Forget the Past

Chapter 1

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Patricia Bellows, the owner of the psychiatric hospital who worked as a psychiatrist as well, was reviewing her case notes. She had signaled the nurse to send in the next patient. The doctor skipped to the last paragraph, which read: Anya Horvat has difficulty with men. Though she is thirty-five years old, she does not sustain a relationship with a man for more than two months.

After two knocks on the door, Anya Horvat entered the office and took her usual seat.

The journalist wore a light-gray business suit that highlighted her large azure eyes. Her center-parted hair reminded Patricia of the color of cognac. Anya tucked her hair behind her ears, a habit of hers which had been previously noted by the doctor.

Hello, Anya. How are you feeling today?

Anya returned her greeting with a broad smile. Pretty good, she said.

Patricia clicked the mouse to record. She recorded all her sessions on compact discs so she could listen to them again later if necessary.

I suggest we begin where we left off last time. We were speaking of love, weren’t we? You were saying that love meant a lot to you and that you want someone to love you.

Yes, that’s true.

And yet you hadn’t yet found a man you’ve really liked?

No.

And you also told me that appearances don’t mean much to you. That, until now, you had mostly fallen in love with average-looking men.

Also true.

So I suggest that today we talk about sexuality. She rapped her pen against her notebook and looked her patient straight in the eyes.

What? Why should we talk about sexuality?

Anya had turned red and Patricia mentally noted that. You don’t want to talk about sexuality? It bothers you?

Anya sharply shook her head and answered, No, no. Not at all, though I don’t know what sex has to do with relationships.

That depends. Sex is important for some people. For other it means little. What does it mean to you?

For me, it is the least important thing in the world.

Clearly, I hit the bull’s eye, the psychiatrist thought. She looked at her patient for a few moments, and then resumed the questioning. What about women? I’d like you to speak honestly with me. Have you ever caught yourself looking at a beautiful woman?

If you’re asking if I am a lesbian, the answer is no. Women do not attract me at all.

Are you sure? You wouldn’t believe the number of latent homosexuals who have come to me, and I’ve helped all of them. There is nothing worse than struggling against yourself, living the life others want of you. People are defeated by such a life, sooner or later.

Now Anya’s lips opened into a smile. "I am not a lesbian, believe me. I also have no prejudices against homosexuality. If it were only that simple. … I would simply start a relationship with a woman and wouldn’t be tormented by men anymore. But women don’t attract me at all, not even subconsciously."

Fine. We’ve cleared that up. You said, so you wouldn’t be tormented by men anymore. So your relationships with men are a sort of torment.

Anya’s smile disappeared. I didn’t mean that. It’s nice for me occasionally.

But it’s also a torment for you sometimes, Patricia persisted.

Yes, I suppose that it’s sometimes been a torment for me.

And what has troubled you?

It’s difficult to say. It’s happened that a man’s touch has upset me. I don’t like to be touched by a man if I’m not ready.

So you’re allergic to a man’s touch?

Allergic? That’s a strong word. It bothers me if I’m not ready.

I understand. I’ve felt the same way. Sometimes men can be irritating. Patricia leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees. I’ll ask you something else. Do men physically attract you?

Yes, I like to look at them.

Let’s imagine you’re at home. You see a man’s naked body in a magazine. Do you take your time and really look at it?

It depends, she answered quickly. If the man is completely naked, I’m not interested. If he’s wearing a pair of tight jeans and is shirtless, then I like to look. I really like that.

I hit the bull’s eye again, Patricia thought. So men’s sexual organs don’t attract you?

Anya gasped, surprised by the directness of the doctor’s questions. No, I’m really not interested in that. Should I be?

Patricia shrugged her shoulders. Some women are not particularly attracted to men’s sexual organs. I’m not all that attracted to them.

Anya let out a sigh of relief. Other things seem much more important.

To me too, Patricia agreed. She got up from her armchair and stepped toward a cupboard with a built-in refrigerator. I’m thirsty. Would you like a cool drink?

Orangeade, if you have it.

Patricia continued speaking while she looked for a glass. I’d like to ask you a few more questions regarding your sexuality. I’d like to know how many times you make love to a man when you are in a relationship with him.

Anya’s face crumpled. Do we really have to talk about these things? I’ve already told you I don’t think it’s that important.

