The Jumper

By Lee Willard

His attempts to recover his life soon lead him to trouble with the law, trouble that gets worse when he finds that an important federal agent may have jumped from that girl's balcony. He has no memories of how that agent fell to his death right outside her apartment, no memories of how to do her job, no memories of the family the girl was apparently quarreling with, no memories of her boyfriend who may have been using her apartment for illegal activities and no memories of the friends who might be his only hope in this new life.

As difficult as it may be for a ninety two year old man to take over the complicated life of a twenty six year old psychiatric nurse, he finds his only choice is to become that girl or spend the remainder of his life in an institution, either mental, correctional or both.

Of course the policeman investigating the demise of that federal agent doesn’t believe anything of her tale, whichever way she tells it. Once he digs deeper he finds the case of that jumper is involved with his two AWOL officers, a homeless man that murdered a missing fisherman and the mad fur seal that was left on that fisherman’s boat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Willard
• Release date: Apr 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005847043

Lee Willard

I am a retired embedded systems engineer and sci-fi hobbyist from Hartford. Most of my stories concern Kassidor, 'The planet the hippies came from' which I have used to examine subjects like: What would it take to make the hippy lifestyle real? How would extended lifespans affect society? What could happen if we outlive our memories? How can murder be committed when violence is impossible?I have recently discovered that someone new to science fiction should start their exploration of Kassidor with the Second Expedition trilogy. To the mainstream fiction reader the alien names of people, places and things can be confusing. This series has a little more explanation of the differences between Kassidor and Earth. In all of the Kassidor stories you will notice the people do not act like ordinary humans but like flower children from the 60's. It is not until Zhlindu that the actual modifications made to human nature to make them act that way are spelled out. To aide that understanding I've made The Second Expedition free.I am not a fan of violence and dystopia. I believe that sci-fi does not just predict the future, but helps create the future because we sci-fi writers show our readers what the future will be and the readers go out and create it. I believe that the current fad of constant dystopia and mega-violence in sci-fi today is helping to create that world, and I mention that often in reviews and comments on the books I read. I also believe that the characters in those stories who are completely free of any affection are at least as unnatural as the modified humans of Kassidor.In my reviews, * = couldn't finish it. ** = Don't bother with it. *** = good story worth reading. **** = great and memorable story. ***** = Worth a Hugo.

Book preview

The

Jumper

Copyright 2019 Lee Willard

The following is a work of fiction. Any real buildings or companies in here are used in a fictional way. The names have been changed to protect the innocent but locals will recognize them instantly.

This is dedicated to the entire staff of what most residents call the ‘Best building in Hartford’.

Maps of the area are readily available on Google. Some street names are real, some have been changed.

Disclaimer

The people, places and institutions used in this story are fictional or used in a fictional way. This is not a ‘true crime’ drama designed to be as real as possible and the police in this story are not meant to be representative of any real members of the HPD, nor are their actions meant to depict the actual procedures of that highly competent and professional organization.

This is also not meant to depict any of the real personnel, patients or methods of the actual world-famous psychiatric institution who’s site I have used in this story. These changes are not bad research, they are attempts to protect the privacy of the actual people involved. I can’t give away what I don’t have.

The names and some of the specifics of the buildings, clubs and other features used in the story have been changed, but Hartford is not so big and impersonal that locals won’t immediately deduce which landmarks they are. Only one enterprise is wholly fictional, there is currently no Panera located adjacent to the mid-block fitness club where a couple scenes in this story take place. As well as changing the names; the interior layout, décor, menus and entertainment offerings of some other establishments have been changed.

The same applies to the police and businesses in Brattleboro, where some other scenes take place.

