Amnesia (4 page)

“Sure, I’ll take a look. I just need to get dressed. I’m due at the hospital for rounds in an hour or so.”

“Of course, ma’am. But before you do, can you tell us who ‘Darrion’ is?” Officer Lowell asked.

“Darrion? Darrion Stanton? He’s my fiancé. Well, not really, more a boyfriend. Well, not really even that, more just a guy I know at work. He wants to be my fiancé, but I don’t want to marry, him, and…why am I telling you all of this? Why do you want to know about Darrion?”

“Well, ma’am, it appears that the suspect singled you out as his victim. No one else’s things were touched, just yours. Do you think this Darrion Stanton would have done this? Can you think of anyone else?”

“No way. Darrion may be a bit arrogant, even priggish, but he would never do anything like this. Even though he hated that car…. No Officer, I have no idea who could have done it. Only creepy person I know is Mr. Dall, and I doubt he would even do this.”

“Mr. Ernest Dall?” Lowell clarified.

“Yes, my landlord. He appears to have a bit of a crush on me, one that is in no way reciprocated, and it seems like he’s always right behind me when I turn around. But he stays here at the complex and I doubt he would do something right here on the grounds. He’s just a little creepy, that’s all.”

“Yes ma’am.” Officer Lowell jotted some more information at the bottom of the clipboard. “Now if you wouldn’t mind meeting us back at your car, to see if something is missing?”

“Sure, just give me ten minutes.” Lissa closed the door and returned to her room to dress. Her mind was reeling with the implications of what the policeman had said, and implied. Could Darrion really have done this? The thought of his Italian loafers and tailored suit standing in a dumpster would have prompted her to laughter had this not all been so surreal. It had never occurred to her that someone would be stalking her, knew her car and where she lived, and perhaps was even watching her now.

She stopped dead just as she pulled her blouse in place and slowly looked around the room, searching for a tell-tale sign of a Peeping Tom. She noticed the diagonal crack between the shades and the window where she had haphazardly let the slats fall several weeks earlier. Could someone have stood there looking on while she slept, or clothed? Looking up she saw several gaps where the popcorn texture had fallen away. Could a nanny-cam be hiding up there? Where else could someone have hidden a camera or listening device? It was unnerving and she kept checking around her as she completed her outfit, to see if there was someone there, studying her home and watching her dress. She shuddered involuntarily at the thought, realizing that just minutes ago she had been sound asleep while some strange man was forcing himself into her life.

Finally she took a deep breath, threw her shoulders back, and resolutely determined that she was not going to let this creep win. She marched out the door, down the three flights of stairs and out to the waiting police.

The four police cruisers, two with their lights still flashing, started to eat away at her unfounded bravado. When she finally saw her beloved car, she almost entirely lost her resolve, the fear hitting her in a wave as the reality gaped back at her. Tears stung at her eyes as she viewed the carnage, wondering why anyone would do that to any car, let alone hers.

The trunk had been forced open, apparently with a tire iron, and the few items it held, jumper cables, emergency road kit, and first aid kit had been regurgitated out onto the ground and emptied. Similarly the hood was wrenched open, ignoring the hood latch under the dash, and wires, hoses and miscellaneous engine parts were scattered across the pavement; a puzzle, not unlike Humpty Dumpty, that could never be put back together again.

From there it got vicious. The driver seat had been ripped out of the car, the upholstery completely peeled back in strips, the stuffing pulled out and tossed about the lot. The other seats too had the upholstery slashed and the cushions removed a handful at a time. The dashboard had been beaten down, the plastic smashed, and the body, also having received the knife’s attention, hanging as if by threads. Even the steering wheel was not untouched, and was hanging out of the steering column by wires.

As icing on the cake the perpetrator had scratched obscenities into the paint on whatever had not been
touched, including writing her
name and several rough hearts strewn about. On the driver’s door was scrawled “i luv u LissA.” As a final slap each window had been shattered and each tire slashed.

