Fade to Black Read online

  “That’s so beautiful. Anyway, a guy came up to me after the meeting yesterday.” I tell her the entire story, including his obvious fear that he might be the guilty party.

  “What is his name?”

  “I can’t tell you that, at least not yet. I promised him; that was his only condition for sharing this with me. I’m not positive, but I think a solemn promise supersedes the almost-engaged-someday-possibly-to-be married-if-we-don’t-split-up relationship rule.”

  “And you don’t remember anything at all about the case?”

  “Not a thing, but I’ve been reading about it this afternoon, and Nate has been filling me in, so it’s going into that gray area.”

  Jessie nods; she knows what I’m talking about. When I research and learn a lot about past events that I had been a part of, then the line between actually recalling those events, and just thinking I recall them, starts to blur.

  “So what are you going to do with this?”

  “I told him I would check it out, so I guess I will.”

  “You think he could be the killer?”

  Like everyone else, including me, Jessie is assuming that Rita Carlisle is dead, even though her body has not been found. “I doubt it. I think the fact that he was in the bar that night, so close to the victim, probably shook him up enough that he followed the case. Maybe he heard the argument between her and her boyfriend, and the next day, when he learned what had happened, felt guilty that he didn’t somehow intervene. But he’s worried it’s much more than that.”

  “Hiding the scrapbook in the attic might change the calculation a bit.”

  “That’s something he pointed out as well.”

  “There’s someone in prison for this, Doug,” she says. “You helped put him there.”

  “So I’ve been told. Hopefully he’s in there for good reason, and that whatever I learn manages to ease the mind of the man whose name must not be spoken.”

  She laughs. “For a second I thought it was going to slip out.” Then, “You want me to get you some more reading material?” Jessie is a Google maestro; she will get more background information in ten minutes than I would in three hours. If I was ever good on a computer, it’s among the things and skills that I have lost touch with.

  “That would be great. You know, you’re pretty handy to have around.”

  “And you are some sweet talker.”

  I take Bobo for a walk; I bring a large plastic bag with me, because everything Bobo does is large. While we’re gone, Jessie somehow manages to make a great dinner and print out what seems like the Library of Congress. I’m up until almost midnight reading about the case.

  Rita Carlisle was thirty-one years old when she disappeared. She was in a management position at Bergen Hospital, the largest in North Jersey. She had married at twenty-one, and that apparent mistake lasted for two years. At thirty she met John Nicholson, a real estate agent who was three years her senior.

  All their friends said it seemed to be a happy courtship and relationship, but that’s what they always say after things go horribly wrong. It’s like the neighbors of a terrorist or serial killer; no one ever admits to having had the slightest inkling that anything could have been amiss. The alternative to that denial is saying, “I thought that guy was going to do a mass shooting, but I decided it wasn’t any of my business.”

  On the night of Rita’s disappearance, she went with Nicholson to The Grill, a Paramus restaurant with a bar area that seems to have been one of the hotter spots in Northern New Jersey.

  I’ve been to The Grill—just three weeks ago, in fact—and it’s not a dive at all; a light beer cost me eight bucks. I’m not bitter about it, but in my mind prices for everything immediately jumped from where they were ten years ago to where they are now, so there’s a bit of ongoing sticker shock involved.

  Other patrons at the bar said that all was calm until an argument broke out between Rita and Nicholson. It got increasingly loud, and finally Nicholson yelled, “When the hell were you going to tell me this?”

  Rita seemed to look around in some embarrassment at the scene they were making. She got up abruptly and left the bar. Nicholson, after a few moments of hesitation, threw money on the table and angrily stormed off after her.

  There’s no indication in the press reports that anyone knows what it was that provoked Nicholson’s anger, or Rita’s departure. But there were rumors that Rita had ended her relationship with him, with the trashier publications speculating that she was having an affair with an unnamed person at her office. Most reports assumed that the breakup, and the possible affair, were the reasons for the anger, and then the murder.

  Technically, at least in the eyes of the law, there was no murder. No body was ever found, and in fact, Rita seemed to vanish cleanly from the face of the Earth. The last anyone saw of her was in a video taken from a street camera. The footage was damning; it was of Nicholson catching up to her and grabbing her arm, and her pushing him away.

  I don’t see any explanation on Nicholson’s part as to his side of it, nor any alibi he might have claimed. He didn’t testify at trial, probably a smart move by his lawyer. But he might have told his story to the detectives investigating the case, and in fact he might have told it to me. I just have no recollection of it.

  When I get back to work, I can go through the case records, and they will probably include notes that I can’t recall taking. But I really want to get this behind me, do what I told Sean I would do, and be done with it.

  So I might as well talk to Nicholson.

  “What are you looking to nail me on now, the Kennedy assassination?”

  John Nicholson is very surprised to see me, and not all that pleased. I think the fact that I helped put him in prison has something to do with it. Of course, I’m only assuming this is John Nicholson, since that is who I told the prison officials I wanted to meet with. He does not look remotely familiar to me.

