Diminished

When I awoke again, my mind was clearer. I looked at my left side and saw a lump rising from beneath my hospital gown. I removed it and was met with the sight of my shoulder dressed in bandages. I touched it with my other hand and felt a jolt of pain. I remembered the voice from before.

“h… Hello?” I croaked. “I… I’m-”

Beep… beep… beep… beep…

The door to the hospital room opened, and in walked a heavy-set man in his mid fifties. He had patchy white facial hair he was neglecting. He wore an old sport coat and huge gray pants held up by suspenders.

“You’re, uh…” he started, scratching the back of his balding head, “you’re probably wondering what’s going on. I’ll cut to the chase. You were shot. And, well, you hit your head pretty bad too. I don’t know the extent of it.”

His statement made my shoulder flare. Shot… a bullet wound. I thought of the bullet which must have been lodged in my arm. The shattering glass came back to my mind. I was in…

“I was shot through an apartment window, right?”

The man was confused. “Yes, you were.” He shook his head. “You wouldn’t happen to know why, or by who, now would you?”

I knew. The factory. The voice on the phone. There was only one possibility. I’d been hiding from the fact that I’d become a loose end. My usefulness as a pawn must have expired.

“I’m sorry,” I started, “In all honesty I think I’m just a little out of it. Who are you?”

“Oh, shit. Sorry about that. My name’s Colby Myers. I’m a detective,” he said, fumbling in a pocket for his badge. “I’ve been assigned to this case, and was hoping you could help me.”

“Alright. Could you catch me up to speed? If you’re allowed to, I mean. Maybe it’ll jog my memory faster than if I were to sit here trying to remember.”

He coughed, clearing his throat. “Sure. Well, to start with, your neighbor is fine. That woman whose room you were in, I mean. She wanted me to tell her when you were awake again so she could visit,” he said.. He removed a notepad from his pant pocket. “Let’s see here,” he muttered as he flipped through pages, “We don’t know much, to tell you the truth. It was a serious rifle, first and foremost. .308 Winchester round, the kind you normally see in military use. When you account for the fact that it’s tough to source that kind of firepower in the city, it makes me wonder what kind of enemy you’ve made.”

“The wrong kind, probably.”

He raised his eyebrows and shook his head as he continued to flip pages. “I’d have to agree with you. Shit, and since the bullet just barely passed through you, we couldn’t find a firing angle. That shot could have come from any of the several buildings across the street.”

“So you guys have nothing?”

“Well… not quite nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I did some digging. You know, it’s not like whoever did this is just gonna walk around with a sniper rifle. That’s a fast way to get caught. Of course, it’s possible they stashed it away somewhere weeks ago, but that possibility isn’t really worth investigating, since I’d have to comb through all the security camera footage from the last month, compile lists… it’s a lot of work for nothing.”

“Alright. Did you find anything?”

“I was…” he sighed. “I was getting to that.” He scratched the back of his head again. “Thing is, when you can rule out all the other options, scrubbing through footage from just the day in question can be a reasonable ask. So that’s what I did. And I came up with a list.”

He flipped a few pages in his notebook and handed it to me. The page was an itemized list. ‘Silver briefcase, young woman;’ ‘Vintage guitar case, skinny young man;’ ‘Large camping pack, middle aged man.’ The list had at least twenty entries, by my estimation.

“And this is…” I started.

“Everyone who walked down the sidewalk the day you were shot. Or at least, everyone who was carrying something that could have held a rifle.”

“I see. Do you have their pictures? Maybe I could try and identify…”

“I do. But I won’t be able to clear them to show you for a few days. Thing is, I’d like to get this moving now. When something like this happens, the shooters normally don’t make it a habit to stick around. So time is of the essence.”

I thought about the last few days. The last few weeks. Ideas, faces, memories. Someone shot me. Not a random shooting in the street. A planned attempt on my life. An assassination. I took one more long look at the list. Then I handed it back to the man.

“So, any ideas?”

I pretended to think. “No, I’m sorry. Once you have the images, send them my way. Maybe I can help you narrow it down.”

“Alrighty then,” the detective said, “well, I appreciate your time and all. I’ll have a man stationed here for the next couple days, and if you’d like we can get someone in your building for a bit, just to make sure you’re safe.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, “but I think I’ll be alright.” I found myself chuckling. “But until you’ve caught the guy, I’ll do my best to stay away from windows.”

Myers smiled nervously. Then he nodded. “I’ll get to it then.” He turned back suddenly. “Ah, and if you remember anything, here’s my card,” he said as he set it on my bedside table. I took a look at it. The card was faded and coffee stained. “And, uh, take it easy, with the head injury and everything. Maybe a screw got knocked loose or something,” he said, chuckling. Then, his face snapped back to somber. He faked a cough. “Probably not something to joke about.” He walked to the door and smiled sheepishly.

I tried to smile back. As soon as the man left, I felt a wave of fatigue. I looked at the tube in my arm. It led to a bag of something that was methodically dripping away. Whatever it was would fall into the tube and enter my bloodstream shortly thereafter. It was asking me to get some sleep. Or maybe it was my body asking. I obliged.