Memoria (3 page)

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.

D
etective
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
type
s 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 straig
ht 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
a
ges
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 nothin
g 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.

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 chie
f 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. Sur
ely Jessup had already had the T
own
H
all 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 a
s 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, th
inking
.

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?"

"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 ai
rport 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.