Alex Bobl: Memoria

That had been a long time ago. No murders had been committed in New York for a long time. The corporation’s methods had proven efficient enough, and the number of capital offences had gradually dwindled to nothing. Still, the city’s police force remained the biggest in the country. It had to be: the Bronx’s migrant camp still housed almost three hundred thousand people. And migrants, they don’t feel obliged to visit Memoria. They keep their thoughts to themselves.

The door of the observation room opened, letting in the gray mane of Bud Jessup, the chief of the police department. Without saying a word, he slid inside, handed the detective a file and glanced through the mirrored glass.

“Has the victim’s identity been established?” Freeman asked as he leafed through the paperwork.

“They’re busy with it now.”

“Why didn’t she wear the bracelet? How on earth did she manage to take it off?”

“As if I don’t want to know!” Jessup leaned over the control panel next to the glass wall and studied the suspect. “I’m afraid you’ve got your job cut out for you, Ed. It’s not an easy case. Not an easy suspect.”

Freeman looked up from the file.

“And don’t look at me like that,” Jessup stood up. “I know better than you do that there’s no fucking murder without a fucking motive. And you’re gonna find it for me.” He smoothed out his thick gray hair and rested his hand on the detective’s shoulder. “Now go and talk to him. You’re good at that. Strike a chord and try to wheedle out whatever it is he has…”

“Bud,” at work, Freeman avoided being too familiar with his boss and old friend, but the moment called for some informality. “What’re you driving at? If this Shelby is innocent, he has nothing to worry about. He’ll be out in no time, no charges filed. It could be manslaughter for all we know. He could have taken their lewd games one step too far and didn’t notice that he’d—”

“Very well,” the police chief dismissed his ideas with a shrug. “Just go through the file and have a heart-to-heart with this Shelby before his brief arrives.”

Freeman nodded and returned to the paperwork. He knew what his old friend had meant to say. There had been no murders in New York for over five years now. Surely Jessup had already had the Town Hall on the line demanding to get to the bottom of it ASAP. He wouldn’t be surprised if Memoria’s expert and mnemotech team made it to the station before the man’s lawyer did. The Mayor had his head firmly implanted up the corporation bosses’ asses. Nothing new there. The suspect was a government lawyer so they should expect DC calling in no time.

Freeman turned the page, thinking. Jessup had passed his anxiety onto him. Scanning pages of small print, he marked out that Shelby had done some serious boxing in the past although an injury to his forearm had prevented him from pursuing a professional career. Freeman made a mental note. The suspect also had a record of police assistance: when Shelby had been twenty years old, he’d defended a fellow trainee student against some hoods. Later in court, Shelby testified against them. The fellow student had apparently been an acting assistant city attorney.

Freeman snapped the file shut, checked his holster and left the observation room, leaving Bud Jessup alone with the recording system.

When he entered the interrogation room, Shelby still sat staring at the desk, his left hand feeling his empty right wrist: the electronic bracelet had been removed as part of the arrest procedure.

The detective flipped the camera on. “Feel strange, eh?”

“What does?” the suspect raised his eyes at Freeman.

“The bracelet. Feels funny when it’s not there, doesn’t it? As if a body part’s missing.”

Shelby didn’t answer. He sat there staring blankly at the desk.

“Never mind,” the detective sat at the desk opposite and placed the file in front of him. “It won’t last. Once we’re finished, you’ll be returned to jail. There, they’ll give you the bracelet back, after they’ve changed the encoding.”

He clenched his hands and got serious.

“My name is Ed Freeman and I’m investigating the murder case which lists you as the main suspect at the moment. I’m informing you that under the ninety-third amendment, your name is now on the special category list, the electronic bracelet is temporarily confiscated, and you’re deprived of your right to erase your memories. If you refuse to cooperate, we will have to contact Memoria for their expert and mnemotech team. In this case, you’ll have to undergo a memory scan.”

The detective paused, watching Shelby. “Want to make a statement?”

Shelby raised his head. For a few moments he studied the detective and asked in a calm voice, “Where’s my lawyer?”

“He’s on his way.”

Freeman couldn’t help admiring the man’s composure. He undid his sleeve buttons and started rolling them up, exposing thick hairy forearms. “I could turn the camera off, you know. Want to say something off record?”

Shelby placed his elbows on the desk and rubbed his handcuffed wrists. He glanced at the mirror partition behind Freeman’s back and returned the man’s stare. “You have a good face, detective. And I appreciate your trying to speak with me off the record. But,” he shook his head, “I won’t speak to you without my lawyer.”

“I promise,” Freeman turned around, nodded to the unseen observer behind the mirror and turned back to Shelby. “I’ll have the equipment turned off. I don’t want to waste our time. So?” he opened the file and got busy sorting the papers.

Shelby remained silent.

“Frank. You help me, and I’ll help you.”

Freeman never pressurized his suspects. No need to. Once they realized the Memoria expert was waiting, they would tell him all he needed and then some.

After about a minute, Shelby spoke. He rambled on, reasoning with himself, and immediately the detective managed to single out a few interesting facts. The suspect knew the victim by the name of Kathleen and used to see her occasionally at his place. She always called him herself or contacted him by email. Alternatively, she arrived at his apartment first, preferring to wait for him there. Shelby had gone so far as to entrust her with the door key — something the detective would never have done. To allow a stranger access to your home… oh well. It was one thing sleeping with a woman, or living with one, but these two didn’t seem to know themselves what kind of relationship they were having.

Still, at this point he didn’t want to interrupt the suspect. Let him pour his heart out.

“I meant to ask her to tell me more about herself tonight. I was going to propose.” Shelby tried to raise his hands, but the movement failed, restricted by his handcuffs. He laced his fingers and lowered his wrists onto the desk. “But tell me, detective—”

“You can call me Ed if you wish.”

“All right. Ed. Can you give me one reason why I should kill her?”

That’s what he himself wanted to know. “Frank,” Freeman produced a pen and a clean sheet of paper. “Can anyone confirm seeing you together? How often? Where and when?”

“Our doorman can, I suppose… Also, a friend of mine has a bar in Brooklyn. His name is Mike. Kathleen and I used to go there for a meal or a beer, or to watch a game…” Shelby paused, thinking.

Freeman waited patiently over his notes.

“There’s also the girl from the minimarket next door. She used to like Kathleen a lot. She once told me we were a handsome couple. I think,” Frank rubbed the bridge of his nose, “I think she might remember how many times she saw us together.”

“Excellent. We’ll have to ask them a few questions. Now I want you to concentrate and tell me. Did your girlfriend seem concerned about anything lately? Received threats, maybe?”