Triangle Nightmare

Triangle Murder
By Multiman

Peter Truman was dead, and that was all I needed to go tooth and nail after the bastard that killed him. Peter was my twin brother, and I loved him. Something inside of me broke like a twig when I realized what actually happened.
         The body was never found.
         I remember sitting on the beach – on vacation. Peter and I decided to take ours at the same time. As single young bachelors, we mooned our jobs – mine as a homicide detective, and his as a cook - for a peaceful week in Hawaii, or, at least we thought it would be peaceful. That was, until the pirates showed up.
         I seriously wish I could remember more of what happened. That amnesia hit me like a truck. I remember lying back on the beach, and I think I saw Peter scratch his beard, lecturing me about how not to complain about my life. I can still hear his voice.
         “Now, Billy, just be glad you have a job. If dad didn’t beat you, you’d still be that same little wimpy kid. But look at you! You’re a homicide detective!”
         Peter was my substitute father.
         But that doesn’t mean he had to lock me in my room, I said. He could’ve at least let me get out and socialize a bit.
         I was on vacation.
         The next thing I remember after a long and hot nap on the beach was seeing, or maybe even being on, some sort of little ship. It certainly wasn’t a freighter or anything commercial, but it was more like some sort of recreational boat full of people with guns of a sort. After that picture, the next thing I remember is swimming back to shore. All I had was my swimsuit, bruises and cuts all over, and electric blood as I hauled it back to shore, panting, gasping.
         The body was never found.
         Another flash of unconscious.
         I remember lying on the soggy sand, barfing water out, only to land right back in my face and nose. Suddenly, I jolted upward as the man doing CPR shoved my chest into the earth one final time as my last bit of seawater sloshed out of my mouth.
         This part I remember clearly.
         Two paramedics in white hovered around me feeling me all over while the cop with them radioed something in his walkie-talkie.
         Now that was a plan ride home. The only thing I could focus on was that blurry feeling of denial after having lost something special to you. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t even put my damn bag in the overhead compartment. I just sat. Lifeless. I couldn’t cry. My father disabled me from that.
         I grabbed and lunged my tiny suitcase off the churning baggage claim conveyor and flipped around.
         I can't remember what was in that huge back or why I brought so much stuff in the first place, but I didn't care. I didn't care about anything, really. I went from feeling like the richest man on the planet to feeling like a beggar in the span of one day, and I didn’t even lose any money if you don’t count the food I bought in Hawaii.
         I jingled my thousand keys and opened my little black coupe, my last friend left. Slamming the door behind me, I peered into the rear view mirror expecting nothing but horror. Of course, I was right. I rubbed my black eye down to the fresh scruff on my face and paused. I felt like one of those meat patties that run through grinders, only to be squashed back together again – hamburger meat. Nobody was here. Nobody cared where I was. I simply existed. I existed so much that I didn’t exist at all. How do you handle something like that?
         The bump into the downward slope into parking garage shook my car and bruised body making me cringe.
         Second floor. Noisy neighbors on one side and a couple making love on the other side. The wooden door to my crappy apartment flung open to the impact of my leather shoe. I frowned as I saw my dreary, dim apartment. There was that rotting piss smell, impossible to find in my range of energy. The tightly laced carpet ripped and hung out in various places, and the space made me feel like I was constantly in Japan, especially coming from the open shores of Hawaii.
         The door only came close to closing after I languidly flicked it back. I tossed me keys somewhere away where my dog probably chewed on them and plopped on the couch. Could I nap? No! Fury and exhaustion collided like ying and yang to get me only to a sitting position upon the nasty brittle cushions of my couch. I sat there, and I sat there. Did I mention that I sat? Nothing. Nothing existed, not even me. Everything was void.
         I was on vacation.
         I stared out the shaded window into the building across the street, trying to visualize everything else in my one-bedroom apartment. Did it matter? What if I simply slipped out of existence. Who would notice? I had no girl. No friends, other than some beer-guzzling detectives as drinking buddies. I only had a dying mother with terminal cancer. My dog could even jump out the window and fall into the hands of some rich guy. I couldn’t even remember the past times I’ve had with peter. All I knew was that I loved him. I loved him very much.
         My phone rang as loud as a ship horn and buzzed on the coffee table. I channeled into my substitute for a life.
         Hello?
         “Detective Truman, I know you’re still on vacation time and recovery, but we’ve just received something in the mail from you. Something… disturbing. I think you may want to check this out ASAP.”
         What is it?
         “It’s a letter from your brother’s killer.”
         I hung up the phone without an answer and zipped to my Camry, leaving my door wide open.
         Peter was my substitute father.
         At the station, everyone, even the janitor, stared me down as I marched to the chief’s office. I didn’t even knock but practically tripped in. The chief stopped massaging his moustache and stared into my soul. The two blockheads of detectives looked behind at me and promptly left the room without any questions. They knew what was up.
