Memories of Breathing

A Chapter by J.W. Morrill

Unusual circumstances help to shed light on an unsolved mystery.

Chapter 1

Cleo awoke from the all too familiar nightmare in a cold sweat, and sat bolt upright in bed. She dreamed of her mother’s murder often, though she had not witnessed it herself and only knew the details from what she had gleaned over the years. At first, whispered conversations that she was not supposed to overhear, then internet searches of newspaper articles and police reports, gruesome details of the crime dancing in her head. But she felt that she had been there, standing in the corner of her mother’s darkened bedroom as an observer, as the murderer struck again and again with the kitchen knife, blood spraying from the violent blows over her mother’s unsuspecting form, her bedding and onto the floor. Perhaps it was the guilt she felt about not being there, instead studying half a world away in Europe for her junior year abroad. Had she been home that night, could she have prevented it from happening? Not knowing the answer haunted her.

As disturbing as the recurring nightmare was the fact that the case had never been solved, going on 20 years now. Her mother had been home alone that night, and neglected to lock the door to the garage, which led into the house. The assailant used their own Henkel’s chef’s knife, right out of the wooden block on the counter in the kitchen, and left it behind. No fingerprints (he - or she - must have worn gloves), and, due to the secluded location of their home, about 50 yards off the street and surrounded by woods, no one saw her mother’s attacker come or go in the dark. What they did know was that the killer was brutal and inefficient - there were over 20 stab wounds in all, even though the first one or two would have killed her almost immediately. The overkill indicated that whoever had perpetrated the assault knew her mother, but Cleo could think of no one she knew that would commit such a travesty against her. She was perhaps one of the sweetest, gentlest souls in Easton, a 3^rd grade teacher who took some of the most troubled children under her seemingly endless wing. Cleo was an only child, and her father had passed away from a heart attack when she was ten. Her mother had had an overabundance of love to give, and while she adored Cleo, she had felt fulfilled only when she was taking care of less fortunate people or animals.

There was little evidence garnered at the crime scene. It was a sophisticated attack for such a small town, not often seen by the local police force. There were a few short brown hairs found, and a blue wool fiber snagged in the doorway, but no footprints or tracks left behind to indicate where the criminal had come from that evening. No trace evidence under her mother’s fingernails; she had been attacked while sleeping and could not have raised a hand to defend herself. Upon further searching, the police found a few additional clues - grains of sand in the carpet, unusual because the house was over thirty miles from the ocean, and a smear of red lipstick on her mother’s arm, which they initially took for blood. Later, when Cleo was packing up the house for sale and going through her mother’s things, she discovered that the diamond and emerald pendant that her father had given to her mother for their fifteenth wedding anniversary was gone. Cleo remembered her mother almost always wearing that necklace. The emerald often caught glints of sunlight and shot beams of verdant rays around her face like a nimbus, and the slim gold chain on which it hung shone its warm hue around her mother’s neck. Cleo was sure that her mother would have been wearing it on the night of her murder, so whoever killed her had been callous enough to pull it from her still-warm neck.

The case was officially cold, the detective who had worked it set to retire later that year. Cleo had never lost hope, but over the years her optimism dimmed somewhat. Every once in a while she checked in with Detective Ranagan to see if any new information had come to light. His answer was always no, but he was a kindly man, somewhat grandfatherly in his demeanor, and usually willing to take an hour to grab a cup of coffee with her to discuss the case. Though he never said it outright, Cleo sensed by his regretful tone and sometimes wistful expression that failing to solve it was one of his greatest professional disappointments.

As the effects of the bad dream receded like the fall morning mist under the rays of the sun, Cleo caught the tantalizing aroma of bacon frying, and she smiled at last. Andy was making breakfast for them, and it smelled delicious. She swung her legs over the side of their bed, found her fleece-lined slippers with her toes, and stood up. She stretched briefly and stopped to look in the mirror, frowning at the bags under her brown eyes. Pulling her dark blond hair into a loose pony-tail, she headed quickly for the kitchen, the thought of food distracting her, at least for the moment, from her less than restful night’s sleep.