THE CLONE
Two men in the lavatory tried to rouse him
but he was unconscious, face down in the toilet stall. They turned him over. His face and clothes were soiled with filth
from the floor. His eyes were shut, but
he gasped for breath. A thin stream of
blood trickled from his nose into his mouth and down his chin.
The two men and the manager carried him up
the stairs to the bar and laid him on the floor. Within minutes a crowd surrounded him. The manager asked if anyone was with him or
knew who he was. No one knew but the
doorman said he had seen him come in.
“Was he alone?” the manager asked.
“No.
There was a guy with him.”
“Where is he?”
No one knew.
“Back off and give him some air.” A voice spoke out. His collar was unbuttoned and belt
unfastened. Alarmed by the blood and
gray pallor of the man’s face, the manager finally called 911. The manager kept asking if anyone knew who
the unconscious man was and where his companion had gone. The man’s body convulsed then went limp. The door opened and two policemen
entered. The manager told the police
what he knew. “He was out cold when we
found him downstairs next to the toilet.
I carried him upstairs with the help of those two guys standing near the
bar. They can confirm what happened. Jimmy, the bouncer, said he saw him come in
with a partner. That’s all I know.”
“Is that Jimmy over by the door?”
“Yes, officer.”
“And no one else saw his partner?”
“I don’t know.”
two
San Francisco Police Detective Price Huntman
was thirty-nine, salt and pepper hair, degree in criminal psychology, a likable
nature, and always dressed immaculately.
He slowly read and reread the report.
The victim, Nat Trambles, had overdosed in a nightclub. The suspect in custody had been found at the
victim’s home address. He claimed he was
the original Nat Trambles and the victim was a clone. The body lay in the morgue.
Detective Huntman looked across the desk at
the suspect, an handsome man in his late thirties, five foot nine inches, thick
brown hair, lean athletic build, wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt. Huntman noticed a scar above the suspect’s
right eye. The detective swiveled in his
chair and looked out the window. It was
raining and a dense gray fog was rolling in.
The report indicated the suspect showed
detachment upon hearing the news of the victim’s death. The detective returned to the suspect. “Mr. Trambles, were you read your rights when
taken into custody?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I notice several details in the report that
need clarification.”
Trambles clumsily shifted in the chair. He glanced around the room then looked
down. He seemed restless and strung out.
The detective leaned forward. “Do you feel any sadness over the loss of
your friend?”
The suspect’s eyes narrowed then widened as
tears formed in the corners. He replied,
“What do you think? Yeah, I feel deep
sadness. You don’t understand. I’m not the same person I was. I don’t know what to say. I loved the clone. It was like a brother but then it turned into
a terrible parasite. It lied, betrayed,
and robbed me of everything. It left me
empty.” Trambles’s jaw locked for a
second. His hands clasped.
Huntman studied the suspect. “You knew he or it was a drug addict, right?”
Trambles’ legs shook as he replied. “User, not addict. We were celebrating. Nat, I mean, the clone wanted to push it that
night. Generally, the clone was managing
its life okay. I didn’t realize how out
of control it would get.”
“‘Nat?’
You called each other by the same name?”
“Uh, yeah, we called each other by the same
name.”
“What were you celebrating?”
“The Inaugural Show at the new
“If he was your double, then I’m guessing
you’re a drug user also?”
“I have my tendencies.”
“Tendencies? What do you do for a living?”
“I’m an artist, a painter.”
“An artist?
How much do you get for your paintings?”
“Not enough.”
“So how did you afford a clone?”
“I got it on a swap with Biotech
Laboratories. Eight of my paintings hang
in their corporate headquarters.”
"A sweet trade. How’d you get the scar above your eye?"
Trambles voice hesitated then spoke. “A car accident.”
There was a knock at the door.
“What’ve you got, Bailey?” Detective Huntman asked. A slender, attractive Asian policewoman with
a black ponytail handed the detective a file and waited.
