Burning Thoughts

Was Felix Halloway the homicide victim at the end of Fragments of Memory? Will the university neighborhood escape the tyranny of fear?

Truman and Liesl hurried down the serene campus corridor of Seven Glen Lane, but the rhythmic pulse of crimson-cobalt lights ahead shattered the calm. Patrol drones hovered, their strobing signals slicing eerie shadows across the neighborhood. A police perimeter had been established.

At the boundary between the Urgent Care facility and Felix Halloway’s property, Sergeant Brianna Custer stepped into their path. Her presence was solid, authoritative.

“Sorry, no entry,” she said firmly, blocking their advance. “This is an active investigation.”

Before Truman could muster a protest, Liesl stepped forward, brandishing her university badge with precision. “I’ve been collaborating with the resident here. Is Felix Halloway the victim?”

Sergeant Custer’s gaze sharpened. “And you are?”

“Liesl Richter. On special assignment from the University of Heidelberg.”

Custer took the badge with a skeptical glance. “Looks legit. Got a picture of Mr. Halloway?”

Liesl hesitated. “Not on me,” she admitted, her voice tight with concern. “But I can pull one from the lab if needed.”

The sergeant returned the badge. “Bring it to the station tomorrow. Now, if that’s all, I’ve got an investigation to work.”

Liesl attempt failed. Truman tried a different approach, his tone friendly yet insistent. “Brianna, it’s me, your old buddy. Come on, just a quick look. I won’t touch anything.”

Custer’s expression hardened. “Sorry, Mr. Phillips. Metro Eye’s revoked your press clearance. You’re out.”

Truman’s retort died in his throat as movement caught their attention. A figure emerged from the direction of the campus lake, relying on a cane.

“Felix!” Liesl’s voice broke with relief as she rushed forward, but Sergeant Custer intercepted her before she could close the gap.

“Sir, are you Felix Halloway?” the sergeant asked.

The man nodded faintly, weariness etched into his features.

“Come with me,” Custer said, gesturing toward a waiting patrol vehicle.

Liesl’s tone turned urgent. “Felix, there’s been a murder near your house. Don’t say anything.”

Custer whirled on her, eyes blazing. “That’s enough. I run interviews by the book. If he’s innocent, there’s nothing to fear.” She turned back to Halloway, pulling out her compad. “Let’s go, Mr. Halloway. It’s late, and this ends tonight.”

Wordlessly, Felix climbed into the vehicle, leaving Truman and Liesl stranded, the patrol drones’ lights flashing ominously in the misty dark.

As they retraced their steps toward the International Hotel, Truman’s thoughts spun like a whirlwind. Who was the victim? And why near Felix’s house?

Next to him, Liesl broke the silence, her voice tight with urgency. “If Felix faces another trauma, it could undo everything Professor Machter’s therapy has achieved. We can’t let that happen, Truman.”

Her words barely registered. Truman’s mind was already racing ahead, not just for Felix, but for the fragile trust of the community. What had truly unfolded tonight? Whatever it was, his audience wouldn’t settle for speculation—they deserved the truth.

And yet, Truman couldn’t shake the unsettling realization: every twist unraveling at the police station might reshape not only the story, but their understanding of Felix.

The next morning at eight o’clock sharp, Truman and Liesl waited for the police station to open its doors. Inside, Truman’s mood darkened immediately. The smirking duo in the lobby looked far too comfortable. Seated casually as if they owned the place were Shana, her practiced confidence shining as brightly as her perfectly styled blonde hair, and Ali, the epitome of smooth diplomacy. Truman clenched his jaw, suppressing a string of curses.

Shana leaned back in her chair, her every movement exuding deliberate nonchalance. With a flick of her hair, she delivered her greeting. “Ali and I were finalizing relations.” She let the words linger, as if hoping her double entendre wouldn’t go unnoticed, then finished, “Signing papers under a lawyer’s eye is so nerve racking.”

Ali interjected smoothly, his relaxed demeanor a sharp contrast to the tension thickening the air. “¡Che! It’s always a pleasure to see two of my favorite people—Truman, ace reporter, and buena amiga Liesl.” He spread his arms in a gesture of welcome, though his fingers drummed faintly on the chair, betraying a flicker of unease.

Before Truman could summon a retort, a door to the side opened and Sergeant Brianna Custer appeared. Her uniform spoke of a long night—rumpled and slightly misaligned. Her bloodshot eyes scanned the room, and she waved a hand in dismissal. “Yeah, yeah, you all adore each other,” she muttered. “Me? I’m not in the mood for love or friendship. Let’s get this over with.” She turned her weary gaze to Liesl. “Ms. Richter, Mr. Halloway is in Interview Room 2.”

