WHILE THERE WAS HOPE
The neighbors reported 12 shots… There were 15! The cops found Howard standing above a dead body — what was left of it, trying to empty the already empty magazine of his standard issue Glock-22 .40 S&W, into the already scattered remains of what would have been a middle aged white guy. The stench of drying blood filled the room. One of the cops puked his guts out; the other barely kept it together. The man lay dead — decapitated by the myriad of shots, all fired into the face. The blood still seeped through the floor, along with the fragments of his skull, pieces of flesh and bones, and scattered remains of charred brain. An eye ball had somehow survived the fusillade and now rolled hither and yon by Howard’s foot, serving as the sole surviving souvenir to what might have been a beautiful face. Howard stood, towering over the headless corpse — his eyes fixed at the hole in the wood where the head of the corpse once had been — his trigger finger pounding against the warm metal of the gun ⎯ firing empty clicks at a puddle that used to be a human head…
Martha lay across of him on the carpet, bleeding through her private parts. She was dead! The blood was beginning to dry up ⎯ sulking and screeching in repentance. The white guy on the floor, or what was left of him, had supposedly raped her, and when done, had thrust a knife up her vagina, through to her womb, twisted it, and pulled it out, tearing her insides, inside out. He had then plunged it back in — deeper… and again…and again, till all that remained of her vulva, were the scattered clots of dried blood and smithereens of bloody soft tissue, that slimed down her inner thigh, onto the blade that still rested, wedged into her perineum…
They had to sedate Howard. He was out of his mind — clinically deranged. He wouldn’t move, and kept pounding at the trigger, as his blood trickled down his fingers to the warm butt of the gun, down his wrist, meandering to his elbow, until it drip onto the wood, mixing with the blood of his adversary ⎯ becoming one with what he sought to destroy…
They injected Howard with benzodiazepines and strapped him to a stretcher. For a week Howard just sat in the institution, staring at a wall. He wouldn’t eat or sleep; would just sit there, staring at the wall. He wouldn’t even come to the funeral, for he refused to admit that Martha — his sweet Martha, was dead. After a week he showed signs of cognitive function and later that week he seemed to be human again. The doctors diagnosed him with selective amnesia. His mind had blocked out the entire night, leaving no recollection whatsoever of Martha’s death, her rape or of the man he had shot in cold blood. To him nothing ever happened. To his mind Martha should have been alive.
In about a month Howard was back to normal — as normal as he could be. His memory was still impaired, but his cognitive functioning was back to normal. They had to keep him under observation for another week, and then a week of therapy to get him out of his chair into his house, that used to be his home. He tried to shoot himself the day after that, and had to be moved back to the clinic.
His mind struggled through phases of deranged anger into tranquil introspections onto silent delusions, as it tried to absorb the crude crass reality of his existence. It would often reject all premises and would fall into a delusion, believing that Martha was still alive. At times he would be driven to derision fading into the suicidal. There was nothing wrong with his mind per say. He was clinically sane… It was his heart that needed fixing, and the only woman capable of bringing him back, lay six feet under the ground.
In the meanwhile, against NYPD’s incessant condemnations, the case was handed over to the Bureau’s Jack Beckerman, who, unlike every other case he ever worked on, had managed to conclusively establish the happenings of the night in question. As per the forensics, the fingerprints on the murder weapon belonged to an Italian immigrant, Steven Franse, aka ‘Hitter’. Hitter was a small time drug dealer, his records spattered with minor infractions: drug deals, robberies and one account of shooting. Ironically no account whatsoever was found of molestation or sexual assault. This was a brand new level of low… even for him.
Blood spatter analysis on his hands and clothes established that it was his hand that held the murder weapon. His semen was found, in what remained of Martha’s cervix, establishing intercourse. Unfortunately, not much survived of the inner vaginal wall to establish rape. The house had not been broken in, but there were signs of struggle. Shards of his skin were found in Martha’s nails. The skin matched the clawing on Steven’s back. Despite of all the evidence, the prosecution argued that evidence was sketchy and circumstantial… In the end it was Howard’s silence and his inability to testify that turned out to be the catalyst. It was empathy that moved the jury to rule in favour of self-defense. Howard was to be reinstated and would be allowed to resume duty as and when deemed fit by the FBI psychiatrist.
‘Howard…?’
‘Yes…’
‘I am sure you are better… You are better, aren’t you?’
Howard nodded.
‘You are ready to go home now.’
Howard tried to smile and turned his attention to the window.
‘Tell me why you are ready…’
The locus of focus for Howard lay outside the window, in the real world; a world wherein he lived through some purpose he could no longer see. He was a visionary, sucked into a world that lay in the future ⎯ seeking and yet not knowing what he sought…
A world wherein he lived through some purpose he could no longer see. He was a visionary, sucked into a world that lay in the future ⎯ seeking and yet not knowing what he sought…
‘Because I need to face reality,’ he said at last, ‘I need to make my peace with the death of a loved one. It happens to a lot of people. I need to understand that it is not my fault. I need to move on… She would have wanted me to’
‘Don’t distance yourself, Howard… Accept it…’
Howard closed his eyes and looked down. He moved forward in the chair and crossed his legs, and then moved back, letting his arms fall over the arms of the chair. He was clearly ill at ease, ‘I am trying to… it’s difficult… it hurts…’
‘Has anything of the night come back to you…?’
Howard inhaled and looked up to the ceiling, ‘I’ve tried… I really have…’ He let his head fall forward, lifeless, dejected, disgusted, ‘I can’t remember. I am not sure I even want to.’ He stopped and looked out the window again, ‘I remember going to that god forsaken bridge, and I remember waking up here. I remember people telling me what supposedly happened that night, but… I can’t… I can’t remember a thing’
‘It’s alright Howard. It’ll come back to you.’
