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The research into the company that produced the unique device had to be done some other time. Fiona realized she needed to clear her mind. She grabbed her gym bag and left in a hurry. Besides, her thoughts were clearer while at the gym. She had told Sophie she solved cold cases in her spare time, and being true to her word, she would pull the last file out of the darkness after her workout routine.
When she returned home, she made another cup of coffee and retrieved that last cold case she had worked on then forgotten for eight months. The last time she opened it was before the murders in Queens, and there was some interesting information she uncovered and wanted to explore. Of course, she was skeptical about the lead, particularly when twenty years had passed. Could anyone remember that far back? She had time to invest and she was going over there today to interview the doctor that offered to assist when the body had been discovered in Central Park. His name was Dr. Andrew Kaufman, and there was nothing significant about him other than the police negligence to properly interview or even ask him the basic questions. She only hoped the doctor’s memories would return. On the other hand, a murder couldn’t be forgotten. She remembered every crime scene she visited. Granted, this was her profession and recording the specifics was a requirement. She rarely let a crime get to her and cloud her investigational skills though. She viewed the bloody scenes and the victims objectively, although lately, the image of the little girl from the first murder popped up in her dreams.
When she reached Dr. Kaufman’s office, his assistant refused to announce Fiona without an appointment, and she insistently pointed towards the exit door.
“I’ll wait. I have time,” she said in a glib way.
“The doctor’s patients will arrive soon.”
“Still, I’m not leaving.” Fiona sat down.
She didn’t intend to come all the way from downtown to the rich part of town without producing some results. She was determined to break the doctor’s assistant’s unwillingness to facilitate her request and gazed at the wealthy environment that was ornamented with the undertones of antiques. The waiting area included eight chairs. The leather upholstery was soft, and the backs designed in browns produced a cohesive result. She was sure they were true antiques. No imitation would look as nice in a space like this, where even the building carried the tones of another era.
“The doctor will see you now,” his assistant majestically announced some time later, which surprised Fiona. Perhaps they both realized she was determined to gain access one way or another.
“Thank you for your help, ma’am.” Fiona would be polite to the aged assistant. She would not disappoint her mother.
The doctor was well into his late fifties, medium height, not more than 5’8’’, and his glasses appeared not to have been changed in the last thirty years. Was the frame too big or was that his adopted style? He had bushy eyebrows, brown eyes, small lips that resembled straight lines, and short hair. He looked familiar. Fiona tried unsuccessfully to remember where she had seen the doctor. Possibly, she had met him recently in the city, yet she couldn’t recall, and she was certain his glasses would have evoked vivid memories. She introduced herself, pardoned her intrusion, and thanked him for his time.
“I was hoping you could help me with a case that is almost twenty years old.”
“Detective, that is a long time ago.”
“I know, but you were at the crime scene, and a murder is a traumatic event, even for a doctor,” she offered as an explanation.
The doctor’s ghostly face looked intently at Fiona. As soon as she uttered the words ‘crime scene,’ the blood drained from his face. Fiona knew immediately that the doctor was hiding something although he composed himself quickly
“I remember the crime scene. Nothing really specific.”
“Did you see anyone that looked out of place?”
“I recall an old man sitting on one bench, a couple on another bench, and a few runners. As I said before, nothing specific. And I believe that the murder took place hours before I visited the park that morning.”
“Yes, it took place the night before. Sometimes, though, the killer returns to the crime scene. Do you recall anything?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
Fiona wasn’t satisfied. A gut feeling was telling her that the doctor had left out something specific. It was an important and possibly onerous detail, she was certain of it. She wanted to stay and converse. Fuck, her mind was empty. It felt like a thief had stolen all her intelligence. She gazed about the room, thinking she could ask about the décor, and then, she observed a brochure on the corner of his desk where “The Device” was gloriously exhibited. She was saved for a few extra minutes. She pushed herself up, preparing to leave, then unexpectedly pointed to the brochure.
“I heard about the Device this morning. Regretfully, I’m too late to invest.”
“You play the market, Detective?” He was now calm, almost as if he was relieved that the subject of their conversation had changed.
“Yes, when I have the time.”
