Memories of a Murder

by Sid Kar

  “Imagination?” Frank asked.

  “You see, inside the human mind, perceptions of reality, old memories, imaginary scenes, fantasies, dreams, they all get jumbled up,” Friedrich said, “voices and images they all appear the same in your own mind regardless of whether they were true events you remember or fantasies your mind made up. Even what you remember about actual past will have gaps filled in with false memories.”

  “But we can tell apart reality from fantasy,” Frank said.

  “Using our rational brain, yes we can,” Friedrich said, “but even in your line of work, you must have come across delusional individuals who can’t. But that is for our own selves. I have no objective, scientific method I can use to distinguish this Adam’s real memories from his imagination.”

  “You are saying he imagined the sound of the gunshot?” Frank asked.

  “Why not? Wouldn’t you if you saw a gun?” Friedrich asked.

  “You might be right there,” Frank said, “maybe not me personally if I saw a silencer, but I have been around gunfire for many years of my life. Adam on the other hand was a civilian. Then again in a panic moment, I might imagine shots ringing out too.”

  “Exactly,” Friedrich was smiling at him with a satisfied look.

  “Frank that was a shot from a revolver,” Joe said, “like my grandpa’s which I used to teach you shooting.”

  “Joe, I don’t believe Adam would have stood there with a gun barrel staring at him trying to identify the make and racking his brain for the matching sound. No, it was subconscious. He just panicked and knew a shot was coming so he imagined hearing it.”

  “That’s what it is,” Friedrich said.

  “However,” Frank raised a finger, “what I also did hear in the background, was a faint sound of a car passing.”

  “It was right next to Route 1,” Joe said.

  “Joe, what did I say that night?” Frank asked, “he timed his hit so well that the traffic lights on both sides of the road were Red.”

  “A driver who turned?” Joe asked.

  “That day, I did not think so, not at that time of the night since the side streets lead into sleepy suburbs,” Frank said, “but maybe someone did make a turn and maybe he saw something too. Friedrich, you said the software has audio editing capabilities?”

  “It does.”

  “Can you edit out the sound from the gunshot and his footsteps and play it again in slow motion,” Frank asked.

  “Give me a few minutes,” Friedrich said and started working on the computer, identifying and subtracting the primary sound signals to leave only the secondary, background noise in place.

  Then he played the video again.

  “Frank, I hear it,” Joe said. This time the background noise of a car was clear.

  “It is getting louder,” Frank said as the door in the video flung open and the hitman fired his pistol. The car sound kept getting louder till the moment screen turned black.

  “Sound of an approaching car no less,” Frank said.

  “Erratic sound from the car,” Friedrich said, “definitely not a German car like BMW or Mercedes,” he smirked.

  “Err Friedrich, you don’t want to go there,” Joe said.

  “He is right about the irregular sound,” Frank said, “I heard that too. I was thinking perhaps a defective car, but who would drive such a car so late at night in the freezing cold? Then I realized I have heard cars that sounded just like that when I was a road trooper. It’s a drunk driver behind the wheel. Accelerating and slowing down, turning and twisting the steering wheel, meandering on the road, and Friedrich is also right that whatever car it is, it is cheap enough to make discernible sounds.”

  “What does that tell us Frank?”

  “Given the location, the time, the day and the car, I would say some drunk ass college kid from Rutgers ran the red light,” Frank said.

  “A witness Frank,” Joe’s eyes lit up.

  “Let’s not get too excited,” Frank said then turned to Friedrich and pointed at the freezer holding the brain, “Lock that door and give me the key.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t have you prying into the privacy of another man’s memories,” Frank said, “We have crossed a line, but let us stay as close to it as possible.”

  “Fine detective—your brain, your call,” Friedrich said. He detached the electrodes, locked the transparent door of the freezer and handed the key to Frank.

  “We will come again,” Frank said.

