The Man with Three Names and other stories

  "I guess," Hammond said weakly. "Small world."

  "Have you been drinking tonight," Officer Fitzgerald stopped to read the name, "Mr. Isaacs?"

  Hammond's heart began to pound. "What did you call me?"

  "I called you Mr. Isaacs—like it says on your license," he answered. "Your name is Aaron Isaacs, correct?"

  Officer Fitzgerald held the license up so Hammond could see. The name Aaron Isaacs was printed clearly across it. "Yes, I just thought you said.... something else."

  "Have you been drinking, sir?" Fitzgerald said pointedly.

  "No, Officer, not a drop," Hammond said too eagerly.

  "How about you let me see your proof of insurance."

  The thought pounded in his head again, Don't open the glove compartment. "I... um... I don't have insurance, Officer."

  The officer blinked at him, but finally just shrugged. "You shouldn't be so nervous about it. You will make more trouble for yourself."

  "Yes, I know," he said with mock shame. "I'm sorry."

  "Well, I'm afraid I'll have to write you a ticket for that," Officer Fitzgerald said. "How about the registration?"

  Don't open the glove compartment. "It's expired."

  Officer Fitzgerald frowned. "Mr. Isaacs, is this car stolen?"

  Hammond hoped that it was not, but he really had no idea. "No."

  "Once again, I am going to ask, have you been using alcohol or drugs?"

  "No."

  "Your tags are not expired, Mr. Isaacs," Officer Fitzgerald said. "I checked when I pulled up. What is in the glove compartment that you don't want me to see?"

  Hammond's eyes got wide. I don't know, he thought. Reluctantly, he slowly reached to the glove compartment. He could see that Fitzgerald had taken his pistol halfway out of the holster. Swallowing hard but completely unsure what he was afraid of, Hammond pushed the button. As it fell open, a police badge fell on the floor. There was a clear red stain on the metal.

  When he looked back at Officer Fitzgerald, his gun was drawn, and he was shouting orders. Hammond heard nothing the officer said. All he could hear was squealing tires, a crash, and the steady honk of a car horn.

  ***

  Hammond was sitting handcuffed in a chair. There was nothing more than a table, a chair, and a large mirror in the small room. He realized he must be in one of the interrogation rooms you always saw on television. They were watching him, and waiting for something. What did they want? Why was he being questioned? They must have arrested him for lying to the police, but he knew he could not possibly come up with a true statement in a life he had never lived. He began to repeat his mantra again to calm himself, but Detective Isaacs came into the room.

  "We checked your alibi," said the detective. "It turns out you were not at home when you said you were. You're wife said you left at about 6 p.m."

  Hammond stared at him and hoped they would assume he was simply unwilling to volunteer information. In fact, he was wholly unable to volunteer information about this life. Hammond was certain that telling the detectives he was hallucinating another life where he had been involved in an incident that killed or wounded a police officer would not help his cause.

  Isaacs cleared his throat pointedly. "Would you like to tell me where you were?"

  "I don't know," Hammond said honestly.

  "You don't know if you want to tell me, or you don't know where you were?"

  Both, he thought. "I don't remember where I was."

  "Are you honestly telling me that you have no recollection of your whereabouts last night?" Isaacs said as he leaned over the table. Hammond Mathieson nodded. Isaacs said, "Mr. Nelson, I believe you are lying to me."

  He has that much right, Hammond thought. At least I'm not telling him anything close to the truth.

  The detective sighed heavily. "Okay. Do you want to tell me what the fight was about?"

  "What fight?"

  Isaacs glared. "I spoke with your wife. You left because you had a fight. What was it about?"

  "My name... is... Gabriel Nelson. I sometimes have migraines that cause confusion. I am thirty years old and single—"

  Isaacs pounded the table with his fist and jumped to his feet. "I’m trying to be the nice guy here, Mr. Nelson. If you want me to get Detective Fitzgerald so we can play the good cop/bad cop bullshit I can."

  Hammond shook his head and wondered if he would fare better facing Detective Fitzgerald than he had Officer Fitzgerald. Hammond was surprised to find himself hoping that the world would fade back to that other, strange reality. At least he had an idea of what he had done wrong in that reality.