Huntman read the autopsy report.
“Trambles, Nat, W M, 5’10”, 155 pounds,
approximately forty-five years old, brown hair, snake tattoo on right arm.”
His eyes skipped down the page. The forensic examination revealed the
victim’s lungs and liver were severely deteriorated by years of abuse. Detective Huntman looked up. He studied the suspect before returning to
the report, indicating, “Death occurred by a lethal injection of heroin and
cocaine causing cardiac arrest.”
The detective dismissed the policewoman then
returned to the suspect.
“If his death wasn’t accidental, I’m guessing
you had something to do with it. There’s
a doorman who can put you at the scene.”
“No.
You don’t understand.”
“How long have you had the clone?”
Trambles paused. “About a year and a half.”
"A short lived clone." Huntman contended. “Do you have any proof of identification with
you, Mr. Trambles?”
“I’m Nat Trambles.” The suspect spoke up nervously. “The clone had my wallet.”
“What was the clone doing with your ID?”
The suspect’s eyes searched around the room
avoiding the detective’s scrutiny. His
hand opened then closed. “I’m Nat
Trambles. I’m Nat Trambles. I’m Nat Trambles.”
“Why did the clone have your wallet?” Huntman watched waiting for an answer. “Do you have a tattoo, Nat?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me see it, please.”
The suspect pulled up his left sleeve. There was an ink blue circular snake eating
its tail.
The detective nodded then asked. “Who are you?”
“I’m Nat Trambles.” The suspect hesitated and stuttered, “But who
is Nat Trambles? I ask myself that
question everyday.”
“You mean you don’t know who you are?”
“No, not really. I’m Nat Trambles, but who is Nat Trambles?”
“Let me put it to you this way, Mr. Trambles,
or whoever you are, the medical report checks out with the person we found
overdosed. The victim is none other than
Nat Trambles. What I’m saying is you
don’t exist anymore. I don’t know who or
what you are and what happened last night, but I’m going to find out.”
Huntman spoke into the intercom. “Ishmael, send in someone to process Mr.
Trambles.”
The suspect was escorted from the room.
Detective Huntman returned to the window and
stared out at the impending gray mist.
His instincts lead him to believe the suspect was the real Nat Trambles
who had murdered his own clone. It made
sense. Trambles was a drug addict,
dangerous to himself and anyone around him.
The detective considered it possible the dead victim intended
suicide. Or was it an accident? Was he set up? Could the deceased be the real Nat Trambles,
and the suspect his clone? The forensic
examination clearly stated the body had endured years of abuse, not a year and
a half (Do clones inherit the physical decay of their host?). It was 1995, and clone technology was so new
that there wasn’t a criminal precedence.
The suspect in custody appeared less aged and unblemished than the
autopsy findings. The detective sensed
Trambles was lying. What was he
hiding? Clues breed clues, the
detective’s fingers thumped.
three
I was fingerprinted and had my tongue
swabbed. The cops confiscated my shoe
laces, belt, and pocket contents. They
took me to a small cell with a battered metal cot hinged to the wall next to a
toilet and sink. I sat on the cot and
wondered how I’d become such a stranger to myself.
I felt a chill and curled up. There’s been a number of times in my life
when things got so bad that I couldn’t do anything but hide. I imagined a place somewhere far away. I’m not certain if I slept. All night long I felt bugs crawling over my
face.
four
Price Huntman was in love with the Police
Captain’s daughter, Elizabeth, who was quite fond of the detective in return. The Captain thought Huntman a good
prospect. The detective was scheduled to
go before the Police Review Board the following week, hoping for a promotion
and a raise. Cracking this peculiar case
would further validate his qualifications, but Huntman knew little about
clones.
Detective Huntman called Bailey on the
intercom. “Check out Trambles' life and
career. See what turns up. Let me know the instant
five
I was awakened by the clattering of wheels
rolling on concrete. There were no
windows to indicate the time of day, and the lights were kept on. A jailer escorted a kitchen hand who passed
me a sandwich from a metal tray. My body
craved nicotine.