“It’s an excellent invention. As a matter of fact, my son was the first experimental recipient, and I performed the operation. I haven’t stopped installing the devices. Dr. Timothy Taylor is a good friend of mine, and he recommended the procedure. I’m grateful. My son leads a normal life now. He has a noble profession, and he functions in social settings.”
“How does it work?” she inquired although she knew the basics. She was trying to buy time, so she could think of something else to ask about the murder in Central Park ... anything to trigger his proclaimed forgotten memory.
“Here is the brochure, Detective. I’m sorry. That’s all the time I can devote to your questions. I have surgery in an hour.”
“Thank you. So, you can’t recall anything else about the murder?” she pleaded.
“No, Detective. Please, come this way.” He pointed towards his office door.
“If you remember anything of relevance to the case, would you please call me? Even if you think it’s an unimportant detail.” She offered her card.
* * *
As soon as the door soundlessly returned to its previous position, and the detective disappeared, panic mode kicked in with all its majestic feelings of triviality. The twenty-year-old event that changed his whole life had come back to rip his soul apart and obliterate his accomplishments.
“Damn her.” He slammed his fist on the desk and his pen rolled over his papers.
If he had acted right away, nothing would have happened. But he had brushed his whole life under the rug, caring only about his son. He prioritized his responsibilities and minimized the trivial ones altogether. He caressed the telephone with his fingers, contemplating dialing the number. He picked up the receiver and then placed it right back in its cradle. He would not bother Dr. Timothy Taylor, reassuring himself that the detective’s visit was random.
Dr. Kaufman tried to relax, occupying his mind with work and patients. The detective’s visit pushed him over a cliff’s edge. He mulled the situation over in his head again, seeking elucidation with minimal consequences for him and his son. He concluded that if the detective came back, he would make the phone call and talk to his colleague, Dr. Taylor. Perhaps, together they could come up with a solution? He was still shocked that a case that old was lingering like a bad dream. He told the detective that he couldn’t recall any details of the crime, though the day was committed to his memory with all its nauseating details ... because he knew the killer well.
It all started suddenly and without any warning signs. Did he ignore his wife’s strange behavior because he feared to face the truth? Perhaps he fancied that his wife’s oddities were produced by her genius mind. He lived with this belief until he saw the crime scene, and he was finally convinced that something more sinister was in the making, causing him to react. He contacted Dr. Taylor, who was treating his wife, and disclosed his findings in the park. They both agreed that Andrea was the perpetrator. He had never considered the possibility that his spouse, whom he loved more than anyone in life, could engage in a violent crime. He wanted to dispute the evidence. Yet, the makeup found on the victim was unique to his wife. The red lipstick, the green eyeliner, and the black eye pencil were the tools of her distorted perception of beauty. She used them on portraits that crossed her path and in pictures and art that were displayed in their house. It became evident to him that her mental capacities were worsening when she applied the makeup to their son’s face. He could no longer ignore her mental instability, and he had contacted Dr. Taylor. He had thought with treatment he would save her and his son.
The treatment had begun the same day he called, and seemingly, his wife’s mental capacities had returned to normal; the peculiar makeup occurrences had stopped entirely. After examining her brain activity, Dr. Taylor had recommended the installation of a new device. He insisted she was a good candidate for it. Dr. Kaufman utterly refused such an anathema. Medication was working fine, and besides, the Device was in an experimental stage. Dr. Kaufman became even more furious when Dr. Taylor suggested examining his son because he said he had detected an abnormality in his brain as well. For days, the idea sat dormant in Dr. Kaufman’s mind, dully occupying space. At the end, when the murder occurred, he agreed that the experimental treatment was the only way to save his son. He committed his wife to the institution under the care of Dr. Taylor, and he personally installed two cranial devices. He further deceived his then, thirteen-year-old son by telling him his mother had left them for another man; she was gone for good.
He shook his head in disappointment now, not for the false statements he had generated throughout the years, but for the recent developments of the detective’s inquisition. He didn’t even feel remorse for the murder victim. She was a homeless girl, and he felt her death had saved her from a life that was not worth living. In any case, he would never give up his secret, even if he had to create even more erroneous stories.