Kathleen Creighton - Memory of Murder

After a thoughtful silence, Carl said, “You really feel that’s the way it’s gonna go down?”

It was Alan’s turn to shrug. “Gut feeling, that’s all I’ve got. And I mean, all . There’s something off about this guy, Merrill, but I can’t put my finger on it. And, I’ve got nothing to go on except the memories of an Alzheimer’s patient about something that supposedly happened over forty years ago, God only knows where. What does that make me-crazy, right?”

He could hear the grin in his partner’s reply. “Told you-it’s hormones, that’s all. Can’t be denied.” There was a pause, and then: “Does she know about Chelsea?”

“Who?” Alan said, although he knew very well who.

“The hottie.”

Resigned, he said noncommittally, “She’s met her.”

“And?”

Alan exhaled and muttered glumly, “She gave her a dollhouse. Her dollhouse.”

Carl let out a hoot of laughter, just as they pulled up in front of the convenience store. Then, as Alan rolled the sedan to a stop, they both sat for a moment in silence, gazing at the small Asian gentleman sitting slumped and lost-looking in the open doorway of a patrol car.

Carl sighed. “Please tell me we aren’t going to have to arrest this poor guy for defending his business against some scumbag that tried to rob him?”

Alan looked at him and opened his car door. “We just follow the facts,” he said.

“I think we’re going at this all wrong,” Carl said. He leaned his chair back, propped one foot on Alan’s desktop and laced his fingers together behind his head-for a moment, until Alan gave him a look. Then he quickly shoved himself upright and leaned forward. “I mean, we’ve been looking at it from the perspective of a homicide case.”

“Which, if we assume Susan Merrill’s memories are accurate, it is,” Alan said with a half-stifled yawn. “Taking her recollections as facts-which is already a stretch-we have a couple, husband and wife, probably in their mid-to-late twenties. Both shot, most likely on board a boat of some kind. Problem is, we don’t know where, what kind of boat, what body of water. Could have been just about anything, anywhere.”

It was late Friday evening, long past the time when a newly married man should have been home with his bride, but Alicia was enjoying a night out with her mom and sister-dinner and a chick movie, Carl had told him-so Alan’s conscience was clear. Alan had spent most of Thursday and Friday in court, testifying, and this was the first chance he’d had to get together with his partner and brainstorm the Merrill case-if he could call it that.

He picked up his mug, drained the last mouthful of cold coffee and made a face as he set the mug back down. “Truth is, I don’t know where to start. Rather-I did start, with the Chicago area, which is where Merrill supposedly went to college. Where do I go from here-that’s the question.”

“Uh-uh.” Carl was shaking his head. “That’s what I mean. You’ve been looking at this like a homicide case. But this woman-Susan Merrill-she survived .”

“Her husband didn’t. If what she says is true.”

“Yeah- if . That’s speculation. But we know for sure Susan survived something . Right? You’ve gotta figure her memories are real, or we wouldn’t even be talking about it. So, she gets shot-or injured in some way-didn’t you say she’s got a scar on the side of her head?”

“According to her daughter.”

“Okay, so, say she’s shot, the bullet grazes her, she goes into the water. She remembers floating, right?”

“Right…” Alan said, frowning. He was getting a prickly sensation under his skin, because he was beginning to see what his partner was getting at. He sat up straighter.

“Seems to me,” Carl went on, “it would have taken some kind of miracle for this woman, gunshot wound to the head, in the water-”

“At night,” Alan interjected.

Carl nodded agreement. “To have somehow survived. For one thing, that water couldn’t have been too cold, or hypothermia would have finished her for sure. Which lets out the Great Lakes, and probably the North Atlantic coast, and for sure the whole Pacific coast, which is cold as a-”

“Which leaves the Gulf of Mexico or the Southeast coast.” Alan shook his head irritably. “But the snowsuit-”

“Forget the snowsuit. All that means is the woman lived somewhere cold when her kid was little. Doesn’t mean that’s where the crime took place.”

“Okay,” Alan said. He took a breath and let it out. “Okay.” He was tingling all over, now. He swiveled toward his computer screen. “So, somebody must have picked this woman up-fishing boat, maybe. Somebody’s yacht. Point is, whoever found her, it would have been a pretty big deal…”

“Newsworthy,” Carl said, grinning. “Film at eleven.” He spun his chair around and pulled out his keyboard. “What year did you say this was?”

Two days later. Early Sunday afternoon. Alan and Carl sat hunched in front of their respective computer monitors, staring at the image on both screens.

“So,” Carl said, “what do you think? Is it her, or not?”

For a moment Alan didn’t answer. The image-a small, murky, black-and-white newspaper photo of a woman’s face-reminded him too acutely of the digital photos of homicide victims they often snapped at the crime scene and then thrust in front of potential suspects or witnesses along with the words, “Do you know this woman?” The face was puffy, the eyes half-open, and a bandage obscured the left side of her head, including part of her face. It could be anybody, he thought.

“I dunno,” he muttered. “Maybe.” He switched back to the article from the Richmond Times-Dispatch , dated the fifth of September, 1969. It hadn’t made the front page; Ho Chi Minh had died a few days previously, and William Calley had just been charged in the My Lai Massacre, so the woman rescued from the Chesapeake Bay by two blue crab fishermen only made page two. The photo bore the inevitable caption: Do You Know This Woman? The article alongside the photo was headlined MYSTERY WOMAN PULLED FROM BAY IN MIRACLE RESCUE.

An unidentified woman, believed to be in her late twenties or early thirties, was found barely alive and floating in the Chesapeake Bay early Wednesday afternoon, rescued by two sharp-eyed fishermen, Ed and Patrick Paulsen. The brothers from Reedville, Virginia, were heading home after a day of fishing for blue crab when they spotted the woman, who was partially tangled in some floating debris. It is believed the debris, probably washed into the Bay by last week’s heavy rains, remnants of Hurricane Camille, may have helped save the woman’s life.

“It was just a miracle we even seen her,” said Ed Paulsen. “We thought first it was just a pile of reeds and driftwood and stuff. Then I seen something move.”

The Paulsen brothers are being hailed as heroes today, but according to Patrick, “I guess we was just in the right place at the right time.”

The woman, who is suffering from a head injury as well as exposure, was taken to a hospital in Richmond where she is reported to be in serious but stable condition. Anyone with information regarding this woman is urged to contact authorities immediately.

The night was especially fine. The air was soft and warm-I recall thinking it was a night for lovers. The moon hadn’t yet risen-I had planned for that-and the stars were brilliant. I had lived in the city for so long I had forgotten about stars. Then, just before dawn, the fog came. It seemed like an omen. I knew the time had come.