“Like I told you.” Leaning back in the chair, Steve Reynolds folds his arms. “I don’t remember.”
Sitting behind the wood desk, the detective looks up from his notes. His bushy eyebrows scrunch down. He appears to fall into deep concentration, his head bouncing as if considering different options.
Growing tired of the scrutinizing gaze, Steve looks through the window behind the detective. Police officers sit at desks, some of them writing and others talking on phones. From somewhere at the far end, a radio squelches and a scratchy voice mumbles an announcement about an incident on Tenth Street. Whatever it is, nobody responds.
Eyebrows bouncing up, the detective nods. He swipes a hand through his dark wavy hair ruffling the silver flecks matching his name. “Amnesia, then.”
“Yes, Detective Silver.”
“I’m very sorry.” Silver leans back, and the chair groans. “For someone at your age.” He shakes his head. “I mean, you’re at the prime of your life. You might have a family. Someone worrying about your absence.” His eyebrows clamp down as he leans closer. “You don’t remember anything at all?”
“Not my childhood.” He feels as if he has been over it a thousand times, at least five with the detective after hours of pouring through his thoughts back in the waiting room. “Not last week. Nothing until that apartment.”
Silver waves a hand motioning his acceptance. “I’ll do everything I can to help you find your identity, but I need you to think.”
“No.” Steve stands sending the chair smashing against a cabinet. “I don’t know anything about that street.”
“The last thing I remember is a club. A dance club.”
“City of the Dead?” Dropping into the chair, Steve slumps over and buries his face in his hands. His memories are not here. They are out there somewhere. Maybe with Kandy.
“The nightclub,” says Detective Silver. “My crime scene.”
Rubbing his face, Steve takes in a deep breath. He sits up, and continues in a calm voice. “I’m uncertain how I even arrived at that club.” Falling. Dropping through purple clouds into a room of ghosts. “I was helping a young woman. Sabrina. I helped her out to the stairs and I lost her.”
Silver glances at his notes. “From the mystery apartment. An old building you don’t recall the location of.”
“Help me understand, Mister Reynolds. Minutes after forensics packs up.” Silver grabs his pen and taps the end on the table. “Among a dozen officers. You somehow lose consciousness between the officers and the exit.”
“No.” Steve shakes his head. “Like I told you before, people were dancing. There were no officers. I never heard any gunshots.” Folding his arms, Steve meets the scrutinizing gaze. He has had enough. He wants to go home, but home resides beyond his memory. Anywhere is better than the police station.
Breaking the gaze, Silver lowers his head. He scribbles something on his paper. “Fair enough, Mister Reynolds. Without an address of this apartment, we don’t have much to work with. My team is going back over the crime scene. Something will turn up.”
Detective Silver opens a desk drawer and tosses a small notepad on his desk. He opens it and writes on the first page. “Directions to a shelter. I’ll contact you there.”
Steve takes the pocket-sized notepad and reads the directions. None of the names mean anything to him.
“And here’s a pen in case something comes back. About the apartment or about Necropolis. Anything at all.”
Taking the pen, Steve slides it into his shirt pocket along with the notepad. He promises to stay in contact and exits the office. The radio squelches, and this time two officers respond climbing to their feet. Finding the main entrance, he pushes on the glass door.
The cool night air reminds him he has no jacket. He wonders how many hours have passed inside the station. He supposes without any memories, a day is forever like a child with nothing behind him and a lifetime to imagine.
He listens to the sound of his shoes clicking down the steps onto the sidewalk and the cars rumbling on the street, all familiar as if he knows them without really remembering the sounds from anywhere in particular. Even the dampness in the air seems familiar. He recognizes a coffee shop as a coffee shop, but the name on the glass door means nothing. He considers going inside. Hunger should have taken him by now, but he feels fine. Of course, he has no money to pay for food.
Spotting a woman on the others side of the glass, Steve grabs the handle and opens the door releasing warm air and the scent of coffee. He stands to the side and flashes a smile. The woman returns the smile and strides away, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. Steve breathes in the coffee aroma and releases the door listening to the squeak of the hinge and the smack of the frame. Scents and sounds are all recognizable and familiar. If only his home address would materialize with the same familiarity.