The Memory Killer. J. Kerley A.

Legal, but perhaps a bit, uh, covert.”

      He frowned and I feared another verbal assault. Instead, he crossed his arms in justification and arced an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with my brother?”

      “Your DNA still matches the samples taken from the victims.”

      “What?”

      “There’s only one answer: the DNA came from your brother. Do you have any idea where he is?”

      Ocampo looked like I was speaking backwards and he had to translate my words into forward. “Wait … what you mean is … you’re saying my brother, Donnie Ocampo, is the one doing these terrible things? Is that what you’re telling me?”

      “Beyond a doubt. Your brother’s name is Donnie?”

      Ocampo nodded. “It was. I guess it still is.”

      “He changed his name?” I asked, puzzled.

      “Donnie died a week after he was born, Detective,” he said quietly. “He’s been dead for over three decades.”

       14

      Gershwin and I extracted as much information as possible from a confused and distracted Ocampo. He was born in a Texas border town, his father dead by the time Ocampo hit the world. He hadn’t known about the brother for years, until one day a drunken and teary-eyed mother spoke of a dead twin. At first he’d disbelieved the story as an alcoholic’s mutterings, but his mother had produced photos of two babies on a bed – home birth by a midwife – and the two children as exactly alike as, well, identical twins.

      There was only one thing to do: go to the town of the Ocampo’s birth and check the records. Though Ocampo had lived the first ten years of his childhood in Laredo, Texas, he had been born across the border in Mexico, Nuevo Laredo. I took it that his father was a Filipino who’d been working a construction project in the town when Ms Ocampo went into labor. I also took it that Ocampo’s father only worked sporadically owing to a problem with alcohol.

      Two alcoholic parents, I thought. No wonder the guy’s got problems.

      “So there are these four boys in a gay bar and they’re arguing about who has the longest dick …”

      Gerry Holcomb moaned. “Gawd, not again.”

      Billy Prestwick reached across the table and slapped at Holcomb. “Don’t stop me if you’ve heard it. Just shut uuuup.”

      Patrick leaned back in the upholstered booth. The place was half full, the crowd older and more professional, more paired. Several men wore suits or sport jackets from a day at a bank or ad agency. A couple of dykosauruses sat at the bar, rugged-looking women in their fifties, drinking shots and beers and grumbling about jai-alai teams. The bartender, a tall and balding man with a beret and a John Waters mustache, cradled a phone to his neck as he polished his nails with an emery board.

      “The boys have been arguing about their dicks for like ten minutes,” Prestwick continued, pushing silver-blond hair from his eyes, his long arms pale and slender and in constant flittering motion. “They’re getting louder and more obstreperous and—”

      “Ob-what?” Ben Timmons said.

      “Ob-strep-er-ous, you illiterate slut. Buy a dictionary. So finally the bartender gets fed up and says he’ll settle the argument once and for all and to drop their pants and slap their dicks on the bar …”

      Bobby Fenton grinned and fanned at his crotch. “You mean put them on the bar and really slap them?”

      “Shut up, bitch, I’m telling the joke. The bartender tells the boys to drop trou and set their penises on the bar. So one by one the boys slide their jeans to their knees, scrunch up to the bar, and lay their doodles across it, pulling them out as far as they can. Just then, a guy walks in the door, glances down the bar, and yells, ‘I’ll have the buffet!’”

      Moans and groans. Fenton said, “I’m gone. Some of us have to work in the morning.” Timmons said the same and he and Holcomb filed from the booth to back pats and air kisses until it was just Billy and Patrick standing outside the booth. Billy put his arm around Patrick’s shoulder and pulled him close. His breath was dense with tequila from a half-dozen margaritas.

      “So there’s this guy comes out of a bar after drinking beer for three hours …”

      “I heard it, Billy.”

      “Shush! Not tonight you haven’t. The drunk staggers to an intersection, unzips his fly and yanks out his wand. Just then a cop runs up and says, ‘Hold on, mister, you can’t piss here.’”

      Patrick crossed his arms and waited. Billy affected a drunken voice and pretended to aim a penis at the far horizon. “‘I ain’t gonna pissh here, occifer,’ the drunk says. ‘I’m gonna pissh way … over … there.’”

      “It was funny the first three times,” Patrick yawned. “Four, maybe.”

      “Gawd, Patrick,” Prestwick moaned. “Lighten up while I go way … over … there and take a piss.”

      Prestwick started toward the bathroom, stopped when Patrick grabbed his arm and pointed at Prestwick’s half-filled glass, sitting on the edge of the table.

      “You left your drink, Billy. What have I been telling everyone?”

      Prestwick affected ignorance. “Don’t lay your doodle on bars?”

      “I’m not laughing.”

      “Uh, lemme see … Don’t leave drinkies unattended?”

      “I mean it, Billy. Never let your glass out of your sight.”

      Prestwick picked up the remainder of his drink, drained it away in a single chug, set it back on the table upside-down. He shot Patrick a wink, mouthed, “Thanks, mummy,” and ambled toward the bathroom tapping at his phone to check the barrage of tweets and Instagrams and Facebook updates. He walked into a barstool, corrected, re-aimed for the dark hall holding the bathrooms.

      Patrick sighed, used to Billy’s hip-swinging sashays down a sidewalk, the vocal trills for emphasis, the bottomless supply of jokes. Patrick knew that somewhere in the twelve years since they’d met in high school, he had become an adult. He wondered if Billy ever would.

      At times Billy showed flashes of adulthood, of introspection, moments in which he realized that his youth and looks were a finite commodity, and though they carried him now, the passage was growing briefer. But such moments were always transient, the span of a meteor across the night sky, as minutes later Billy was ordering another round, or leaving to “comfort” an older man who would repay Billy with one or another generosity, or sometimes just a fistful of cash.

      “Come on, buddy,” Patrick whispered to Billy’s retreating back. “Grow up.”

      Prestwick entered the bathroom and relieved himself from two feet away, allowing him to splash his initials on the rear of the urinal. He zipped up and turned to the mirror to check the magic.

      A face appeared over his shoulder.

      “Hello, Billy,” the face said.

      Billy spun. “Uh, do I know you, dear?”

      “It’s been a long time. You are Billy Prestwick, right?”

      “Now you don’t know?” Billy said.

      The face didn’t reply. It just stared, as if amused.

      “Yes,” Billy said. What did this thing want? “I’m me.”

      “And the man you’re sitting across from …” the face continued, like filling in a space on a crossword. “The fellow with the brown hair. That’s uh … lemme see if I can remember