  “I will eagerly await you,” Friedrich replied as Frank and Joe turned around and walked out of his lab.

  CHAPTER 7

  It was afternoon when they left the Pharma company’s office and Frank and Joe ate at a Bar-Be-Que joint for lunch, with Frank satisfying himself with a cup of coffee and a hamburger while Joe feasted on a whole slab of ribs with a cornbread muffin, fries, asparagus and finished it off with a chocolate mousse with a raspberry top layer.

  “Oh, I am stuffed,” Joe said while walking back to the car, “back home, Frank?”

  “I want to meet the convenience store clerk again,” Frank replied.

  “That boy works night shift,” Joe said.

  “He works when the owner doesn’t want to, night shift weekdays, day shift on Sunday,” Frank said, “It’s on the way, let’s check it out.”

  They drove back up north and stopped by at the store and just as Frank had predicted the clerk was there cashing out a couple of customers. Frank waited patiently then stepped in front of the counter.

  “Remember me?” Frank asked.

  “Yes, officer, have you solved the case?” the clerk asked.

  “Not yet,” Frank said, “But I am curious that you forgot to tell me about the car that passed by just when you saw the killer go towards Adam’s door.”

  “Forgot the car?” the clerk scowled, “A car on Route 1. It is such an extraordinary event, right?”

  “Tell me about it now,” Frank demanded.

  “Yes, I did see a car about that time, but it’s not unusual even that late,” the clerk said, “a red sedan, that’s all I can say. Now that I think, it was driving slow. Cars zoom by on empty highway late night,” the clerk replied.

  “Did you see our suspect and the car at the same time?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah man, that’s why I didn’t see his face as I told you earlier,” the clerk replied, “the red car was blocking my view when I took a glance.”

  “Exactly what I was hoping for,” Frank said. He left the clerk standing there bewildered and walked back out with Joe keeping up.

  “What got you excited Frank?” Joe asked.

  “The driver may have seen the killer,” Frank said and pulled his car back on the road, “tomorrow get your car. We will go to the headquarters separately.”

  Monday, Day 5

  Monday morning was another brutal winter opening for the day and the temperatures were fighting to reach double digits. Frank pulled up alongside Joe outside his house as was their ritual, rolled down the window and opened his mouth to find a fog of condensation escape as if he had just smoked an entire pack.

  “I am shivering, Frank,” Joe said letting out more cold steam, “what’s the plan?”

  “I am going to see an old friend, but I am giving you a task,” Frank said, “get four or five road troopers and drive up and down the road in front of Adam’s mobile home park. See if any houses have surveillance cameras. See if you and the troopers can request one that was recording video from 11:00PM to 1:00AM on the murder night.”

  “Easier to get a search warrant,” Joe said.

  “Harder because the video will have footage of their house and they aren’t a suspect and we have no probable cause against them,” Frank said,

  “Judge will give us a warrant; it is a homicide case,” Joe said.

  “True,” Frank replied, “but if one of them files a suit it will bring publicity and our killer may go underground or run out of the country, if he hasn’t already
.”

  “Why didn’t you ask for them cameras earlier?” Joe asked.

  “It’s not the killer’s car I am looking for,” Frank said, “I know his type. Car will be stolen; license plates will be fake. Clerk already told us its black, hardest to spot at night time and it will be a very common make and model. But any of us who have done road patrol work can spot drunk driving from a mile away and it is red to boot.”

  “I will get on it Frank,” Joe said.

  “And Joe, ask nicely,” Frank said, “see if anyone recently got a traffic ticket you could help with if he cooperates.”

  Joe waved him and rolled up his window as did Frank. He felt better when the biting air from outside stopped counteracting his heating that was blowing through his car vents. Joe would get the job done, this he knew. Joe was always happy to receive independent tasks which made him feel that he too made valuable contributions.

