Dead Man Walking

by Quinn Buckland

  “Yeah, the thought had occurred to me,” I say. “But that doesn’t explain everything.”

  “Explain,” Helen says.

  “The man I followed had been confirmed to work at Motion Motors, both by his family and his neighbours,” I say. “I followed that man from his work to Helen’s home. Helen loved the man who was married to Ruth Sutton and he is the same man who is now dead. You, Howard; I have no idea who you are or who you’re supposed to be.”

  “Doesn’t make the twin idea any less viable.”

  A lead comes to mind. Howard is right; the twin idea does seem possible, maybe even probable. But every clue points to it being false.

  “Thank you for the lead,” I say.

  Howard grins and nods. “It wasn’t really the intention, but I’m happy to help.”

  “What is the intention?” I ask, getting in close to Howard. “What is it you’re getting at? Is it supposed to be that I’m lost and will never find the answers I’m looking for? Is it that you have the direction you’re supposed to point me in? Maybe taking Moses’s job? Or is what you’re doing supposed to demotivate me and lead me to question what I know?”

  Howard’s mouth hangs agape. Helen steps forward. “That’s not why we’re here at all.”

  “No, you’re here to make me regret taking the job. Had I never taken it, I never would have met the second Howard. I wouldn’t have known the first one was dead, as Howard’s murder would never have been my case. I’d be living my life as I always had, and maybe in time, I could have grown more personal feelings for Dorothy, or maybe come to make Genevieve my partner. She certainly deserved a better chance at being more than a receptionist.”

  Helen hangs her head and slinks back. Liddell laughs and raises his hands in surrender. “You’re on a roll,” he says. “Might as well tell me why I’m here.”

  “You’re supposed to make me question those I trust. You and I have been through a lot in our years working together, and if you were one of them, it would shake my world. Even the doubt would be enough to send me spiralling. But you’ve already explained why you couldn’t possibly be one of them. Turns out my mind is better at working through these problems than you thought.”

  Howard shrugs. “You’re the one questioning yourself.”

  “You might as well just wake up,” Helen says.

  “It wouldn’t be the worst idea,” I agree.

  I know how to wake up, but I start questioning how much of what’s happening is a dream. Am I on the roof of the Ares Corporation tower, or am I safe in my office?

  “Only one way to find out,” Liddell says, placing a hand on my shoulder.

  He leads me to the edge of the building. I turn and place my hand where I usually keep my Enfield No. 2. There’s no heater or holster. I look down, and I’m in the buff. It’s a dream; I blush at my nudity regardless. I look back up at Liddell and nod. I feel pressure on my shoulder, and then weightlessness as the top of the building gets farther away with every passing second.

  ***

  My eyes open, and my body shoots straight up. All I remember is falling from the roof of the Ares Corporation tower. “What was I doing up there?” I ask myself.

  I stretch, and my head begins to pound. “Dammit,” I mutter before standing.

  I stumble to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water and drink it without stopping for air. I wipe the excess from my mouth and walk over to the telephone. My head is brimming with ideas, ones I hadn’t considered before. Maybe Howard did indeed have a twin, but they were separated at birth. I’d have to track down his parents and the hospital where he was born.

  Across the room, the mail slot opens, and letters and a newspaper are pushed through. I’m not expecting mail, so I ignore it for the time being. I pick up the telephone and dial Ruth’s number.

  The telephone rings, and Ruth’s annoyed voice comes through. “Hello?”

  “Missus Sutton?” I ask. “It’s Detective Baxter.”

  “Detective? What are you calling me for?”

  “You said before that Howard doesn’t have a sibling.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What if he does?”

  There’s a pause on the other end. I almost speak, but Ruth finally answers. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m trying to make heads or tails of this case, and I’m having difficulties.” I stop and collect my thoughts. I don’t want to put Ruth in any danger. “I need to speak with Howard's parents. Where would I find them?”

  Again, Ruth is silent.

