From the Mind of the Dead

By Josiah Dyck

I haven’t killed anyone, I swear.

But everyone else thinks otherwise. Even my defense attorney isn’t sold. Now that I’m on the defendant stand, it feels like the whole world has turned on me.

“Blake Lawrence,” Judge McGrath booms, “you are on trial for the murder of your girlfriend, Lillian Torsten. How do you plead?”

No hesitation. “Innocent, Your Honor.”

A buzz rises from the crowd in the amphitheater. I groan. Had the whole of New Darglia paid for tickets to watch the proceedings? Why couldn’t trials be more like they were in the old days?

McGrath’s gavel cracks down. “Order! I will have order in my courtroom. Prosecutor Torsten, you may begin.”

I lock gazes with Alistair Torsten as he walks toward me. “Your Honor, Ms. Lillian was found dead near Mr. Lawrence’s construction jobsite. She died of asphyxiation at 11:47pm three days ago. Grease smudges located on her neck matched Mr. Lawrence’s discarded gloves in the nearby dumpster. His DNA was found inside the gloves, and he was the last person to speak with her. There’s no doubt that Mr. Lawrence murdered my daughter—” He pauses to collect himself. “—the victim, Your Honor.”

McGrath’s eyebrows lower, his face taut with stern intensity. “Well, defendant? What is your rebuttal?”

I glance over at my attorney, who shakes his head. He’ll be no help, which means I have one shot. It’s a desperate move, but I’m in dire circumstances.

I clear my throat. “I call upon Lillian’s memory bank as proof of my innocence.”

A dreadful hush falls on the courtroom. Alistair folds his arms and says nothing, expression unreadable.

“Mr. Lawrence,” McGrath says, “I will accommodate your request, but you must understand that memory banks are highly confidential, falling under the Privacy Law, Act Eleven, and intended solely for familial use. Should the contents within confirm your guilt, you shall be susceptible to high charges. Are you willing to accept that?”

I have no choice if I’m to remain free. It’s what Lillian would’ve wanted. “I accept, Your Honor.”

The bailiff retrieves the memory bank, the size of a single die, from a steel briefcase and places it on a table in the room’s center. I touch the back of my head, where my own cerebral drive had been implanted to record all of my memories.

The bailiff presses a button, and a giant holographic screen appears with a menu. Alistair takes over and selects the evening of her death. His fingers supply a password on the screen’s motion-sensitive keyboard.

The hologram changes to show me sitting across from Lillian at our favorite café. I shake my head. Seeing things from her perspective is kind of trippy, and a heavy sorrow drapes over me.

We chat for a while, but she keeps glancing around. The holographic image of myself raises an eyebrow. “What’s the matter? You seem distracted.”

“I can’t tell you. I’m being observed. Everything’s coming to a head tonight.”

I grab her hand. “You can tell me anything.”

“Not this time.” She jerks her hand away, but stares at me intently. “Please run, or someone else could uproot the other recollections.”

Both past and present me frown. “What’re you saying?”

“Read the article I wrote for the paper seven weeks ago. Everything will become clear.” She stands. “I have to go, and so do you.” With that, she leaves the café.

I never got a chance to read her article. One doesn’t exactly think of old news when in jail.

Her memory continues to play. She receives a vague text from a random number about “important information,” instructing her to meet at my jobsite at 11:45pm. When she arrives, the memory freezes, and another password screen appears.

“Hmm?” McGrath perks up. “Why did she lock this memory behind a second password? Do you know it too, Prosecutor Torsten?”

Alistair shakes his head. “I have no idea, Your Honor.” He swipes away a single bead of sweat.

I narrow my eyes at his reaction. This whole thing keeps getting stranger, and Lillian’s last sentences still don’t make sense to me. My attorney pipes up, “Your Honor, what article was she referring to?”

McGrath looks to the bailiff, who grabs his tablet and does some quick searching. He holds up his findings to the judge. A minute later, McGrath says, “This is about memory banks mysteriously disappearing from murder scenes. What does that have to do with anything?”

Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Lillian liked to encode her journalistic secrets, and she’d taught me some methods. Had she been trying to pass on a message through a cryptic sentence?

I run over the weirdest bit in my mind. “Please run, or someone else could uproot the other recollections.” Using a word like “recollections”—a synonym for memories—feels out of place. “Uproot” means to pull out… Was she referring to the so-called memory thief?

I pondered the sentence again. What code had she used? Nothing works out. Did I just blow my last chance at freedom?

Then it hits me: the first letter of every word.

They spell out “prosecutor.”

I slowly turn to Alistair. Does he know something about Lillian’s death? The stolen memory banks?

Or both?

I clear my throat. “Your Honor, try ‘prosecutor’ as the password.”

Alistair slides cold eyes in my direction. McGrath folds his arms. “That seems a little bizarre, but the court shall honor your request.”

The bailiff types in the password. A loading symbol materializes.

Not a soul breathes. I clasp the edge of my stand. Don’t fail me now, Lillian. You left a clue to remind us of the truth: I was your lover, not your killer.

The memory unlocks and resumes. Out of the shadows charges a familiar figure, one that squeezes Lillian’s neck with gloved hands.

A collective gasp rings through the courtroom. I whirl upon the perpetrator and point. Fury laces my very being as I yell four words that change everything:

“It was you, Alistair!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Josiah Dyck is a lover and writer of all things speculative fiction, particularly YA fantasy. His current project is a trilogy of trilogies, which collectively form Chapters of Kythe. When not writing, he’s immersing himself in video game worlds, listening to soundtracks, hanging out with friends and family, collecting LEGO, watching YouTube, and going for walks. He strives to share the love and hope of Jesus through all he does. 

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