I Wish I Couldn't Remember

      The coffee stains on my desk had started melding together. I notice how it looked like a brown knock-off Olympic Rings logo. The man at my door stands angrily. He shouts something about a file I haven’t opened yet, but I’m too busy tracing my finger over the coffee stains. He slams his hand on my desk and my ashtray falls on the floor and shatters. I liked that ashtray.

           The Angry Man shouts about my badge. He threatens to take it from me if I don’t open his file. He also wants me to catch a serial killer, but I think he is more worried about the file. He leaves, driving the shards of glass further into my carpet. I look down and notice he has placed another file on my desk. This time, it is already open. The only writing on the file is a name: Sally Lorne. Inside, there is a piece of paper with my name at the top of it. I believe that means I wrote the words on this page. I read my words, but I do not remember Sally Lorne.

           Same MO: female, blond, minor, Caucasian. Assaulted, strangled, killed, raped — in that order. I am more interested by my handwriting than the words I wrote with it. I trace my words as they travel across the page. I do not remember Sally Lorne. Nor do I remember Ashley Stein or Rebecca Lynum. But I do remember my handwriting. I remember the way I placed the pen to paper thinking that would somehow be the first step in catching the Monster. I stare at the file of the girl I cannot remember, and think about her.

           I think about her life, though I never knew her alive. I think about her laugh, though I never even heard her speak. I think about the other girls I cannot remember: Gloria Tsulik, Sarah Klenn, Tori Geith. I think about how their laughs would sound. I lie to myself and think they are all still alive. I tell myself that they are all still happy, still laughing, still safe. I pretend that I never saw their bodies. I try to forget that they were ripped open and tossed aside by the Monster.

           I look back to the door where the Angry Man stood with Sally Lorne’s file in his hand— the same place he stood when he held the files for Jessica Yuline, Vicky Shepard, and all the other girls that I cannot remember. Weeks have passed by, and with each one came a new file. I remember that some weeks, the Angry Man would deliver more than one at a time and each file would look the same. It would have the name of a girl, a photograph of her mangled body, and a page of my handwriting that I do not remember.

He slams his hand where my ash tray once sat. Today he holds another file. And today, I hear myself speak. “Four days since Sally Lorne. Seven since Jessica Stein.” I lower my head into my hands and continue speaking, “Jessica- thirteen days, Gloria – twenty, Sarah – twenty-nine…” I mutter to myself until the Angry Man interrupts me.

“You’ve got to get your head on straight, Detective. You’re no use to me or to the families of these girls like this. If you’re not up to task, I’ll find someone who is.” He does not shout when he speaks. He holds the file out in my direction. “And he’s not showing any sign of stopping. New case. Another girl — two, actually. Sisters: Jaiying and Sungwon Nguyen.”

I grab the file with both hands and start memorizing the names. This time, I do not recognize the hand writing. I feel my hands shaking as I look for the words I have written on each file before: Female, blond, minor, Caucasian. Assaulted, strangled, killed, raped — in that order. I do not see these words.

“He’s getting bored, Detective… trying to mix it up with a different kind of girl. And you’ve got more than just a new MO to worry about: the public wants a statement.”

I look outside at the mob of people gathering. They’re saying that if I can’t catch the Monster, they want my badge. The Angry Man says he will take it from me if I can’t stop the files from coming. I touch the tarnished silver of my badge and feel shame – for the first time in my career I am a failure and each day the stench of it seeps deeper into my suit. I lay my hand on the stack of folders on my desk and I try my hardest to put them from my memory. I remove my glasses and press against graying temples. I apply pressure until my vision blurs in hopes that I might strangle the cancerous memory inside my head.

But I remember Sally Lorne. Not just her, but I remember them all. I remember how their mothers begged me to find the “Monster who did this.” That’s what they always called him – no, not “him”. “It”. No gentleman could be capable of such atrocities. No, it deserved the title it was given: The Monster. I press harder and The Monster fades away for a moment.

I don’t remember when these files began piling up on my desk, or when the Angry Man earned his namesake. Instead I remember when I told the public about The Monster. I smoked twenty-eight cigarettes as I walked along the streets, knocking on doors. Each time I approached a door I would begin my ritual; remove my cap, drape my coat over my forearm, and look them directly in the eyes as I told them about the “recent development” – the politest way possible to tell someone about a serial killer. They cried, screamed, and threw furniture against walls when they heard the news about their neighbors – their friends – their daughters. But the worst was when they seemed to already know why I was there. “Word travels fast when there’s nothing else to say, Detective”, the Angry Man warned, “Eventually, they’ll be expecting you”.

It wasn’t long until the public was a step ahead of the files on my desk. That’s when the mob outside started forming. Fathers, mothers, pastors, shopkeepers, all working together to pound on my front door, each armed with their own perspective of the situation. Sometimes I’m able to forget why they’re here, but never for long. I wish I wasn’t the man with the badge. I wish I could just trace the rings on my desk over and over again, but the screaming outside cuts through my ears regardless of how hard I dig into my temples.

I think about them victims again -- all of them. I know only a few things about them. I know their names, I know their faces, and I know how they look when they die. I wish I didn’t know that. I wish I knew their smiles, their laughs, their dreams. The Monster doesn’t know those things either. He too, only knows their names, faces, and the way they look when they die. I think about the Monster. I consider where he is right now and try to think of a reason why he does these things. I wonder if he is thinking of me as well. I bet he is thinking of the next file that will land on my desk.

I sit down and think about the Monster. I wish I was able to find him, but only to stop these files from collecting on my desk. I wish I didn’t know these girls the same way he does. And I wish I wasn’t to blame for not being able to catch the Monster. I think that this will be my statement. And I think I will tell them that I remember their daughters. I hope they can forgive me for it.