  “Ruth? I need to speak with Howard’s parents. Where will I find them?”

  Ruth sighs. “His mother died eight years ago, but his father is still alive in their old home at the north end of the city. Up in Kingswood.”

  She gives me the address, and I can hear the emotion in the back of her throat. She puts on a good show of indifference toward Howard, his infidelity and his death. Still, it’s clear she loves the man and is ripped to shreds over everything that has happened in the past couple months.

  “Thank you, Missus Sutton.”

  “If you need anything else, just call.”

  She doesn’t see me nod any more than I can see her frown, but, I know we both feel the actions through our voices. I hang up the horn and grab a map of the city. Kingswood is easy enough to find; Red City only has a dozen neighbourhoods, all of which are named. Kingswood is an exceptionally wealthy area of town, a gated community if I recall correctly.

  I look at my empty bottle of hooch and remind myself to grab a new bottle next time I’m out. I light a cigarette and walk over to the mail. The first few letters are nothing special, mainly bills. The final letter, though, makes me smile; Brandon has written back.

  I place the letters on my desk as I search for my letter opener. I grab the blade as the telephone rings. Who the hell is calling at this time?

  I walk over and pick up the telephone. “Hello?”

  “Mister Baxter?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Doctor Hallowell from the Red City Mental Institute. I’m sorry, but I have some bad news.”

  My heart sinks, and my gut turns as the doctor tells me my brother, Brandon, has just died.

  Chapter 13

  The Brother

  “How did he die?” I ask.

  “We don’t know yet,” the doctor says. “He died peacefully in his sleep. It doesn’t look like he suffered at all.”

  “Do you have any suspicions?”

  “We believe he died of a brain embolism. He was a stressed and highly disturbed man.” The doctor pauses and I hear him breathe for a moment. “If you have time tomorrow, we would like you to come down and identify the body and collect his belongings. He didn’t have much, but what he did, I’m sure he would want his brother to own.”

  “I’ll be by tomorrow morning. I’m going to need today to mourn.”

  “I understand; thank you, Mister Baxter.”

  The doctor hangs up, and I do the same. I sit in Genevieve’s old chair and think about my brother. It was so sudden; I didn’t see it coming in the least. Worst of all, I’d been so wrapped up in the case I had neglected to visit him. Tears stream down my face as I try to make sense of what happened and coping with the realization that I’m now completely alone in the city.

  I walk to my desk and grab my letter opener. I slide the blade into the envelope fold and pull up, splitting the paper. I pull out Brandon’s letter and read:

  Dear Thomas,

  Things have been difficult these past few weeks; so much so that I’ve had to take different medications. The dreams have returned and hit harder than ever before; they’re even worse than they were the last time I wrote to you. I continue to wake up believing I’m back in the trenches. The doctors do what they can to help, but when I managed to stab one in the arm with a spoon, they decided I am to live a life of absolute poverty. I can’t have anything more than the clothes on my back.

  It’s a poor time for the dreams to
come back; I’ve been looking forward to our visit. It’s the first I’ve had in months, and I’ll be honest, I’m starting to lose my mind here.

  That was a little asylum humour. Get it?

  I laugh as tears start to fall from my eyes. That was Brandon’s way, laughing at even the darkest of situations. We’d always said he had a soft heart; it shouldn’t have been a surprise when he’d come back from The Great War so very changed.

  I wipe the tears from my cheeks and continue reading:

  In all seriousness though, I am looking forward to seeing you. But with my dreams being so vivid and my reactions being so violent, I don’t imagine the doctors will allow a visitor. They won’t tell me one way or another if I’m allowed a visitor or not, though I’m not thinking so.

  I suppose I should be happy they’re letting me do so much as write a letter. A man with shellshock and a pen can be a dangerous mix.

  In hindsight, I’m not thinking they’re going to let you come see me. I understand if not; it is upsetting, though.

