as were drawers and cubbies. A small pile of mail sat unopened on the kitchen counter, and a closed laptop had been left on the couch. Susan pointed to the computer.

  “Need this wrapped,” she said.

  One of the officers nodded as he pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She walked into the bedroom, and it was more of the same. White walls, queen bed with a white comforter, distressed white dresser and nightstand, a few scattered pictures. The bed was made.

  Susan began opening the drawers and giving them a cursory search, but there were only clothes folded neatly, one kind of clothing for each drawer. She made her way to the nightstand. Inside, there was a book of crossword puzzles, a small notebook, and a black leather address book. The notebook appeared to contain names along with a schedule of specific medications and dates. The address b
ook was an address book. Names, addresses, phone numbers, and emails.

  “Let’s get these bagged too.”

  Susan peeked into the closet, but there was nothing there that would tell her where Rebecca Hill was or how she could be involved in a trooper’s death. She retreated from the bedroom to go talk to the super, who was still out in the hall.

  Juan looked to be in his forties. He had a thick black mustache that covered his upper lip and stubble where his beard would be if he let it grow in. His uniform seemed one size too big.

  “Hi, Juan,” Susan said as she stepped out into the hall and held up her shield. “We haven’t properly met. I’m Investigator Susan Adler from the state police. I appreciate you helping us out today.”

  Juan shrugged and smiled. “No problem. Police say open, I open. I don’t want no trouble.”

  “How long have you been taking care of this building?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Wow, that’s a long time. Good for you.”

  Juan’s chest puffed just a little. “Fifteen years, and we never had no major problems. No leaks, no heat problems in the winter, everybody got working AC in the summer. I keep the walkways clear from ice. Never a problem.”

  “That’s great. How long has Rebecca Hill been living here?”

  “I’d say about five years.”

  “She a good tenant?”

  “Sí. Never a problem. Always pay her rent on time. Never complain about anything. Nice lady. She give me a good tip for Christmas.”

  “Do you know what she does for a living?”

  “She’s a nurse.”

  That would explain the medical books in the living room and the names and meds list she’d found with the address book.

  “Does Rebecca live here with anyone?” Susan asked.

  “No. She lives by herself.”

  “Any boyfriends come and go?”

  “Not that I noticed. Her mother and her brother come to visit on Sundays. Not every Sunday, but they come a lot and stay for the day.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “The brother is David, but I don’t know the mother’s name. I just hear Miss Rebecca call the woman Mom. I think she’s sick. Cancer or something.”

  Susan lowered her voice when a couple came out of an apartment down the hall and made their way toward the elevators. “We have reason to believe Rebecca might be in trouble. We’re thinking maybe she ran off. Do you know where she might go if she was in trouble?”

  “I don’t know her like that,” Juan replied, wide eyed. “I just take care of the building, and we say hello when we see each other. That’s it.”

  “I thought maybe you heard something over the years while you were working.”

  “I don’t hear nothing.”

  “You’re sure.”

  He held up his right hand. “Hand to God. I swear.”

  Susan dug into her pocket and came away with her business card. “Take my number. If you hear anything or she comes home, I need you to call me. Don’t tell her we were here. Just call me. It’s very important.”

  “Okay.”

  As Susan turned to make her way back into the apartment, her cell phone rang.

  “This is Adler.”

  “Susan, it’s Mel.”

  The sergeant’s voice sounded gruff so early in the morning.

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “Crosby told me to call you. Dispatch just got a call from a physical therapy center about an elderly patient of theirs who they think might be missing. Asked us to take a look. He lives in Verplanck, so I sent a unit over. The place looks fishy.”

  “How so?”

  “According to my guys, it looks tossed.”

  “What’s the patient’s name?”

  “James Darville.”

  “Never heard of him,” she replied. “And I’m working the Trooper Kincaid homicide right now.”

  “Rebecca Hill is your suspect.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, she’s the visiting nurse who’s assigned to our missing guy.”

  Susan squeezed the phone. “Give me Darville’s address. I’ll meet you there.”

  TRANSCRIPT

  I’m recording this today because the fog has lifted and my mind is clear. It won’t be long before this disease takes complete control of me, and once that happens, I can’t trust myself to tell the truth about the children. They’re starting to ask too many questions, and when the fog is thick, I know I won’t be able to guarantee what my answers might be, so getting it out while I can recall the details seems the most logical thing to do.

  At least the safest thing.