To tell the truth, it’s not that important to me either. The problem is that for most men, sex is extremely important.

Anya burst out angrily, I don’t even know if I’d like to be with such a man.

Try to calm down, Anya. First, we need to clear up what you don’t like about sex. Apparently, something bothers you. Would you say that you are relaxed during sex?

Anya rubbed her fingers against the leather couch. I’m relaxed.

Even when a man lies on top of you?

Yes, even then, she answered through her teeth.

Patricia poured orangeade into two crystal glasses. Anya, I don’t believe you. I sense that something’s wrong. If you like, we can change the subject. Later, when you’re prepared, we’ll come back to it.

Anya looked at her gratefully. Yes, I would rather talk about something else.

As you like, Patricia said, and asked a few more general questions. When the session was over, she thanked Anya for the conversation and wished her a pleasant evening.

Chapter 2

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How many years have passed since I last saw my daughter? More than twenty. And during that time I have aged greatly. Who would have thought that everything could change so much, thought the man.

He thanked the newspaper vendor and looked for the nearest wooden bench. His brow furrowed as he opened the newspaper across his knees. He read the first page in less than twenty minutes but then gasped when he turned to the second. A headline read: Patricia Bellows – successful and ambitious psychiatrist. He read the article with interest.

Her beauty was boundless, he thought. He remembered holding her in his lap when she was a little girl. She was so sweet.

A boy riding by on a bicycle knocked the newspaper on his knee. The man cried out loudly and ran after the boy. The hell with you, you little brat! he yelled, giving up the chase.

When he had calmed down, he headed to the busy street and flagged a taxi. Take me to the psychiatric hospital on SW Eastridge Street, he instructed the driver.

He thought about her during the short trip. He remembered how he used to change her clothes and put on her adorable little shoes. Who knows if she’d even recognize me now?

When at last he was standing in front of the imposing front door of the mental health center, he didn’t dare walk in, afraid she’d reject him. I couldn’t bear that, he thought. He walked back and forth on the sidewalk and glanced at the hospital. A splendid building, all marble, truly magnificent.

He noticed someone standing at a window and strained to see who it was. My God, it’s her, Patricia. He felt an adrenaline rush. It struck him that he might lift his hand and wave, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he stood and stared. Patricia, my lovely Patricia.

When she was no longer there, he turned and left. Now is not the right moment. It would be better to visit her at home. Yes, yes. That’s what I’ll do.

Chapter 3

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Anya Horvat left the psychiatric hospital in an agitated state. She didn’t know what sex had to do with long-term relationships. I think I might be wasting my time with this psychiatrist. I doubt she can help me. I have no luck with men. I’m destined to be alone.

The wind struck her face and tousled her hair. The temperature had gone down considerably in the past few days. She pulled her jacket closed against the cold. It’s no pleasure when the month of October begins.

She got to the parking lot and sat down in her old Opel, wanting only to get home as soon as she could. But when she turned the key, the engine didn’t start. Is this one of your moods again? She tried four more times but the engine didn’t budge.

This is all I need. I can’t afford a new car! She had such a hefty mortgage payment on her apartment that there never seemed to be enough money left over to buy a new car. She banged on the steering wheel in desperation. What will I do?

Her eyes settled on a man with wide shoulders, leaning against the stone wall that separated the parking lot from the street. He was staring toward the psychiatric hospital.

She waved to him. That man will have to help me.

He didn’t respond, and so she called out to him: Hey!

The man did not move his head. He kept looking in the same direction, as if he didn’t hear her.

Hey! she called out shrilly. Could you please help me over here? Is he deaf? she wondered.

The man finally turned and began to make his way toward her. He asked her pleasantly enough what was wrong.

You must know something about engines, she pleaded. It won’t start. That was Anya’s specialty: whenever she needed help, without hesitation she asked a man for help.

He looked nervously at his wristwatch, as if he were in a hurry to get somewhere.

You have to help me! she said sharply. It sounded like an order.

The man stood stock-still, looking first at her and then toward the hospital.

Anya looked in the same direction. Are you waiting for someone?

Oh well, it’s nothing. He sighed and waved his hand. I’ll take a look.