  Frank had a long ride ahead and that’s why he had started the day early. He had to reach his destination before 7:00AM and why he was here at 5:00. He drove down to South Jersey, while playing all the facts of the case in his head. He still could not believe they had extracted memories from a dead man’s brain. He shook his head thinking about that.

  He reached Cherry Hill with time to spare. He bought himself a tall cup of ice coffee and sipped half of it while he watched a large two-story five bedroom suburban house painted blue with red roof tiles from two blocks away. At two minutes past seven, a man of his own age walked out wearing a white checkered shirt, black khakis, black leather shoes and carrying a thick gray woolen coat in one of his hands and a leather briefcase in the other. He put on his coat while he reached his late model BMW and threw in his briefcase on the passenger seat.

  Scott Biddle was nothing if not particular. Every Monday morning at 7:00 he drove down to Washington D.C. to work his job at CIA as logistics manager for covert operations.

  Frank followed him through town streets and county roads and onto the Turnpike. Frank waited till his target’s car was at least 5 mph over the speed limit, then drove up right behind him, turned on his lights and his sirens and had the car pull over on the shoulder. Frank knew the man, so he got out right away and walked over to the driver’s side window.

  “Oh c’mon, officer,” the man inside exclaimed exasperated, “I was in the middle lane, look at all those cars zooming past me in the left lane.”

  “License, Registration and Insurance please,” Frank said tersely.

  The driver opened his glove compartment and said, “You can’t make 9 o’clock D.C. from Jersey hugging the speed limit. I work an important job in the Treasury for the government.”

  “No you don’t. You work for the CIA,” Frank said and controlled his laughter as the man inside froze in his seat, swallowed hard and blinked rapidly. Finally, he put his head out of the window and said, “Excuse me?”

  “Scott, I wrote you the damn recommendation for the Spooks,” Frank said.

  “Frank!” Scott said, “you almost gave me a heart attack there. I thought my cover was blown and whether you were even a real cop or someone out to ambush me. How is the State Police?”

  “Not as exciting as the Army, but interesting in its own way, especially since I made Detective,” Frank said, “quick, hand me your papers.”

  “Why Frank? Don’t tell me that you actually stopped me for speeding,” Scott replied.

  “Nope, but I didn’t stop you for a chat either,” Frank said, “I don’t want anyone watching to get suspicious. Why, a man in your position knows the value of pretenses all too well. Now quick.”

  Scott reached into the glove box and handed the papers to Frank who pretended to read them. He looked at the fast moving traffic behind him and along both sides of the shoulder. Then he leaned in the car window and whispered.

  “I need profile information on a particular individual,” Frank said.

  “And you can’t get that from the FBI database?” Scott asked.

  Frank shook his head in negative.

  “Figures. Tell me,” Scott said.

  “You remember a CIA hitman in Afghanistan that used to go by the name Panther, a nickname he supposedly acquired because he was reputed to be the quietest operator of the Agency. Silent and smooth, tiptoed in and out, made the least amount of noise, left behind the least clues,” Frank said.

  “Frank, what is this about?” Scott asked.

  “It was rumored that he had gone rogue. That he had put himself up on the market for the highest bidder and started killing for money,” Frank said.

  “Let the Agency deal with him. How is he your problem?”

  “It is when he kills a man in New Jersey,” Frank said.

  “Holy hell…he is operating inside United States?” Scott asked.

  “Can’t be hundred percent sure,” Frank said then whispered even lower, “get me his file with his photos.”

  Scott said nothing for a few moments but stared out the windshield.

  “I do owe you Frank,” Scott said, “You saved me from huge embarrassment, if not a dishonorable discharge. And I have this cushy government job because of you.”

  “Don’t feel obligated, Scott, this isn’t for me. It’s for the murder victim.”

  “But it’s your case, and I will do it for you. When do you need it by?” Scott asked.

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow! I drive back from Langley either Thursday or Friday evening,” Scott said, “You would have me do three hours tonight and three hours again tomorrow morning!”

