Memory Man

A contact wound preceded by a muzzle’s kiss, lasting only a second before the projectile ended her life. Had she been asleep? Had she awoken? Would she have endured the terror of seeing her killer standing over her? He wondered all this as he held his wife for what would be the last time.

He put her back where he had found her. Decker stared down at the face that was white and lifeless, the blackened dot in the middle of her forehead to be his final memory of her, a grammatical period at the very end.

Of everything.

He rose, his legs feeling numb as he staggered out of the room and down the hall to the only other bedroom up here.

He did not force this door open. He was in no hurry now. He knew what he was going to find. He just didn’t know what the killer’s method would have been.

First, a knife. Second, a gun.

She wasn’t in the bedroom, which left the adjoining bath.

The overhead light was on in there, burning brightly. The killer had obviously wanted him to see the last one clearly.

There she sat, on the toilet. Held there with the sash from her robe wrapped around the water tank, for otherwise she would have fallen over. He drew close.

His feet didn’t slip. There was no blood. His little girl had no obvious wounds that he could see. But then he drew closer and saw the ligature marks on her neck, ugly and blotchy like someone had burned her there. Maybe the robe sash had been used. Maybe the guy’s hands. Decker didn’t know, didn’t care. Death by strangulation was not painless. It was excruciating. And terrifying. And she would have been staring right up at him while he slowly compressed her life away.

Molly would have been ten in three days. A party had been planned, guests invited, presents bought, and a sheet cake with chocolate inside ordered. He had gotten time off to help Cassie, who worked full-time and also did pretty much everything here because his job was not a nine-to-fiver, not even close. They had joked about it. What did he know about real life? Grocery shopping? Paying the bills? Taking Molly to the doctor?

Nothing, as it turned out. Not a damn thing. Clueless.

He sat down on the floor in front of his dead child, crossing his long legs like his little girl liked to do, so the bottom of each foot was wedged against the inner thigh of the opposite leg. He was flexible for a big man. The lotus position, he dimly thought. Or something like that. He didn’t even know why he was thinking this. He realized he must be in shock.

Her eyes were wide and open, staring back at him, but not seeing him. Like Mom. She would never see him again.

Decker just sat there, rocking back and forth, looking at her but not really seeing her, and his baby girl sure as heaven not seeing her daddy either.

This is it. Nothing left. I’m not staying by myself. Can’t do it.

He slipped the compact nine-mil from his belt holster and made sure a round was chambered by racking the slide. He cupped it in his hands. Nice little piece. It was accurate, with enough stopping power. He’d never shot anyone with it. But he’d wanted to.

He stared down at the muzzle with the iron sights. How many rounds fired at the police range? A thousand? Ten thousand? Well, he couldn’t miss tonight.

He opened his mouth and swallowed the muzzle, angling it upward so the bullet would hit the brain and make the end quick. His finger came to rest on the trigger guard. He looked up at Molly. Suddenly embarrassed, he slipped the gun out and put it against his right temple and closed his eyes so he couldn’t see her. Again, his index finger slipped to the trigger guard. Once past it, to the trigger, then the slow, steady pull until the point of no return. He’d never feel anything. His brain dead before it could tell the rest of his body that he’d jacked himself.

He just had to pull. Just pull, Amos. You got nothing to lose because you got nothing left. They’re gone. They’re…gone.

He held the gun there, wondering what he would say to his family once they were all reunited.

I’m sorry?

Forgive me?

I wish I’d been here to protect you from whoever did this? I should have been here to protect you?

He held the gun tighter, digging the metal against his temple so hard he felt the smooth barrel cut into his skin. A drop of blood appeared and then was wicked into his graying hair, which, he was fairly certain, had become even grayer over the last few minutes.

He wasn’t seeking the courage to do it.

He was desperately searching for the right balance. Yet could there ever be balance in taking one’s own life?