I stared at the floor. I noticed a torn and wrinkled piece of paper
lying under the cot. I picked it up and
unfolded it. It was a news clipping
about a murder in
It read that a woman awoke to rattling sounds
of forced entry. Fearing for her family,
she shook awake her husband. He wondered
why Sam, their watchdog, wasn’t barking.
The husband darted to the closet and retrieved a 9-mm handgun. He heard footsteps as he noticed the back
door was ajar. A man’s figure appeared
in the darkness.
“Freeze!”
The nervous husband hollered as the figure approached.
Shots fired into the darkness. Their eyes met for an instant. The intruder fell to the floor. The husband trembled as he turned on the
lights.
“Oh my God, how could I have done this?” The husband exclaimed as he recognized his
own son.
The boy had come home unexpectedly early from
a camping trip.
I reread the story several times. In one way it seemed unlikely, yet in another
way, it was plausible enough. It
occurred to me the outcome of a situation could lead in many directions.
Some time later, a guard directed me from my
cell to a long corridor, up several flights of stairs, then along another
corridor to the interrogator’s office.
six
Detective Huntman stood and greeted, “Good
afternoon, Nat. I trust you haven’t been
too inconvenienced. I’ve taken a
particular interest in your case.”
The policewoman entered and handed the
detective a printed sheet.
“Thanks, Bailey.”
The door swung shut.
The detective scanned the page. Huntman looked up and peered into the
suspect’s eyes.
“I‘m a great admirer of art. Someday I hope to be able to afford one of
your paintings, Nat. I see here you’ve
quite a list of exhibitions. I notice a
flurry of activity in the last year.
You’re quite popular at the moment.”
“After a lifetime of obscurity.” Trambles spoke sorely as he turned his head
away. He scratched his elbow.
“Are you a reader, Nat? Did you ever read “William Wilson” by Edgar
Allen Poe or “The Double” by Dostoyevski?
They’re stories about characters challenged by their duplicate selves.”
“No, Detective, I’m strictly a player. I’m too hyper to read. Besides, books are a thing of the past. If you can’t watch it on a screen, it’s too
slow and complicated.”
Huntman tried another approach. “I want to understand you, Nat, and possibly
I can be of help. I’m not here to judge
you. Please, Nat, tell me what
happened.”
“What can I tell him?” Trambles thought to himself as he sat confronted
by the Police Detective. “The total
reality as I know it?” He bit his
thumbnail tearing a strip. He held it
under his tongue.
The detective prompted. “I’m all ears, Nat.”
“You look like you got eyes and teeth too,
Detective Huntman. You see on the news
how the Russian river flooded and washed away all those peoples’ homes? Eucalyptus trees toppling in
“Were you born in
“I hitchhiked out here during the Summer of
Love from
“Briefly describe your circumstances prior to
the clone.”
"I was unprofitable, cloneless and
almost homeless." Trambles
snickered.
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Nat. There’s a probable murder charge hanging over
your head.”
“Cool, cool.”
Trambles composed himself. His
tone changed.
“I don’t know. For years, I’ve strived for legitimacy in the
art world. Maybe it was the collapse of
the art market that gutted me, or maybe it was my paintings. Either way, no one was buying them. I looked in the mirror and saw myself
aging. My habits had outlived my
desires. My dreams had come and gone,
yet I kept hoping for some reason to endure.”
“Detective Huntman, life after a certain age
becomes a lie, a denial of truth. No one
can accept their mortality and denies their own weakening. We imitate our former selves and fake our
foothold. We pretend but we all know
it’s a lie.”
Huntman sat back in his seat with his arms
crossed, intently listening as the suspect continued, “I thought the clone
would be a chance to renew myself. It
was a last ditch effort to save myself, to succeed where previously I’d
failed.” Trambles’ voice trailed off
into silence as his teeth pulled at a scab on his right knuckle.
