Unrevealed

unaccounted for. I dissociated every day.” As he relived that time of his life, it was clear to me that Gambrel obviously suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder — unfortunately, something I’m intimately familiar with. One’s mere existence becomes questionable, at best. He continued. “The only thing that kept me somewhat grounded was music. The Beatles, most of all. I let my appearance go that whole summer of ‘69. People started saying, jokingly, that I looked like John Lennon with my beard and long hair. And that was okay because — you were right — I did identify with him in many ways. I wanted to be free, like I thought he was. I had to get away from Philadelphia and the memories. I sold the family house and everything in it. The only thing I kept was that 76ers jersey, the Phillies ticket stubs, and that photo. I have no idea why. I just needed something tangible that would remind me occasionally of who I used to be. But the truth was,
I couldn’t stand being myself anymore because there was too much pain attached to that guy.”
    “And becoming British was pretty cool to you.”
    “Becoming John.” He rolled his eyes.
    “But calling yourself ‘John’ would have been too obvious, right? So, you opted for next best name. Winston . Lennon’s middle name.”
    Gambrel shook his head. “You’re good, Jane.”
    “You smoked Dunhill cigarettes because John Lennon smoked them.” He nodded, shocked that I made that connection. “You bought some reel-to-reel tapes on proper elocution so you could speak with a proper British accent.”
    “God, you found them, too, eh?” He swallowed hard.
    “Yeah, I opened up lots of closets and drawers.”
    Gambrel stared at me. I knew exactly what he was thinking.
    “So, you went to England,” I said, changing the subject.
    “Yes, right,” he said, trying to contain his anxiety. “But I still wasn’t all there…up here.…” He tapped his head. “But that all changed…when I found my Abbey.” He smiled. “We met at a pub not far from Abbey Road where that photo was taken for the album. John Lennon was singing ’Give Peace a Chance‘ on the radio. She told me it was a kaleidoscope of synchronicities that meant we were destined to be together. Me, who looked like John Lennon, and her, named Abbey, in a pub on Abbey Road. And I believed her. She breathed light into my darkness for the first time since the accident. She fell in love with the image of who she thought I was. And I kept telling myself that it was okay to let her believe that, because deep down, my love for her was honest. When she told me she dreamed of going to America, I told her I’d follow her
anywhere. I loved her sense of adventure and she…loved my eccentricities.”
    “Eccentricities.”
    He looked at the two-way mirror in a guarded fashion. “Yes,” he said, barely above a whisper.
    “When did you tell her about your past?”
    He sheepishly looked at me. “Never.” I couldn’t believe it, but he was serious. “I wanted to, believe me. I kept thinking that I would early on in our relationship. But then, it became easier and more comfortable to be Winston Gambrel than Rick Gambrel. I liked Winston because my Abbey loved him so much.”
    My God, I thought. That’s one helluva secret to keep under your vest. “And so you came to Colorado and lived happily ever after.”
    “Yes. We did ,” he emphasized. “She was truly my soul mate.”
    I leaned forward. “But she was working fairly long hours, lately, wasn’t she?”
    “Yes. The pub is sponsoring two big events this month — ”
    “She wasn’t getting a lot of sleep?”
    Gambrel stared at me. “No. She had bouts of insomnia.”
    “So, she took something to help her sleep.”
    He eyed me carefully. “Sometimes…”
    “A drug whose label clearly states that one of its side effects is sleepwalking.” He looked at the two-way mirror and then back to me with pleading eyes. I leaned forward and whispered to him. “A secret is not worth keeping if it means you have to tell a greater lie.” He bowed his head. “You asked me if I gave cold bottled water to people like you and I told you that I did. I don’t, however, give cold bottled water to killers. And you are not a killer. When I met you by
the elevator today, I was coming upstairs from the evidence room. Prior to that, I’d gotten a call from the coroner’s office. The autopsy on Abbey showed that she died from the fall down the stairs and that