Liesl’s tone sharpened into an icy blade. “Danke,” she said crisply. “He isn’t being charged, is he, officer?”

“Not yet. But get him out of here before I charge him with wasting my time,” the sergeant said. She jabbed her thumb toward the hallway. “Room 2. I’ve never met someone who could talk so much about nothing. Every answer was a list of rocks along the lakeside path, tied back to his wife’s death.”

As Liesl reached the holding room, her hand hovered briefly on the doorframe. The hesitation was subtle, but Truman noticed. There was a flicker in her expression, just enough to catch his attention. Was it pain? Something personal tied to Felix’s story? Or was it something else entirely—a deeper secret she wasn’t ready to share?

The question lingered in Truman’s mind even as her voice cut through the tension, steady but carrying an edge. “Before I take him home, I want you to understand that the robbery that killed her also seriously wounded him.”

The sergeant raised an eyebrow, her exhaustion giving way to curiosity. “When he took off his hat, I knew.”

Shifting her attention, Brianna fixed her gaze on the smug duo. “Shana. Ali. My office. We’ve got things to discuss.”

“And me?” Truman asked, irritation leaking into his voice. Being sidelined like an afterthought never sat well with him.

Shana’s smile held just the faintest trace of condescension. “You can join us,” she said, her tone almost patronizing. “Your piece on Professor Machter showed improved balance, something Metro could use for issues our audience has diverse opinions. Okay, I’m ending your suspension,” she added, nodding toward Brianna, “and I’m restoring his press privileges.

Ali chuckled, his gratitude clear despite his playful tone. “¡Gracias a Dios! He can take the piece you have pushed at me.”

Shana’s smirk deepened as she inclined her head in agreement.

Truman’s curiosity burned, but he couldn’t linger on their private exchange. His focus shifted to the matter at hand. “Brianna, have you identified the victim?”

The sergeant flipped open her compad, her expression turning graver with each passing second. “Gabriel Hughes,” she announced. “His skin tag ID confirmed it.”

Shana’s brow furrowed, her veneer of calm slipping ever so slightly. “Wasn’t he the head of the Main Street Clinic?”

“Until it shut down a couple of years ago,” Truman interjected, his urban explorations once again proving useful. “He was also involved in the protests at yesterday’s memorial for Professor Machter. The one at Lakeside Coffee and Books.”

The sergeant made a note, her stylus gliding across the screen. “That’s not far from the crime scene. Tell me more about that.”

Truman hesitated, weighing his words carefully. “The man you’re desperate to shoo out of here—Felix Halloway—had a heated argument with Hughes. Things got physical. Halloway swung his cane at him.”

Brianna shook her head, letting out a weary sigh. “Sure, but there’s no way Halloway could have overpowered Hughes. Not physically, anyway.”

The blonde and her diplomatic ally stayed silent, their faces unreadable. Truman, however, pressed forward, the journalist in him unwilling to let go. “What’s the cause of death?”

“Strangulation,” Brianna said bluntly. Her voice carried a weight that silenced the room. “After a blow to the back of the head with a blunt object. The strike stunned him, but the murderer wanted it personal. They wanted to watch him suffer.”

The significance of her words sank in. Truman nodded slowly, his mind connecting dots as he spoke. “So, it was someone with a personal grudge.”

Brianna’s eyes narrowed. “Likely, but one thing’s clear—the killer knew him.”

Truman, Shana, and Ali stepped out of the station, the brisk morning air greeting them as they crossed the parking lot toward Carriage Way. The weight of what they’d just learned hung heavy between them, each lost in thought.

It was Ali who broke the silence. “¡Che! What is this skin tag ID thing? Don’t tell me it’s another bizarre American obsession with tattoos gone wrong.”

Truman didn’t bother responding, his mind elsewhere.

Shana’s laugh was short and devoid of humor. “You’re lucky, Ali. In 2043, our government decreed that every citizen would have a chip inserted under the skin of their inner right thigh. Officially, it’s for identification.”

Ali’s smile didn’t waver, though a flicker of skepticism glinted in his eyes. “Officially? What’s the unofficial story?”

Shana tilted her head, her coy smile returning as she spoke. “Some people think it’s a convenient way for the government to track our every move. But let’s table the conspiracy theories for now.” Her tone shifted, becoming sharper as she turned to Truman. “So, ace reporter, what homicide theories are brewing in that brain of yours?”

Truman held up a finger, his expression thoughtful. “I’m not there yet, but let me spitball. Gabriel Hughes loses his clinic job, then pivots to activism against autonomous robots. He confronts us at the memorial, and by the end of the night, he’s dead. Felix didn’t do it, and neither did we. But maybe someone else had a grudge with him—a beef we don’t know about.”

