Andrew Klavan - The last thing I remember

Sheriff James gave a little laugh. “That’s where we generally send folks who’ve been convicted of murder.”

My mouth opened and closed silently. I could only barely force out a whisper: “Murder. What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re a killer,” said the big man with a heavy nod. “You were tried in a court of law and convicted by a jury of the murder of Alex Hauser.”

Rose Morning came, and the cell door opened. I was sitting on the edge of the cot with my head in my hands. I looked up and a deputy was standing over me, a giant of a man with a face like granite.

“Come on, West,” he said. “Let’s go.”

I stood up wearily, slowly, aching and stiff in every muscle. My wounds had been treated when I was brought into jail, but I still hurt all over. I stepped out of the cell. The deputy put my hands behind my back and handcuffed me again. Then he took hold of my elbow and led me down the hallway.

It had been a long, long night. The police had taken my clothes away and made me dress in an orange jumpsuit with County Jail stamped on the back of it. I’d tried and tried to tell them I was innocent. I’d made my voice hoarse trying to tell them. But no one would listen. They’d dragged me to the cell and threw me in and walked away.

The cell was hardly bigger than a closet. There was just a narrow cot bolted to the wall, a steel toilet in one corner and a steel sink. Instead of bars, the door was a big piece of Plexiglas with airholes in it. There was a security camera hanging up in the hall outside, looking right in at me. It took pictures of me every second. Even when I went to the bathroom, the camera watched me. It was humiliating. It made me feel as if I weren’t a human being, as if I were a rat in a cage being observed for a laboratory experiment or something.

I hardly slept at all. Whenever I did sleep, nightmares swarmed through my brain. In the nightmares, there were faces, grinning, leaning in on me. There were voices whispering:

… Homelander One.

We’ll never get another shot at Yarrow.

… two more days…

… can send Orton…

… knows the bridge as well as West.

But when I woke up the voices were gone. They trailed away like wisps of smoke, and I could barely remember them or what they’d said. Whatever was left of the nightmares was crowded out of my mind by the nightmare reality around me: this cell, this cot, this jail.

You were tried in a court of law and convicted by a jury of the murder of Alex Hauser.

I still couldn’t comprehend it, couldn’t take it in. A year of my life had vanished. Alex was dead. They thought I had killed him. I’d been convicted of killing him. It wasn’t just the bad guys-the Homelanders-who were after me. It was the good guys too. The police. Everyone.

By the time morning broke, I was exhausted. As the deputy led me down the hall, I was too tired to ask questions, too tired to do anything but go wherever he took me. We went down the hall in silence. Neither of us said a word.

He brought me into a large, messy room. There were several gunmetal-gray desks arrayed around. A lot of papers tacked to the wall. There were men sitting at the desks, men in suits and ties. They stopped talking as I entered, wearing my orange jumpsuit. They watched curiously as the deputy led me past them. He took me to a far corner of the room and through another door.

We came into a smaller room, almost as small as my cell. There was nothing in here but a heavy wooden table and three plastic chairs. There was grimy white soundproofing on the walls. A fluorescent light hung from the ceiling. Now and then, it snapped and flickered. In a corner of the ceiling there was a security camera, just like the one outside my cell. A red light burned on top of it as it took its pictures.

The deputy helped me sit down in the chair behind the heavy table. He uncuffed my hands so I could bring them out from behind my back, but then he handcuffed my right hand to a rail set into one side of the table. That way, I couldn’t break free and run for it.

Then the deputy walked out of the room and left me there.

I sat in silence, handcuffed to the table. I felt empty and hollow and alone. Ten minutes went by. It felt like an hour. Then the door opened, and a man came in.

He was a black guy. Not big, shorter than me, but he was trim, and you could see he was in good shape. He was wearing a sort of colorless suit with a bright blue shirt and a tie that looked like the TV picture when the satellite goes on the fritz. He had a round face with a high forehead and short hair, flat features and a thin mustache. He had very steady eyes. You could see he was smart just looking in his eyes. He was smart and cool and nothing fooled him.

He had a big black binder in one hand. It was filled with papers. I could see some numbers on the back of it and my name: West, Charlie.

He dropped the black binder on the table in front of me. It made a loud whap when it fell.

“Well, well, well,” he said. His voice was like his eyes, smart and cool and not very friendly. “Charlie West. We meet again at last.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. I’d never seen him before.

“I’m sorry,” I said. My voice came out so soft and hoarse, I had to clear my throat and start again: “I’m sorry. I don’t know you. I don’t know who you are.”

The man gave a short laugh. He looked around as if someone else were standing there, as if he wanted to share the joke.

“You don’t know me, huh,” he said.

“I… I don’t remember.”

“Oh, come on. It hasn’t been that long, Charlie.” He waited a few seconds as if it would all come back to me. I didn’t say anything. What could I say? A moment passed and the fluorescent above us snapped and flickered. There was a little dance of shadows then a pale, sickly light. After a while, the man took a deep breath as if he was fighting down his anger. “Well, let me introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Detective Rose.” He waited again as if that would refresh my memory. It didn’t. “I’m the man who arrested you for the Hauser killing.”

I shook my head wearily. I rubbed my eyes with my free hand. It hardly seemed worth saying again, but I had to say it. “I didn’t kill Alex!” I thumped my fist on the table as the words came out.

Detective Rose gave a little smile, a cold smile with no feeling in it. He pulled out one of the other chairs. Propped his foot up on it. He looked down at me. “Yes, you did, Charlie. Witnesses said you did. Murder weapon with your prints and DNA said you did. Blood on your clothes said you did. Jury said you did.” He made a little gesture with his hand. “So you did.”

It was all so insane, so horribly, frustratingly insane, that I actually laughed. It was a miserable laugh, but a laugh all the same. “I don’t remember any of that,” I said. “I don’t remember you. I don’t remember a jury. I didn’t even know Alex was dead till the sheriff told me. The last time I saw him, we were talking. In my car by the park. Then I went home. I went to bed and I woke up in this room…”

“Strapped to a chair, yeah. You told the deputies last night.”

“I don’t remember anything else. I don’t remember a whole year. A whole year of my life is gone!”

“Well, that’s very convenient, isn’t it?” He took his foot off the chair, turned the chair around and straddled it. That brought him down to my level so I was looking straight into those smart, cool eyes. “You murder your friend. You break out of prison. You outrun me for more than three months, and it’s all…” He waved his hand dreamily. “Gone. Like a dream.”

“It is. There’s nothing there.” I stared at him, shaking my head. “But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t make sense. I would never murder anyone. And Alex… he was my friend. I keep telling you.”