  "My name is Gabriel Nelson." He swallowed hard and continued, "I am thirty years old and married to Cailyn Mathieson."

  "What?!" A look of complete shock came over Isaacs' face momentarily.

  Hammond's heart pounded, and he knew he had said something wrong. Isaacs regained his composure, and looked towards the one-way glass. A quick nod and a second later, Fitzgerald entered. They talked quietly for a second, but with obvious agitation.

  Finally, Detective Fitzgerald asked, "Can you repeat your wife's name, please, Mr. Nelson?"

  "Cailyn Mathieson."

  "One more time?"

  Hammond was getting frantic, and yelled, "Cailyn Mathieson!"

  Isaacs sat down calmly and made a show of straightening papers. "Mr. Nelson. Why would your wife's last name be different than yours?"

  "I don't see why that's any of your business!" Hammond said hoping that pretending to be offended my change the subject. He almost continued with, And because you told me that was her name!

  "It is our business first of all because you are lying, Mr. Nelson." Isaacs pulled two pieces of paper out of the stack, and set them neatly on the table. "After the earlier confusion at your office, my partner and I took the liberty of pulling the public records relating to your marriage. This was done in good faith to ensure that we had our facts straight."

  Detective Fitzgerald broke in with his rapid, high-pitched voice, "Hell, I even gave the U.S. Marshal's office a call to make sure we weren't dealing with a relocated witness."

  Hammond wanted to ask what the Marshal's office had said, but realized that it would probably only make things worse. This was something he was supposed to know, and if his wife or he were relocated witnesses they would have asked different questions or maybe none at all.

  "You will see on your left, that I have your marriage certificate to a Ms. Cailyn Smith. On your right is the request for a name change and new social security card. Ms. Cailyn Smith then became Mrs. Cailyn Nelson." Isaacs waited for Hammond to give an explanation. Finally, Isaacs quietly replaced the papers.

  Detective Fitzgerald stepped forward and asked, "Do you know what a Freudian slip is, Mr. Nelson?"

  "It's where you say the wrong name by mistake," Hammond said.

  "Sort of," Fitzgerald said. "It is where your subconscious mind causes you to make a verbal mistake that reveals a hidden thought. An example would be if you called your sister by your mother's name, and so on."

  "Okay," Hammond said. "So what?"

  Detective Fitzgerald leaned over the table, intentionally encroaching on Hammond's personal space. He gave a wide, sly smile and asked, "Why did you say Mathieson, Mr. Nelson? Where did that name come from?"

  Hammond Mathieson felt tears come to his eyes. He could not fight them back. The fear that pushed them out was too strong to ignore. Shaking his head, he whimpered, "I don't know. I don't know. I don't know."

  Fitzgerald slammed his hand down on the table and yelled, "You said Mathieson because that was the name of the man you killed last night."

  There was a squeal of car tires, a loud crash, a car horn, and the world faded out.

  ***

  As Hammond woke in his other life, he heard an explosion. His hand stung, and he saw a flash of light in the utter darkness. In the flashing red and blue lights of a police car, he saw a pistol in his hand.

  A man dropped to th
e ground at Hammond's feet. He looked down to see a police officer clutching his chest and trying to aim the pistol to fire back. The officer pointed the barrel at Hammond's chest, and Hammond pulled the trigger three times. The officer fell back, and did not move.

  After a shocked silence, Hammond yelled, "Oh God! What did I do?" He fell to his knees, and vomited. "Oh God! Oh God, no."

  The realization came to him: he had just killed a cop. Why would he ever kill a cop? If they caught him, he would go straight to death row. That bloodied badge was bad, but why would he shoot Officer Fitzgerald to cover the murder of a different cop.

  Then Hammond looked at the officer's face, and saw it was not Fitzgerald. The dead man was Detective Aaron Isaacs. Hammond's mind reeled. Where had Fitzgerald gone? Had he killed him too? Who am I? he wondered. Am I some escaped convict or a fugitive on the run? I was already pulling the trigger when I woke up. Why, dammit, why?

  Hammond noticed that his clothes were clean instead of covered in dirt. That meant he had shot the officer before he dug the hole. That was why it was not Fitzgerald, but why was it Isaacs?

