Fatal Memories

Warning: the following account contains mentions of suicide. There, there's your trigger warning; if you're still with me after that I will put down the facts not as I see them but as they occurred. First of all, I'm a private dick. I mean that in the old fashioned sense that I'm a detective. Now that your mind has been hurled from the gutter and back on to the pavement. Here's how it went down.

I was in my office in some back alley in the squalor of the city. Having tired of pitching playing cards into my hat I was hard at work reading a newspaper article. Yes, that's right; I still read a newspaper. Trust me when I say it's more fulfilling than scrolling on a device. I digress.

The article that had my attention was a report on a suicide. The subject was a prominent businessman. In fact I had worked a case for him about three years prior. Good man. He'll go unnamed out of respect. But he was a family man . His business was flourishing. And so far as I knew he was a happy man. I guess you don't really know folks though. Three years ago I solved the case he brought to me and now he'd done the high dive of a roof.

His was only one a recent string suicides. Males and females. They'd all been in their late twenties and well into their fifties. Every instinct told me something wasn't right but I couldn't put my finger on it's pulse. Suicide while tragic isn't unusual in and of itself. This however was a scale of self destruction I'd only seen in lemmings.

I tried to lose myself in the funny pages but I could only see the cynicism. The strips had been written with. Tossing aside the paper I opened up my file cabinet and rummaged through the records. Finding the deceased man's address I closed up shop for the day and drove to his home in the suburbs.

The family's wealth was not reflected in their house. It was a single story home with a small backyard surrounded by a picket fence whose pristine white coat of paint would make Tom Sawyer proud. The roof consisted of aging shingles and the garage was large enough for two cars that I knew from a previous visit here were both late models and far from BMW and Cadillac.

I knocked on the door and after a few seconds the widow answered the door. She was lovely but the mental image I had retained no longer matched what was in front of me. Her hair had been cut short at some point and her countenance bore all the signs of grief and sleepless nights. “Yes,can I help you?” She asked in a voice that told me she thought I was about to offer a visit to my cult.

Suddenly the light of recognition flashed inside the sad eyes. “Detective Johnson? What are you doing here? Come in.”

Once I sat down on the Laz E Boy sofa she went to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of water. She sat across from me in her husband's recliner. Last time I had been here it was in celebration of a case cracked. Now I was paying respects to a life shattered. “I'm honestly surprised to see you,” she commented, “I didn't think you even remembered us.”

“I remember all my cases ma'am. It was only a matter of finding your address in my records. “

“What brought you here anyway?”

“read about your husband's death in the paper. I wanted to offer you my condolences.”

I'm quite sure what processes fired off in the auburn framed head of hers put she blurted out details. He'd become withdrawn and depressed. He kept going on and on about how he missed the old days. And he talked about his childhood more than usual. Then two days ago. He brought it all to an end.

I dipped my head, let her cry, and then I took my leave. I don't do emotions very well. To keep this account moving right along. I had a chance to talk with a friend I had in the police department. I had many friends among the cops(I had many enemies too). My pal was telling me about a new kind of drug they were trying to get off the street.

“It's the most confounded thing,” he gripped in between bites of cheese danish, “We can't find the dealers, the users all end up dead somehow and the drug barely leaves a trace in their system and what is there is nothing we've ever seen before.”

I listened while he rattled on. Then he said to me: “I know you have some shall we say less than upstanding citizens in your network. You can get places we can't. I was hoping you could help in that capacity. “

“I'd need a starting point, “ I answered with my characteristic bluntness.

He sketched something down in a notebook. Once he finished he handed me the paper. I saw a symbol. It was a loop made of three arrows almost like the symbol for recycling. In the center was a series of words.

“ This was on the packets that we assume contained the drug.” Whoever is putting this stuff out this their insignia.”

“Like ecstasy dealers.”

“That's right.”

I studied the symbol latching onto the words in the center of the loop. “Once and Future.”

“What?” exclaimed my friend. Puzzled.

“The phrase is Latin for Once and Future.”

“How do you know?”

“I read a lot. It's from King Arthur stories. You know, the once and future king. “

So that's how I got involved in police business. That would soon become my business.

A young woman of college age came to see me. She was lean, her hair was the color of a raven, and she was clad in a white t-shirt, cut of jeans, and flip flops. The times I got any clients her age were unicorn rare. So I took immediate interest. “What can I do for you?” I inquired.

“My name is Tiffany. My brother's missing. Has been since last night.”

Well this was odd. “Tiffany, we do have a police department here. Why didn't you tell them?”

Her voice was raised now to a slightly higher level. It was obvious I'd miffed her. “I did Mr. Johnson, but they wouldn't do anything because it hasn't been a full 24 hours yet.”

“Ok. Still, why come to me? You'd better tell me everything.”

She sat down and launched into her story. Her brother attended the university here in the city. He was supposed to have met up with friends out in the country last night when she hadn't heard from him she had texted them and called them and learned he never showed up. She decided to come to me out of concern, impatience and a desire to preserve her sibling's sterling reputation. She didn't want people getting the wrong idea about him if they saw cops crawling everywhere. Made sense.