  “Hello, John,” I say, giving him the opportunity to correct me.

  He doesn’t. Instead he says, “You are the last person I expected to see, and the last person I want to see.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m not really sure. Look, John, I’m going to be straight with you. I was shot a while ago, and…”

  “I read about it. I can’t say I was pulling for you.”

  “I understand. The thing is, I lost a good deal of my memory. It’s called retrograde amnesia.”

  He nods. “I read about that, too.”

  “Right. So I’m trying to re-create a lot of it. To piece together some things, including much of the Rita Carlisle case. Your case. And I could use your help in that effort.”

  “You don’t remember what happened?” he asks. “None of it?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You don’t even remember me?”

  “I’m sorry; I don’t.”

  “So you want me to take you down memory lane and tell you how you put me here? No thanks; living through it once was bad enough. Ask your buddies on the force to tell you about it; maybe they can read it to you as a bedtime story. Or Google it. All I care about is that you get the hell out of here.”

  I shake my head. “I understand how you feel, but that’s not it at all.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Someone has come to me with some information about your case. I want you to know that it may be nothing of any significance; in fact, it probably won’t. But I thought it was worth looking into.”

  “What kind of information?” he asks.

  “I can’t tell you that, at least not at this point. And I can’t tell you who came to me. It’s a promise I made in order to get the information.”

  “So how does it affect me?”

  I shrug. “Maybe it doesn’t; I won’t know until I know.”

  “Then why should I talk to you?”

  Coming here was probably a mistake; this guy is bugging me. “You’re in prison and y
our arm is handcuffed to that table,” I say. “You see much to lose here?”

  He thinks for a moment, and actually looks at his cuffed arm. “Okay, that’s a decent point. What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with what you and Rita Carlisle were fighting about that night.”

  Another pause; clearly the idea of talking openly to a person he has long considered his mortal enemy is not coming naturally to him. “Rita broke up with me. She didn’t say so, but I think she was having an affair with a guy in her office.”

  “You have a name?”

  “No; if I did I’d probably be in here for murdering him.”

  “So she was breaking off your engagement?”

  He shakes his head. “First of all, we weren’t actually engaged, although I had bought a ring and was planning to ask her. She was telling me there was something going on in her life, and she might be leaving town.”

  “She didn’t say what it was?”

  “She said she couldn’t; that’s why I thought it was an affair. She was asking for my forgiveness, and said that if I knew what was happening, I’d understand.”

  “Did you press her on it?”

  “As best I could, but I got nowhere. Then I asked her what would happen to her job if she left town, and she said she didn’t have a job anymore. Then she ran out. She seemed upset and scared, like she was having trouble holding it all together.”

  “And then you got angry?”

  He nods. “Damn straight I got angry. I’m angry now just thinking about it; the fact that she felt she couldn’t trust me upset me more than anything. The whole thing came out of left field. But I wouldn’t kill her … I wouldn’t hurt her. I loved her.”

  “Why did she run out?”

  “Because I was saying things that weren’t particularly pleasing for her to hear. I guess I wasn’t handling the news the way she thought I would. I wasn’t being supportive enough.” He laughs. “She was dumping me and I wasn’t being supportive enough. She said she had to leave.”

  “So you followed her out of the bar.”

  “Yeah. I kept calling to her, but she wouldn’t stop. I had driven there, and I didn’t know where she could go on foot, so I wanted to get her to stop so I could take her home. I grabbed her from behind; that’s the part the video cameras caught. She pushed me away, and ran off across the street.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Went back to my car and drove around looking for her. When I couldn’t find her, I went to her house. I assumed she got in a cab or something. But she wasn’t there, and she never came home.” Then, “Even now, after being in here so long, I still can’t believe it.”

  “I know you’ve said that you’re innocent—”

  He interrupts. “I am innocent.”

  “So did you then, or do you now, have any idea who might have done it?”

  “The only thing I can think of is whoever she was having an affair with. Maybe she told him that she was going to work it out with me, and he followed her that night. Maybe her fear came from being worried about what he might do. But I don’t even know who he is, or if there is such a person at all, and my lawyer was never able to find out.”

  “Let me ask you this; did you know anyone else at the bar that night?”

  He shakes his head. “It was just the two of us.”

  “I don’t mean with you. I mean elsewhere in the bar. Did Rita say hello to anyone, or indicate she might have known someone that was there?”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “John, we’re still in the phase where I ask the questions and you answer them. When and if I have meaningful answers, I promise I will tell you. It has to be that way for now.”

  He frowns, but doesn’t push it. When you’re in prison handcuffed to a table, you don’t have that much leverage. “I don’t recall that we knew anyone else there, and I don’t remember her saying anything to anyone. But it’s possible that she did; she was pretty sociable, and knew a lot of people. Way more than me.”