         I stared back at the chief with tight lips, when the magnetic door clacked shut, startling the crap out of me.
         Everything was an annoyance.
         “Have a seat.” The chief gestured to a scratchy padded chair in front of his. He put on his glasses and then gradually slid a small envelope across the desk to me with his fingertips.
         I ruined the suspense and devoured the envelope with my hand, yanking the letter out and tossing the envelope to the side with my fingers. It spun away onto the floor. My eyes wanted to scan through it, as if I was searching for a single, lifesaving word, but my brain knew otherwise. I locked my eyes on the first couple of smeared penned words.
 
Detective Truman…
         My name is Travis Cutler. You may not remember me, but I remember you. I remember you too well. Your investigation put me in prison for life, but I escaped after five. Even five years felt like life, and it ruined my real life. Therefore, I ruined yours. I not only killed your brother. I killed him slowly. You were able to escape my boat, but if you don’t sleep with one eye open, I will get you sooner if that is what you wish. Don’t bother looking me up. Don’t bother doing another devilish investigation. You will never find me, I promise. I will find you. The only answer for you is within you – by accepting your fate of death.
 
         I slammed my thumbs onto the desk with the paper under them.
         “I’m putting you over protection, Will.”
         No! I shouted as I stood up instantly. Get me records, get me files, even family members!
         “Detective, do you realize how many people have the name, Travis Cutler?
         I shook around in frustration for a second.
         “Your medical eval said you’re not fit for duty yet.”
         Chief, you gotta let me use my skills. I will find him! I growled, storming out of the room.
         My partner grabbed my arm on my way to the exit, which flipped me around.
         “They found the boat.”
         That was all I needed.
         Another sleepless flight to Hawaii.
         I flipped on my flashlight on a certain bunk bed. A bunch of cops behind me were scouring the area for fingerprints. Everyone had left the ship, only leaving some guns and old crappy, useless supplies and trash lying around.
         I crouched down to examine some dust on the floor, stroking my chin. Memories of this place started to return. I saw a foggy memory of a guy who looked strangely familiar, almost ghostly familiar, as if he were a relative or something, probably Travis Cutler. I remember struggling and slugging with him and some other guys before some glass shattered in front of me. Suddenly, he and the scene disappeared from my memory
         Why would Travis Cutler attack me and then send me a letter telling me who he is? Didn’t he tell me already? Didn’t he want me to know who my own killer was?
         “Hey I found something!” Hollered an investigator in a white lab coat-looking uniform. “It’s his wallet! It slipped behind a bunk!”
         I jumped up to my feet and ran back to him, swiping it from his hands before any other scourers could get their hands on it. I flipped Peter’s wallet open, and nothing was taken except for the cash. His license picture stared right into me. My partner huddled in.
         “He looks exactly like you. I mean, that’s you with a goatee? What is this?”
         I rolled my eyes and laughed through my nose.
         He’s my twin. I explained. I thought we went over this.
         My partner shrugged.
         I want this examined for fingerprints, every inch and thread. I said, flailing it around the guy’s face that found it.
         Back at the station, my partner stopped me from levering some coffee into my cup, grabbing my arm right on a cut.
         What are you doing?
         “You have enough nerves right now, buddy.”
         I knew he was right.
         I dropped the paper cup on the floor and closed my eyes for a second and then blinked a few times, not even looking at him. I walked back to my desk and adjusted my butt on my wheely chair. I rubbed my black eye and felt the scabs on my face. Suddenly, another cop slapped me on the shoulder with some papers. I turned my head so that he was only in my peripheral vision.
         “CSI swept the place clean. They didn’t find prints with the name, Travis Cutler. Just some thugs. But yours were all over the place, even the wallet and the five-dollar bill next to it. The blood around only matched yours and thugs. We couldn’t find traces of Peter anywhere. We even-“
         Wait, what do you mean no traces?
         “We couldn’t find any prints of his on anything, not even on his wallet.”
         This is BS, I was right there with him!
         We drew some attention from people nearby, and the detective looked around and whispered,
         “Look, I don’t know if you’re being framed or what’s even going on here, but this is coming back to you somehow.”
         You’re full of crap!
         Everyone stared at us. I stood up, flinging my chair over with my legs.
         "I was right there with him! Now somebody please get me all the names of any relatives of Peters and mine with the name Travis Cutler, dammit! Let’s get this done!"
 
         I have to admit, we had so little to search with that our investigation made Yellow Pages look like an encyclopedia. We found all the nearest people named Travis Cutler with records and pinpointed the felon in my district who best matched. My boys brought him in, and he sat in the bright, white interrogation room, fiddling his laced fingers nervously on the table. He wore a mane of dark hair on his face, a ponytail, and a denim jacket. He smelled of BO, old beer, and sweat from the bar fight that he looked like he had just finished.