Lissa stopped dead in her tracks, sank to the ground, the tears thought spent the previous night reappearing. Accompanying the deluge were deep throaty sobs that reached deep into her already raw emotions, the fruits of grief and fear. Officer Lowell moved over and knelt down to her. “You okay ma’am?”

Raising her head slightly to see the compassionate face, she slowly shook her head, grabbed her sides tightly, and cried even harder.

Officer Lowell reached out and patted her shoulder awkwardly, knowing from experience that there was little he could do to help. He simply stated, “We’ll do all we can for you ma’am. It seems someone either really hates you or really loves you.”

Officer Bill Lowell let his eyes scan down the handwritten report, double-checking for any mistakes or oversights. Satisfied, he added his signature and glanced at the watch on his left wrist, noting the time at 06:33. He sighed, stood, and stepped over to the watch commander’s desk, adding his paperwork to the mountain already sitting in the inbox. The man behind the desk glanced up at the motion then sat back in his swivel chair closing the Idaho Statesman newspaper and tossing it onto the cluttered desk. He reached over and grabbed the half-full coffee mug and started swinging slowly back and forth in his chair as he took in the sight of the tall man standing opposite him.

Police Captain Jack McConnell scanned over Lowell taking in the crisp creases on the off-duty light blue polo shirt, which looked like it was fresh from the press rather than sitting in his locker for the past ten hours. Even his blue jeans seemed ready for a parade with their impeccable stitching, razor-sharp creases, and absolute cleanliness. Even his New Balance cross-trainers seemed to gleam with polish.

“Headed home Lowell?”

“Yessir.”

“A little late aren’t you? Your shift ended over half an hour ago,” continued the man, senior in both age and rank.

“Just a little, sir.” Lowell really didn’t like to have his hours scrutinized, nor did he like the almost patronizing tone he heard. He also knew that his older friend was right, that he was spending way too much time at work. “I just needed to finish the report on Lissa's car.”

“Lissa?” asked the commander, eyebrows lifting at the accidental use of the nickname.

“Clarissa Brandon, sir,” he corrected, feeling a red flush creeping into his tan face. He realized the second he had said it that he had slipped from the professionalism mandated when referring to victims. Not only had he missed calling her “Ms. Brandon,” he had used her nickname, something he knew was inappropriate.

“Cool down, Bill,” the seated man placated. “I am just worried about you. Sure a half-hour overtime won’t kill ya, but this is the earliest I’ve seen you go home in nearly a month. It’s almost like you don’t want to go home.”

Bill bristled at the insinuation, preferring an angry lecture to the sympathetic coddling. Too many
well-wishers
had used the tactic on him for too long and he didn’t need it coming from his superior. Lowell had been known as a tough “man’s man,” always eager to get into the middle of the fray despite the risk. He liked the feel of living on the edge and was an adrenaline junky both on and off the job. Then in one moment that had all changed.

“Sorry, sir. I won’t let it happen again. Is there anything else?”

“Come on Bill, we’ve been through way too much for this.” He paused, took a sip from the coffee-stained mug and eyed the boyish but rugged-handsome face that had become more than a son than a subordinate. He stopped swiveling in the chair and leaned forward resting his elbows on the scratched surface of the watch desk. Cupping his hands in front of him with the left on top he rested his jaw on his thumbs with the chin jutting into the impression they created. The two stared at each other in an almost palpably awkward silence.

The uneasiness was finally broken when the older man sat back once more. “Why don’t you come around on Wednesday?” he asked. “Nancy will fix one of her famous dinners and you can get a chance to play some games with Kate. They really miss you, you know. Kate still remembers you “proposing” to her when she was three and wonders why you haven’t been around. I told her you were just busy. So what do you say?”

The younger man blew out his breath, realizing that his friend was just that, being a friend. He looked down at the Padres cap he held in his hands and nodded his head. “Sure Jack. Sounds like fun. What time?”

“Nancy’s shift at the hospital ends at four, so why don’t we make it six.”