  My name is Gabriel—no! Hammond Mathieson. He repeated aloud, "My name is Hammond Mathieson. I occasionally have migraines that cause confusion. I am thirty years old, married, and...and I just killed a cop." Hammond stopped to consider his next statement carefully. "If I don't hide the body I will end up on death row."

  He noticed the trunk was open, but as he started to move towards it, he felt an irresistible impulse. Don't look in the trunk! He fought the impulse, knowing there was no other way to move the body. He also realized that there must be something horrible in the trunk—something he was willing to kill for, something as bad as or worse than the bloody police badge.

  Finally, he made a decision. He lifted Aaron Isaacs, and closed his eyes as he headed towards the rear of his car. He dropped the body and felt around the edge to make sure no arms or legs were sticking out. Blindly, he groped for the lid, and slammed it. Only then did he open his eyes.

  This must be what he was burying, he thought, but when he glanced in the back seat, there was no shovel. He decided to take the next driveway he saw. There, he would steal a shovel to do the work. By comparison, petty theft was no big deal.

  The car was another issue. To his surprise, he found a full gas can and matches in the cruiser. He lit the car on fire, and decided to get as far away as he could as fast as he could.

  In the firelight, he saw the officer's badge. If he was Aaron Isaacs in this reality—and according to his driver's license he was—then who had he just killed? He picked up the badge, and saw there was an ID on the back. He heard the squeal of tires, a crash and the steady sound of a car horn. Just before the world faded out, he read the name: Hammond Mathieson.

  ***

  Isaacs was talking to Fitzgerald in the corner. It appeared that he Detective Isaacs was trying to calm Fitzgerald down, and that Detective Fitzgerald was trying to convince Isaacs to move aside.

  No wonder Fitzgerald is pissed off, he thought. I killed a cop. I should consider myself lucky that I'm not in a room with no windows being "questioned."

  Fitzgerald apparently relented—unhappily—and Isaacs turned and considered Hammond silently for a moment. To Hammond's surprise, Isaacs removed the handcuffs.

  "Thanks," Hammond said as he rubbed his wrists.

  Isaacs gave Hammond a friendly smile, and leaned forward as if what he was about to say might get them in trouble. Apparently, they had decided on good cop/bad cop after all. "Mr. Nelson... Gabriel... Can I call you Gabriel? Okay, Gabriel, we have eyewitness testimony saying shot Mathieson. We have the gun, and plenty of evidence to convict you. I'm not forcing you to make a confession, but there are some things you should know.

  "First, the conviction rate for those who go to trial is 75%. In other words, only one out of every four people is acquitted—and that is usually on insanity where they then go to a mental institution regardless of guilt.

  "Second, the prosecutor wants you tried on first degree murder. The maximum penalty is death. Given the facts of this case, he is likely to get exactly what he wants.

  "Finally, if you play ball—by which I mean confess to your crime—your attorney might convince them to lower the charge. Possibly make this a crime of passion, second degree murder, which is not a capital offense."

  Isaacs sat up and assumed an official pose. "Now, it is your Constitutional right to refuse to give a confession. Your confession will be used to convict you. You are not required to make any statement that incriminates you, but," he stopped to shrug, "it might be in your best interest."

  Hammond wondered who could possibly be an eyewitness to the murder, but he decided it did not really matter if the officer was lying. They would do anything in their power to catch, convict, and execute a cop-killer. Isaacs was right; a confession was not only is best chance, but his only chance. "I would like to make a confession."

  Detective Fitzgerald opened the door and grabbed a video camera that must have been waiting the whole time. He set the tripod up, and pushed a button. The red light came on.

  Detective Isaacs read Hammond his rights, and then asked, "Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?" When Hammond nodded, Isaacs said, "Please answer all questions verbally with a yes or no for the record."

  "Yes, I understand."

  "Were these rights explained to you prior to the start of questioning?"

  Hammond had no idea, but given the thoroughness of the rights he had just received, he simply answered, "Yes."

  "State your name for the record."

  "My name... is Gabriel Nelson."

  "Do you wish to make any statements at this time?"

  "Yes, I wish to confess to the murder of Hammond Mathieson." Hammond felt a chill as he said the words. Three hours ago he had been Hammond Mathieson; three minutes ago he had been Aaron Isaacs. "Last night I was—"

  "Please say the date."

