“He came in every day around one thirty. For a mobile order.”
“So you did know him?”
“I don’t know anything about him except that he usually ordered a soy mocha. One pump. No whip.”
He gave the bag back, pulled out his notebook, and made a few more notes. “So we’ve got a couple of men with the garbage truck who might have seen a guy running down the sidewalk right before they turned into the alley and who may or may not have heard a gunshot when they were on the other side of the street. They were right in the middle of a debate about whether the Nats are going to make it into the playoffs, so they can’t say for sure.” He flipped the notebook shut. “And then there’s you. You saw the killer and you knew the victim. At least we have you.”
That was the moment I was dreading. The moment I finally had to tell him. “Not really. You don’t really have me at all.”
Chapter 3
The detective took me around the block and into the coffee shop. It was mostly deserted. A police officer seemed to be wrapping up an interview with a pair of customers.
We sat at an empty table. The manager brought us some water. By that point, I was long past late for the library. I had already stood up my second student and I’d texted the third and fourth to let them know I wasn’t coming.
The detective opened up his notepad and took out his pen. “Do you mind if we go over this again? You’re the only one who saw the murderer and you just told me you can’t be a witness?”
“Not in the traditional way.”
“We don’t have the victim’s wallet. We don’t have his phone. Don’t have any identification for him at all. All we have is you and a coffee cup.”
“I know, and I wish—”
“And now you’re saying all we have is the coffee cup?”
The contrast between the mugginess outside and the coolness of air-conditioning had been refreshing at first. Not anymore. I pulled one of my hands up into the sleeve of my red blouse and then tucked it underneath my other arm.
“Is that what you’re saying?”
“No.”
“No?”
I shook my head.
“Then what are you saying? I need to understand. Are you asking for a lawyer?”
I smiled; I couldn’t help myself. If all went well during my bar exam, then I would be able to do a half-decent job of representing myself. Even though, of course, no smart lawyer would do that. “No. Back in the alley, when I told you that you didn’t have me, what I meant was, it’s not that I didn’t see the killer or know the victim—it’s that I can’t remember them.”
He sat back. “Oh. Don’t worry. That’s not unusual. Murder is traumatic. It might come back to you in pieces, in flashes of memory. Or it could replay in an endless loop. The mind is funny that way.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say. My mind is particularly funny.”
“In what way?”
“I can’t remember faces. I have face blindness.”
“I don’t know what that is. What does that mean?”
“My brain can’t process faces.”
“So maybe we work with a forensic artist to sketch an image of the shooter. That’s fine.”
He wasn’t listening to me, so he didn’t understand. But that was typical. “That won’t help. It’s as if the software that stores facial recognition inside my brain has been deleted.”
“So what you’re saying is what, exactly?”
“I can’t remember the face of the killer because it was never stored in my brain in the first place. I can tell you the killer wore a suit jacket, but I will never be able to tell you what his face looked like.”
“Ever?”
“Never.”
“If we can come up with a suspect, would a lineup help jog a memory?”
“There is no memory.” Hysteria fought its way up into my throat. I took a deep breath as I tried to think of another way to explain. I put my hand up and held it in front of my eyes so that it obscured his face from my view. “This is what it’s like when I look at you. I know that your hair is black. I can see that you’re wearing a blue suit jacket and a white shirt.” He had square shoulders and several chest hairs peeking through his open collar. “But I can’t tell you anything about your face.”
“Ever? But what if you were to look right at me and I asked you, ‘What color are my eyes?’”
“Always. This is always how it is. It’s how it always has been. And that’s all I would be able to tell anyone, ever.”
“So what you’re telling me is that you would never be able to recognize the shooter.”
Finally! “Yes.”
* * *
He asked me a dozen more questions about the condition, and I gave him the same answer to every one.
I can’t remember faces.
One of the investigators came in. The detective excused himself for a moment to join her. As they talked, he gestured once or twice at me. I didn’t have to strain to hear their conversation.
“But she said she saw the shooter.” The investigator seemed exasperated.
“I know. And she did. It’s just that she can’t remember.”
False. I could remember. I could remember everything. The only thing I couldn’t remember was the face of the killer. I hadn’t told anyone at work about my condition, but just then I felt like standing on the chair and announcing it so everyone could hear. But even if I did, I knew it wouldn’t matter. I’d still be the weirdo. It was better just to let people talk and get it over with.
The detective was still speaking. “She says she has face blindness.”
“Face blindness? Is that a thing?”
“It’s a thing.”
Their conversation went on like that for a while. I finally dug around in my backpack for my phone and sent a text to my dad, asking how his day was.
He texted back, I’m thriving.
Thriving? That didn’t sound like my dad. As I was puzzling over it, he sent another text.
You
I eyed the single word with suspicion. No complete sentence? No punctuation? I felt like asking him for his identification. Maybe he was following my advice and taking one of the social media classes down at the community center back home.
I texted back, Fine. Except for the murder. Busy day.
Chance of rain anytime soon?
After a fall and winter that had featured nonstop rain, the Pacific Northwest was now in danger of becoming a tinderbox.
He texted me a cactus emoji.
What was going on? In the space of two hours, my whole world had turned upside down. I’d stumbled into a murder and my father had discovered emojis.
The detective came back. “Ms. Garrison? I’d like you to watch the footage from the security camera with me.”
“Sure. Yes. Of course.”
“See if anything—I mean, I know you won’t recognize anybody, but maybe you’ll see something that will help you remember. Something that’s not a face. I’ll take anything that will help us identify the victim. Or the killer. The manager said she’d meet me in the office?”
“It’s behind there.” I pointed to the swinging door behind the counter.