FORGET ME KNOT.

Chapter 1

The Detective.

The cold June wind blew across the quiet streets of Happy Valley as a solitary figure walked almost lazily towards a Burger joint at 3:00 am in the morning. It had been a long day at the office, a months’ worth of paperwork keeping the thirty-four-year-old detective confined to his battered desk, and away from the action that had apparently happened in front of the General Library. A body; mutilated Jack the Ripper style and tossed almost ungraciously into the public eye. 

The twenty-four-hour joint had soft music playing from an ancient jukebox and he began to sing subconsciously along to Stevie Wonders ‘Ebony and Ivory’.

He ordered and he ate almost mechanically, secretly worshipping the creator of bacon in double cheeseburgers, and then almost reluctantly walked back out into the night, pulling up the collar of his grey trench coat. Until he reached his comfortably messy apartment with every intention to go to sleep as he was in desperate need of it, he dropped fully clothed on his bed.

“You look fat. It’s the greasy burger I’m sure,” came a quiet female voice. “You know it’s all imported right?” she continued, concern in her tone.

“You don’t say; and here I thought it was domestically slaughtered,” the tired man replied.

“Funny;” the voice answered back.

The man shot out of bed – all the exhaustion of the day no longer weighing him down as if a horrible truth has just been revealed to him.

‘A voice.’ He thought aloud. ‘A female voice.’ He scanned his messy one bedroom, one bathroom, $240 a week apartment (as it was listed in the Happy Times ‘For Rent’ section) for any sign of life besides his leaking bathroom faucet. ‘I’m not paying for that again’ he thought to himself, slightly irritated now; replacing his initial shock at the un-expected commentary only moments ago.

“I’m over here fat-man,” the voice started up again, this time with definite purpose to get his attention – earlier may have been a test wake-up call to see if he was as quick a sleeper as he appeared to be.

He turned his head ever so slightly and slowly to the left corner where the voice seemed to resonate from, of his small bedroom only capable of housing a queen-sized bed, one bed-side table, a chest of drawers and a rocking chair his grandmother had left behind during her visit last year. She had occupied his room while he took to the couch every night for a week. Perched on the rocking chair was the female – the voice clearly had belonged to her and confirmed when she spoke again, “You should really look in to getting a real meal plan sorted, the state of your fridge and pantry and this whole living space really are in desperate need of order and maintenance – have you considered a wife or a therapist? This can’t be the work of a sane man…”

She had spoken long enough for the man to know he wasn’t having this conversation in dream form and she wasn’t a hallucination he conjured up from lack of sleep. This left only one unsolved theory in his mind he had to clarify; “Who are you?” Relieved his mouth had moved and he had felt it. If he were in a dream, he would have woken up at any slight change in his stillness – which he chose to believe was his state when he slept despite his grandmothers claims to him being a kicker.

“Oh, well where are my manners, my mother would be appalled. My name is Candy Kane, I’m the girl whose body was just found in front of the General Library this morning. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She replied sweetly.

‘Found in front of the General Library, Candy Kane? this morning…’ he started to think…

“At least I think it’s a pleasure;” said the girl interrupting his thoughts, “I’m dead as you can tell and I’m not quite sure if I do feel it’s ‘a pleasure’ or I just think it’s ‘a pleasure’. It’s what we say when we’re alive right? Even though we don’t really mean it. I’ve heard the dead can’t feel anything…you know?” ‘No I don’t know…’ he replied in thought.

Candy continued, “Don’t worry about introducing yourself, I already know who you are; Detective Al Koholick of the Happy Valley Police Department, 8th Precinct. I heard your name come up a few times at my crime scene – man was that weird to say. I’m pretty sure I knew of you when I was alive as well. I thought your name sounded familiar, and now that I’ve put a face to name I…” “Stop!” Al interjected. “Just, wait; give me a second to process this.” For him it was easier said than done. The truth of the matter was, for the first time in Al’s career he didn’t have anything to say about the situation or rather he did not know what to say about the situation and with only interjections escaping his mouth, he turned towards the direction of his flat-screen LG TV. Hoping for answers he didn’t feel like hearing from, ‘Candy Kane was it? What kind of name is that? When in doubt, turn on the television,’ he thought to himself – relieved he could still think. Half a minute more of silence as the LG logo flashed on screen cut to the familiar sight of a crime scene, projecting from the channel 2 news.

