The Mystery Mystery

By Pamela Love

I hit play on Officer Chase’s bodycam footage. The camera dipped as the officer knelt by a young woman sprawled on the roadside, her legs tangled in the wrecked tandem bicycle. An ambulance siren blared in the distance.

Blood seeped through her long blonde hair. Her t-shirt was the vivid orange of the summer sun setting on the horizon. Her boyfriend on the other seat wouldn’t live to see it rise.

“Did you see who did it?” Chase asked.

“Mystery…” muttered the young woman.

I paused the video and looked grimly at my partner. “Nick Foster was DOA at the hospital. The woman, Harmony Star, is in critical condition.”

“Mystery,” said my partner, Ryan O’Hanrahan. “Not much to work with, even though the Dying Words Detective’s on the case. Sorry, Fernanda.” His cheeks reddened. He knew I hate the pressure of that nickname, even though I’d earned it. I’ve figured out the killer in many cases by using unclear last words from a victim or witness.

“Harmony’s not dead.” I hoped that was still true. “Anyway, we also have two sets of prints.” I flipped through the crime scene photos. Technically a hit and run, it was the cruelest one I’d ever seen. Foot and tire prints showed that the driver had gotten out, checked on the victims, and then driven off without contacting 9-1-1.

Ryan’s phone rang. “We’ll be right there.” He ended the call. “She’s awake.”

***

In the hall, the neurologist was examining a CT scan. “Detectives, Ms. Star’s mother has cleared you to hear this information. Harmony suffered a traumatic brain injury in the crash. The full extent of the damage isn’t clear yet. We told her about her boyfriend a half-hour ago. She took it hard. Go easy when you interview her.”

Nodding, we stepped into her private room.

Her face was tear-streaked, but she greeted us with a grin. “Hi! I’m Harmony Star.”

Well, grief hits people differently. “I’m Detectives Alves. This is Detective O’Hanrahan.” We showed our badges. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

She scratched her bandaged forehead. “What loss?”

Ryan and I exchanged glances. “Nick… died.”

Her pupils dilated. “What?” Pounding the bed with her fists, she let out a wail that I knew would ring in my ears for years. “No!”

Dr. Young must’ve been hovering outside the door. “Nurse!” Hospital personnel shooed us outside.

***

Mrs. Robin Star arrived an hour later. The three of us watched as Dr. Young pointed out, on various scans, the injuries her daughter had suffered in the crash. “Preliminary tests show that Harmony’s short term memory processing has been severely damaged, possibly permanently. From what we’ve seen so far, she won’t be able to form memories that last much more than thirty minutes.”

“Does she remember the accident?” I asked.

Grim-faced, Robin Star added, “If she does, talk to her. It will hurt Harmony, but she’s always been passionate about justice.”

“The last thing she remembers was biking with Nick,” said the neurologist, frowning in thought. “Depending on when the police arrived, it’s possible Harmony did try to identify the driver. But that memory’s now gone, I’m afraid.”

***

“So we’re back to the prints—tire tracks from a brand thousands of vehicles use and shoeprints from a driver who wears a size sixteen.” My partner shrugged.

“A reverse Cinderella,” I agreed. “Evil, and with huge feet.”

“And what Harmony said at the scene.” Ryan leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

“Usually, I’ve got more to work with than one word—wait.” I sat up straighter. “What if it is more than one? What if she said”—I made air quotes—“Mister E?”

Ryan face-palmed. “Should’ve thought of that myself. When I walked a beat, some people called me ‘Officer O.’ She might’ve even tried to say the whole name but couldn’t finish. But why Mister? Why not his first name?”

I stood. “A former teacher, maybe? I’ll call Harmony’s mother.”

***

Mrs. Star answered her door eagerly, arms loaded with yearbooks. “Most of her teachers were women, but you can look through these.”

One fit—her ninth-grade algebra teacher. However, two calls cleared Todd Eaton, who’d been sitting on a sequestered jury all week. “Do you know any other men Harmony knows with a last name starting with E?” I asked. “Like a former boss?”

Mrs. Star shook her head.

Ryan leaned forward. “Or with huge feet?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “No—well, maybe. Once I was driving Harmony and her best friend home. They were giggling about Anna’s dad, calling him ‘Bigfoot’. I remember because my daughter almost never teased people. But Anna’s last name doesn’t start with E. It’s Reed.”

I squeezed the arm of her sofa. “Maybe Harmony was saying more of the driver’s name than we realized. Mister Reed instead of Mister E.”

Mrs. Star covered her mouth with her hand. “Last week Harmony told me that Anna was upset because her dad lost his driver’s license. He had another DUI.”

***

Ryan and I drove to the Reeds’ house two blocks away, a blue rancher. Its trim was white, and its garage door was closed. No car was in the driveway. When our suspect opened the door, my eyes dropped to his immense shoes.

“Yes, detectives?” he said, even though we hadn’t identified ourselves yet. Seems like someone has a guilty conscience. He shuffled his feet a little.

Our evidence was still on the thin side. I decided to play a hunch. “Harmony Star identified the driver that killed her boyfriend. Called him “Mystery—”

“I won’t waste your time.” He turned around, his hands behind his back.

I cuffed him. If you’d ‘wasted’ some time calling 9-1-1, Nick might’ve lived, and Harmony might have her memory. Instead, for the rest of her life she’ll wonder when she and the man she loves will go bicycling again.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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