Cole didn't know what other people used as mementos. Probably photographs-that seemed like a reasonable guess. But he wasn't like other people. They would, he supposed, sit with their loved ones and thumb through the books, pausing to laugh at the black-and-white stills of birthday parties and vacations, remembering the events surrounding the click of the shutter.
Cole didn't need pictures to remember. He had always had an excellent mind for names, faces, conversations. He didn't need a photograph to know what a suspect had claimed or what the murder weapon looked like. The sketches he always made in his notebook were just precautions, usually unnecessary ones.
No, what Cole did to create markers for his memories was different, he thought, from that which anyone else did. He would buy a suit.
And so it came to be that Cole stood alone, looking into his closet, remembering. On the far left, slowly gathering dust, was his old beat cop uniform. It wouldn't be getting any more use, but it had served him well when he wore it. It was sturdy, built to last through fistfights, foot chases, and shootouts. It had seen him through his patrol days with ease, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of reverence when he looked at it. A lot of good men had worn the policemen's uniform, and many more were still to come.
He turned next to the brown pinstriped suit hanging to its right. It was a simple design, not meant for attracting attention, but that didn't mean Cole slipped off the radar. He was the department golden boy before he had a chance to make any other name for himself. But he was alright with that.
Cole smiled fondly as he lifted one of the sleeves, examining the fabric. There were stitches on the top half of the right sleeve where a stray bullet had caught him during the fight at the Intolerance set. Marie had been terrified when he came home with blood seeping into the cloth, but it had been nothing more than a scratch. That night she scrubbed the red out of the fabric and sewed the torn edges back together.
Cole turned to the next suit hanging in the closet. Homicide was a darker department, and he had selected a darker suit to match. He remembered blending into the night, the navy fabric keeping him hidden in shadows as he took cover behind corners in the catacombs. This suit had seen terrible things, and he had been wearing it when he stopped the most notorious killer whose name would never hit the papers. He remembered the pounding of his heart as he ran through the tunnels after Garrett Mason. A piece of rock scratched a thin line onto his cheek after one of the murderer's shots blasted the wall apart; when he thought about it, Cole could still feel it sting. Sometimes he hated that no one would ever know that he had stopped Elizabeth Short's killer, but then he remembered that it didn't matter who heard. It just mattered that it was done.
His eyes fell on the two-toned gray suit beside the one he'd worn while working Homicide. The contrast shoulders and vertical panels weren't exactly his style, and he rather missed his vests, but he'd seen Roy eyeing the navy pinstripes on his first day in Vice. He just would not let the topic of Cole's outfit lie; Cole had bought something that fit the glamour of Hollywood just to shut him up. It was a shame that tactic hadn't worked, but he thought Roy would have taken any excuse to make jokes at his expense. That was the type of man he was. Either way, it ended up being that he got attached to the suit-certainly more attached than he was to his old partner. Cole had figured a lot out while wearing this jacket. A lot about the dealings that went on in this city, about the men he'd served with back in Okinawa... And a lot about himself.
He glanced into the mirror once. This suit, a simple gray jacket over a dark, pinstriped vest, would serve him now. He needed not to attract any more attention, and this was nowhere near as ostentatious as Roy's orange-sleeved monstrosity.
With one last look at his old suits, Cole shut the closet door and stepped out of his old bedroom. Marie had taken the girls somewhere, making it impossible to talk to her as he had wanted. Now that he had essentially broken in-he couldn't pretend he was welcome here at the moment-he had no intention of letting her know that he had been there.
He left empty-handed, but his memories weren't stored anywhere beyond his reach. All he had to do was think, and they would be there.