“See you then. Have a good weekend.”

He turned, headed toward the locker room to grab his gear, and almost missed the last comment spoken under the breath of the watch commander. “Maybe I’ll have Nancy bring that cute doc over too. That should prove fun.” 

Lowell just kept walking.

*
             
             
*
             
             
*

Civilian Bill Lowell signed out of work, picked up his suit bag containing his uniform, and walked over to the door, pausing briefly for the guard to press the button releasing him into the outside world. It had been a long shift to cap-off a long week. His first day, Wednesday, he had taken over the search for Beverley Windham and Peter Frindle, the Senator’s daughter and
her
friend. Thursday had been the night with the two brainless wonders and their sword-fight. Friday’s shift had ended with some maniac trashing lovely Lissa’s, um, Dr. Brandon’s car and leaving her in a weeping puddle in his arms, um that is in the parking lot. Saturday and Sunday likewise had been nightmares, with nasty car accidents of families on summer vacations and drunks whose only concern was for their best friends Dr. Liquor and Mr. Wine. He was more than ready for a couple of days to take off his badge and start feeling human.

The sun shone down brightly, momentarily blinding him as the summer heat rolled over his shoulders and down his torso and back. A quick glance into the blue ether above showed the promise of another sweltering day in Boise, Idaho, just another in a long string of hot days. The weatherman had announced that it was a record high summer and that there were plenty more to come. Already the Monday morning atmosphere smelled heavily of heated asphalt and summer weeds. It even left a metallic taste on his tongue as he breathed in the dry air.

He reached into his shirt pocket for his sunglasses, opened them with his teeth and placed them over his squinting eyes. He looked around for moment trying to remember where he had parked his Chevy, checking for anyone else in the parking lot. Seeing no one he strode over to the blue topaz car reaching into his left pocket for his key ring, and punched the button to unlock the driver side door.

Inside
,
the car was already warm, a reminder of the hundred plus degree weather they were having. At least the heat keeps people inside, he thought, keeping them out of trouble. Then he reconsidered remembering his own plans for heading up to Lucky Peak Reservoir this afternoon. Actually, the lake is where everyone will want to be today.

He started the engine and rolled the windows down, allowing the air to flow through the car. Later he would need the air conditioner, but for now the fresh air was rousing and helped clear his head. He took a deep breath, relaxed into the seat, and pulled the gear into “drive.”

He loved this car. His parents were surprised that he would have gone for the Chevy Volt thinking instead he would buy a muscle car like a Mustang or Corvette as so many of his colleagues had done. But he liked this car. Sure he liked those other cars too but he didn’t think it would fit the image that he wanted to portray. It seemed that guys that owned the flashy sports cars were all show-offs that liked to make people think they were tougher than they really were. He may be a thrill seeker as well, but he knew he had nothing to prove.

He also liked the fact that he didn’t have the huge bills and debts that the other guys hauled with them. He worked hard to save the money to buy a car and wanted one that would last a while and look nice, but not eat up his paycheck for expensive tires and maintenance, not to mention insurance and gas. As it was
,
he was out of debt and he liked it that way.

Bill pulled the notebook style CD case out from under the passenger seat and leafed through it deciding which genre of music he preferred this morning. Part of him was angry and wanted hard rock to match the mood. Yet he knew where that led—it would simply escalate until he wanted to hurt something. No, today he needed to cool down; after all he had a great outing planned for tonight. He and several of the guys from the ward were taking a boat out onto the lake to do some serious boogie boarding and water skiing followed by a barbecue. He selected instead an upbeat pop group that would make him want to dance and lighten his mood.

He pulled left onto the road facing the police station then left onto the main crossroad. It had been a long day and he still had to get some groceries before he got home. He had a big afternoon planned and would need to catch a few hours of sleep, but he wanted to be ready to go when he got up.

Reaching the next intersection
,
he turned right past the elementary school, then past his apartment, finally pulling into the Albertson’s parking lot. He parked, headed into the store, and was immediately chilled by the A/C already pumping cold air down onto the incoming customers.

