The Last Hope

by C. C. Jameson

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  July 30, 2015

  Robbie Robertson

  Agatha Lindsey’s House, East Boston

  Beethoven’s Fifth reminded Robbie of his youth.

  JJ used to play it for him when he was sick. She’d let him build castles with Legos, and they’d talk to each other. He loved JJ and often wondered what had happened to her.

  Was she still at the Colony?

  But more important matters were at play.

  Why am I standing in a tuxedo behind a naked couple? Why do I have a sharp plastic blade in my hand?

  Robbie could taste something fishy and rich in his mouth. His throat was parched. His heart was beating fast.

  Where am I?

  But before he could remember how he got there, the naked woman saw him and screamed.

  He lowered his blade, glanced around for a way out, saw the entrance hall on his left, and then ran toward it.

  What now?

  He ran to the street, placed the knife in his right jacket pocket, where he found a set of Toyota keys. He walked a few houses down before finding a gray Toyota that reacted when he pressed the unlock button. He sat still in the driver’s seat while realizing what had just happened.

  He had nearly murdered a man. He had to prevent that from happening again. The music must have made him come to his senses.

  Beethoven.

  He turned on the radio, scrambled for a minute, and then found the classical music station. He turned off his phone. But what about the rest?

  Could some other sound or visual clue trigger the killer in me again? Better not risk it.

  Robbie had no idea where he was. He programmed “police” into the car’s GPS and followed the directions to the nearest station. Once there, he opened up the glove compartment and found a pad of paper and a pen.

  He wrote:

  Lock me up, I need to talk to a detective about a murder, play Beethoven if I don’t cooperate.

  He left his knife in the glove compartment and placed his phone in his jacket pocket before walking to the front desk and showing his note to the officer on duty.

  After waiting for a few minutes, another police officer took his jacket and escorted him to an interrogation room on the second floor. The man left Robbie alone with his thoughts.

  The longer he waited, the fuzzier things got. He could hear a clock ticking on the wall. He tried to remain calm, to stay out of his trance, but pain began pulsating in the back of his head.

  He closed his eyes, but all he could hear was his heartbeat and the ticking clock.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  July 30, 2015

  Robert Robertson

  Roxbury Police Station, Boston

  The door opened, and Robert lifted his eyes.

  A fat man in a brown suit offered him a glass of water. “You wrote this note?” he asked, pushing a piece of paper toward Robert.

  Robert stared at it, then at the man.

  What had happened? The last thing he remembered was the senator’s wrinkly ass and the red-soled heels.

  Now, he was in what seemed to be an interrogation room. Did he get caught? Did he kill the senator? And what was this stupid note about?

  He didn’t remember.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you,” the fat man said. “What’s your name?”

  Robert looked up, annoyed and wanting to crush the man’s blond-haired head against the stainless steel table, but the fatso got up and left.

  A minute later, Robert got up as well and tried to open the door. It was locked.

  Of course.

  He returned to his seat and took notice of his environment to come up with an escape plan. One table and two chairs, each bolted to the floor. One television monitor attached to a corner of the ceiling, out of reach. Two solid walls, one with a locked door, and the other with a large mirror, probably two-way.

  How many people are on the other side?

  Nothing to grab, and nothing to throw at the mirror either. Placing his hands in his pants pockets, he tried to feel for his plastic blade. Gone. What did he do with it? Did he throw it out? Did he give it to the police? What about his cellphone? It wasn’t in his pockets either.

  The door re-opened, and this time the fat man had brought in reinforcement: a tall brown-haired man, an iPod, and mini speakers. Fatso pressed play, and Beethoven’s notes filled the small room.

  “So, what’s your name?” the thinner, taller man asked.

  Robert was confused. Having trouble focusing, he looked at the fat man, the other man, the door, the mirror, the speakers... The room wasn’t spinning, but he felt dizzy nonetheless.

  What’s going on?

  The fat man nodded at the other, then they left, along with their music.

  Letting out a sigh of relief, Robert calmed down. He could feel his shoulders lowering, his breath decelerating. Then, the annoying music filled the air through the built-in speakers in the ceiling.

  Why the fuck are they playing shitty music in here?

  It felt like his mind was being crushed. He couldn’t formulate his own thoughts, only notice his memories fade and dissolve away.

  A short pause between songs gave him a small reprieve, and then the first few notes took him out of his trance.

  Ta-ta-ta-taaaa, ta-ta-ta-taaaaa...

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  July 30, 2015

  Robbie Robertson

  Roxbury Police Station, Boston

  Beethoven’s Fifth had brought him back. His note had worked.

  Robbie stood up, looked straight into the mirror, then waved at whoever was watching him from the other side.

  A minute later, a chubby, curly-haired man in plain clothes entered and sat down before taking a deep breath. The door reopened a few seconds later, and a taller, brown-haired man came in.

  “Ready to talk?” the chubby man asked.

  “Yes,” Robbie said.

  “I’m Detective Rosebud,” he said, “and this is Detective Chainey.” He pointed at the taller man. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Robbie Robertson.”

  “Mr. Robertson, why are you here?” Rosebud asked.