“Tiffany I don't normally take skip trace type work but for you I'll do it.”

I drove out to the campus. It took some coaxing from Res Life and the campus 5-0 but I got into her brother's dorm. All I had to dowas flash my credentials and assure it was a simple matter of indulging a concerned sister nothing more. That is honestly what I thought I was doing. Then came the investigation of the dorm room. I was small with a closet one bed and a desk. The TV sat on top of a mini-fridge. And a busty vivacious blonde with perfect breasts protruding through a yellow bikini stared at me from the wall above the bed. So it would seem the good little boy scout has his vices like anybody else.

Any illusions I may have had about the simplicity of this job vanished when I discovered a plastic wrapper with a loop of three arrows and Latin words sitting beside a slip of paper. Half naked females weren't this kid’s only vice after all. Using some tweezers from the bathroom and a sandwich bag I pocketed my clues.

Once I left the college I phoned Tiffany. It was the weekend so she was prompt in answering. “I need to know where your brother was headed and how to get there. A description of his vehicle would also be helpful.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Honestly I found a clue. I can't get into details but I found something the cops would need to know about.” I can't sit on it for too long. I may have to call in my friends from the Force.”

“Do what you have to, Detective.” she said, barely masking the disappointment in her voice.

A few minutes later I received complete directions to the friends’ weekend getaway and a photo of her brother's car where the plate was in view. He was a handsome young man and it would have been a shame if something happened to him.

Now comes the part of the story I have no desire to drag out. Neither do I enjoy having to retell it. I found the car. Up in the woods between the city and the local where Jake was supposed to meet up with his friends. He never made it. The car was hidden from the view of all but a well trained observer. Its driver was skewered on a tree branch. The investigation was out of my hands now. I turned over the wrapper to the detectives I knew.

The investigation of the crash concluded it was another suicide. Tiffany would never contact me again except to pay my fee which I had discounted for her. I really hate my job sometimes.

I scrolled through my phone one day and found the picture I'd taken of the paper I'd found in Jake's dorm. On it was written the following: That which has been is now;and that which is to be has already been; and God requires that which is past. The sprawling seemed biblical in nature. I drove to a place I hadn't been in a long time to talk with someone I hadn't seen in a while.

The Reverend and I sat on a pew looking at the painting of the Holy Mother. “What do you make of it Padre?”

“It's from Ecclesiasties.”

“That book King Solomon wrote when he figured out 700 hundred wives was to depressing to handle?”

“Something like that. Perhaps it has something to do with that symbol on the drugs.”

“You know about that?”

“Johnson, you're not the only person with a badge that comes here seeking guidance. “

I got up and made to leave. “Thanks, Padre. You've been a huge help.”

“An answer to prayer, right?”

“I don't recall praying. “

“Perhaps not verbally but the silent prayers are often. The loudest.”

It was time to shake bushes and bust balls. My contacts were going to find me some answers whether they wanted to or not.

It was Friday night at Joe B's a bar so seedy you could grow plants in. You had your normal colorful cast of characters. The fifty year old lesbian waitress passed out some of the stoutest drinks on Earth. Behind the counter stood the bartender. His name was not Joe B; it was Franklin. His mood shifted from jovial to crabby depending on the day of the week, the weather patterns, and other arbitrary factors. Tonight he was positively grouchy.

None of those people were my concern though. I sat at a table under a blue neon sign advertised some sort of beer. On the other side of the table was Finnigan, one of my contacts. In the grand scheme of the universe he was a gnat. He was a junkie and he was currently displaying several withdrawal symptoms. “You're back on the stuff, Finney. That disappoints me. We had a deal.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Bull crap. Finney you look like you ain't had a fix in at least two days.”

“Did you come down here bust my chops?”

I took a deep breath. Finnigan had gotten hooked again. He knew the bargain we'd reached. I kept him out of the slammer and he stayed clean. “No, Finnigan. I need information and you can help I believe. I don't give a frick what drug you're on. I probably know already. “What I do care about is a new one circulating around. It's become a problem for me and the cops.”

“What is it?”

I showed him the sketch. His beady eyes grew large and he made a move to leave. “I gotta go I just remembered someth– “

I drew my pistol on him beneath the table. “It's gonna be hard to walk out of here with your legs blown out from under you. That’ll bring the popo and then they'll find out you're doing drugs and you'll tell them what you know anyway. “

“You're bluffing, Johnson. You wouldn't risk losing your private detective license. “

“Go ahead and test that theory. It'd be worth it. This job's lousy anyway because I have to rub elbows with the likes of you.”

Finnigan saw reason and plopped his rump back in his seat. “Good,” I responded, “Now you tell me what you know about this symbol and I'll forget that you're on the stuff again.”

“It's called Reminisce; it's a new super drug. It comes looking like a gumball but can be crushe and snorted or chugged down with your choice beverage.”

“How does it work? Why are no traces left in the user's system?”

“I can't tell you that. All I can tell you is that it has something to do with memories.”

