An Evening with Ms. Terry

          The city screams its usual nightly symphony; cars honk, people yell, and sirens blare. A man and a woman duck into a rather rundown building. He has a cigar in his mouth, and she’s drenched from the rain. His jacket is draped around her shoulders, and her purse hangs under it. She walks behind him while he scouts the hallway searching for an open door. She tries a handle, discovers it’s unlocked, and walks in. He follows suit.

          They enter into a small dingy studio apartment, clearly abandoned, but any squatters had at least left any trash in a pile. The only furniture is a stained mattress on the floor and two chairs facing a fireplace. She picks up an old newspaper from the trash pile and tosses it into the fireplace and starts surrounding it with a small couple pieces of scrap wood, seemingly from what was once a third chair. She reaches up to the mantle and finds a box of matches, strikes one, and throws it in. The newspaper quickly catches and soon the chair leg follows, making for a small but cozy fire. They take a moment to warm up, her huddling by the small flames and him puffing on his cigar.

          “Ms. Terry, what is it that you think happened to you?” the man asks, flicking the last of his cigar into flame.

“Is that my name? You know me?” She’s still looking down, talking to the floor instead of him. He hates when people do that, victims or not.

          “No, apologies. Until we can ascertain your true identity, that’s your nom de guerre. You can call me Mr. Dommery.”

“Oh. I see. Can we go somewhere warmer maybe? Like a police station? I can give you my statement there as well.”

          “This bivouac will be perfectly fine for now, Ms. Terry. Best to stay near the scene of the crime, in case.”

          “In case? In case of what?”

          “In case the perpetrator is still nearby. I may need to detain them if your story gives me any clues as to their whereabouts. Now, from the top for me, please.” Mr. Dommery, still standing, has begun to pace in thought.

          “Are you a detective or somethin’ like that?”

          “Something like that.”

“I told you, I don’t remember much. He hit me pretty hard.” She gestures towards the back of her head where a large bump has begun to form.

          “Yes, so I see. Nonetheless, tell me what you can remember.”

          “It was just me and my husband—"

          “Your husband?”

          “Yes. Yeah! He was my husband. I remember that now. We was walkin’, God only knows why we were in this part of town, and I hear a gunshot. He fell down, and I turned to see a man in a mask. Then he just knocked me out. Hit me real hard with the bottom of his gun.”

“But left your purse?” Mr. Dommery asks, gesturing towards her shoulder.

          “Oh, I suppose so.” She unzips its top and rifles through. “But no wallet.”

“Yes, no wallet on him either. A shame really. And what did you see when you came to, Ms. Terry?”

          “You, I s’pose. Then you walked us here. And here we are.”

          “You mean when you walked us here.”

          “No, you brought us here. I was following you,” she says, confusion in her voice.

          “I brought us to the nearest building with a door that wasn’t boarded up for safety. You found the room.”

          “I just tried the handle. Got lucky. What’re you tryin’ to say, Mr. Dommery?” she asks, finally turning to him instead of the floor.

          “Ms. Terry, do you need medical attention?”

          “I’m not sure. Maybe we should go to a hospital.”

          “He sure did a number on you. Must have had long arms too.”

          “Long arms?”

          “Well, your injury is on the back of your head. But you turned to face him, no?” Mr. Dommery stops his pacing to turn and face her.

          “Maybe. I’m not sure, it all happened so fast. Like I said, he hit me real hard. I don’t remember much.”

“You remembered his mask, though, correct?ß Not only that, but you also remembered where those matches were on the mantle. You seem to remember a lot about faces you haven’t seen and places you haven’t been, Ms. Terry.”

          “Who are you?” she asks, dropping the helplessness in her voice.

          “I’m Mr. Dommery, Ms. Terry, and I’m afraid I must ask you to please dump the contents of your purse onto the floor.”

          Without breaking eye contact, she unzips her purse, turns it upside down, and two wallets fall out onto her lap.

          “As I suspected!”

          And then a gun.

          “Oh. I always do forget something.”

          She picks up the revolver, aims it at Mr. Dommery. “It seems you and I are going to have to go on a little walk, Mr. Dommery.”

          “Yes, I’m afraid we are.”