The conclusion popped in his head like the snapping of fingers, and another creak sounded in the hallway behind them as if driving it home. That was when Ethan realized they were not alone.
21 The Girl with the Distracting Shampoo
April 23, 1986, 10:18 AM
Ethan jumped up from his seat as Rebecca screamed in alarm. His forward inertia slid the chair back to collide with a nearly naked man swinging a baseball bat. The man’s tighty-whiteys did little to hide the condition of his nethers. It seemed that something more than Rebecca’s preparations for a snooze had been interrupted by Ethan’s visit.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Ethan pulled out his sidearm, disengaging the safety, and aimed it as he would in any other situation where he was being barged by a half naked – and semi-aroused – assailant.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man wielding the Louisville slugger yelled, after recovering from his lost balance on the wild swing.
“Detective Tannor, NYPD.” Ethan was glad to notice that the man’s erection was retreating, though his own predicament hadn’t changed. Oddly, the only thing that occurred to him at that moment was the situational pun behind the word ‘pre-dic-ament’.
“How do we know you’re a real cop?”
“Put the bat down and we’ll talk.” Ethan pointed his gun a little off center mass to ease the man’s tension. The tea kettle continued its shrill whine.
“Hell no!” he barked.
Rebecca rose to her feet, not caring that the robe no longer sheltered her attributes. “He’s got a gun, Mark!”
“I can see that, Becky – now shut the hell up, and turn that damn thing off!” Mark twirled the bat in a slow, steady circle at the tip. Becky went to the stove, pulled the kettle away from the burner and shut off the flame.
“Your wife has a good point.” Ethan lowered his gun, no longer keeping the weapon trained on Mark’s kill mark. It sounded weird when he thought of it that way.
“That doesn’t mean shit!” The club moved in jerky motions, bringing to mind an image of Casey at the bat ready to swing for a home run; Ethan hoped for a strikeout here as well.
“Okay,” Ethan said, “call the NYPD headquarters then; ask for verification.” With his free hand he tossed his detective shield to the other man, who snatched it out of the air. “My badge number is on there.”
Mark still eyed him with suspicion, but the bat had ceased its menacing circulations.
“All I need are some answers to a few questions about a case your wife worked on.” Ethan gave him a wry grin. “And then I’ll let you two get back to your … ah … morning.”
Dr. Rebecca Wilson – or more recently known as Dr. Rebecca Frasier – had regained awareness of her near nakedness. She clutched the edges of her robe against her body as she reset the burner and took a seat at the table again.
The water had cooled off while Mark took Ethan up on the challenge to verify his identity by calling the NYPD. After ending his talk with the dispatcher, the doctor’s new husband excused himself. Moments later the sound of a shower running could be heard down the hall. Rebecca’s face reddened.
Ethan cleared his throat in the strained silence and tried to pick up where they’d left off. “I apologize for this intrusion, but like I said – I do need some answers. Where is my uncle’s body?”
“I wish I could tell you, but I honestly don’t know.” She fiddled with the collar of her robe, looking miserable. “Two men arrived in the middle of the night – around 1:30, I would guess – and asked for it.”
“Just asked?” Ethan eyed her with suspicion.
“I didn’t want to cooperate at first, but they showed identification, the works. I insisted it wasn’t protocol, and then they offered me twenty thousand dollars.”
She noted the look on Ethan’s face, then spoke again before he could respond. “You don’t understand; we just got married. I’m still paying on my student loan, and we were broke. We needed that money, and to be frank I don’t think I would have been able to stop them if they’d decided to just take his body by force.” She bit her lip and looked away, shame flooding her features.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the money,” Ethan said impatiently. “You mentioned identification. What were their names?”
She shook her head and watched the kettle. Wisps of steam were beginning to float through the hole in the spout’s lid, but its telltale whine had not yet begun. “I don’t remember. The only thing I recall was the bigger of the two men. I think his name was Jackman or Jackson.
Ethan was still scribbling down what she’d said and didn’t raise his eyes from the notepad as he asked his next question. “Their identification – was it FBI, CIA, NSA?”
“No. I’d never heard of the agency before and I can’t remember the acronym at all, I’m sorry.”