Huntman sat up in his chair. "Quit chewing and talk to me, Nat. Tell me more about you and the clone. What was your first meeting like? Tell me everything in detail."
Trambles legs shook faster, and he breathed
heavily as he tried to recall. “It’s
kind of a fog. I’m trying to remember.
“It was 1993, and the 80’s art boom had long
since evaporated. I had fallen into
terrible debt, and was desperate, Detective.
I forced myself to apprentice as a commercial graphic artist in order to
survive. Then suddenly from out of
nowhere, a woman named Mrs. Arkly contacted me.
She was a corporate art consultant who had selected my work through a
slide registry. She wanted eight
paintings! She asked if I would be
interested in an exchange with Biotech Laboratories. My thoughts ran wild. I imagined an working clone earning a decent
salary who would free me up so I could go back to painting. I also imagined loyal partner. Biotech extracted samples of my DNA, and
several months later arranged the delivery.
“It was in early September, and the delivery
was a week late. I heard a knock and
opened the door. The clone startled me. ‘Hello.’
I said. ‘Is it really you?’
“‘Yes, it’s me. What up?’
The clone shot back.
“There was a long pause. I immediately felt a mixture of excitement,
envy, and disgust. He was a younger
version of myself with brighter, more unafraid eyes, yet they were my eyes. I glanced away. I looked back and touched the clone’s
shoulder. The clone’s eyes stared into
mine. It nodded and smiled back at me.
“‘Make yourself at home.’ I offered as the clone scanned the room.
“‘It feels good here. I love all the windows, very spacious.’ The clone spoke. It was my voice. I felt invaded. The clone sensed my terror.
“‘Don’t be frightened. Please, trust me. I want to help you. We can accomplish great things. Show me where we begin?’ It queried.
“‘Where do we begin? Good question.’ I searched its eyes for some inner-connection
but there was none. It stared back at me
like a mirror. This thing was walking
into a life it knew nothing about. There
were secrets I could never admit to it.
This was a chance to change my fate.
I prayed the clone was my salvation.”
Trambles’ body clumsily shifted in the chair.
“I do art because I have to. Sometimes I slash or destroy paintings. It’s not about an audience, rather my sanity,
self-respect, spiritual calling. Painting
is the only way I know to love myself. I
sink into despair when I’m not creating.
I know I’m selfish and all screwed up.”
Trambles looked up at the detective just as the telephone rang.
“Excuse me, Nat.” The detective picked up the phone and spoke
into the receiver. “
“Know the joke about the obscene clone fall?”
“Cut the nonsense, Nat! Don’t you realize the seriousness of your
situation?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean, yes, Detective Huntman, I don’t want
to go to prison. I didn’t murder anyone.”
“Then get serious and tell me about your
relationship with the clone.”
Trambles’s shoulders slumped as he sat back
in the chair. His fingers rubbed his
chin and mouth. “I took the clone to a
bar in the
“Explain to me about your destructive tendencies.”
The detective interrupted.
“You mean why I slash paintings or get so
wasted?” Trambles asked.
“Your drug habit, not your art act. I need to understand the extent of your
addiction or ‘self-sabotage’ as you call it.
Don’t worry, I’m not here to bust you for narcotics, Nat.”
“I’ve always enjoyed a good buzz, but I guess
I’ve been pushing further since the clone.”
“Did the clone liked a good buzz too?”
“Yeah sure, Detective, but not in the
beginning. At first, I tried to protect
it from my own weaknesses, but near the end, getting wasted were the only times
we could relate. The clone would dance
insanely. I used to love it. The clone could be an outrageously funny
character. You know that song they play
on the radio? ‘Dum dedelee, dumdum
dedelee. If you knew how hooked you are,
you wouldn’t run. Dumdum, dedelee,
dumdum.” Trambles foot tapped and his
hands made gestures.
