The Past and Beyond

Those who forget the past

are doomed to repeat it.

Those who live in the past do not live,

but merely exist.

I woke up. How long I had been asleep, if sleep was indeed what it was, I had no idea. My eyes hurt, lights from the ceiling blanketed my head.

"Who are you?" someone shouted.

He shook his head. "I don't know, I don't know." The light blinding his eyes kept him from seeing anything but a bright star shining down. Where was he? He faded off before he could get an answer.

His eyes opened again but this time it seemed like he had been there forever. He could make out the ceiling, painted white, the recessed lighting shining down on him. He moved his head but stopped when the pain erupted. Beneath him lay a hard, thin mattress, and on top of him a scratchy but warm blanket. Where was he?

He heard a door open and soft footsteps shuffling toward him.

"Can you hear me?" a soft, feminine voice asked.

He couldn't nod, the pain was too great, but he wasn't sure if he could speak either. He tried to open his eyes again, ignoring the pain that the bright ceiling lights caused.

"Where am I?" he asked, his voice sounding like a desperate whisper.

"You are in the hospital," the voice answered.

He moved his head slightly and lowered his eyes. The speaker was a young woman with blonde hair, a rounded face, and blue eyes. She was wearing a white nurse’s uniform with a blue mask covering her lips and nose.

"How?" he started to ask but stopped quickly.

"You were found with an extensive head wound; we don't know what from and were brought in two days ago. You have been unconscious since then. This is the first time you have been awake."

The nurse moved away as another lady, this one older but with the same uniform and mask, moved up to his side. "Do you know your name?" she asked, her voice more deliberate with a purpose in mind.

He thought for a minute. "No," he answered, no he didn't. Who was he? He could feel, rather than see her nod and just as quickly as she had come, she moved away toward the door.

"I am sorry," she said to someone in the hallway, "he is in no condition to speak to anyone at this time. You will have to wait until he is cleared by the doctor."

He wondered who she was speaking to but again, he faded off before he could get an answer. "You killed him, " the voice echoed in his head, "why did you kill him?" What was the voice talking about? Killed him? Killed who?

"Yes, I did, I didn't mean to." This voice wasn't a stranger's voice; it was his own. He was saying he killed someone. Who?

He woke up again, eyes clearer, his head not pounding. He was able to feel his hands and move them slowly. A woman stood above him, he recognized her as the same nurse that he had seen before, the nice one, he thought.

"You're awake," she smiled. "How are you feeling?"

He didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say.

"Do you know who you are?" she asked.

He thought for a minute and then a named came into his head. He nodded. "Bill," he replied.

"Bill, who?"

"Bill Whithers," he answered, his voice hesitating through the pain he felt, however, this time sure that he had it right.

"Bill, someone needs to speak to you," she continued and then quickly left the room.

At the same time a man entered. He was the same height as the nurse but twice as large with a partially balding head, thin mustache, and whiskered cheeks. "Mr. Whithers, I am Detective Firestone," he smiled, "no kin to the automobile repair place, I can assure you. Do you know Carlton Henderson?" he asked.

Bill thought for a minute. "Yes, of course I do," he answered. "He is my partner."

"You both work at, should I say own, CH Financing Consultants, don't you?"

Bill nodded, not sure where this was heading but at the same time trying to quiet the shouting in his head. You killed him kept sounding over and over, you killed him.

"At this time Mr. Whithers, I need to advise you of your rights." He took the card out of his pocket and read the same points that anyone who had ever seen a television mystery was surely familiar with.

"What is going on?" Bill asked, confused and scared.

"Mr. Henderson has been murdered, and you were found there injured at the scene of the crime."

"What?" Bill almost raised up in the bed before the pain reminded him of where he was.

"When you were being wheeled in here, after your injury," the Detective continued, "all of a sudden you started saying, I killed him, I killed him. Do you remember that?"

Bill tried to remember anything about how he got there, but he couldn't. He tried to remember anything about Henderson, his friend, his partner, but again, everything was fuzzy. "No," he finally mumbled.

"You have no idea of why you would have said that?"

"No."

"I am afraid, Mr. Whithers that you are not going to be able to leave town until this is cleared up, even after you are released from the hospital. Do you understand?"

