Don't Ever Forget (Adler and Dwyer)

by Matthew Farrell

  “Not sure yet. Definitely more than a B and E. There’s evidence of a struggle.” Triston took his notepad from his breast pocket and flipped it open. “According to the neighbors, Darville’s lived here for about fifteen years. Sixty-eight years old. Suffering from Alzheimer’s. A pretty tough case of it, according to the physical therapy center who called this in. They said James comes in to see them Tuesday through Friday each week and has been doing it that way for the last two years. He was in this past Tuesday with his visiting nurse, Rebecca Hill, and everything seemed fine. Then he was a no-show on Wednesday with no call to cancel. They rang his house and got no answer. Same with the nurse. They called her cell, and it rolled to voice mail. Same deal on Thursday. Didn’t show for the appointment, no call, and when the therapy center called him, no one picked up. Happened again this morning. He had an eight o’clock appointment, same day and time as the last two years, and he didn’t show. No call. No answer from James or the nurse.”

  “So this is the third day he’s MIA, but everything goes down with the trooper last night? If the nurse and the old man are connected with Kincaid’s homicide, then where was the old man for the two days prior to last night?”

  Triston folded his notepad. “No idea.”

  Susan looked back at the house. “Show me the evidence of a struggle.”

  “Looks like it started in the bedroom. We have traces of blood that someone tried to wipe up. Still tacky, so pretty fresh. Come on.”

  She stepped aside and followed Triston down the hall into the bedroom that was back past the kitchen.

  “Dr. Trammel, the guy who runs the physical therapy, had his staff call some area hospitals thinking maybe Darville had an episode or something,” Triston said as they walked through the house. “But no one had a James Darville on their patient list. Trammel said he didn’t know what else to do, so he called 911 and asked if we’d come over to take a look. My guys gained access through the front door, which was unlocked. They saw that the place had been turned, and called it in. We didn’t even know it was connected to the trooper until the nurse’s name came over the wire.”

  The bedroom was like the rest of the house, old and unkempt. The bed was large, the frame a thick dark oak that appeared to weigh a ton. There were no sheets or blankets on the mattress. An old gray armchair with a ripped seat was in the corner, with clothes draped over it. Dresser drawers had been left open, as had the closet. The items on top of and inside the nightstand were scattered about and toppled over.

  “We contacted Rebecca Hill’s employer,” Triston continued. “A place called Traveling Healthcare of New York. They’re out of Mount Kisco. Woman there said she talked to Rebecca on Monday and that everything seemed fine.”

  Susan walked around the perimeter of the bedroom. “What does the old man have to do with our trooper homicide?”

  “That’s why you’re here.”

  “The locks weren’t broken. Knobs are all intact. Hinges are good, and no windows are open or busted. You think she did this?”

  “Makes sense,” Triston said. “And after tossing the place, maybe she found what she was looking for and took off with the old man in her car. Did Kincaid mention a passenger when he called in the 10-38?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t one.”

  He knelt down next to an old radiator that had been painted silver and pointed to a piece of flooring that had been removed. “This wasn’t put back exactly like it should’ve been, and it caught my eye.” He ran his fingers over the grooves that had been carved out. “Opens up to a pretty large storage area under the floor. I think whatever was in there was what Rebecca might’ve been looking for.” He lifted the panel of flooring to reveal a hole about a foot long, a foot and a half wide, and a foot deep.

  Susan bent down next to the sergeant and shined her flashlight inside the hole. It was empty, dust balls in the corners.

  Triston took Susan’s hand and aimed the beam at the bottom of the bed. “You see where the bed frame used to be?” he asked. “Where there’s no dust?”

  “Yeah, I see.”

  “I’m guessing there was a struggle in here. This bed is solid oak and really friggin’ heavy. Would take a lot to move it halfway across the room like that.”

  “Then maybe she had help,” Susan replied. “From what I saw in the pictures at her apartment, Rebecca Hill is five feet tall and one hundred and ten pounds. No way she has an encounter with the old man that’s fierce enough to move this bed like that. She has a brother, though. He looked like he was in good shape.”

  Triston moved her hand holding the flashlight from the bed to the opposite side of the nightstand, by the closet. “There’s the blood we found. You see the droplets there? Maybe half a dozen?”

  “Yup.”

  He stood up and walked to the closet, pulling the door away from the wall. “Got some more here that they tried to wipe up.”

  The smear of blood on the wall was fairly sizable and ran down to the floor. Someone had attempted to clean it, but the walls were too dirty, and all it did was leave streaks of pink stain.

  “So maybe Rebecca is already here with Darville, and her accomplice comes knocking and she opens the door to let him in. Maybe Darville falls asleep, and while he’s sleeping, Rebecca and whoever she’s with toss the house. But she can’t leave everything messy, so she does a half-ass job putting things back the way they were so the old man wouldn’t notice.”

  Triston nodded. “That would lead you to believe the old man wasn’t part of the plan. If they were always planning to take him, they wouldn’t care about cleaning up.”