“Who's pushing the stuff?”

“No clue, buuut I maaay know someone who knows the guy who knows the guy. I could set up a meeting. “

“You do that Finney and I'll leave you alone.”

“Fine, but I'm putting my neck out here you know.

“Buster, you did that the day you started buying crud to pump through your system from two bit mooks.”

Ol’ Finney would have shut up tighter than a clam if he knew I was working with the police. I didn't like being neck deep in their work but I was cozy with some of the detectives especially the two working this drug racket. It was worth it if I could bring Tiffany some closure and, if my growing suspicions were true, a certain widow as well.

I went to the department with everything I'd learned. The next a message from Finney was shoved through the mail slot of the empty room next to my office. This was a measure I had copied from The Shadow, a fictional crime fighting detective after I received a package that made a ticking sound. That was ten years ago. Funny the stuff that sticks with you. Memories. It has something to do with memories. That echoed in my brain. The looping arrows, the Latin phrasing, answers married to more questions.

It was late afternoon two days later when I met with a man who looked like a beatnik clad in a leather jacket that was past its prime. Sunglasses hid his eyes but still he looked like he could talk the wool off a sheep. He greeted me with an outstretched hand and a smile that any crooked preacher would envy. “Say you must be the friend that Finnigan wanted me to meet.”

“Yeah, that's me.”

So we walked into the viper’s den which reeked of stale cigarettes, old booze and other aromas I'd rather not trace the origins of. “You don't mind the pat down do you?”

“No,” I replied confidently, “I have nothing to hide.”

The frisking was done by two muscular dudes named Tom and Jerry. Right like I'd believe that. One of the two found my credentials. “HEY, he's a frigging badge!”

Lester the beat nik scowled behind his shades. Say, what is this? You a freaking narc?”

“Calm down, boys. Look at my credentials. I'm strictly in the private sector. “

They combed them over. “It's true boss. He's one of those private gumshoes.”

Lester was still on edge and grilled me like a steak. “What brings someone like you here, Johnson?”

“My job's crappy. I was told yall had something that could make all those bad feelings go away!”

“Yeah, I know just the stuff you mean.”

With that I was escorted to a wooden table in the center of the restaurant. At this point I should clarify that it was deserted except for the goons and myself. I took a seat. One the six goons retreated into a back room leaving the rest of us in an awkward silence.

Moments later the lackey returned and deposited a blue object in a plastic wrapper upon which was the logo now all too familiar to me. With not a word spoken he opened the plastic & let the drug roll toward me a little. Then without warning WHACK. Another thug smashed the thing into a powder with a hammer. The one who brought it to the table blew it in my face. I blinked. I found this all to be extremely bemusing. Then it happened.

My mind began to wander. Happy thoughts from my past and memories previously stashed away. So I had a sense of not sitting at the table but walking through each memory as it came in rapid succession. I forgot all else. I had a vague sense of something strange at the back of my skull and then falling. I did not care. It did not matter because I suddenly fell into a warm, delicious sleep filled with reflection of the past and the bittersweet feeling of nostalgia.

When I regained consciousness I was in the back of a car. These hoods clearly hadn't gone for the cliche approach and stuffed me in the trunk. They probably thought I'd still be under the influence of Reminisce and I feigned stupor while the goons up front talk. “How are we going to do him, lester?” Asked one with a gravelly voice.

Lester, the beatnik wannabe, was the driver. He answered, I told you one to the brain pan through the temple. Make it look like he offed his own self like the others.``

They'd damned themselves and didn't even know it. While still pretending to be in the Twilight Zone I attempted to work loose the bonds around my wrists. Once that was done. Undid the ones around my ankles by the time the other occupants of the car realized I had regained my senses I was on them like a tiger. A firm elbow to the front of the neck rendered the slab of muscle in the passenger seat out cold.

Lester pulled out a gun. The scumbags had the sense enough to relieve me of mine. I grabbed his gun hand, flung it up! The fracturing of the wrist and the profanity was drowned by the bullets puncturing the roof. His hand now useless I wrestled with the steering wheel and was bedlam as the car went wild and flipped over just as I dove out the driver side window.

Once that nightmare ended. A very lacerated Lester pulled himself from the mangled wreck that was his car. He took two steps and collapsed onto the asphalt of the lobby stretch of road heading to who knows where. A car passed and the rest is history.

The sirens blared and the lights flashed and soon I was telling this very portion of the story to the police detectives. They were happy to have a link in the chain. “I'll be darn!” Exclaimed James Munday. “A drug that traps people in their memories. What was that like?”

“In truth it was wonderful even when the memories were painful. It was weaponized nostalgia. A drug made into an even more potent one. You could escape into the past and totally blot out the present. It leaves you wanting more. And even I'm left with a feeling I don't much like.”

“That would explain the suicides I guess. Are you going to be OK, Johnson?”

“No, but that's just life.”

Lester pulled through his injuries and gave up his cronies including the two men above him. The feds even got involved and came down hard. I learned two important things from this. One: visit the past but don't stay too long. Two: stay the heck out of police work next time.