"Murder Is But A Memory" drabbles by Christopher

Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 10

Murder Is But A Memory

I sat at my office desk, bowling ball bag in front of me. I had asked Kerri if she'd been to the depot to see what was in the locker. She told me if she had it was before she lost her memory.

I pulled the money out, counting it twice. $250,000 even, all in thousand dollar bills, which Uncle Sam decided to stop minting in '45. The bills here were so worn they looked like they'd repeatedly gone over Niagara Falls in a fat guy's pockets.

Why would Kerri have possession of the key to a fortune like this?

Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 9

Murder Is But A Memory

I stood outside the depot of the L.A. branch of Flash Bus Lines. I read their hokey slogan off the side of the bus: "We'll Get You There...In A Flash!" I wondered how long a pencil-pushing ad executive wracked his tiny brain to come up with that one.

I pushed the door open, heading for the lockers in the back. The number on the key was 63. I found it and opened the door. There was a bowling ball bag inside. I unzipped it. It was gorged with so much money it was looking for a place to vomit...

Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 8

Murder Is But A Memory

Kerri, as I had christened her in absence of knowing her real name, filled me in on the details after her accident. She'd been listed as a Jane Doe by the police. It was Harrigan, my old Army buddy on the force, who suggested she contact me.

I tried to gather as much information as I could. The contents of her purse revealed a little: makeup, a change purse containing $227, a receipt from a Barstow garage for fixing a flat, and a key to a locker at a bus depot in downtown L.A.

Guess I better catch the bus...

Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 7

Murder Is But A Memory

She broke down. I didn't blame her. I felt bad for her, seeing in her eyes that she was telling the truth.

I stood up and moved around the desk. I put my hand on her shoulder. She tilted her head and rested her cheek on the back of my hand. I felt the tears as they fell from her eyes and seeped into my skin. I felt much more than that.

"I'll help you," I said sincerely.

She looked up. Those teary eyes killed me.

"You need a name. How about Kerri? It's Irish. It means dark and mysterious."

Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 6

Murder Is But A Memory

I gave her a strange look, as if she had just asked me what the square root of a tub of ice cream was.

"Look, lady, I don't really have time for games. If you..."

She pulled one hand out of the handle of her purse and raised it, as if to stop me talking.

"Please, Mr. Randolph. This isn't a joke."

She paused.

"Apparently, I was in a car accident. I remember nothing of my life before waking up and staring at a hospital ceiling."

A look passed over her face, deep sadness mixed with a hint of embarrassment...

Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 5

Murder Is But A Memory

"Now," I said as I puffed on the cigarette, "what brings you here, Miss...?"

She ignored my fishing expedition for her name. She kept her fingers through the handle of the white purse as she rested it on her lap. Lucky purse.

She cleared her throat and raised her head up to look me in the eye. She'd regained a bit of composure.

"Mr. Randolph, I need you to find someone."

"That's not unusual," I said confidently. "Who is it you want me to find?"

She looked out the window and then back at me, teary-eyed.

"Me," she said.

Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 4

Murder Is But A Memory

I motioned to the chair sitting in front of my desk and she sat down, smoothing out her skirt as she did. I pulled a packet of cigarettes from my inner coat pocket and smacked it against the palm of my hand. The butt end of a cigarette slid out the top like a magic trick. I held it out. She refused it. I wasn't offended. I brought the pack toward my face and clamped my lips on the cigarette, pulling it out. I picked up the lighter and lit it as I slowly sat back down at my desk...

Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 3

Murder Is But A Memory

As beautiful as she was, she looked totally out of place.  Like the proverbial fish out of water, a stranger in a strange land. She cautiously approached my desk.

I stood up quickly and she jumped back like a frightened newborn deer. Her beautiful green eyes looked panic-stricken. Abject terror shot out at me like bolts of electricity and I was a lightning rod. I held my hands up, palms out, saying, "It's okay, honey. I don't bite. Well, not hard, anyway."

Her mouth produced a smile that even in its weak state could light up the entire universe...

Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 2

Murder Is But A Memory

This dame was a hundred fairy princesses, a thousand Christmas mornings, a million sunrises all rolled into one and poured into a red dress so tight you'd swear on a stack of Bibles higher than the Empire State Building that she was born wearing it. She had a white pillbox hat tilted lazily on the side of her head, curly brown hair wistfully streaming out from under it, both haphazardly and elegantly all in the same moment. She clutched a small white purse like it was Pandora's Box and she was guarded with keeping the lid on the damned thing...

Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 1

Murder Is But A Memory

I sat at the desk in my office on Sunset, looking out the window. One of those new Nash Ramblers just went by. If that's what cars look like now it churns my stomach to think what they'll look like by the end of the 50's.

My ears pricked up as I heard the building's outer door open and close. Then she appeared behind the glass in my office door. She was reading my name and occupation on it. Jake Randolph, Private Investigator. She hesitated before pushing the door open. Man, I couldn't breathe. For once it wasn't L.A. smog...