She haughtily watched him as he opened the hood. He was several years younger than her, dressed in blue corduroy pants and a simple sports jacket. His black hair was too long for her taste and she didn’t like that he had at least a day’s growth of beard.

He said, Turn the key, please.

She sat in the car and turned the key. Nothing happened. She tried again.

I can’t do anything. You’ll have to take it to a mechanic.

You don’t know how to fix it? she asked.

The problem is not whether I can fix it or not. He carefully closed the hood. The problem is that it’s in really bad shape. If you like, I can drive you home.

Oh, that’s not necessary, she said. She didn’t want to be indebted to him. I guess I should call a tow truck. At the post office. I can find a phonebook there.

Wait. He touched her shoulder. I know somebody. Wait a second. He pulled out his cell phone and held it to his ear. I’ll call and arrange it, if that’s okay with you.

Yes, yes, thank you. It irritated her to rely on a stranger but she felt so helpless.

He completed the call in less than a minute. He’ll be here in a half hour. You have to wait near the car. They’ll almost certainly tow it.

Great.

A person never knows when he’s going to need a helping hand, he said to her. He looked toward the hospital again. I’d better go now.

In an instant he was gone. It took her a few minutes to realize that she hadn’t even thanked him.

Chapter 4

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Even after five years of retirement, Molly Lasch was still petite and wore her dyed bluish hair tied into a French bun. These days she walked with small, even steps, her shoulders drooping slightly forward.

She stopped in front of a door on which the name Patricia Bellows appeared in elegant letters. Molly searched for a key in a shoulder bag made of artificial brown leather. She inserted it into the lock, but to her surprise the door swung open.

A shudder ran through her as she wondered how that could be. It had never happened before that Patricia would go to work leaving the door unlocked.

Doctor Bellows! she called out loudly. Are you still home?

Molly heard no answer and, shrugging her shoulders, opened the hall closet. She took off her heavy cardigan and hung it on a hanger. She opened another closet and took out a bucket, rags, and a broom. She went into the kitchen where she usually had the most work.

She wiped the cupboards with satisfaction, wondering how much the apartment in which Dr. Bellows lived was worth. Once, she had been bold enough to ask how large it was.

Nearly two thousand square feet, the doctor had answered. Even I don’t know what I should do with all this space.

That’s the rich for you, Molly thought. I waited on people in restaurants for thirty-seven years. I could hardly survive from month to month on the pittance they paid me.

Frowning, she submerged a cotton rag into the water and wrapped it around the end of the mop.

Next she headed toward the bedroom. She would change the sheets and polish the wood surfaces as usual. She picked up a towel that was lying on the floor in the hallway. Strange, Dr. Bellows never leaves anything on the floor.

Molly froze for an instant as she touched the handle on the bedroom door. She shuddered again as she had when she first noticed that the front door was unlocked.

Shaking her head, she stepped into the bedroom where she confronted the most dreadful scene she had ever seen in her life. Dr. Bellows lay naked on the bed in a sea of blood, her body covered with countless cuts.

Chapter 5

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Come in, please.

My condolences, Anya Horvat said, shaking the hand of Bertha Hoff.

Her husband, Hunter, waited in an armchair in the living room. When Anya came in, he stood up quickly and greeted her. Then he sat down again. He had a slender build, thoughtful eyes, and heavy brows. His cheeks looked sunken, as if he hadn’t eaten for several days. His skin was fair and he had a slightly bulbous nose. Nevertheless, at first glance he struck Anya as a man who was kind, calm, and accommodating.

Bertha needed some time before she started speaking. You’re probably wondering why I called.

Anya also sat down, placing her hands on her knees. Yes, that’s true. She looked around the room, noting a picture on the wall that even an ordinary viewer could see was not worth more than thirty dollars. The furniture was cheap and worn. The smell of cooking hovered in the air.

As I told you on the telephone, I am the sister of Patricia Bellows, who was murdered ten days ago. The police are investigating who might have killed her, but so far have come up with nothing. It’s unacceptable to me.

Yes, it’s truly horrible. I read in the newspapers about what happened. In her mind’s eye, she compared the psychiatrist with her sister. Patricia had had a small nose and a sweet mouth. Bertha had larges eyes and a strong chin. Her features were plain and sturdy and she wore no makeup. She had shimmering hair the color of blackberries that curled in at her shoulders. The two women also differed in their behavior. Patricia had seemed much younger, almost immature at times. Bertha, although she was only a few years older than her sister, seemed very serious, strict, and deliberate.