  “I have information you need to know.”

  The tall man remained standing, not saying a word but staring at Robbie with a blank expression.

  Rosebud rested his elbows on the table and joined his hands together in a fist. “About what?” he asked.

  “A murder.”

  “Finally,” Rosebud said before sighing. “Did you kill anyone?”

  Robbie felt his left eye twitch. “Tonight? No.”

  “And in your lifetime?” Rosebud asked.

  Robbie nodded. “Probably.”

  “Okay, we’ll talk about that in a second, but first, what’s going on here? Why didn’t you want to talk to us a few minutes ago?” Rosebud inquired.

  Robbie looked down at the table, the twitch in his left eye becoming stronger. He had no idea what had happened in the past few minutes. “I don’t know.”

  “Hey,” Rosebud said, snapping his fingers to get Robbie’s attention again. “Are you on drugs, Mr. Robertson?”

  Robbie shook his head. “No.”

  “Do you suffer from a mental disorder?” Rosebud asked.

  Robbie looked up, annoyed. “No!”

  Rosebud waved his hands at him. “Fine, that’s just fine. I need to check something, and I’ll be right back. Would you like something to eat? A sandwich? Cookies?”

  Robbie shook his head then changed his mind just as the men were leaving the room. “Cookies would be great.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  July 30, 2015

  Detective Malvin Rosebud

  Roxbury Police Station, Boston

  Rosebud and Chainey headed to the interrogation room’s observation area to join Joseph Morven, a BPD criminal profiler, and Cameron Lack, the FBI agent in charge of the cloning case. Rosebud still had no idea why the FBI agent had wanted to snoop around this weird w
alk-in situation, but if Lack wanted to waste his own time, Rosebud couldn’t care less. He had nothing to hide. He just wanted to get this over with and head home.

  “Well, he seems freaking nuts to me,” Rosebud said. “Chainey, can we run a check on him: background, previous record, et cetera? See if any nutjobs have escaped from hospitals, jails, or rehab centers recently?”

  Chainey chuckled. “I’m on it,” he said before leaving the room.

  Rosebud looked at Morven. “What do you think?”

  The profiler had volunteered to sit in on this one as a way to take a break from the cloning circus that had started earlier today with the arrival of the FBI. Rosebud didn’t expect a detailed analysis from him. Morven’s brain was probably as drained as his was.

  “When the Fifth Symphony started, within a second of hearing the first few notes, the man’s facial expression changed,” Morven said then paused. “This particular song acts as a trigger. The previous few tracks confused him, but nothing like that one. It flipped a switch. I’ve set your iPod to repeat this single song in a loop, so be ready for it.”

  “Really? First I have to download this crap, just in case it matters. Now I have to listen to it, over and over, and over? Will this day ever end?” Rosebud scratched his head and looked at Morven again. “So, you think he’s a psycho?”

  “Absolutely not what I said,” Morven replied, his face stern. “He might be schizophrenic or could suffer from another mental disorder. My background in psychiatry isn’t strong enough for me to diagnose him.” He turned toward Agent Lack. “Is your psychiatrist still here?”

  “He’s gone home. So far, there’s no indication we should be involved. Unless he says something that links him to this cloning-murder case, I’m leaving, and I won’t involve any of my guys.”

  Chainey came back just as the FBI agent was finishing his sentence. He waved two sheets of paper in the air.

  “Well, you may want to stick around,” Chainey told Agent Lack. “His name and DOB came back with two matches. And have a look at these driver’s license pictures,” he said, handing them over.

  Agent Lack nodded as he examined the sheets. “Same name, same DOB. They look like twins, but different addresses. Unless the mother wanted to call both her twins the same, it sounds to me like this guy is living a double life. Well, up until yesterday, the double life would have been the only plausible option to me. But with your latest discovery, I guess we could have another clone on our hands. I’ll send a couple of my agents to the other address to check it out.”

  Lack turned to Morven before continuing. “I’m calling in Dr. Dobbins, just in case.” He took out his cellphone.

  “I need a drink,” said Rosebud before exiting and heading to the lunchroom. He walked swiftly while massaging his temples. A headache was building up. This day didn’t look like it would end anytime soon.

  A minute later, he was surprised to see the lunchroom occupied. “Murphy?” he called out. The clock on the wall read 11:04 p.m. “What are you still doing here?”

  “Putting the finishing touches on your reports. Yours, Fuller’s, Wang’s, Chainey’s, and mine. Fuller needs them first thing in the morning,” she told him.

  Rosebud couldn’t help but giggle. “Yeah, I bet he does.”

  He reached for a paper cup and selected the Dark Ethiopian blend on the machine, then pressed for one sugar to be added.

  “Whatever, I wasn’t in a position to say no.”

  “It’s part of making it,” he said. “We’ve all done something like that at some point. Some suck dicks; some fill out paperwork. Part of earning your stripes.”

  “Why are you still here? Fuller left hours ago.”

  Rosebud shook his head. “Chainey’s still here, too. You wouldn’t believe the wacko who just walked in. We may actually have a live clone on our hands. Oh, almost forgot,” he said, walking over to the vending machine. “Cookies. Might as well get some for me, too.”