The detective pointed his forefinger at the
suspect as he ordered, “Enough, Nat!
Look at me! What drugs? Tell me about your habit. How frequent and expensive is it? How is your conduct affected when you ‘get
wasted?’ Be specific.”
Trambles crossed his legs and turned his head
sideways and snickered.
“I swear, Detective Huntman, I’m an
occasional user, not a drug addict. I
pay what I can afford at the time. I
hurt inside. The loner in me urges,
‘Forget and feel nothing.’ Sometimes I
like to cry. I don’t want to admit this
but maybe I’m into pain, like I’m supposed to suffer. I guess I’m comfortable with the defeat of
getting wasted." Trambles’ thumb
curled up in his palm then his fingers closed.
"Getting wasted is a celebration of the incurable loneliness of my
soul.” Trambles hung his head.
“I’m no psychiatrist, Nat. People admire and buy your paintings. Why squander your money on drugs and mire in
self-pity? What a waste of life and
opportunity. What kind of a person are
you?”
The suspect sat silent. Huntman’s brow furrowed. “I don’t believe you, I think you’re playing
me, Nat. What are you hiding? Why do you think you deserve to beat yourself
stupid?”
Trambles’s shoulders shrugged. He stared at the floor and faked a snicker.
“Whoever Trambles was, the damage was real,”
Huntman thought. “A sad specimen of
humanity. Or was Trambles a convincing
actor pandering for sympathy? Huntman
had a hunch the suspect was conniving.
Several times Huntman saw an expression of smug delight flash across
Trambles’s face. The detective listened
and watched for the subtlest clues.
The detective urged, “Let’s get back to the
clone.”
Trambles faced Huntman. “I know I’m messed up. My life is out of control; one mistake after
another. I don’t know how to stop. I hate the despair in me. I want to find love. I begged the clone, ‘Stand by me and believe
in me. I’m longing and hurting.’ For a while the clone had a positive
influence in restoring hope back into my life, but things changed. It became more independent, sarcastic and
egotistical. I’d probably encouraged it
but not purposefully. I didn’t know what
I was doing.”
Trambles pressed his fingers against each
other and stared out the window.
“Detective Huntman, I’ve never fathered children and the clone was
certainly not my child. However, I was
trying to instill a positive spirit in it; raise it if you will. If the clone was to be my makeshift messiah,
then it needed to take in my moods yet I was reluctant to reveal too much. How would it interpret my past? Would it understand my sins and
darkness? I wanted it to honor, love and
listen sympathetically, but I got paranoid.
I felt like I was being smothered.”
“What exactly are you talking about,
Nat? Why did you feel smothered? What do you mean by messiah? Do you believe in God?" The detective concentrated on the suspect’s
body language.
Trambles clumsily shifted his body in the
chair. His eyes darted. “No, Detective. There is no God."
Detective Huntman’s hunch was confirming
(science could be a clone’s only possible god).
“You mentioned you felt paranoid and smothered, Nat. When did that occur?"
The suspect glared down at the floor. "The clone was constantly pumping me for
information like it had a hidden agenda.
It asked me, ‘What were you like when you were younger?’ I told the clone I was wild.
“The clone kept pestering me, ‘Be more
revealing, please, tell me some stories about your past with details. Come on, you can tell me. You never let me into your inner thoughts and
feelings. Why? What are you hiding? What happened to you? Tell me.
Tell me!’ Now that I think of it,
the clone sounded a lot like you, Detective.”
The detective rubbed his chin. He fussed with his tie.
“‘Cool out!’
I shouted at the clone. ‘Give me
some space.’
“‘You don’t trust me, do you?’ The clone accused.
“I replied, ‘Yeah, I trust you. You’re all I’ve got in this world right now.’
Trambles’ eyes peered into Huntman’s. “As soon as I said that, I wanted to take it
back. I needed so badly to be saved, but
honestly, the trust wasn’t there. I looked
at this thing and shook my head. I was
so desperate I tried anyway. I reached
out to hug and hold the clone.