I need to admit two things to you. Namely, that I know you’re a journalist, and I also know that you’ve been seeing my sister. Am I right?

Her directness surprised Anya. Yes, both of those things are true, Anya admitted. How do you know?

Patricia never spoke much about her patients but she did mention you. She told me you were an extraordinary woman. Nothing else.

Oh, so that’s why …. We did have some interesting conversations. I also liked Patricia Bellows very much. I don’t understand how—

I know who the murderer is, Bertha Hoff blurted in the next moment.

Her husband said, We’re not entirely sure, but we’ve spoken about it and—

It was Benny, Bertha said hoarsely.

Anya looked first at the husband, then the wife. You’ve told the police, haven’t you? Who was this Benny?

Benny Martin was her lover.

Hunter turned to his wife. It could have been him, but what if it was somebody else? You know how many people Patricia was dealing with.

She said sharply, If I say it was Benny Martin, then it was Benny Martin. That man is pathologically aggressive.

Anya looked at them in confusion.

Bertha’s face was hard and grim. She began to cry. They only knew each other four months. It was such a big mistake. Benny Martin was her patient.

Oh, that’s what this is about. And you’re sure he’s the murderer?

Bertha covered her eyes. You must understand. Patricia was terribly lonely. She became obsessed with work after the death of her husband. I advised her many times to go out, but she didn’t listen to me. Just work and home. Maybe it seems awful to you that she slept with one of her patients. She shouldn’t have done that. But she was so lonely. I understood her.

He wasn’t a bad guy at first glance, her husband interjected. We saw each other once. He was tall and quite pleasant. I remember him well.

Bertha said, At first, I advised her not to see him. Patricia spent hours telling me about him. But then I said, better him than no one. He was the only person she went out with. Otherwise she lived her life completely alone, nothing but work and an empty home. A flood of tears fogged Bertha’s vision. It’s my fault. I killed her. I should have insisted that she find someone else.

I understand all of this, Anya said, but I still have no idea what it has to do with me.

He said, Since you’re a journalist, this matter no doubt interests you. You might want to do some research and write an article about it.

What do you mean, research?

Visit Benny Martin and try to find out what he was doing on the night of the murder. If that doesn’t succeed, certainly his neighbors would know something. I’m sure it wouldn’t take you long to get some crucial information.

Anya lifted her hands as if to defend herself. "I’ll tell you right away that I’m not the right person. First of all, I work for the publication Clarice, that has a print run of no more than forty thousand copies each week. Second, I’ve been working as a journalist for only two and half years, and don’t have enough experience. Third, I think that you need a detective and not a journalist."

Bertha persisted. No, no! You must believe me. We need a person like you. Please, promise that you’ll at least try. Think about it. A story like this could increase the circulation of your magazine.

Sure, if it were interesting. But wait. Slow down. First tell me why the police haven’t arrested Benny since you’re so certain he’s the killer.

Bertha explained. My husband and I spoke to special agent John Pickens. We told him everything about Benny, but he shut us up. He said there was no evidence against him. But they didn’t even search his apartment, nothing. That’s because I brought them everything on a platter. They told me they had other murders to investigate and that everything would be settled in due time. Yes, that’s what they said to me. Do you know how many murders remain unsolved in America? I cannot let that happen.

What if we wait another week? Maybe they’ll find the killer in that time. Only a week has passed since the murder.

No, that won’t work. The longer we wait, the more likely it becomes that the murder of my sister will never be solved. I’m sure that Benny is destroying all the evidence. If the police had searched his apartment immediately, they might have found something incriminating, but now it’s probably too late. His car should also be searched. Maybe there was some blood there or something else. She pushed aside some hair that had fallen into her eyes.

Anya said, I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve never done anything like this. I’ll say it again, you need a detective, not a journalist.

You don’t understand. If we send a detective to Benny, he won’t want to cooperate. He’s not stupid. If he can trick the police, he can do the same with a detective. He would react differently if you visited him, a woman. Please promise me you’ll at least try. Just one visit? What would it cost you?