1. The Change

Hi, I’m usually called Mal, for Malcolm, Malcolm Whitcomb. I’ve been on this good Earth ninety two and a half years now. I was lucky enough to marry a younger woman. My Agnes will be eighty nine tomorrow and I’m going to take the bus downtown and get her something. This will be our eighth year at Sheppard House, and I’m glad we made the move. It’s a lot less for her to clean, two meals a day she doesn’t have to cook, no yard work for me to neglect. Our home in East Hartford was a ruin when we left it because with my back and my arthritis, I really couldn’t even guide the lawnmower one row up and down the sidewalk. Once a year our son used to come out and cut back the brush that threatened to grow over it, but even so we only got one seventeen for it, a seven room neo-colonial with a finished basement, a nice yard and a long deck across the back.

It was no small thing these days to walk down to the bus stop. I needed my cane and I wasn’t going to make very good time. Still, I figured I’d have five minutes to spare by the time I made the trek up Francis to Atheneum. I could have taken the bus at Framingham, it’s closer but it’s more crowded. The Atheneum line has a different clientele because it is the main stop for the second largest hospital in town, which covers the next few blocks the other side of Atheneum.

I saw Frankie coming down the street. He doesn’t pay much attention to old coots like me, but some people are scared of him because he’s six-seven, two sixty five and played tackle for Uha. I know he’s a sweetheart who loves chamber music, cool jazz and red wine, but we aren’t close. I was just about to wave and say ‘hi’ when I noticed his attention was stolen by something behind me. I heard bare feet running toward us and turned just in time to see this positively ravishing Latina girl in a skimpy green bikini tag me on the shoulder. We tumbled to the ground right at Frankie’s feet.

I was winded, just from the fall I guess. It took a minute to assess the damage. I wondered if I had broken any of my frail old bones, but upon taking stock, I found myself more free of pain than I had been in years. I wondered If I’d broken my neck and was numb all over. I didn’t have time to think about it because Frankie was bending down toward me.

He must have been talking to the girl because he said, Miss, are you all right? but he was looking at me.

I looked around, but I couldn’t see her. It would be pretty hard to miss a girl built like that, but Frankie was looking at me. I looked at me and knew I must have a pretty serious concussion if nothing else because I now saw that girl’s body where my body should have been. Frankie was helping me up. It was so easy, so painless, so automatic it was like being in a video game. Frankie asked me, What’s going on?

I don’t know Frankie, this girl tapped me on the shoulder as she ran by.

You tapped old Mal on the shoulder, he kept walking by, but I don’t think he hears too good any more.

No, I’m Mal, I said, but for the first time understood that it was going to be a little harder than I thought to prove that since I was now appeared to be a Latina woman with thirty six ‘c’s, long black hair and a skimpy little green bikini and nothing else.

However, I didn’t have long to think about that because as I told Frankie that, two cops ran up and grabbed me by the arms. Ixtkg, we have you, you’re under arrest for cultural interference.

But I’m Mal, Mal Whitcomb.

Mal kept walking, Frankie said.

I looked and saw myself, shuffling along like I always do, swinging my cane with somewhat more pizzazz than usually, but not out of place if I’m going to buy Agnes a birthday present and my arthritis ain’t too bad that day. That’s me right there! I said, knowing how stupid it sounded as soon as it was out of my mouth.

However, the cops didn’t think it was stupid at all. They both took off after me. I saw them and took flight, not that I could at my age. I got into the street just in time to meet a furniture truck coming up from Framingham. The truck’s driver hit the horn as he hit the brakes, the howl of the tires adding to the cacophony of the horn. Helplessly I saw myself disappear under the cab of the truck as it slid to a stop. Everyone ran, the driver and his helper both jumped down from the cab, the two cops converged on it. My body was under the truck, I hadn’t been struck by the wheels but by the bumper and knocked to the ground. I knew my frail old body could not withstand such a blow.

I saw this as I would if I was my ghost watching from the sidelines. I’d always imagined my ghost watching my death from above, but I was a ghost watching myself die all the same. My body lay there motionless. I saw people looking in horror but mesmerized by the sight of death as I was looking on mesmerized by the sight of death, my own.