“Bill? Bill Lowell?”

Turning to his left he found himself fa
cing a short, pretty girl standing at the register waiting patiently for a non-existent customer to check-out. He recognized her instantly, his police skills quickly matching faces and names. It was a prettier girl than he remembered, her rosy complexion setting off the cute auburn hair now cut into a bob. The soft comeliness was cheerier than he remembered, but somewhat more haggard, even…haunted? Must be the time that had passed, he thought, must be at least three years.

“It is you! Do you remember me? Carrie Price, we were in sixth ward together! How’s everything going?”

He feigned a smile and almost cheerily responded. “Sure I do Carrie. Things are going great. How about you? Last I heard you and Paul were headed to Provo where he could finish law sch
ool. Is he ‘hanging out
his shingle’ here in Boise after all?”

The pretty smile flickered for a moment, just long enough to betray that all wasn’t well, before she answered. “No, we’re working some personal things out right now. What about Lacy? How is she doing? And didn’t you two have a little boy? Brad, that was his name. How is he?”

Now it was Bill’s turn to feel awkward. “Actually, they aren’t with us anymore. There was a…an accident… they both died.” He turned, unwilling to see the pity he was sure he’d find in her eyes. “Well, I’d better get going.”

“Sure,” Carrie agreed flatly, her enthusiasm drained. “Good seeing you. Maybe we can get together some time and talk. I remember you were a good home teacher and thought maybe we could, you know, catch up a little.”

He noted that she was starting to look more like what he remembered and it suddenly dawned on him that he couldn’t remember ever seeing her smile before. Part of him wanted to reach out and help her smile again but knew that he wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“Sure. We
ll
,
gotta go.” He turned, and almost left the store before he realized he hadn’t gotten his groceries.

*
             
             
*
             
             
*

The day had been manic enough already without a call from Darrion Stanton. It wasn’t that he was that bad, Gregg Windham realized, it’s just that Beverley had been missing since last Wednesday, six days now without a single word. Sure the police and FBI were involved
,
but nothing so far had been found, not even a ransom note. He pushed his left hand back through his blonde hair yet again, a nervous habit that constantly plagued him, something his wife Tawny had tried unsuccessfully to rid him of for years.

“What should I tell him, Mr. Windham?” his secretary asked.

He sighed loudly before pressing the intercom switch. “Send him in, Mary.”

“Um, it’s Millie, sir. He’ll be right in.”

Windham pushed his hand through his hair again before straightening himself and glancing in the mirror his wife had placed on his polished oak desk. “You should always ensure you look good,” she commented on presenting the item to him, “you never know who will be walking through the door.”

At this moment, however, he knew exactly who was walking through the door and he wasn’t sure he cared how he looked. Stanton was an arrogant surgeon who wanted power and prestige and thought the “Good Senator” was the way to get it. He wasn’t the only one of course, but something about him rankled Gregg immeasurably, probably the way that he kept dropping his late father Ralph Stanton’s name. And Gregg really disliked Ralph.

“Gregg, so sorry to hear about your daughter,” the slick doctor sympathized as he walked through the mahogany door. He wore an expensive suit that probably cost more than the Senator’s monthly expenses. The left breast pocket sported a perfectly pressed handkerchief. His tie was the latest version of a “power” tie, an almost shiny bright blue, just the right shade to
accent
the man’s suntanned face. His shirt was tailored
,
sporting gold cufflinks announcing his wealth to the world. Even his shoes were the expensive leathers that you only found in the upper class catalogues.

Yet it was the bearing that exuded wealth more than the clothing.
Beyond the m
anicured nails, perfect teeth, and hair that always had that “just stepped out of a salon” look that be
spoke of money
,
his aura of charisma and
confidence filled the room with
his dominion and authority
However, it was his
eyes
that
spoke the most volumes, shouting to the world that this man was born to conquer.
And rule.