You’re right. One visit would cost nothing. Though I also think it’s unlikely he’ll tell me anything. I’ll have to tell the owner of the magazine about it. I won’t do anything without her permission.

Bertha said, We would be so grateful.

Anya asked, Do you know where I can find him?

Hunter got up for a blank piece of paper. His wife wrote an address on it. He lives on SW Clay Street.

I still don’t understand why you’re so certain he committed the murder.

Patricia and I weren’t only sisters, we were also good friends. We talked a lot— Bertha’s voice broke and she started to sob violently.

Hunter covered his eyes with his hands.

Hold on, Bertha said through her tears, I’ll calm down. I … can’t believe she’s gone. We talked about Benny for hours and hours. That man had problems. He is extremely aggressive.

Why do you think he did it? Anya asked again.

Bertha sniffled and stopped crying. Look, I can’t tell you all the details that Patricia confided in me, but this man is sick. That’s all I can tell you. Something happened to him that frazzled his nerves. He lost control of himself. You must go visit him. Then you’ll understand everything.

Alright. It would be best if I go now. I’ll speak to the owner of the magazine and see if she’s interested in the story. If she’s for it, I’ll call you and, of course, Benny. And we’ll find out if he’ll even see me.

Chapter 6

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Suburban houses reflecting the sunlight lined both sides of the street where Anya walked. Joyful children kicked a soccer ball and yelled at the top of their lungs. Anya was amazed that none of the neighbors looking through the windows of the houses said anything. She noticed an elderly woman behind one of the windows. The woman stared straight ahead, her head bobbing. A heavy man smoked a cigar on a terrace. A few houses ahead, two teenage girls stood in a doorway whispering into each other’s ears.

A large, worn sign with the words Auto Mechanic loomed three buildings away. Relieved when she arrived, she pushed through the heavy metal door.

Hello there, a young man said pleasantly. How can I help you today?

I came to pick up my car.

Oh, the old Opel. Yeah, it’s ready.

He stared for some time at the computer screen, typing out a receipt. We had to put in a new starter, he said. Here you go.

When she saw the amount on the bill, she smiled. It was less than she’d expected.

Special service for a special customer, he said, handing her the keys to the car. I’m sorry you had to wait ten days. Unfortunately, we don’t have reserve parts in our inventory for this kind of car. If you need anything else, feel free to call. He gave her a business card.

*

Where are you rushing off to?

Anya was near her car when she heard the familiar voice. It’s you, isn’t it?

She was looking at the man who had helped her in the parking lot. He was dressed in jeans and a green shirt with the number five on the back. She wondered if he played with some sort of local soccer club.

Are you disappointed? he asked. By the way, my name is Andrew.

I’m Anya. What are you doing here?

I know the owner of the garage. You were just talking to him. I come and visit occasionally.

Oh. She snapped her fingers. That’s why he said special service for a special customer.

Can I invite you for a drink? Andrew smiled. There’s a nice little place not far from here.

She glanced down at her watch. I’d love to, but I have so much work.

You couldn’t take time for one little coffee? Where do you work that they put so much pressure on you?

That remark made her smile. Nobody is pressuring me. I have a job where you have to get projects done in the shortest possible time. Otherwise the opportunity is missed. She had no intention of telling him what she really did. But I could use a cup of coffee. If nothing else, it will wake me up.

Let’s hurry, then.

The bar where they went was crowded. A waitress came to their table. What can I get you?

Two regular coffees, please.

When the waitress had gone, Anya asked Andrew, Do you work nearby?

He didn’t answer for a moment. This is my place. I’m the owner.

She opened her eyes in surprise. A bar owner? I never would have thought that.

Why not?

Oh, no reason. She looked around. Judging by the number of customers, I’d say you were sitting on a gold mine. How do you do it?

Thanks. That’s nice of you. But it’s not as great as it looks at first glance. Now it’s break time and everyone who works nearby comes in for a quick one. An hour from now it won’t be nearly as full. I can’t say that things are bad, but they’re not that great. I survive.

I see.

The waitress returned with their coffees.

I never had the chance to thank you for your help ten days ago. I’m so grateful.

Oh, it was nothing. It was my pleasure.

She lifted the cup of coffee and had a sip while allowing herself to take a long