  Susan walked to the wall and studied the blood. “Right. But they woke him up when they were pulling apart the floor. That’s when the struggle started. That’s when the plan fell apart.”

  “Sounds plausible to me.”

  “What was in the floor? What did they find that was worth taking the old man and killing a cop over?”

  “Gotta be a bunch of cash, right? What else would you keep in a hidden compartment in the floor? Could’ve been enough cash in that hole to start a new life somewhere else. Who knows?”

  Susan turned away from the wall, and the beam of her flashlight caught something in the corner, next to the bed. She walked over, bent down, and grabbed it. It was a small gold locket, half-rusted and beat up with time. She could faintly see the initials SG engraved on one side. She shined her light farther along the baseboard and under the radiator.

  “Got more evidence of a struggle,” she said over her shoulder as she reached under the dusty radiator and pulled another object out. “Let’s get forensics in here to do their thing.”

  “What’d you find?” Triston asked, watching her.

  She turned the object over in her hand, studying it. “First I found a locket,” she said. “Then I found this tooth.”

  6

  Even before his vision had a chance to clear, the old man knew the ghosts were standing at the far end of the room. They were gray corpses, hand in hand, just inside the line of shadow near a small corridor that led to a set of hurricane doors. A boy and a girl. Tattered clothes, frail frames, overgrown and matted hair. Their skin was too damaged from the decades of decay to determine exactly how old they were, but they were young. He’d seen them before. He’d seen the others come too. As his vision sharpened, he locked in on their eyes. Fresh. Focused. Very much alive. It was too dark to make out the details of their faces, but he could feel them staring. At him. Through him. From across the room.

  “Go away!” he barked. His throat was dry and sore. He coughed and bent over, covering his face until the hacking stopped and the spasms in his chest ceased. When he sat up, he could feel the pain in the back of his head. The boy and girl were gone. He was alone again.

  “Hello?”

  He waited for a few beats to see if they would return, but no one came. He let out a thin breath and relaxed, realizing just then that he was sitting in a wheelchair. Both of his legs were in
braces, positioned up and out from the chair so he couldn’t bend his knees. He tried to recall where he was and how he’d ended up there, but nothing came except the increasingly familiar sensation of walking through a thick fog. He knew his name was James. And he knew he didn’t like being called Jim. He also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d run out of detergent and would have to get another bottle before a new load of wash could be done.

  He looked around and saw that he was in a basement. Finished. Nice enough. There was a distant familiarity to it, but no way of knowing if he’d been there before. The space was one large area with tiled floors. A sofa, television, and coffee table created a living room, while a bed, dresser, nightstand, and full-length mirror made up the bedroom portion on the opposite side. A small refrigerator had been placed up on a crate next to the television, perhaps to make it easy for him to access while in the wheelchair. It was the right height.

  James wheeled himself past the couch and stopped at the base of three windows lined side by side near the top of the wall, directly across from a step up that continued down a corridor that he knew led to a set of hurricane doors, then outside. The height of the windows made it impossible for him to see out, but he could hear the hustle and bustle of the city and knew he was on Manhattan. The horns. The traffic. The shouting. The sirens in the distance. That noise was unique, like a particular song that could never be replicated and couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. He loved the city. It felt good to be there again.

  A single flight of stairs sat in the middle of the room, reaching up to what must have been the rest of the house. His house? Someone else’s house? He couldn’t recall. Detergent. He needed to get detergent. He couldn’t wash the clothes without it.

  James slowly spun around in the chair when he heard the door open at the top of the stairs. He saw boots first, small and clean. Then jeans, a red sweater, and finally a face he thought he recognized but couldn’t be sure.

  The woman looked to be in her forties. She was pretty, with pale skin and brown hair that held tight curls. He could see her blue eyes from across the room and took notice of her full lips. No makeup. She smiled when she saw him.

  “I know you,” James whispered, more to himself than her. “I know your face. I’ve seen it before.”

  The woman was carrying a tray of food and placed it on the coffee table. She stood straight and looked at him, her smile never fading. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “We need detergent. I can’t do the laundry without detergent.”

  “You don’t do the laundry. That’s my job.”

  “No,” he replied, head shaking. Why couldn’t she understand? “I’m not asking you to do the laundry. I’m telling you we need detergent.”

  “Okay, I’ll get some.”

  “Good.”

  The woman waited. “Can you tell me where you are?”

  He thought for a moment, looking around the room. “I’m in the city.”

  “But what is this place?”

  “A basement. My room.”

  “Very good. And where is that?”

  The fog was thick. He tried to work his way through it, following her questions, then losing them in the white blanket of nothingness. “I need detergent.”

  The woman nodded, the smile fading just a bit. “Look at me.”

  He did.

  “What’s my name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think. Try and remember.”

  “I can’t do the laundry with just water.”

  “Okay. Can you tell me your name?”

  He gripped the armrests on his chair, looking away from the woman, embarrassed, ashamed. “Why are you making me do this?”

  “Come on, tell me your name.”

  “James,” he grumbled. He could feel his face flush.

  “Good. And what’s my name?”