  "What is the date today?"

  "It is the twelfth," Isaacs answered.

  Hammond swallowed and looked down in embarrassment. "What month?"

  Isaacs and Fitzgerald glanced at each other is surprise. Isaacs said quietly, "November."

  "Thanks. On the night of November 11, I was driving my car—"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Nelson," Isaacs interrupted. His voice sounded apologetic, but his eyes were suspicious. "Would you please state the year?" Hammond did not speak. "Mr. Nelson, please tell us November 11 of what year?"

  Hammond Mathieson asked in a whisper, "What year is it?"

  Isaacs stared back in astonishment; Fitzgerald looked as if he wanted to scream. Instead, he glanced at the camera and held his tongue. It must not look good to have them screaming at arrestees on video.

  "What year do you think it is?" Isaacs finally asked.

  "Um. 2010?"

  Isaacs shook his head. "No, Mr. Nelson, it is 2006. Are you under the influence of any medications, alcohol, or illegal substances?"

  Hammond shook his head, "I occasionally have migraines that cause confusion."

  "Very well. Please continue."

  "On the night of November 11, 2006, I was driving through the country." Hammond had no idea why so he guessed. "I was heading home. It was about 8 p.m. although I am unsure of the time. It was very dark. Officer Mathieson pulled me over, and asked me to open my trunk."

  Both Isaacs and Fitzgerald visibly jumped. Isaacs shot a confused look to Fitzgerald who nodded and left the room. Hammond wondered what was wrong, but decided to continue with his confession.

  "I panicked, and shot Officer Mathieson four times killing him. I threw the body in my trunk and buried him in the nearby farmland. I do not know exactly where, but I assume it is not far from his burned car. I torched it to cover my crime."

  Isaacs cleared his throat. "Are you certain of the date? November 11—as in yesterday?"

  "Yes, I'm sure."

  "And how did you learn the officer's
name?"

  "He dropped his badge when I shot him. I saw the name on his ID card on the back."

  Isaacs shook his head. "Are you sure the name was Hammond Mathieson? Could you have been mistaken?"

  Hammond was not sure of anything since he first woke up behind the wheel of a strange car. Of course he could be wrong; he had already been wrong about his name. "My name is..." Hammond Mathieson. Aaron Isaacs. "Gabriel Nelson. I occasionally have migraines that cause confusion.—"

  "And do you think one of these could have caused this confusion?" Isaacs interrupted.

  Hammond shook his head. Whatever was going on, it was not simply a migraine. Whether or not this was only in his head was another question entirely.

  Fitzgerald came back in the room and whispered in Isaacs' ear. Hammond heard Isaacs say, "Are you sure?" Fitzgerald nodded, and whispered again. Isaacs asked, "Never?" Fitzgerald nodded.

  "Mr. Nelson," Fitzgerald said, "No police officers in the entire county have been killed in the last week. I knew that without checking, but I did check on the name. There has never been an officer in this department by that name."

  Isaacs leaned forward and said, "Hammond Mathieson was your wife's lover until you killed him last night. Your wife says you walked in on them, grabbed a handgun, and shot him. You took the body with you, and she called us as soon as you drove away."

  The squeal, the crash, the horn, and Hammond was not in the interrogation room any more.

  ***

  Hammond was driving towards a darkened farmhouse. He wanted to turn off the headlights, but there was no moonlight. Hammond hurried to what he hoped was a toolshed, and cursed as the door creaked loudly on its hinges. He cursed again when it turned out to be nothing more than a pump house.

  Hammond tried to sneak around to the barn, assuming there must be a shovel there. As he passed the porch, he heard someone speak.

  "You won't see much in the barn without light."

  Hammond drew the pistol and aimed at the old man sitting on the porch. His face was weathered and deeply lined. The skin appeared to be either very tanned, or naturally a light brown. There was also a long, distinctive scar on his left hand.

  The old man did not move when Hammond pointed the gun at him, but smiled sympathetically. "I think you might need those two bullets, Hammond. Besides, hasn't there been enough killing tonight?"

  "Why did you call me 'Hammond'?"

  "Because that's your name," the old man answered. "What do you expect me to call you?"