Bill nodded, the pain becoming unbearable. "I understand."

The Detective shook his head and left the room, clearing the way for the nurse to come back in.

"We are going to give you something for the pain," was all she said, as if being in the presence of a suspected murderer was a normal day on the job.

He faded back to sleep but blackness never came. "I killed him," the voice kept saying in his head. "Why did you do it?" another voice answered. He saw Henderson, he saw a woman, someone he knew but couldn't name. He saw the Detective. They were all looking at him with accusations in their eyes.

"Why did you do it?" he asked himself. "Did you do it?" was the next question. He had no answer to either.

He felt like it was a long time before he woke up again, the darkness showing through the hospital room window, confirming his assumption. The nurse wasn't there but a woman sat at the chair across from him. She looked familiar, either from knowing her or having dreamed of her.

"Bill," she said, when their eyes met. "You are going to be alright; I just know it."

He shook his head to less pain than before. "Who are you, do I know you?"

She sat back, startled. "What?" she said, then recovered. "Of course, they said that you still had lapses in memory. I'm Francis, Francis McIntyre. I am, was Carlton's girlfriend."

He remembered her now, but only her name. Yet there was something familiar about her just the same."

"Why did you do it?"

"Do what?" he replied, although he had a pretty good idea what she was talking about.

"Kill Carlton," she said, confirming his worst fear. "He said that the two of you had an argument, something about money. He said you stole money."

"No." He didn't shout; he couldn't. "I borrowed money and was going to pay it back. He knew all about it." All of a sudden, it came flooding back into his mind, losses on stupid investments, debts he couldn't pay. He had no place to get more money except from the business where he was a partner. "Did I kill him?" he asked himself for the hundredth time. Again, he had no answer.

"Did we fight?" he asked her out loud. "Is that how I got hurt?"

"Yes," she said. "I got there right after it happened. That is how I know."

"That almost works, Ms. McIntyre." Detective Firestone walked purposefully into the hospital room followed by a nurse. "The key word is almost," he continued.

"He confessed," she replied, "you heard him."

"Yes, he confessed," the Detective confirmed, "and I must say that he was at the top of my suspect list. Particularly after I heard about the money he borrowed," the Detective added air quotes to the borrowed part. "But then something occurred to me. Who told me about the money? Not the accountant, the firm's lawyer, not anyone else at the company. You told me about it. Now why would you know about it when no one else did?"

"He was my boyfriend," she screamed. "He trusted me, he told me everything."

"I see," the Detective replied. "Did he tell you that he was buying the company, thus forgiving the debt? He had the paperwork signed, sealed, and ready to be delivered to the lawyer. So all of a sudden, Mr. Whithers has no motive for murder. He was getting out scott free with even a little left over. With Mr. Henderson's death, only one person stood to gain. The beneficiary in his will. Care to guess who that person is, Ms. McIntyre?"

I looked at her, shocked, as the nurse did.

“But the gun. The gun was right there by him.”

“Yes,” the Detective agreed. “But the gun was wiped clean, there were no fingerprints. Unfortunately, Mr. Whithers was transferred to the hospital so we could not check for gunshot residue. Also, if Mr. Whithers shot Mr. Henderson, how did he get wounded?”

“They could have fought and the gun went off right as Carlton hit him.”

“Mr. Henderson was killed instantly and conversely; we were able to check for blood on Mr. Whithers clothes. There was none. So, what happened, Ms. McIntyre, did Mr. Whithers come in right after you shot your boyfriend? Did you hit him on the head, at least once, although it could have been more with something from the office? Did you drop it in the dumpster before calling the police? By the way, we found a set of bookends in the dumpster next to the office. I bet we will also find blood and your fingerprints. What do you think?”

Suddenly another policeman came in, this one in uniform, and put handcuffs on her wrist.

"I am sorry," she cried as the policeman led her out the door. "I am sorry."

The Detective could see that Bill was fading out.

"We will talk later Mr. Whithers. Get some rest."

As I fell asleep, I knew that now I would not hear any questions being shouted in my mind. I would be at rest. The only thing that I could think of was a quote that I had heard a long time ago. “To be forgiven for your sins you first have to be sorry”.