  “Is it a bar you went to a lot?”

  “No, maybe a couple of times before that … I think once with Rita. But it wasn’t a favorite place, or anything like that.”

  “Did you make a reservation that night? Or was it a spur of the moment thing?”

  “I don’t remember. But the place was crowded, so we probably had a reservation. If we did, Rita would have made it; she handled that stuff.”

  I make a mental note to see if there is video footage inside the restaurant that night. If there is, it would have been introduced at trial.

  “Thanks, John. You’ve been helpful.”

  “Will you let me know what you come up with?”

  “Yes. But don’t focus on this too much; we’re talking about a major long shot.”

  “Okay, thanks for that. I’ve got a job in the prison laundry; I’ll focus on that. And I’ll focus on decorating my cell.”

  He’s clearly bitter, and I can’t say I blame him. “I’ll get back to you, John.”

  “What if you come up with nothing?” he asks. “Will you tell me that also?”

  I nod. “That I can promise.”

  I’m not happy with myself, or the situation I’ve created.

  To even attempt to get anywhere on the Rita Carlisle kidnapping would require a full-scale investigation. But even that likely wouldn’t accomplish anything new, since it’s been done before.

  And the most ridiculous thing of all is that I was apparently a key member of the group who conducted this exact investigation back when the case was fresh. I just have my head too far up my memory-free ass to remember it.

  In any event, I don’t have the inclination to devote the kind of effort that a full reopening would require, and since I’m starting my job on Monday, I wouldn’t have the time to do so if I wanted to.

  So there is no conceivable way for me to get anywhere, and the consequences of that are twofold. For one thing, the pressing personal question that Sean Connor needs an answer to is not going to get answered. I feel bad about that, but I’ll get over it. For another, I’ve unnecessarily raised the hopes of John Nicholson, which bothers me less, because the guy is a convicted murderer and almost definitely an actual murderer.

  But there is no sense in prolonging this by going through some motions that don’t get me anywhere. It’s ridiculous for me to conduct some perfunctory interviews with witnesses, especially since I don’t know what the hell I’m even asking.

  I’ll look through the case files when I get into the office, to see if anything obvious jumps out at me. It won’t, and then I’ll break the news to Sean at the next meeting. I’ll also go back to the prison to give the same message to Nicholson. He deserves that much.

  I call Captain Bradley. “What is it now?” he asks when he picks up the phone. “You want a signing bonus to come back to work?”

  I ignore the jab and say, “I changed my mind. I want to start tomorrow.”

  “My eyes are filling with tears,” he says. “Nine A.M. There’ll be some paperwork to fill out, and then your shift starts at ten.”

  Click.

  I call Nate to give him the news as well, and he responds with, “You’re a little bit nuts, you know?”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “You want me to pick you up?” he asks.

  “No, I’ll drive in with Jessie.”

  “She starts at seven.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I want to look through some files first.”

  “They’re locked in my desk.”

  “What are?”

  “The Carlisle files,” he says.

  “How did you know I wanted to look at them?”

  “The thinner I get, the smarter I get. I’ll meet you at the office at seven.” Then, “Seven? What the hell are we, dairy farmers?”

  “See you then, skinny.”

  Jessie isn’t home from work yet, so I decide to surprise her and make dinner. I look at some recipes, and that causes
me to reconsider my decision. Instead I will surprise her by taking her out to dinner. Cooking is really not my thing. I can’t remember exactly, but I don’t think it ever was.

  She’s fine with going out to eat; we go to a local Paterson restaurant called The Bonfire. It’s been there forever; my father used to tell me about going there after dates in high school.

  I am very glad I remember my father.

  Once we’re seated, I update Jessie on what I learned, or more accurately didn’t learn, about the Rita Carlisle kidnapping. “There’s just nowhere for me to go with this,” I say. “So I called Captain Bradley and said I’m coming in tomorrow.”

  She raises her glass of wine and clinks a toast with my light beer. “To a new start,” she says, “and a perfect segue.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s something I want to talk to you about. I think it’s time we gave some thought to you getting rid of your apartment and moving into my place permanently.”

  “I thought we’ve already been thinking about it?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yes, but that was casual thought.” Then, “This is more serious; the second stage of thought.”

  It’s taken Jessie a while to completely trust our relationship and my feelings for her. That makes perfect sense; I had broken up with her before the shooting. A teenager that I cared deeply about had been killed, and I sunk into a depression that caused me to withdraw from a great deal of life, Jessie included.

  With my memory wiped clean, I met her for what to me was the first time, and fell in love all over again. But her memory is not quite as barren as mine, and she still remembers well the hurt she felt when I broke up with her. So asking me to move in permanently, even though we are sort of, partially engaged, will be a big step when she does so.

  “How many stages of thought are there?” I ask

  “I don’t know,” she says, taking my hand. “I’ll have to give that some thought.”

  “Good idea.”