Ali didn’t miss a beat, pulling out his compad and dialing with practiced ease. “Hola, Brianna. I’m sure you’ve already thought of this, but the video outside the memorial might’ve caught the killer’s image. Would you mind sending us a list of everyone on it? Mil gracias.” He tapped send and slid the compad back into his pocket.

Shana and Truman turned to him in unison, their voices overlapping. “You have her private number?”

Ali shrugged, his composure as unshakable as ever. “Some people like me.”

They reached Metro Eye’s office, and Truman slowed his pace, letting Shana and Ali take the lead. “I’d love to come in and shoot the breeze, but I’ve got a few ideas about the murderer I need to chase down.”

Shana and Ali paused, clearly waiting for him to elaborate, but when he didn’t, Shana’s tone took on an edge. “Fine. But I expect a full update on the editorial call.”

Truman nodded as he watched his colleagues ascend the steps toward their offices, their voices blending into the hum of the city behind them. He turned to go but called back casually, “Oh, and don’t forget Morgan’s Science Fair Party next Saturday. You’re both invited. She’s recreating her mother’s voice—the quality may not blow you away, but after my sister lost her voice, this could be the thing that lifts her spirits. Solid local piece, better than another fluff feature on Patapsco High’s football team.”

He strode off, his mind already shifting to the next lead.

That first Saturday morning in November 2060 came warmer and faster than Truman expected. So did police progress. After two years with four homicides and little in the way of leads, the fifth death of Gabriel Hughes led to the Main Street Clinic where Bro RJ had repeated visits. Lakeside’s video surveillance showed Bro RJ watching and then following the victim. When the police hustled him off the corner of Main and Carriage Way, they found the victim’s wallet.

With the killer in custody, a palpable relief settled over the department and the city alike, the oppressive weight of looming fear lifting. Truman felt a flicker of calm as he prepared for the evening’s event—a rare chance to step away from the relentless grind of the case, if only briefly.

Liesl slipped into Truman’s eV. She wore a sleek sheath dress in a deep, modern aquamarine, its fabric subtly shimmering in the low light, paired with smart, glowing earrings. To tie the ensemble together, she carried a slim, modular clutch that transformed into a small holoprojector.

Astonished at the transformation from his first impression weeks ago, Truman gasped. “You look fabulous.” Each time he saw her, she was more attractive.

She raised her eyebrows in response, her expression composed yet enigmatic. “If I were back in Heidelberg, I would walk to the party. It’s barely a kilometer.”

The autonomous vehicle set off. “Morgan would never forgive me if an honored guest showed up winded and disheveled, unable to be seen as their best self.”

Liesl’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I brought the holoprojector as a nod to my father. When I was little, he loved to create holograms of fantastical landscapes for us to explore together. He used to say the real magic wasn’t in the tech itself, but in how it could transport us to places beyond the imaginable.”

Truman glanced at her, struck by the mix of sentiment and sophistication in her tone. For a moment, the hum of the eV’s engine filled the silence as he searched for the right response. “Sounds like you’ve inherited his knack for making an impression.”

Liesl turned to him at last, her eyes catching the dim glow of the dashboard lights. A faint smile played on her lips, enigmatic, teasing. “Vielleicht.” A pause, delicate but deliberate. “Perhaps.”

As the eV glided to their destination, an unspoken connection hung in the air—fragile yet undeniably present. Neither broke the quiet, both content to let the moment linger.

Colorful lanterns draped from the house to the low branches of river birches, their peeling cinnamon bark glowing softly in the evening light. Deirdre had planted them when she first bought the house—back when she still cared about such things.

Morgan waved them in from the doorway of her mudroom-laboratory, distracted by a discussion with an earnest-looking woman. Two others, likely teachers, stood nearby, nodding along.

The gathering was livelier than Truman had expected. Twenty-five or thirty people mingled in clusters of animated groups. Around the super freeze master, young people in flashing sweatshirts laughed as they prepared drinks. At the grill, the basketball coach from next door exchanged banter with his wife and a few other neighbors. Children darted around, chasing whirly-whirls, their shrieks of delight tempered by occasional warnings from adults. Off to one side, a few isolated figures stood aloof: Sergeant Brianna Custer, Felix Halloway leaning on his cane, Shana dressed like she’d walked out of Ambrosia Dreams, and Ali Vargas in crisp business casual.

Ali spotted Truman and waved. “Amigos, come here!” he called out. Shana nodded in agreement. “Yes, Truman—you need to hear this.”

As they approached, Truman gave a cheery nod to Deirdre on the outskirts of the grill huddle.

“Brother,” she responded curtly, with a faint lift of her chin.