  He purchased two packages of Oreos. The coffee machine spat out the last few drips, and then he took his cup out of the dispenser.

  “A live clone. Really?” Murphy looked like someone had injected her with caffeine. “Can I go and sit in?”

  “Nah. Don’t think Fuller would approve,” he said as he shook his head and watched disappointment creep on her face. “The weirdo may not be a clone anyway. He’s probably just crazy and running a double life.” He stirred his coffee. “Hope you finish those soon so you can get a few hours of sleep before tomorrow.”

  Rosebud chucked his stir stick into the garbage and started walking out of the lunchroom.

  “Should be done in about thirty minutes,” Murphy said as she looked at the clock.

  Just after turning the corner out of the lunchroom, he stopped and backtracked. He peeked his head in the room to look at Murphy. “Thanks for filling out my report. I appreciate it.”

  She smiled. “No problem.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  July 30, 2015

  Dr. Everett Dobbins

  Roxbury Police Station, Boston

  “So, what have we got here?” Dr. Dobbins asked the group in the observation room as he walked in.

  “Dr. Dobbins,” Agent Lack started with a faint smile. “Thanks for coming. This is Robert Robertson. He seems to have a mental block or some personality split that gets triggered when he hears Beethoven.”

  “Would it be all right if I go in?” Dobbins asked while looking at Lack.

  “Of course,” Lack replied.

  “Dr. Dobbins, here are some cookies,” Rosebud said, handing over one of the packages he’d just purchased. “Robertson said he wanted some earlier.”

  Dr. Dobbins took the cookies and entered the interrogation room. He walked to the chair and sat opposite Robertson with his legs crossed, examining the man’s flat expression before resting a pen and pad of paper on his lap. Robertson’s sleek brown hair appeared to have gel in it, and his tuxedo clashed with the interrogation room’s decor.

  “Robert, how do you do?”

  “Hi.”

  “I’m Dr. Dobbins. Would it be all right if I asked you a few questions?”

  “Whatever,” Robertson replied.

  Dr. Dobbins slid the package across the table. “Here’s a snack for you.”

  Robertson snatched the Oreo wrapper from his hand before Dr. Dobbins had fully released his grip.

  “Hungry, I see. I was told your name is Robert Robertson. Is this correct?”

  “I like Robbie better.”

  “Okay, Robbie. What’s your middle name?”

  Robertson glanced up as he chewed on a cookie. “Middle name?”

  “You know, on your birth certificate. Do you have an extra name that appears on there? Most Americans have a middle name.”

  Robertson raised his shoulders as he swallowed.

  Dr. Dobbins continued. “Tell me about you.”

  “What?” Robertson asked before reaching for the last cookie.

  “For example, what do you do for work? Or what do you enjoy doing in your free time? What are your favorite television programs?”

  Robertson stared at him impassively then raised his shoulders again.

  “How about your parents?” the doctor asked.

  Robertson looked down and shook his head without saying a word.

  “Are they dead?”

  “Don’t know,” Robertson replied, his eyes still aimed at the table.

  “Who’s your best friend?”

  “JJ.”

  Dr. Dobbins made a note on his pad. “Who’s that?”

  “Juliet.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Don’t know,” he said, fingering the packaging, his bright blue eyes showing a hint of sadness.

  “Do you miss her?”

  He nodded profusely. “Yes.”

  “Do you have other friends?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m sure that’s not entirely true,” Dr. Dobbins said. “What abou
t old friends from school?”

  Robertson remained silent, but his eyelids drooped.

  Dobbins noted the change in him, so he said, “Tell you what. I’m thirsty. I’m going to get myself a cup of tea. Do you want anything to drink?”

  “No.”

  The doctor stood up, left, and then returned to the observation room.

  Agent Lack was waiting for him. “So, what do you think?”

  Dr. Dobbins scratched his head. “Not the most talkative person. You said he walked himself in? His answers were short. He doesn’t trust me. That ‘Juliet’ he mentioned… Do we have a female agent who could come in for a few minutes? I reckon he might trust a woman more than he does men.”

  Lack looked at Rosebud and Chainey. “I’ve got an all-male crew this time,” Lack said.

  Rosebud snapped his fingers. “Hold on. I saw Murphy a few minutes ago in the lunchroom. I’ll see if she can come in.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  July 30, 2015

  Kate Murphy

  Roxbury Police Station, Boston

  Kate was turning off her laptop when Rosebud rushed back into the lunchroom, out of breath.

  “Great, you’re still here,” he said.

  “What?” Kate asked, a little annoyed. She looked at the clock on the wall: 11:30 p.m. It was late, and she was exhausted.

  Better not be about more paperwork that needs to be filled out tonight. I need sleep.

  “The FBI’s psychiatrist wants a woman to interview the wacko, and they don’t have one on staff. Follow me.”

  “Really?” Kate exclaimed, her heart jumping in her chest.

  A chance to do more detective work. Real detective work this time, not just filling out reports, and with the FBI? I’ll be interviewing a clone! This could even help me free Kenny. Well, maybe.