  “I don’t know! Bitch! How about your name is Bitch? I need to wash the clothes!”

  The quick outburst brought the room to a silence. The woman walked past the coffee table and placed her hand on his. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’m not here to make you angry. I just need to know where you are today.”

  “What do you mean where I am? I’m right here! In this . . . basement.”

  “I need to know how thick the fog is.”

  He stared at a woman who was both a stranger and someone he was certain understood him in a way others couldn’t. “You know about the fog?”

  “Sure.”

  He sat helpless as she pushed him over to the edge of the coffee table and sat on the couch. Dammit, he knew that face. Knew the smile and the voice. He just couldn’t remember her name.

  “We’re going to eat now,” the woman said. She unrolled a fork and spoon from a napkin and placed them next to his plate of chicken and rice. “My name is Cindy.”

  “Are you my daughter?”

  “I heard you talking down here.”

  “We ran out of detergent. Will you get me some?”

  “I will, but first you need to tell me who you were talking to.”

  “No one.”

  “I think I know who it was.” The woman leaned in. “Did the ghosts come back?”

  “How do you know about the ghosts?” James asked.

  The woman scooped a forkful of rice and fed him. “You’ve told me about them. They come around whenever you’re having an episode.”

  “When the fog is thick.”

  “That’s right.” She placed the fork down on the plate. “Who were they? The ghosts.”

  “A boy and a girl.”

  “You said sometimes they come to scare you. Why would the ghosts want to scare you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you sure about that? Think for a minute. Why would they want to scare you?”

  “The detergent. We need some.”

  Cindy sighed and took two pills that were sitting on the edge of the tray. She handed them over.

  “What are these?”

  “Donepezil. It’s for the Alzheimer’s.”

  The word hung in the air between them. Alzheimer’s. He wondered how many times she’d had to tell him about it. He was confused, the fog thick, his general recognition of things cloudy, like a rambling story without any real detail.

  “How long?”

  The woman looked away. “Too long. A few years now. Started with little things. Misplacing your keys. Forgetting where you put your phone. Not being able to follow your shows on TV. It got worse over time. You’d leave the house and forget where you were going. Then you started forgetting how to get home.”

  The old man scanned the room again. It was as if he were looking at it for the first time. “My name is James.”

  “That’s right. James Darville. And I’m Cindy.”

  “How many times have you had to tell me that?”

  “Enough.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. Come on now, eat.”

  James leaned his head forward as Cindy brought the fork up to him again. He took a bite and fell back against the wheelchair. “Am I married?”

  “No.”

  “So how did I get you?”

  Cindy smiled and pushed the chicken into a pile on the plate.

  “I need to get to the store,” he added. “I’m trying to do the laundry, but we’re out of detergent.”

  “I’ll get you your detergent.”

  James nodded and chewed his food. He took a sip of water from the bottle the woman had given him. “Those ghosts are real,” he said. “They watch me, and I don’t like it.”

  “They’re just hallucinations. Part of the disease. If you see them, I know you’re having a flare-up, so it’s important to tell me, and we can talk about them. That’s how we work with it. I heard you yelling at something. Figured it was them.”

  “No, I’m telling you, they’re real.”

  “Okay.”

  James finished his meal i
n relative silence. His mind tried to absorb all the new information he’d been given, but by the time he was done with his plate, a lot of the particulars had already been lost. He knew he had an incurable disease. He knew he was living with this woman instead of in a nursing home, and he knew she’d told him her name, but he couldn’t quite remember what it was. Cathy? Christy? The rest of it was lost in the fog.

  “That noise,” he said, pointing toward the high windows. “That’s Manhattan.”

  “West Village,” the woman replied. “Christopher Street.”

  “Can we go outside?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. It’s raining pretty hard out right now.”

  James watched as the woman packed up the tray, rose from the couch, and made her way toward the stairs. She stopped and turned back to him.

  “I’ll get you that detergent.”

  “We’re all out.”

  “Okay.”

  “I can’t do the laundry without it.”

  “I know.”

  After the door to the main floor closed and returned him to the silence of his surroundings, James spun the chair around and backed himself into the corner next to the television so he could scan the room beyond the stairs that held darkness and shadow. That was where the ghosts would be, watching him, reminding him of things that even his disease wouldn’t allow him to forget. Things he wanted to forget.

  Things any person would beg to forget.

  7

  Two patrol cars were parked in front of Maxine Hill’s small bungalow on the corner of Grove Street in Mount Vernon. They were empty, which meant the troopers were already inside. Susan climbed the four brick steps and knocked on the front door.

  A younger man, late thirties perhaps, answered. He was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and jeans. Susan recognized him from the photograph in Rebecca’s apartment.

  “I’m Investigator Adler from the state police,” she said, holding up the shield that was hanging around her neck. “I need to see Mrs. Hill.”

  “I’m her son, David,” the man replied, opening the door wider. “Come in. The other officers said you were coming by.”

  Susan followed David into a small living room that held a tattered love seat, an armchair, and a coffee table. Maxine was sitting in the armchair. Her frame was pretty much skin and bones. She looked sick.