Chapter 18: Maybes and If-Onlys

I dream I'm in the courtroom. Maria is there, but she's only a reflection in the blade of a giant knife. And in the background, men are ignited by an orbital strike turning a desert into an ocean of glass.

Hours have passed by the time I wake up. Much longer than I meant to rest. And another hour passes by the time I shower, dress, and take a cab into East Amber, back to the factory where Nathan was found.

I'm here, but my mind is stuck in that other case from long ago. Stuck in that same old spiral of thoughts. If only I'd come home that night when I said I would, maybe I'd have gotten there in time. Maybe I could have saved her.

And later, maybe if I'd listened to my gut-ignored the advice of counsel and set out after the killer in a manhunt of my own-I could have caught him myself, instead of sitting on trial for weeks, watching as my life was torn apart, my good name dragged through the mud. Watching as I became a scapegoat for both the public's disillusionment with law enforcement and the DA's outrage over unrest in Amber City.

As the cab leaves me standing on 105th Street, I rub my eyes, trying to push the thoughts away. The maybes and if-onlys will drive you crazy if you let them.

I was not found guilty, but I was not found not-guilty, either. Some legal technicality resulted in a mistrial, and rather than attempting to re-try me, the city dropped the charges. It was the right decision. There was no evidence against me, only opportunity and the age-old "jealous husband type" motive, which was shaky at best. The DA had seen what a slog it would be to get a conviction, and he was up for re-election that year. Another trial would have cost the city hundreds of thousands of credits and been a black mark on his record without a conviction, compared to the small smudge of letting me walk on a technicality. To the public who didn't know any better, the whole thing reeked of corruption.

Headline: CHARGES DROPPED AGAINST WIFE-KILLER COP JACK ‘THE KNIFE' TARELLI, THE ‘SIX-SHOOTER KILLER' - AMBER CITY POLICE ABOVE THE LAW?

No one else was ever tried in the murder of Maria Tarelli. The DA was replaced the following election year anyway, and the case remains unsolved to this day. But I know what happened. I was cracking down hard on the Blue Wreath at the time. I was putting their operatives behind bars left and right. I gained a reputation. Became a target. So they struck back. Sent a message.

Why couldn't they have just killed me? Why'd it have to be her?

I know the answer, of course... Because why kill a man when you can destroy him?

Since the charges against me had been dropped, I still technically had a job with the Amber PD if I wanted it. I didn't. I retired. I sold our house, got a little place out in Savage Knoll, and tried to lay low for a while. Kept to myself. Did a lot of thinking and a lot more drinking until the money ran out, then started taking private work.

For years after Maria died, I couldn't read a single news article without drawing a hundred and one connections to her murder. Even after I moved back to Amber City, I couldn't take homicide cases. I kept seeing ghosts. Every killer was the Six-Shooter Killer, and I'd jump right back to trying to solve Maria's murder. Hell, I still am. I could have gone anywhere in the star system-why else would I return to Amber City?

Because this is where I have to be to catch the bastard... If he's still out there somewhere.

Th factory on 105th is locked down tight, now, but it's nothing the correct tools can't overcome. Letting the locks and chains fall beside the door with my bolt cutters, I step in, turn on my flashlight, and shut the door behind me.

All I can see is what falls within the cone of my flashlight's influence. The factory looks the same as it did the last time I was here-except this time, no cops and no lights. It's black as deep space, and the darkness is made all the worse by the rainwater leaking everywhere, echoes amplified within its cavernous confines. You couldn't see somebody if he was an arm's length away, and you wouldn't hear his approach, either.

Picking my way back to the rear of the factory, following the trail from memory, I find it.

Retractable, folding fencing has been erected in a pentagon around the scene of the crime. The crisscrossing sections of the fence cast shadows of skewed longitudes and latitudes on the far walls, shifting with every movement of my flashlight. I stop for a moment and scan my surroundings to be sure I'm alone. No monsters in here but me.

I turn my attention to the giant, rusty pallets behind the crime scene, stacked up by the killer, apparently, to hide Nathan Harland's body and moved aside by the police. These things are huge, industrial-grade pallets designed for transporting and storing starship components. Each is ten feet long by ten feet wide, made of a synthetic superalloy, and each probably weighs well over 600 pounds. They're stacked one on top of another, creating six-foot-high walls and a sort of alleyway between them. I raise my flashlight and venture between the stacks, feeling like a rat in a maze.

I pause partway down the alley. I swear I heard something other than rainwater just now-straight ahead of me, at the back of the pallets.