  “I know that, but every day that passes, chances of catching a man of this caliber are reduced,” Frank said.

  “How will I give you the file?” Scott asked, “Same way?”

  “No, you are forgetting your own agency’s training,” Frank winked, “Twice is a pattern. You know the café one street over from your home? Park your car blatantly in front of the fire hydrant, roll down your window and leave the file on the driver seat. I will pick it up when placing a ticket. You can throw the ticket away, I won’t file it.”

  “You have a deal,” Scott said then smiled, “You know, this will be my first field operation. So far I have been sitting behind the desk, moving stuff around for others. A glorified supply chain role. But now I am feeling the rush that the real spies do.”

  “Just keep calm,” Frank said and walked back to his car. The advice was even more pertinent for Scott. Scott had been under his command in the late war when he had started suffering panic attacks. But it would have been embarrassing for Scott to go to a psychiatrist and get a mental condition excuse from the infantry unit. Frank had him transferred to Army supply and logistics. Scott would not refuse him.

  He waited for Scott to get on the turnpike before he himself pulled onto it and took the next exit to make a U-Turn. He hoped that Joe had managed to get footage from at least one camera.

  When Frank reached the headquarters, he saw no signs of Joe. He called him on the cell phone and found out that Joe and the five troopers with him were still knocking on the doors and asking about the cameras.

  Frank took the opportunity to walk over to the sketch artist room and headed to Amy’s desk. Amy was the composite artist with whom he found it most pleasant to work. But her best quality was discretion. She was his mother’s age, had a son who was a local policeman and looked at younger detectives like Frank akin to her own son.

  “Hey, Amy,” Frank said, “Got time for a sketch?”

  “You know the drill, Frank,” Amy replied looking up from her screen, “put in the request, get a time assigned, join the line,” she said.

  “It is unofficial,” Frank whispered, “It can’t go on the record.”

  “It is one of those hush hush type of things,” Amy smiled, “I think I could squeeze you in for a rough composite.”

  “Rough is all I am looking for,” Frank replied. He knew Amy found her own work dry and always tried to get tidbits out of the detectives who came to her for sketch
es of the suspects. She loved anything that smelled intrigue.

  Frank pulled up an empty chair nearby and slowly described the features of the man he vaguely remembered as Panther over in Afghanistan. He was always on the fringes of the military bases, keeping to himself, showing his face out in open only once in a while and leaving and arriving with no particular schedule. To the image he had from his own memory, he added a few rough features that he could make out from the video of Adam’s memories. When he was done, Amy played around with the software, made a few final adjustments and displayed the rendered image on the screen.

  “Is that whom you were looking for?” she asked.

  “Can’t be sure,” Frank said.

  “Oh, Frank, tell me I have done a decent job of translating the image in your mind on my screen,” Amy said, “I always had a talent for reading minds.”

  Frank was tempted to tell her about Friedrich Brandt. If she was a mind reading psychic, then he was the great wizard.

  “It is not you; we just don’t have a good description of him,” Frank shrugged.

  “Why not?” Amy asked, “why don’t you bring in whoever described him initially…”

  “Amy, don’t ask,” Frank said, “the information comes from unofficial channels. Nothing that can be put in a courtroom. I can’t risk jeopardizing the case.”

  “I understand,” Amy sighed. She didn’t mind secrecy as long as she was one of those who was in on the secret.

  “Can you print me four copies,” Frank said, “then close the file without saving.”

  “As you say,” Amy said. She hit the print button and Frank rushed to grab the four pages that the printer spat out. He walked back to make sure Amy hadn’t saved the image file.

  “I owe you one,” Frank said walking out.

  “Oh, definitely not,” Amy replied.

  Frank walked back to his office and saw that Joe had called and left a message on his office phone that he was returning with the troopers. Frank had gotten up real early and thus was hungry. He decided to grab a late breakfast down at the cafeteria while he still had time before Joe reached the headquarters.