“No, that’s not how it happened. Some of this is difficult to remember,
Detective. The clone was sitting. I collapsed on the floor like it was a
church. I knelt down and pressed my head
against its knees and cried to the clone.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing or where I belong. I need help.
I want to get better. I‘ve never
been able to see the big picture until it’s too late. I always concentrate on the past and what it
could have been. The present is a
struggle and the future is unthinkable.
I always hope my life will somehow change for the better.’
Trambles looked up at the ceiling. “I broke down unable to understand how this
relationship could work. There’s so much
pain inside me. I’ve been bad and messed
up in some weird, hairy places. Done
some regrettable stuff. The clone didn’t
need to know all that. Detective
Huntman, I’m not a bad person. I’ve
never committed any real crimes. Self-destruction
is my only crime.”
“Please, continue, Nat.”
Trambles turned his head away. He looked back at the detective.
“I explained to the clone, ‘To me, painting
is flight from some former self to an undiscovered self. It’s a suicide mission against one’s own
personality. Everything I make is
crippled.’
“The clone looked puzzled. It questioned. ‘Crippled, why? I don’t understand. Why does it have to be so painful? Why can’t you make happy paintings? I don’t understand.’ I laughed relieved by its innocence.
“As much as I was fascinated by the clone, I
always suspected it. Our involvement was
complicated. The line between reality
and fantasy got blurry.”
“Blurry?
Explain yourself.” The detective
interrupted.
Trambles shifted restlessly in his chair
trying to gauge whether or not the detective believed him. “I’m a totally impractical person living in a
dream world and desperately needing to compromise with reality.”
Trambles’ voice lowered almost to a
whisper. “I wasn’t being honest with
myself. I wanted to forget who I was,
sit back and watch the clone. I wanted
to believe the clone was me.” Trambles
scratched his elbow. His legs shook.
“Yes, uh, huh.” Detective Huntman nodded while scribbling
into a notepad. He’d begun to notice
subtle repetitive patterns in the suspect’s behavior. The detective had growing suspicions
concerning the suspect’s appearance. The
suspect looked too unsullied for his age and given the circumstances of his
past. Trambles looked more like he came
out of a test tube eighteen months ago than someone who had lived in the
streets on and off for forty-six years.
Had the original Nat Trambles intentionally killed himself in a dejected
mid-life crisis? Why would a clone
commit suicide? It had everything to
gain. Do clones have souls?
The detective studied the suspect with
skepticism. He conjectured on the
suspect before him. If it was indeed a
duplicate, then it was capable of unconscionable deceit. Whatever integrity the real Nat Trambles had
would have to be one step removed in his clone.
As the detective scribbling into his
notebook, the suspect listened to the pen scratch the page. Trambles wiped the corners of his mouth,
listening to the rain patter against the window. He sensed the Police Detective’s growing
suspicions. Trambles bit and pulled at a
cuticle. He coughed, not knowing what to
say.
Huntman looked up. “Excuse me, Nat. I can’t pretend to understand or even imagine
what it would be like to live with a clone.
This thing was pushing you out of existence, am I right? It’s probable that you resented and hated the
clone enough to murder it.”
“I’m not a murderer, Detective Huntman, I
swear. Ask anyone who knows me.”
“Who knows you, Nat? Do you have family?”
Trambles squirmed in his seat. “A brother.
I had a brother. He died.”
The detective questioned, “What was his
name?”
The suspect looked puzzled, darting his eyes
around the room. “Uhhhh, Nat, I mean,
Huntman pressed, “You had a brother who died,
and you have trouble remembering his name.
How and when did your brother die?”
Trambles bit a nail. “I, uhh, don’t remember. It was a long time ago. We were kids.
He drowned in a lake.”
“Having trouble remembering your past, Nat,
inventing as you go along. Your story is
breaking down.”
“Sometimes I have trouble remembering the
past.”