Alex Bobl: Memoria

“No problem, kid,” The mustached face softened. The man ran his thick strong fingers over his mustache and added, “I suggest you pay Memoria a visit, too.”

Frank pursed his lips waiting for him to continue.

The cabbie shook his head. “Don’t give me all that bullshit about you having already done it,” he reached between the seats, smoothed out Frank’s creased coat lapel and patted him on the shoulder. “Not a good idea to ignore your duty. You know you’ve got to visit them three times a year. They run a free promotion now, too: you might still make it if you don’t put it off for too long. Now off you go! I’ll wait for you right here.”

Frank scrambled out of the cab and wrapped his coat tighter around his body. Strange man, this veteran. He seemed to read Frank’s mind. He had a point, though: landing a well-paid job these days took a lot of luck. Having a place to live, a family and children was taking on quite a strain. He really shouldn’t lose Kathleen. He should try and talk to her, maybe suggest moving in together — and why not for keeps?

For a split second, Frank wanted to stick to the status quo: what was the point in trying to dig up her past if they might not share a future? But today, it was different. Today, things seemed to form a pattern. He hadn’t fallen for the bullying cabbie’s abuse, he’d remembered his old boxing coach, he’d realized that he loved Kathleen — yes, loved was the right word — and worked up the courage to propose.

Frank couldn’t help smiling.

The first raindrops hit the sidewalk. Frank glanced up at the stormy clouds thickening in the dirt-gray sky and hurried inside the lobby of his apartment building. He couldn’t make it past the entrance: the hallway was blocked by the backs of newspapermen, TV reporters and photographers busy setting up their cameras and lighting.

They crowded into the lobby blocking out the reception desk. Frank tried to bypass them through a narrow opening to their left. When he finally made it to the desk, the doorman produced two days’ back mail and suggested he hurried to the elevators if he didn’t want to have to take the stairs: the lobby was about to close for a press conference.

Frank was just about to ask him what all that media fuss was about and who called the press conference, but two media men complete with a camera and the ID badges of an international news channel beat him to it and demanded the doorman’s attention. After a hesitant wait, Frank looked at the media crowd. It had perked up, and Frank hurried to the elevators. He’d find out what it was all about later. Upstairs, Kathleen was waiting and he couldn’t think of much else but her.

When he left the elevator, he saw that his front door was slightly ajar. His first thought was about old Mrs. Fletcher next door: more than likely, she’d called on him again and Kathleen must have helped her to set up the cable remote. The poor old bag couldn’t live without her TV, applying for every talk show and dreaming of her fifteen minutes of fame.

Frank entered the hall and removed his coat. Kathleen’s purse was missing from the shelf under the coat-rack mirror where she always left it. In its place, he found a note: “Kitchen”.

A puzzled Frank forgot to close the front door and moved along the corridor, taking off his jacket. He turned to the right and entered the kitchen. On the kitchen table sat a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

Frank smiled. This was so unlike Kathleen. She’d never done anything like it. He hung his jacket on a chair and took a corkscrew out of the drawer. Apparently, their restaurant date would have to wait. Same went for the cabbie. Kathleen was easily aroused, fiery in bed, and she climaxed quickly. He’d make her groan with exhaustion as she readied to come, and then—

He pulled the cork out and tilted the bottle. The red bubbly warbled in the glass.

Then she would get ready — shower, makeup, whatever — while he went downstairs and asked the cabbie if he could wait a bit longer than planned.

Frank left the bottle on the table, lifted the full glasses and headed for the bedroom. His hands trembled slightly with arousal. He stopped in front of the door and took a swig. Excellent wine. He raised the glass against the light admiring the bubbles coming to the surface, kicked the door open and entered.

Kathleen lay on the king-size bed in her lacy lingerie and stockings, her arms spread wide. The electronic bracelet was missing from her right hand. Her raven-black curls tumbled across the pillow, her head turned to the doorway. Her glassy dead eyes stared at Frank.

For a second or two he stood there staring at the girl, unable to take it in, the wine glasses in his hands. His ears were blocked, his throat, tight. Finally, with a whimper, he rushed to the bed. The wine went all over his shirt and the sheets. He dropped the glasses, lifted Kathleen’s head and looked into her eyes, praying for her to blink and say, hi there! But it didn’t happen.

She had a tie wrapped around her throat — her own gift to Frank before he’d left for Washington. The pale skin under the tie showed a thin blue stripe.

She’d been strangled.

When? Why? By whom?

Something rustled behind his back. Frank turned round. Mrs. Fletcher stood in the doorway, the cable remote in hand, squinting nearsightedly. After a second, her eyes widened filling with terror.

She must have thought she’d understood — but she misunderstood when she saw Kathleen’s body and the red spots on Frank’s shirt and the bedclothes. She must have thought it was blood, but what difference did it make now? Frank lifted his hand, and his wine-spotted fingers trembled, betraying his desperation. He opened his mouth and looked at Kathleen. No difference whatsoever. She was dead for good.

When he turned back, Mrs. Fletcher was already gone. Hollering on top of her shaky voice, she shuffled along the corridor, hurrying away.

Frank collapsed on the edge of the bed, lifted the radiophone off the bedside table and dialed 911.

Detective Ed Freeman slid three fingers underneath his belt and studied the suspect’s face. The man sat in the interrogation room. A soundproof mirror, half the wall wide, separated him from the detective in the observation room.

A man’s face could tell Freeman a lot. A heavy forehead in combination with pronounced brow bones and a square chin betrayed violent tendencies and high aggression levels. Small mouths, thin lips and narrow, close-set eyes betrayed stealthy types prone to sexual abuse. But the man in front of the detective didn’t seem to fit the typical mold.

Women had to find his oval face attractive with its high square cheekbones, a straight nose, light-green eyes and dark hair. The man was a couple of inches shorter than Freeman who used to pump iron when he was younger and therefore looked slightly bigger with wider shoulders.

Frank Shelby sat at the desk in the interrogation room staring straight in front. He wore a crinkled navy raincoat over a red-stained shirt: Freeman could easily tell that the stains weren’t blood. The man was facing a camera. The chair opposite him stood empty.

It had been a while since Ed Freeman had rested his fat butt on the chair’s polished seat. It had been ages since he’d last heard the familiar claims, “I didn’t kill!” and “I want to call my lawyer!” that greeted him whenever he entered the interrogation room. They were usually accompanied by tears and bail pleas, by assurances that they didn’t remember anything, that the whole thing was nothing but an enormous mistake. Then they all begged him not to call for a Memoria tech, hoping he’d give the memory scan a miss.