Alex Bobl: Memoria

“No, she didn’t,” Frank shook his head. “She… She used to be outgoing and cheerful. One thing I did notice before leaving for DC, she seemed kind of preoccupied.”

“Did you meet before you left?”

“No. No, we spoke on the phone. She seemed reserved and kept losing track of our conversation.”

Freeman was about to ask his next question, but Shelby added,

“Then there was the cabman. On my way home from the airport, I spoke to Kathleen on the phone. Nothing special, really, only that her voice sounded strange. Concerned, you could say. And hoarse. She told me she’d had a cold, but was feeling better already…”

Frank stopped and rubbed the bridge of his nose again. “I spoke to the cabman, too. I told him how it had gone in DC, said the place was rebuilt anew…”

“Did you take his plate number?”

“No, but… The cabman is a Hopper veteran guy, huge, broad face, thick mustache. I’m sure you can find him through the airport transportation department…”

“I will,” Freeman marked it down.

He could already see the way Shelby was heading. The man was recreating the events on his way home from the airport. Clever move: the more eyewitnesses he had, the more chances he had to be acquitted in court. Jessup seemed to be convinced of Shelby’s innocence, but still there was some investigating to be done.

“When I arrived home, the lobby was wall-to-wall media,” Frank hurried to add. “I elbowed my way to the reception, collected the mail and went upstairs. Ah! One other thing! Kathleen said to me on the phone that Mrs. Fletcher, my neighbor, had dropped by to see me.”

This was something Freeman already knew from the crime scene unit report.

“She came back,” Shelby went on, “when I’d just discovered Kathleen’s body. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes since I’d spoken to Kathleen on the phone. It means that the murderer was in the apartment at that exact time. He strangled Kathleen with the tie which she’d given me recently. Why would he do that?” Frank put his hands together and shook them. “Don’t you think it’s too elaborate? He could have hit her on the head with something. Or stabbed her, or broken her neck—”

He could have, Freeman agreed. He couldn’t tell Frank, but that was exactly what had happened. She was first knocked senseless, then strangled.

“It’s as if the murderer was trying to leave a message. Another thing,” Frank raised a warning finger, “Why did the murderer take the trouble of looking for this particular tie? It was shoved away in the back drawer. He could have taken one of those that hung on the wardrobe door. You think it could be jealousy? One thing I don’t understand is how he got into my apartment in the first place. Could it be he was on our tail all that time?”

“That’s possible,” Freeman said, thinking. “The girl could have known him, too. She could have answered the door herself.”

“There, you see! So you believe me now, then? What’s the point of me killing her? And how do you think I was going to get rid of the body?”

Freeman nodded. Alternatively, the murderer could have made it look like jealousy. Could Shelby be trying to throw them off the scent?

“Have you ever seen her without her bracelet?”

“Why? Ah, no, of course not. No one can remove the bracelets, apart from Memoria people or one of you guys. And even then you can’t do it without the explicit consent from the chief of police.”

“That’s right.”

“No,” Shelby shook his head, “I never saw her without it.”

“Good,” the detective shuffled through the papers and produced a yellow post office receipt. “Have you any idea what kind of item this is? Sent to you by general delivery this morning. You see,” he pointed with a pen, “This is her name and the date. Kathleen Baker. Any chance this is your late girlfriend?”

Now Shelby didn’t know how to react. He stared at the receipt in Freeman’s hand, moving his lips. Finally, he leaned back and said,

“No idea who that might be. I didn’t check the mail the doorman gave me. So I didn’t know about this receipt. I went straight upstairs,” he rubbed his forehead.

“Never mind, Frank. We’ll find out.”

“Listen, Ed,” the suspect perked up. “There was another odd thing about this. When I walked in, I didn’t see Kathleen’s purse anywhere. She always used to have this fancy little purse, black with those square buckles. She loves…” Shelby paused for a second, “loved black. She always used to leave it on the mirror shelf when she came. But the last time, the purse wasn’t there.”

Freeman paused, then asked,

“Is that it?”

“It is.”

Freeman remembered the crime scene unit report. They did point out that the only things that belonged to the victim were her dress, shoes and a coat with its pockets empty. No keys, no IDs, no makeup whatsoever, not even a paper tissue. And the victim didn’t look like one of those migrant girls or a penniless odd-job woman. But even those women have some items of personal hygiene on them, so their absence didn’t look right. It just wasn’t normal.

The door opened a crack. Bud Jessup beckoned Freeman.

“One moment,” Freeman rose and went to the door.

Jessup whispered a few words, gave Freeman a meaningful look and retreated, closing the door behind him.

Slowly, Freeman turned around. Frank looked at him, as if expecting them to tell him that Kathleen had somehow survived.

Freeman returned to the desk and leaned across it grabbing at its edges. “I’m afraid you’re deep in shit, Frank. This girlfriend of yours, d’you know who she used to work for?”

The lights overhead went out. The station building shuddered, and the blast pounded against Freeman’s eardrums. Something hit him hard on the face cutting his eyebrow open. He let out a cry and fell over the desk. When the emergency lighting flickered on, he saw that the lighting fixture had come off the ceiling and landed on his head, cutting his face with broken glass.

Blood flooded his eyes and streamed down his cheek. Freeman squinted, trying to stem the wound, his other hand feeling for the gun.

Shaking his head, a stunned Shelby crawled out from under the desk. He stared at Freeman round-eyed, shouting, “The handcuffs!”

The detective reached into his pocket for the keys and stepped toward Frank. Then, bullets started crackling through the door, covering it with a complex pattern. The camera cracked and exploded. The mirror partition broke into a thousand pieces. A bullet stung Freeman’s shoulder. He staggered. Another one hit him, and he grabbed at his chest swaying. His legs gave. Trying to latch onto a chair, Freeman collapsed on his side, using the desk between him and the door as a cover.

For a few seconds, the whole building fell silent. Moving to the door, Freeman finally managed to get the gun out.

“Get under cover,” he croaked in whisper.

Shelby jumped up, glanced at the desk, grabbed the paperwork and clattered across the broken mirror to the observation room.

Freeman turned to the exit and raised his gun, trying to keep it steady in both outstretched hands. The interrogation room door swung open. A masked black figure appeared in the doorway, machine gun at the ready.

The bullets sent Freeman to the floor. He didn’t get one round off. The man started moving along the wall toward the observation room. Another masked man joined him, then two more. Four faceless figures moved slowly, their pointing guns scanning the room. Two more trained their guns on the detective. He was bleeding heavily, his chest burned, his mind started to collapse.

Another vague figure appeared in the doorway. This one had a smudge of white where others had masks. Freeman squinted, trying to focus. A tall blond man looked down at him, his eyes cold. He walked into the room, pointed his silencer at Freeman’s face and said indifferently,