         I studied him through the one-way window before shoving the door open.
         "Hello, Travis." I greeted with no enthusiasm.
         He studied my intensely for a moment.
         “Hey you're the shipwreck guy.”
         That’s right. And if you’re here for the right reason, you should also remember my twin brother, Peter.
         “Oh yeah.”
         Yeah well you should remember him because you killed him. I said, sitting down across from him.
         “What?!”
         Where were you on the 5th?
         “I was home! You remember my wife and kids. Call them!”
         "Oh, I will."
         I slid the killer letter across the desk to him, and he stared at me for a moment before picking it up and reading it. His expression changed into disgusted surprise as his eyes shifted through the characters.
         He shook his head lightly, looking at me with the same expression as he did with the letter.
         “This letter says you arrested me. Check my record. I’ve got nothing like that.”
         Technology. It’s easy to clean that out. I folded my arms and sat back in my chair. But you’re evading the question. What could you have possibly had on my brother?
         “Wh-? Nothing! You know that!”
         I’m going to check your alibi. I said, getting out of my chair. I spun it around with a screeching sound as the legs slid upon the floor. I puffed out my chest and walked out like a boss.
         How’s his alibi? I asked the guys with the computers on the other side of the glass.
         “We just called his work. He’s clean.”
         I shook my head in frustration a little bit as if I knew better.
         Let him go then, I guess.
         I couldn’t sleep that night despite my best efforts. I felt like exerted more energy and sweat trying to sleep than I did the rest of the day.
         I couldn’t reminisce over pictures and physical memories of Peter and I; I could only remember the bits and pieces from the past, which slowly came back to me. The rest of the pictures and stuff were with Mom. Wait a minute. Mom.
I thought about the time zone distance between Detroit and LA. Two hours? Three hours? I gave up. I didn’t care. Thus I punched in her number in my cell.
         “William?”
         Hey mom. I assume you’ve heard the news about Peter.
         “Yes…”
         A pause struck.
         “They’re saying you’re a suspect.”
         Mom you know that’s not true. I didn’t… kill him.
         “I… I know.”
         I gulped.
         What were we like as kids, Mom? Tell me more about him.
         She started to get choked up.
         “He was a good man. He got you through a lot of heartache.” She answered. “Goodnight, Will.”
 
         Sleep that night was rough. My dreams were haunted by a blurry entanglement of Travis, Peter, and me in some sort of trippy, colorful mass. This was all I could think about. I didn’t even have a nightlife anymore. It was as if I were literally buckled to the problem through my bed.
         The next day at work, I was working on this dead-end case when I reached for my phone in my briefcase, but all I grabbed was air. My briefcase was gone. I slammed my hand down on the spot on my desk where it was supposed to be.
         As soon as I stood up, my partner held it up to my face with a skeptical face.
         “You looking for this?”
         Yeah, what are you doing with it?
         “You dropped it in the hall, and I found these inside.” He said, holding up a couple of plane tickets.
         What the-? I muttered. The name printed on the tickets was none other than Travis Cutler.
         I looked up at my partner innocently, but he looked back at me like a parent about to chastise a child.
         “Is there somethin’ you wanna tell me, Will?”
         Mike, I have no idea how these got here!”
         He leaned in closely and looked around us.
         “Look, I know something’s up, okay? Look at you. You’re barely awake, you haven’t shaved in days, you don’t eat. I’m your partner. You can tell me things.”
         I looked at him appalled.
         Check the fingerprints! Everything! I’m being framed! I hollered in a way that the whole room could hear. I got up and marched down to the lab with the tickets.
         My prints?! What do you mean only my prints on the ticket?!
         “Well, other than your partner’s and mine, it’s just you.”
         What? This is insane! You’ve got to have something on that.
         “Well…”
         Well what?
         “Your fingerprints are on the tickets, but they're not on the boat... at all, in fact.”
         I couldn't even make words to tell him how stupid that notion was, so I just stood there.
         “By the way, there’s an address on the back.” He informed.
         I grabbed the tickets again and anxiously examined the printed characters, clearly written in pen. I just walked out and chugged down the stairs to the parking garage. Something was fishy here, and I was ready to go to this place and find out. I watched the shady-looking characters on the sides of the street harder than I ever had as a cop. I see how John Nash felt in A Beautiful Mind. I was paranoid of anyone who could’ve had a hand in this. My phone buzzed in my pocket, which startled me a bit.
         Hello? I muttered.
         Will, this is the chief. Now, we can get through this, but I’m going to have to have you come back and ask you a few questions.
         Sir, I had no part in-
         “That’s an order, detective.”
         I hung up. My blood boiled hotter, and a bead of sweat rolled past my ear. Then I peeked down at the address in my lap. No one frames me and gets away with it.