Brianna glanced at Truman and Liesl and resumed her explanation. “We found out Bro RJ had been receiving treatment at Main Street Clinic—quelicine to quiet the demons in his brain. He lost access when the university reallocated funds to its robotics program. Without the clinic, he self-medicated, but street drugs didn’t always work. He blamed Gabriel Hughes for abandoning him, just like his mother had. His mother, by the way, was a prostitute; his father, a pimp. Rented him out when he was three.”

“Finally,” Truman said, his lack of empathy apparent, “the neighborhood can breathe easy. It’s a shame you didn’t follow up when I flagged Brother Ramma-Jamma.”

“Stuff it, Truman,” Brianna snapped. “You had a hunch. He lived on the farm where evidence, not exactly damning, was discovered. And he had an alibi.”

“Fair, but my hunch was right,” Truman countered. “Keep that in mind next time Metro Eye connects dots you don’t.”

“Fine. Give yourself a gold star,” Brianna shot back, already heading for her police car.

Deirdre, observing nearby, scribbled something on her compad. She turned the screen toward Truman: Bro RJ is Brother Ramma-Jamma?

“Yes. Why?”

Her response: He was my student for two years. I yelled at him constantly, trying to teach him.

Truman’s face softened. “Well, at least he’s caught now.”

Liesl touched his arm lightly, drawing his focus. “Shouldn’t we be celebrating Morgan’s project?” she asked with a small smile.

“Yes, let’s rescue her,” Truman agreed. “She needs to enjoy her own party.”

“I second that,” Ali said. “Shana, let’s go.”

Together, they intercepted Morgan, whom the judges had cornered in another technical discussion. Truman approached with exaggerated cheer. “Good turnout, Morgan. Lots of people here celebrating you.”

Morgan gestured for them to join her in the makeshift lab, frustration evident in her posture. “Not the judges, though. They liked the voice synthesizer, but not enough. One of them even said they couldn’t award the prize to someone with the last name Rift. Said the school would be a laughingstock.”

The group exchanged uncomfortable glances. Ali frowned. “I don’t follow.”

Morgan sighed. “My last name—Rift—implies my father is unknown or refuses to be identified. It’s a black mark I carry every day.”

“Why not change it?” Ali asked.

Truman intervened gently. “The law mandates the father’s surname. There’s no way around it. Please, don’t ask Morgan to explain further.”

Ali’s gaze narrowed, his publisher’s instincts kicking in. Turning to Shana, he asked, “This is the kind of story you hinted at, one you can’t publish?”

Shana nodded. “Exactly. I’d lose my government sources—and my license. But you could publish it in South America. Then I might weave yours in some Metro discussion if I’m very careful.”

Ali’s expression hardened. “So even things like the skin tag ID fall into that category, too?”

Shana’s silence answered the question.

“What’s in this for you, Ali?” Truman asked warily.

Ali grinned. “Publicity. Free ads, Argentine vacations. But more importantly, your Metro could grow with the exclusive sources I’d share.”

“Metro’s not mine anymore,” Truman said. “Actually, I meant to tell you all—I’m accepting Liesl’s offer to co-author the biography of Professor Albert Machter.”

Shana folded her arms. “Then who will fill your Sunday slot?”

Liesl smiled. “Isn’t Servitor finished its internship? Perhaps it’s ready?”

The group laughed at the idea of an AI bot delivering Sunday perspectives. Morgan chimed in, “If you feed the news to Servitor, I could have it sound like Mom next week. Or Uncle Truman. Or anyone.”

“Attention! Attention!” A booming emcee voice cut through the evening air, amplified by outdoor speakers. “Show And Tell Time. Come On Down, Deirdre Phillips.”

The crowd hushed as Deirdre stood. She moved to the patio table where Morgan’s compad sat, her expression a mix of determination and trepidation. Morgan followed, nervous but resolute.

Facing the crowd, Morgan spoke clearly. “My mother will type her thoughts into the compad, and the voice synthesizer will translate the text and utter them in the voice we heard in her years teaching in the Patapsco school system.”

Deirdre began typing, her fingers trembling slightly. After a brief pause, her voice emerged, strong and clear through the speakers:

“My Daughter Is The Greatest. Whether This Works Or Not—But, Of Course, It Will—Or You Wouldn’t Be Hearing This.”

The crowd chuckled warmly as Deirdre continued typing. Her voice resumed:

“I’m Amazed To Hear Myself Again. I Hope You Won’t Tire Of Me Too Soon. I’ve Decided, With This New Voice, To Accept The Position Of Principal At Patapsco High School—If Felix Halloway Agrees To Counsel At-Risk Teens.”

Deirdre’s voice paused, then concluded.

“And Lastly—I’m Glad Truman Has Finally Outgrown His Teenage Fantasy World.”

---