‘I am not sure I even want it to…’ his voice trailed off. ‘I am sorry Stuart, I can’t do this. I am tired. I want to go back to the room’
Stuart Beckinsale was an average built, somewhat thin man. His family had immigrated to America with his great grandfather’s decision to move to the unknown land of promise: a land that vowed a fortune to any and all courageous enough to cross the seas seeking the treasures hidden away from the known world. His great grandfather, like every man lost to his visions, believed, that it was his destiny to succeed. A promising delusion that moved him across the ocean to the land that promised many comrades, all joined together by a collective vision to change their destinies. In a land where every, and all, sought friends, he succeed in finding enemies. He was shot down in his prime, leaving Stuart’s Grandfather with next to nothing.
In a land where every, and all, sought friends, he succeed in finding enemies
Stuart was the eldest of the six children and was born and brought up on a small farm in east Nevada. He was the brightest of the six, and went on, on a full ride, to study psychology at the University of Nevada. He hadn’t looked back since… His light brown hair and hazel eyes still reflected the charm of the British, but he was an American at heart.
He joined the FBI as an on call psychiatrist. It was around the time when Stuart was beginning to feel lonely that Howard had joined the force. They had become friends since. Stuart felt for Howard, both as a friend, and as a colleague. He was skeptical at first while taking the case. He was afraid their relationship might cloud his judgment. The Chief had tried to convince him that Howard needed both a friend and a counselor, and eventually… Stuart had conceded.
‘Howard… Look at me, Howard…’ Howard looked up — his eyes red and searching. What they sought even Howard didn’t know.
‘I am sorry Stu. I don’t think I can do this…’
‘One always has a choice. That’s life: A bundle of choices… Let’s try something, shall we? I’ll ease you into your memories, help you remember. Let’s start with what you do remember’
Howard moved back in the chair and rubbed at his eyes. He sat silent, as though Stuart didn’t exist, as though he sat alone. Stuart sat in silence, patiently waiting for Howard to come to terms with his memories.
‘I remember talking to the Chief. We had lost a few men. I was to investigate.’
‘Do you remember driving to the scene?’
‘No…’ his voice almost a whisper
‘Tell me what happened next’
‘I remember waking up in the hospital. I remember you coming to see me. I remember Suzan was there… Everyone was worried’
‘What did you do after your conversation with the Chief?’
‘I walked out…’
‘Then…?’
‘Got into the car…’
‘Go on…’
Howard grimaced. The veins around his forehead distended as he tried hard to focus. He seemed tormented. His pain seemed unbearable.
‘Relax Howard… Relax…’
Howard grimaced. He looked up. His eyes were red and watery.
‘I can’t Stuart… I just can’t remember…’
‘Listen to my voice Howard. Take a deep breath. Now exhale slowly… Set your mind free… Relaaax… Take another deep breath… You are feeling better now…’
‘I can’t… I can’t believe she’s gone Stu… I can’t… I couldn’t even say goodbye. I miss her… She was all I had. It hurts! I can’t feel the pain, and that hurts even more! I can’t do this! I just can’t!’
‘I know it hurts Howard. You will heal. Give it time…’
‘Do you remember what she was like ⎯ like the morning sunshine — elated, excited, hopeful, even a little eccentric’ Howard smiled through his tears, ‘She filled the present with dreams and the past with memories. I ran into her the first day of Grad school. I bumped into her while talking to a friend and spilled hot coffee all over her. I half expect a scream and accompanied by a slap to the face. She smiled and apologized. She looked into my eyes. “I suppose I owe you coffee,” she had said… And that was it. I knew then and there she was the one. We were married as soon as we graduated. She was so happy on the day of our wedding. I was freaked out, but seeing her walk down the aisle, made me realize, that no matter how scary it got, she was there by my side; that she would always be by my side…I remember her smell Stu; it felt safe…
And now it’s scary again. I am scared and she’s not here…I can’t believe that she’s gone.’
‘You’ve to let her go, Howard… She would want you to’
‘What else is there? It’s not like revenge is an option. I can’t shoot that motherfucker again. I wish I could. I wish I could wake up every day and plaster his brains on the wall. But I can’t…’ Howard looked away, clearly disgusted with his thoughts, ‘I miss her Stu, I just wish there was some way she could come back’
‘She’s in a better place Howard’
‘You don’t know that. No one knows…’
‘She would want you to be happy. You owe it to her, Howard. Do this for her… Get your life together. Go out there and be the man she loved.’
‘I love her… always have… always will.’
‘And you owe it to that love, to love again…to move on…to live again!’ Stuart leaned in and gazed into Howard, trying his best to make him feel the conviction he felt ⎯to believe the lie he had conjured… to make him believe.
‘I don’t know if I am ready’ Howard tore away from his gaze.
‘You’re ready Howard’ Stuart leaned back into his chair, ‘I’ve signed your discharge forms. You’re fit to resume duty whenever you feel up for it’
There was a long pause and the silence, filled with heaved breathing of the two men in the room. The silence had prolonged its welcome.
Howard composed himself. He took a deep breath and put on the face that the world would then on remember as him, and the man he was would be lost forever.
‘Alright Stu,’ he said; got up and walked to the door.
‘I am with you Howard… I hope you know that’
Howard turned the knob and opened the gates to the world into which he was now to pass, ‘Thanks Stu, I appreciate it.’ He tried to smile, but it was too painfully hard, and the pain poured forth into his eyes.
He lingered for a while and then walked out ⎯ pushed back into the world he was trying to run away from; delusional that he could face the illusion that for some reason he could not fathom — An illusion that for some reason he was supposed to…
… delusional that he could face the illusion that for some reason he could not fathom — An illusion that for some reason he was supposed to…