  I hope you’re doing well. I’m happy to hear you’ve been solving cases for the police; maybe someday they’ll respect you as much as you despise them. Just remember, respect is a two-way street, much like personal relationships.

  Speaking of relationships, I hope things between you and Dorothy are going well. I remember you telling me about her in a couple of your letters and how scandalous the two of you have been. She must really care about you to allow herself to forget her virtue like that.

  I’m joking again, but it’s great you found a woman like her.

  I’m sure you have another great case going on, one that you can’t talk about. Not that there is any surprise there.

  I lift my eyes from the paper. Brandon rarely talked about my cases, and when he did, I always let him in on as much as possible. I think he’s trying to tell me something.

  I got a new doctor recently and he seems all right. Not the sort of person I’d expect to be a doctor, but he sure knows his stuff and is really easy to talk to. He says I’m making progress, but I’m not sure how much I believe it with my nightmares getting worse.

  Despite knowing what’s going on and being easy to talk to, I don’t like him. Something about him feels off, almost like he’s pretending to be someone he’s not; but he has all the knowledge and hands-on experience to be who he says he is. It’s weird.

  I do respect the man, though. He’s been straight with me from the start, telling me that there’s a good chance my mind might not ever heal from the damage I’ve suffered. It also makes me happy Red City’s standards for mental institutions are heavily regulated for the care of patients. That’s Hermetic Medical’s influence. I’m not a fan of the Legion of Twelve, but you can’t deny they’re doing good work.

  The thought of spending the rest of my life in the asylum is upsetting, to say the least. But it’s comforting to know I have a brother who genuinely cares for me. Even if we’re not blood.

  I lift my eyes from the page again and scoff. What does he mean we’re not blood? We have the same parents; mother and father both have confirmed that. Hell, we both look like our parents.

  What I just wrote is probably upsetting, and I’ll be more than happy to talk about it with you when you come to visit. But the doctor has helped me remember pieces of my shattered memory, including five years ago when I saw something. I can’t remember what it was, but you were after that, my brother. I think my mind couldn’t handle what it saw and forgot it. I was in the asylum not long after that anyway, so what I saw might just be a delusion, and for all I know you might be my blood brother after all. I really don’t know what’s going on anymore.

  The faculty have noticed me getting worked up, so they’re insisting on taking me back to my cell. I’ll write to you again, Thomas.

  I just want you to know I love you and I hope to see you soon.

  Your brother,

  Brandon

  The doctor had been right in determining Brandon a deranged person, but he was still my brother and nothing can change that. I love him, and I dread going to identify him.

  I decide not to wait until daylight to buy a new bottle of hooch. I go out to the store and buy three. It’s going to be a long day and an even longer night, and I don’t plan on feeling anything through it.

  Why do all the bad things have to happen at night or early morning? What is it about the darkness that makes people want to share bad news, or break up, or die, or leave town? I don’t understand it. I understand that having to drink every night to ease my nerves and dull my brain enough to manage sleep. But I have to be sure to drink enough to suppress dreams. I don’t need any more bothering me and making me face what’s happening.

  I have all day to drink, and I plan to do so. I remove the lid from the first bottle and take a good long drink. I put the bottle to my mouth, and my gut turns, and the world moves in waves. I stumble to the couch and tumble onto the cushions. I take another drink from the bottle and place it on the floor as carefully as possible.

  I don’t get through the first bottle before I vomit and pass out.

  ***

  The pain in my head pounds as I open my eyes. The smell of vomit is overpowering, and I gag as I push myself to my knees. I look past the lavatory door and out the window in my office. It’s dark out. I wonder how long I was passed out but am interrupted by a heave in my stomach, and what’s left of the contents of my gut come up.

  Once I’m sure I’m empty and not going to heave anymore, I get off the floor and walk to the sink to rinse my mouth out. I fill a glass several times and drink down the water.

  “I have to stop drinking so much,” I say to myself. “Bad things need to stop happening first.”