A body being wheeled away from a crowd that had been formed at the steps of the General Library. All of Happy Valley appeared to be present at the occasion – Al the only absentee. Reporter Witney Houston of Channel2 news standing at the scene of the crime, had this to say: “A tragedy…” Al anxiously awaited the rest of her observation; ‘That’s it? A tragedy? Houston!?’ Al exclaimed in thought as the scene cut to a close-up of ‘Candy’s dead body’ being wheeled away; the camera zooming in on the white – now partially blood soaked blanket, concealing all but one part of ‘Candys’ body. Her left hand dangling off the stretcher – lifeless. Dark red dripping from her fingertips; camera flashes reflecting off a shiny item on the still hand. Her ring finger. A diamond. ‘Engaged, fiancé, love, loss, vow…’ words flowing into Al’s mind to the rhythm of ‘Candy’s blood’ dripping.

Al shifted his viewpoint towards the image of the female to his right, his eyes hawking in on her left hand; locking on to the diamonds’ twin enveloping her left ring finger – this hand was chalk white and bloodless.

The scene cut back to Reporter Witney Houston from Channel2 news – “I have just received word from a reliable source that Detective Al Koholick of the HVPD would be heading the ongoing investigation of the tragedy at the General Library; (Al noticed Houston mouthing a few words, recognising ‘tragedy’ followed by ‘Get the rights to that headline Gary!’ – Houston halted to yell at someone off camera) Citizens can rest assured that the matter is in good hands and expect results by the end of the month. Back to Keith Richards in the news room – stay Happy everyone.” Al swiftly hit the power-off button on his cell phone and muted the flat screen. Keith was mouthing non-stop most likely repeating Houston; he was never good at lip-reading.

‘Detective Al Koholick’ wasn’t even at the crime scene and I’ve already been briefed on my next case by the Channel2 news reporter.’ Al was too exhausted to externally express any emotion towards the reported news and Houston’s repetition of the word ‘tragedy’. “I’d like to have a word with this reliable source she was on about.” Al whispered under his breath.

“It was probably that old man she was interviewing before the crowds and the rest of the news crew showed up. You think it was broadcasted on other channels? CNN? ET? Let’s check!” ‘Candy’ said with obvious excitement in her tone. “What old man?” Al now droopier eyed than ever asked the ‘dead girl.’ She answered automatically, “I don’t know. He was old…I didn’t catch a name or a word they were saying, I was lying not two feet away from them in a pool of my own blood. I’m sorry but I was a little bit distracted. I do remember they were first on the scene, him first. He checked my pulse before he started making calls. The next moment…well you just saw.”

‘He checked for a pulse? From the sight of her blood soaked hand alone it was clear she was dead and it was murder…” Al thought to himself, but brushed it off. He was off the clock and he desperately needed to close his eyes…and his mind.

Al once again locking eyes with ‘Candys’ left hand and the heart shaped diamond ring on a thin silver band, also diamond encrusted; he found himself replaying the scene in his head. His gaze shifting to the muted flat screen now playing a commercial on, teeth whitening? ‘This still doesn’t prove anything,’ he thought to himself. Evidence was lacking and his brain was failing him. Moments later Al arrived at the only possible solution his exhausted mind could muster – ‘I’m going to sleep,’ he concluded.

The television was switched off – the only source of light that was illuminating his small apartment living room and made for his bedroom. Closing the door behind him and on the female claiming to be the now deceased ‘Candy Kane’ who was grumbling about the angle of the last shot on her body and poor lighting; he collapsed on to his queen-sized bed once again, relieved sleep was still the one thing he could control, and the events of the previous hour fading to black.

Finally, sleep…

Al awoke to the sound of his alarm clock – clearly displaying 7:30 AM, his pattern unchanged. The radio was playing Def Leopards ‘Pour some sugar on me.’ He didn’t know all the words, but he knew when to bring out his air-guitar for the bridge.

7:31 AM – guitar solo.

7:33 AM – song ends.

Still groggy and achy from the night before, Al paused at his bedrooms’ door, awake and processing data. This wasn’t going to be the beginning of a murder mystery film where the main character wakes up thinking yesterday was just a dream only to be proven wrong as the story progresses. Al knew exactly the truth of last night’s events. His booth companion Mut had slipped something in his burger last night – he always said Al needed to lighten up. ‘It was Mut and it was the drugs. You were watching the news and you imagined the whole thing. She was probably some pretty waitress you vaguely remembered and conjured up in your living room – because of the drugs, from Mut.’ Al convinced himself, with only a hint of desperation, his grandmother would refer to as denial. Mut had never seen the inside of a prison cell and Al was in the perfect position to make it happen. Hand on handle, he opened the door with confidence and slight force…

“Oh I take it back. You’re not a fat-man after all,” said the ‘pretty waitress’ as soon as the rest of the detective’s apartment came into view. Standing in full view; Al framed by the door way, the reported deceased ‘Candy Kane’ siting cross legged on the floor in front of his bedroom. To be precise, at his feet looking up at him. Al was not only aware that he was half-naked but also – the drugs were still in his system.

The thirty-four-year-old police detective was once again, at a loss for words.