  I guess I can think of my condition as both a blessing and a curse. It’s a blessing in that one day I’ll forget what I’ve done and the people I’ve hurt. I won’t remember anything about the lives I’ve altered, nor will I be able to recall the names, faces, or scenes that haunt me every moment, asleep or awake.

  I can rest easy knowing that soon I won’t remember the sound a shovel makes when it first pierces the earth. I won’t remember the noise a skull makes when it cracks open. I won’t remember the innocence in a child’s voice or the look in their eyes when they know something’s wrong. These are things I look forward to forgetting.

  And most gratefully, I won’t remember her.

  So that’s why I’m making this recording. I want to ensure that whoever finds this and listens will know what I’ve done and why. The more they ask their questions, the more I realize I’ve been speaking out of school and I can’t trust that what I say is always accurate. These recordings will document everything as it actually happened with dates and names and places and the truth. No more lies. No more misremembering or jumbled thoughts. I’m going to speak of my sins while my mind is clear enough to offer the details they want to know. I’ve done some truly awful things, and this is my confession . . .

  4

  Cindy walked into the kitchen and stood in the doorway. Her hair was still wet from the shower, and it chilled her neck and shoulders. Trevor was leaning against the counter next to the stove, the burner phone in his hand.

  “Did he text?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked if we got James. I told him we did.”

  “Did you tell him about the girl and the trooper?”

  “Not in so many words. I told him we had a few hiccups that would need to blow over in the next few days.”

  “And what’d he say about that?”

  Trevor held up the phone, and she could see the picture of his wife and son. It was a close-up, so she wasn’t able to make out where the picture was taken. Smart. They were smiling, but there was something off about it. They were scared. She could see it in their eyes.

  “They look okay,” she said, trying to be reassuring.

  “No, they don’t. They look terrified.” He flipped the phone shut and stuffed it back in his pocket. “Hagen’s response to me telling him we screwed some things up was to remind me that he has my family. I don’t need to be reminded.”

  Cindy pulled nervously on her wet hair. “I’ll start working on James. Maybe if we can show Hagen that we’re making progress right off the bat, he’ll forgive us for the trooper and the girl. I’ll see what I can get out of him. Like you said before, the faster we get what we need, the faster this can all be over.”

  Trevor nodded as he stared at the phone in his hand. “Okay. And we gotta keep doing what we normally do as best we can from here. Basic day-to-day things. The people around us can’t think anything’s different. Make calls if you have to. Tell them you got a new number. Things need to appear normal.”

  “I’m going to have to record some more episodes for the podcast. I only had three preloaded. I didn’t think we’d be stuck up here.”

  “Then get going. And get your confession so we can get our lives back. Hagen gave you two days before he comes up here and kills the old man. I suggest you t
ake every second he’s giving you.”

  “We can fix this.”

  “Hagen doesn’t care about James’s story or the truth about what happened to your sister. He just wants him dead.” Trevor leaned forward, and she could see the hate in his eyes. “And know that if anything happens to my family, you all die. Hagen too. That’s a promise.”

  5

  Susan snapped on a new pair of gloves and walked through the back door of James Darville’s house. It opened to an ancient kitchen. Linoleum-tiled floor, pink Formica countertops, brown oak cabinets. She made her way into a small dining room that held a cheap folding table, four chairs, and nothing more. Dated wallpaper surrounded the living room, and a worn carpet, stained with seasons of weather being tracked in, stretched from end to end. The place hadn’t been remodeled for decades. Even the television was from an era that had passed long ago.

  In the hallway she took notice of a cluster of photos nailed next to the closet, each one no larger than a five by seven, stored in cheap plastic frames. The photos were black-and-white pictures of nature. Trees, fields, flowers, a cloud-filled sky. No people. No family.

  The single-story house was empty, but it was apparent it had been rummaged through. Her trained eye could see the furniture that had been moved and not quite put back in its original spot. She could see that the drawers of the secretary desk in the living room had been left open just a touch. The cabinets in the kitchen had been rifled through, and judging from the splinters of porcelain on the floor, a few cups or plates must have shattered. The coat closet had been torn apart. The drawers in the ancient china cabinet that doubled as a linen closet had been gone through. Someone had been looking for something.

  Sergeant Melvin Triston was in the living room with two other uniformed troopers. Mel was an older man, gray haired and slightly overweight, a few years away from a retirement he talked about endlessly. Fishing in Key Largo. He was counting the days. He looked worn, his face an Irish pink, his tired eyes projecting a kind of resignation with life on the job.

  “What are we looking at?” Susan asked.