  I get the floor cleaned before the sun rises, and once I get myself cleaned up and put on a fresh set of clothes, nobody would ever know I’d been drinking.

  I wait until eight to throw on a jacket and walk outside. I hail a cab and give him instructions to take me to the Red City Mental Institute.

  The cabby chuckles. “Feeling a little mad, are we?”

  I frown, and he stops. “No, my brother died, and I have to identify the body.”

  I feel the cabby’s awkward attempt at finding something to say as he pulls out onto the road. He doesn’t say anything else, but I know he’s trying to find something. As he drives, I look out the window and try to push out every thought that comes to my head.

  I sigh through my nose as I realize I will need to talk to the Ares Corporation and request a few days off to mourn my brother’s death. It won’t be a problem, but I’ll most certainly lose the case. All the better as far as I’m concerned. I’ve experienced nothing but loss since taking this case, and I’m about finished with it.

  The road turns to dirt as the cabby exits the city. They’d determined it was safer for the populace and the patients if the institution were outside city limits. I can’t say as I disagree with the decision; it just makes the act of coming to visit with loved ones difficult at best.

  From dirt, the road becomes paved again as the taxi approaches a set of cast-iron gates. Two men come out of shacks on the side and the gates open. The taxi drives through, and the guards close the way out behind us. It’s nothing new to me, but the cabby is visibly nervous.

  “Never been out here before?” I ask.

  The cabby doesn’t say a word; he just shakes his head and continues to drive. I believe he’s still nervous about his previous comment. I can’t say as I blame him; the scowl I wear on my unshaven face along with the heater I don’t leave the office without anymore would be enough to intimidate anyone.

  The taxi stops, and I exit. “Wait here. I shouldn’t be too long.”

  The cabby nods, and I enter the Red City Mental Institution. The doctor is there waiting for me as I enter. He’s a fat middle-aged man with a rapidly receding hairline and bright rosy cheeks.

  “Mister Baxter?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s good to meet
you; I’m Doctor Hallowell,” he says as he shakes my hand. “I was Brandon’s doctor during these past few weeks.”

  “Yes, he wrote about you in his letter.”

  “I read that,” he says, his smile fading only slightly. “I can’t say I’m pleased with what he wrote, but we do encourage our patients to honestly express themselves and whatever opinions they have. I can assure you, Mister Baxter, I’m a better doctor than Brandon believed me to be.”

  “I’ll believe you,” I say. “I’m no expert on doctors, especially your sort. I’m just happy to know that my brother wasn’t subjected to the horrors other asylums put their patients through.”

  Doctor Hallowell guides me through the halls toward the asylum’s morgue, or at least what they would refer to here as a morgue .

  “We take pride in our standards of patient care. Hermetic Medical has been working tooth and nail to upgrade the standards for mental care around the country. Still, you know how backward people can be.”

  “I’m sure I do,” I say. “But I’m not sure I get what you mean.”

  Doctor Hallowell snickers. “Antiquated beliefs are hard to break.”

  “Indeed they are.”

  I reach into my jacket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. Doctor Hallowell spins on his heels and glares at me. “Mister Baxter, this is a no-smoking building. Please put your cigarettes away until you leave.”

  I nod and place the snipe back in the pack. I huff and let the doctor lead me through the halls. Soon we come to a set of double doors, and he leads me into a cool room. A body covered in a sheet lies on a steel table. My heart sinks; I know it’s Brandon.

  The doctor walks to the head of the slab and pulls the sheet down. As I’d feared, my brother lies on the table, his skin pale and his eyes sunken. He doesn’t look emaciated or harmed in any way.

  “It’s Brandon.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mister Baxter.”

  I hang my head and let the emotions run their course. Then the words Moses said to me in his club spring into my brain. “Just know, Detective Baxter, the death that’s about to happen is on your hands as well. You don’t get to question us without consequence, and you’ve done nothing more than try my patience.’