         There it was – right in an alleyway, a nice dark slot in the buildings. I cocked my gun and put it in my leather jacket. I took a deep breath and started toward the alley with fists clenched, ready to sock any suspicious man. When I came to about 10 feet in, a shadowy figure came toward me with a halting hand. He held a gun at his side, and I rose my hands, looking at him as though I was going to punch him. Once he saw me in the light, he looked back and nodded his head at the darkness. Then, two more dirtbags in beanies came to the guy’s side.
         “Mister, cutler. Here is the order you requested.” Said the man in front in a smoker’s tone.
         Order? I asked. Cutler?
         Sirens blared and blasted their whistle right behind me, interrupting us. The three wierdos darted back into the darkness, and, to my surprise even this very day, I did too. Was I stupid? Was I guilty? No.
         I sprinted so hard, I felt like I was in basic training all over again. I jumped over knocked over trash cans, cats, and all sorts of junk as some cops pursued me probably 100 feet back. I came to the street, and a cab screeched and swerved when I ended up into the street. I straightened myself out and zoomed down the sidewalk. I got so far to the edge of the city that I saw a Super 8 motel. I lost them. It was pitch black in the sky, and I could actually see some stars, unlike in the city. Yet, the sky meant nothing now.
         I lost them. Now I was standing in front of the pulpy wooden desk of the motel attendant, looking like hell. The attendant looked at me appropriately in my condition.
         “Just one?” She said, Latino style.
         I nodded my head, still panting. The hallway down to my room was exceptionally quiet. It was a ghostly quite, as if it were a calm before the storm. Or perhaps it was simply my nerves. I couldn’t figure anything out. I even forgot that I was still holding the orange envelope that that guy gave me in my left, shaking hand.
         Zip, I opened my door, and it slammed behind me. I shoved the bathroom door open and splashed water all over my face and hair and tugged on it, making it straighten out. I felt the droplets roll down my chest down my jacket and soak into my white undershirt. I stared at myself, feeling a pounding fog go through my eyes and brain. My nightmares and memories started coming back to me in puzzle form, like some acid trip. I almost fell over before sitting on the foot of my bed. After a long sigh, I grabbed the enveloped I dropped on the floor. After tearing off the top of it and flicking it away, I saw the last thing I needed or wanted to see: A passport. Flipping through the pages, my heart suddenly paused. Wait a minute, what was on the first page? It was my picture and the name, Travis Cutler. I dropped the passport. Drool fell from my mouth before I straightened my head and looked around me in puzzled defeat. Silence thickened, heartbeats thumped harder, and, to my amazement, warped-looking cloud thing started whirling around in the mirror across from me and a little to the left. Maybe this was an acid trip. Hopefully.
         What the? I fell backward on my bed, propping myself up with one arm. It was Peter.
         “Hello, Billy.”
         Speechless. He was good as new – just as I remember him.
         He started pacing around the room.
         It’s about time I told you. He said. You are me, and I am you.
         I tried to flip through my vocabulary: You’re a ghost, you’re insane. None of it seemed to fit.
         Peter sighed.
         “We are one, William..”
         "What the hell are you talking about?" I finally spoke up.
         “You needed me ever since you were a little kid. You were a lonely little shit, and you relied on me to distract you from Dad and block him out of your memory. That's why you're so good at forgetting! You can't even remember the bastard's name! Take a wild guess."
         At any second I could've seen unicorns flying around and been totally unfazed.
         "It starts with a 'T,'" He gestured the letter using his thumb in sign language.
         Travis Cutler. I lost consciousness.
         I was on vacation.
         When I finally woke up, I dialed my mom, sweating and breathing like a maniac. Peter had vanished.
         “Will?”
         Mom… Was Peter real? … No response.
         Mom?!
         “He was very real to you. He was your best friend, and you needed him.”
         I started hyperventilating.
         He wasn’t real?!
         “Will, Peter was important, but you don’t need him anymore.”
         Suddenly, my memories popped back like a load of pus spewing from a zit that’s been sitting for much too long. I had taken the time to legally register myself as Peter Truman. I know what you’re thinking, and stop right there because I don’t know how either, but I have the docs to prove it.
         Like a narrator, my mind read out the whole summary of whatever the hell you want to call my whole life.
         I am Peter Truman. I am Travis Cutler. I am two things I hate about myself. I am two dead people – one was a schmuck, and one was fake. Where is William – Billy - Truman? Who is Billy Truman? Do I even bother? Or should I just blow my corrupted brains out and wake up room 209 next to me?
         I unknowingly fidgeted with the clip of my pistol until I glanced at my reflection in one of the shiny brass bullets. It wasn’t Peter. It wasn’t my dad. It was someone who’s face I’ve always ignored until then. There he was.
         Hello, William. It’s finally time.
         Peter was my substitute father.
         I was on vacation.