Memories, they say, are what make you who you are. I have none. At least, the ones I have aren’t mine, or they’re broken. But I don’t trust what I remember. My memories can’t be real. They just can’t.
They, the ones who’re across this battered desk and who hold the keys to the locks in these chains, want to pin it on me. They tell me I did it. And they may well be right.
For the past couple of hours, they’ve been asking:
“Why did you do it?”
That’s the police officer sitting opposite. He’s staring. And he’s been asking that same question that I can't answer.
“We know you did it. We know it was you. We’ve known since it happened. We just need you to tell us why. Why did you do it?” His stare never breaks.
It’s easy to see why the innocent admit to things they’ve not done. The police aren't cardboard cutout John MacLeans. There's no brutality or threats. There's just repetition and time. And, the relentless supposition of guilt.
I've been trying the honest truth: “I don’t know what you guys want from me. I don’t know what you think I’m hiding. I've said I don’t remember... can’t remember. The doctors have told you that. Right?”
“So, are you glad he’s dead?” The other cop this time, the one in the chair. He’s steepled his hands. He's trying that other time worn police habit of trying to trip you up by putting words in your mouth that make you trip yourself up. His eyes are friendly, encouraging, and baiting.
“Glad? Man, I don't even know the guy. Everything's out of focus. He could have been my own father and the only reason I know he's not is because you've told me. I couldn't be glad about this even if he-” I stop myself short of saying 'deserved it' and avoid their trap.
“Look at the pictures again.” The tall one, his badge says Hopper, takes himself off the wall and pushes the pictures back at me. They’re not meaning anything much and I’m glad about that; it was pretty ugly.
Each photograph my fingers peeled from the table and brought under the pale lamp light documented the same scene. The male corpse with its open eyes, smiled at some imperceivable irony.
The cause of death was pretty obvious, even to a layman as I reminded myself that I was. The police photographer had even captured the faint trails of gun-smoke that emanated from the 5p sized hole a couple of inches above and to the left of the nose. And the unmistakable exist wound at the base of the skull. The bullet must have gone in and straight back out again, taking a chunk of flesh and brain matter with it. The man had been a reasonable age – mid fifties, but solid looking.
I’d done my bit. I’d looked, again. I hoped they’d not interpret it as the apathy of a killer, but I really couldn’t feel very much of anything and so I pushed the pictures away, shaking my head in a way that I hoped looked apologetic.
“Larry Porteus,” O Leary was giving a voiceover all the time I'd been looking at the photographs. “Found in the foetal position, head blown back by the force of trajectory from a small caliber handgun. The fatal shot severed the Cerebellum. Buckshot fragments were also recovered from the stomach wound, indicating the headshot was performed in the style of an execution, while the victim was incapacitated. Forensics matched the killing bullet to the 0.22 caliber pistol that police had to prise out of your hands as you lay next to the victim's body. The same bullet type that exited out the back of the victim's skull was the same bullet type that doctors by the miracle of modern science withdrew from your own frontal lobe. Now are you still telling us you didn’t do it?”
I can’t fault their logic. In fact I’m pretty sure he’s right. In fact, I tell them that very thing right there. And O’Leary gets his pen out – a really nice expensive one too – and he writes it all down. Of course at this point, I still can't tell them why.
I get the feeling we’re done for now.
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