The Other

Chapter 4

Author's Note: Admitting right now that I have no idea about New York geographically. I'm an Aussie. I did some research and I picked the Lower East Side for Blair Roche's family because I read it was a working class neighbourhood in the 80's. I also read that 80's SoHO was a big arts scene so it sounded like a nice place for Todd to work. Sorry to any New Yorkers if I've got my facts wrong.

The next day brings more certainty for Todd Roche.

She goes to work, a book store in SoHo. Mahoney's Books. Her family is fabulously wealthy but she prefers to work here. She prefers books to business. Her brother is the heir apparent. He will take over from her father, just as her father took over from her grandfather. In any case, being a trust fund baby gives her the freedom to choose whatever lower paying job she likes.

Her co-workers pressure her for details about her date with Veidt. It's a distraction at least.

On her lunch break, she heads to a phone booth.

She takes a business card out of her purse.

Martin Henderson. Nova Express.

She remembers him. Brown hair. Easy-going. Likeable.

They had only met once.

He was on the clock and she was on the guest list.

Perhaps they had been flirting a little. Before they parted ways, he had given her his card.

"If you ever need a reporter, just give me a call."

Cheesy line or not, now she needs one.

The idea has come to her that she wants to meet Blair Roche's parents.

She is hoping this man can help her.

She dials. Rocks anxiously as it rings.

Man's voice on the other end. Cheerful. Thick New Yorker accent.

"Nova Express. This is Marty Henderson." Novah. Maarty.

Todd grips the receiver tightly, launching into her prepared speech.

"Hi, I don't know if you remember me. My name is Todd Roche. We met at the Veidt Charity Ball last month. You gave me your card."

Recognition is almost immediate.

"Yeah sure I remember you. Todd Roche. Roche Chemical Company right? How you goin'?"

She praises his memory. It means she can get to the point.

"I'm fine. I know this is out of the blue, but I'm ringing because I need your help with something."

"I'm intrigued. What can I do for you?"

"Okay this is going to sound strange," she takes a breath, gathers resolve, "I'm looking for information about a murder case. I thought someone from your newspaper might have covered the story."

Pause. She bites her lip anxiously.

"Wow, sure wasn't expecting that," says Henderson, she can imagine him shaking his head in bewilderment.

Another pause.

"Which murder case are we talkin' about? Recent?"

Todd shuts her eyes, relieved. His tone is of a man rolling up his sleeves to get down to business. He is going to help her.

"1975. A girl named Blair Roche."

"Huh, same name. She any relation?"

No, Todd thinks despondently, that's the reason she's dead.

"Just a coincidence. What do you think?"

"75 is a bit before my time. I can ask around for you. One of the older guys might have done a piece on her. Anything you wanna know in particular?"

"Name of her parents, where they live if possible."

"What's the interest, if you don't mind me asking?"

She's been expecting this, to provide motive for her strange request.

"The killer thought Blair was related to my family. Her murder was a ransom plot gone wrong."

"Geez. That's messed up."

He has it in a nutshell. Way with words. Go figure, he being a reporter and all.

"Tell me about it. I found out about it just recently and I thought I should, I don't know, pay my respects. Do you think that's that weird?"

He chuckles dryly.

"Yeah it's weird. But nice. Weird and nice. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you" Todd gushes, grateful for both his aid and reassurance, "If there's anything I can do for you in return."

"Ha if I didn't know the competition, I'd say take me out to dinner."

"Competition?"

"Our photographer, D'Angelo, got a snap of you with one Adrian Veidt at the opera last night."

She remembers, posing, on Veidt's arm.

"If you could maybe give me a quote confirming your relationship I would sure appreciate it."

She smiles at the sudden emergence of journalistic instinct. To get the scoop while he's got her on the line.

But she has no intention of divulging anything. She couldn't do that to Adrian.

"Would you appreciate dinner more?" she evades.

"With a beautiful lady? What do you think?"

She smiles, rolls her eyes. Beautiful?

She likes his nerve.

"Then it's settled. Listen, I'm calling on a pay phone. Can I give you my home number?"

"Fire away... Okay, got it. When's a good time to ring?"

"I should be in after 7."

"Great. I'll see what I dig up for ya."

Morbidly appropriate choice of words. Digging up the past. Digging up a dead girl.

"Thanks Marty."

...

At this moment, Walter is dreaming. It is Walter who dreams. Rorschach has no control of the dreaming state.

Walter's mother looms before him. Corpulent. Flimsy dress with her breasts almost spilling out. Old look of repugnance for her son.

Whore!

Blood trickles down the middle of her head. Blood from a clean deep cut he recognises, performed on dog's heads.

Skin pulls apart from the wound. Like snipped stitch, falling apart. Peeling like banana skin.

In the collapse, Roche woman emerges out of her. Casts off his mother's body like fur coat.

Roche woman in her sensual dress.

Reaches and grabs hold of his face, pulling at the fabric, trying to force it off.

No! Not his face!

Screaming but he has no voice.

Pushes her away. She falls back, into the doorway of a familiar burning building.

She's engulfed, gone.

Goes after her.

On fire. Burning.

Wakes up, struggling, sweating, cursing. Disgusted by tears and sensation in nether regions.

Supposed to be stronger than this. Even without his face.

Pulls himself together. Vows to sleep less. Counter-productive anyway. There is a mask-killer to find.

...

Later, in her apartment, Todd's telephone rings.

"Todd? This is Marty. Marty Henderson."

It's 7:02. He must have been waiting, counting down the minutes. So has she.

"Hi Marty. Did you find anything?"

"Yeah. Talked to the guy who covered the story in 75, old-timer, Stan Leschinski. You gotta pen handy?"

"Hold on a sec," she retrieves the notebook and pen she put aside earlier for this purpose, "Yes?"

"Okay, girl's parents. Theodore William and Marjorie Anne Roche. Residence at time of kidnapping. Clinton St, Lower East Side. Checked phone book, there is stil and M A Roche listed at that address."

She grips her pen excitedly.

"Really? Marty, you're the best! I mean it."

"Nothin' to it," he protests, sounding pleased all the same, "Its rookie investigation. Here's the number..."

She jots it down with the rest and surveys the information in full. What's written on this page is her link to Blair Roche. Her parents. Where she lived. Her telephone number. The means to contact this counterpart family. A way forward.

"Thanks Marty. This means a lot to me."

She would throw her arms around him if she could, kiss his cheek.

"No problem... So I was thinkin', Rafael's, Thursday night, meet there at 7?"

She smiles. She will save that kiss for Thursday.

"Sounds good to me."

...

Rorschach's Journal. October 14th, 1985.Continued hunt for Comedian's killer. Eludes me. Broke more fingers, no new leads. Justice has no smile for me tonight. Roche woman is with me. Face burnt into the back of my eyes. Bad dream, can't shake it. Damn Kovacs. Resolved to sleep less. Killer can sleep. Let him dream while I pick up his scent. His nightmare is coming for him.

To be continued...