One of the cops crawled under the truck and soon came out shaking his head. They got out notebooks and started taking statements. As they were doing that a cruiser came sliding onto the scene with lights and sirens. As two more cops got out of it, the first two cops slipped away. Frankie and the girl I was a ghost in stayed where we were, speechless, while this all happened. I was in too much shock to move. In the distance I could see my dead body under the truck. I was amazed at how fast my skin turned grey. The cruiser was pulled up right behind the truck. One of the cops went straight to the driver and helper, the other went straight to the witnesses on the other side of Francis.

Two more cops in another cruiser converged from the Atheneum side and effectively blocked off the road. One of them started immediately taping off the whole road. I wouldn’t be able to get to my body. I couldn’t get my wallet, my phone, my angina pills. I was still speechless, wondering how I was ever going to retrieve any of that. I would have no way to reconnect with my life, I didn’t have any documentation at all to prove that I was indeed Malcolm Whitcomb of Sheppard House 11b. Then I took stock of myself, I might as well, everyone else was. I was now some pretty, sexy Latina girl in a skimpy green bikini. She had nothing on her but this bikini. It was obvious there was no ID folded in a crease somewhere. I didn’t know anything more about where she came from than somewhere behind me. Maybe Frankie knew, he had been looking that way.

Where did I come from? I asked him.

Your mother? he asked in response. When I laughed and frowned at the same time he said, It looked like you came out of the path between Nook Tower and the medical offices. You don’t remember?

I’m Mal, the old coot from Sheppard House who you met at that place on Franklin when The New Winston Quartet played there.

Mal just got killed, Frankie said, dabbing at his eyes. Right there, he pointed at my body still lying under the truck.

I know, that was me, I don’t know why this is me now.

I must say, you’re looking good, but I know that’s Mal over there.

Another girl came running up to us. She was a little more African than the girl I had become, but still a pretty tan color with curlier hair. Connie, what’s going on? she asked me.

Is that my name? I asked, stupidly.

As long as I known you, she replied.

Connie. Do you know where I live?

In 13S, she said, did you hit your head? How come they’re not caring for you? she asked.

The hospital is a block away, an ambulance was already here. They turned off the siren as they pulled up, and the lights as soon as one of the cops talked to them.

I’ve never felt better, at least for the last sixty years.

What? this girl asked.

She thinks she’s Mal, the old guy who got run over.

I’ve heard of empathy before, but don’t you think that’s taking it a little too far? she asked me.

No, I am Mal Whicomb. I don’t know how I came to be Connie, or whoever this was, but I’m Mal Whitcomb. I’m ninety two, my wife Agnes is eighty nine tomorrow and we live in Sheppard House in 11b.

You must have really hit your head, she said and began looking thru my hair."

She did fall right at my feet, Frankie said.

And you are?

Frankie Evans, former tackle for Uha.

You do have the look, she said.

He is, I’ve been to a game, I said.

You know him? she asked me.

For four years, I answered.

You never told me you knew a football player? the girl said.

Uha’s not a world power, Frankie said to her, and I’ve never seen her before she landed on my feet after tagging Mal on the shoulder. Why’d you do that anyway? he asked me.

How would I know? As soon as she tagged me I fell, I thought she’d tripped me.

Why’d you tag him? Frankie asked.

I was the one who was tagged, I said, not the one doing the tagging.

I saw the whole thing! Frankie said.

I could tell he was getting mad at me. It seems to me that as soon as she tagged me, I became her and she became me.

Yeah right, the African girl said.

That’s how it looked to me, I said.

We better take her to that ambulance and get her checked out, Frankie said, she might have hit her head on the sidewalk.

So you know her? the girl asked.

Never saw her before.

But this Mal guy knew you? You are Frankie right?

Frank Evans, yeah. Maybe she saw a game once, though we get so few that I would have noticed someone this beautiful, he said to me.

I have to admit, I was more than a bit uncomfortable with that. We weren’t close friends, but acquaintances enough to say ‘hi’ when we passed on the street. He couldn’t be more than twenty four and maybe as little as twenty two, thus we were from different worlds. I was a child of the 40’s when jazz was cool. I ran from Ishka Bibble to Benny Goodman with it, and that was how I met Frankie. Jazz wasn’t what it was, but there was still enough in Hartford that we were able to get out to it now and then and the festival was still being held, though not all of it was what I would consider jazz.

There’s nothing wrong with me other than I seem to have turned into your friend, I said to the African girl.

That’s why we should get you looked at, even if what you say is true, you should know we have to get it looked at.

How would I know? I asked.

You’re a psychiatric nurse aren’t you?

I was a toolmaker for the aircraft industry before I retired. I was with FerroFab for forty two years.

We got to get her looked at, the African girl said.

So what’s your name? Frankie asked her.

Bria Stevens.

They lead me toward the ambulance.

Bria explained the problem. A medic looked in my eyes, tested my vision and reflexes. I’d never done as well on a medical exam since the Viet Nam war. He looked for bruises and scrapes, asked for details of how my fall occurred. After a phone call, he pronounced me good to go, saying I was lucky I wasn’t as old as the poor guy under the truck. He said a girl in my condition would probably survive if I was hit like that, too bad about old Mr. Whitcomb.

The police got around to us. Bria explained that I was Constance Rodriguez and I’d hit my head in a fall and wasn’t myself right now. I tried to explain what had really happened and the cop told Bria, I see what you mean. I was able to give them a lucid account of what had happened except that I couldn’t help saying, ‘I’ stumbled out in front of the truck and ‘I’ got hit by the truck and ‘I’ was now being taken away in a body bag. I even politely asked if I could get my wallet and phone back when they were done with the investigation. They wished Bria good luck with her friend’s recovery.

Bria took me home, I had no key to the place, but she knew which apartment was mine and called a maintenance guy about me being locked out. She worried about me being late for work, which made me believe I was on the night shift. The maintenance guy came up and saw me, I guess it happens to all of us. You’ve never been out to the pool without your key before have you Connie? You don’t even have your fob, how’d you get back in the building?

I let her in, Bria said. She went running out without thinking when that old man was hit.

Yeah, I can see that. How is he though?

Dead on the scene, Bria said.

By this time he had the door open, Two in one day, there’s a guy fell off the roof by the pool courtyard, just missed your balcony. Most of the building is buzzing about that.

No!? Bria said.

It happened just before that accident on the street. Forensics haven’t even gotten here yet.

We were walking into the place. It was a pretty nice apartment, large living room, kitchen separated by a long four-stool island. You could see the towers of Frog Hollow to the south out the kitchen and table side, Reservoirs Mountain to the west off the balcony. Bria went to the balcony, probably to see the guy who had fallen from the roof. You smashed a beer bottle out here, did you know that?

No, I said.

I’ve got to get back downstairs, the maintenance guy said.

So here I was in this girl’s bedroom trying to find some of this girl’s clothes to put on her to make myself feel decent. I found it all too easy to doff this bikini and toss it over a drying rack in one end of the room. I caught sight of her in the mirror over the dresser and it took my breath away. It didn’t feel right at all to look at myself in a mirror and see this voluptuous centerfold staring back at me in wonder. My god what a body this girl had! I’d seen some of her hair, it was shining black ivory, now I saw how lavish and lush it really was. Her face was an abstract perfection of feminine beauty, sensuous but delicate, creamy smooth skin the color of caramel, sensuous full lips and lustrous dark eyes.

I couldn’t help it, there was no one to stop me, I caressed her/my breasts. I was astounded at how good that felt, both inside and out. I had to dress her or I would get horny, even at my age. I felt my genitals respond to the thought. I hadn’t felt that in twenty years at least. I saw her genitals respond and felt even more embarrassed at subjecting her to this embarrassment without her consent. Still it was hard to cover this wonder. To all the world, I was just looking at myself, checking for any hidden damage from my fall maybe. Then I remembered Bria was out there waiting.

I went thru all her drawers. There was only one with underwear and they were all thongs. For bras I had the choice of sports or lacy, frilly things suitable for an evening of romantic entertaining. There were feminine hygiene products. What if