He frowned in thought and she cut in to defend herself again. “I wouldn’t have done this, but your uncle’s chart indicated there was no next of kin. I figured no one would miss the body and I was going to change the out processing sheet tomorrow, showing he had been cremated.
“Otherwise, CDC regulations would have made cremation out of the question due to the irregularity of his blood if I didn’t swap the samples. I was going to make notes on his chart correcting my findings.”
Ethan lowered the notepad and fixed his gaze on Dr. Frasier, leaning toward her. She eyed him with trepidation but didn’t back away. “What was irregular?” he asked. “I know he was AB negative, and that’s a rare blood type. But it’s not that unheard of, so what was the problem?”
“His blood was slightly radioactive. Not enough to contaminate anyone else, but definitely not healthy for him to live that way. I flagged it and called the CDC. Shortly after I made the call, these two men showed. It all seemed legit, until I didn’t want to go against CDC guidelines and they offered me the money.”
Radioactive? What the hell? His brain kept repeating the question to himself, but still he had no answers. Ethan scanned his notes for another moment before asking, “And they gave no indication as to where they were taking the body?”
She shook her head again, the motion sending another whiff of honey and almonds his way. “No. A truck pulled up to the cargo doors and a bunch of guys came in and took the body from the refrigeration unit.”
The kettle whistled its second tune, and Rebecca pushed herself up from the table to pour the boiling water into the waiting cup of instant coffee.
“Cream, Mr. Tannor?”
“Ah, yes – and sugar if you have it.”
She stirred the contents, tossed the spoon into the sink, and brought the cup and a saucer to the table, placing them in front of Ethan. She sank back into her chair and bundled up again, her face still full of uncertainty.
“Well,” Ethan said as he returned to his notes, “I now have more questions than I have answers.” Tobias’s suicide goes further down the rabbit hole than I imagined. He stood from the chair and slid it back beneath the table. “I appreciate your time and help in this investigation, Mrs. Frasier. And again, I apologize for the intrusion.”
Why was he apologizing? This woman had been complicit in serious illegal activities; what he knew could do permanent damage to her budding career.
The mournful expression on her face said she knew this. “But you didn’t even drink your coffee.”
“I only drink Folgers or Dunkin’ Donuts.” Ethan headed for the door. He didn’t bother looking back.
22 The Anguished Patient
April 23, 1986, 12:24 PM
St. Jeremiah’s was an old institution, having been built back in 1907, when construction on such buildings was simple brick and mortar. It was still a solid structure on the outside, but the inside gave away its age. The original white floor tiles were still in place but with time had morphed into a cream corn yellow streaked with black shoe scuffs. And the smell – that was another thing entirely. The air held a thick odor of old urine mixed with the harsh chemical rank of bleach. Et
han had to breathe through his mouth to avoid gagging on the stench.
Dr. Cunningham walked beside him down the east ward hallway, shooting off rapid-fire information about the individual Ethan had tracked down here: Patient 3944. Behind them, two orderlies trailed at a respectful distance.
“It’s quite normal in these cases for the cranial damage to not destroy every facet of the human mind,” Dr. Cunningham was saying, an almost fevered look in his eyes. “It is truly a remarkable thing.”
Ethan noticed two staffers talking over a dirty mop and bucket. When they caught sight of Dr. Cunningham rounding the corner they grabbed their cleaning equipment and went back to their duties. The doctor was so engrossed in his one-sided conversation that he didn’t spot the idle employees. When Cunningham paused for breath Ethan asked, “So you’re saying it’s remarkable he survived from the head trauma?”
The man flapped his hands in dismissal. “No, that is fairly typical. The mind – the mind is what is remarkable. It’s like a giant video camera that is constantly set to record.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You must think about how amazing the brain is. From the moment of memory recollection, all information is stored. And at an instant –” he snapped his fingers for dramatic effect, “it can recall with intimate detail a memory long ago that had not been there a second before.
“Keep in mind that when thinking about a past event, you are technically just recalling the last time you remembered the memory itself, not the actual incident. With each recollection, the data can grow less precise – to the point that it could eventually become a false memory upon its retrieval. It is like the past, unchangeable the moment it happens, but over time the brain can fool us into remembering a contradictory version. This is why eyewitness testimony in court cases can be a dangerous thing to rely upon.”
“Yes, that is pretty riveting,” Ethan drawled. “I’m sure I won’t be able to sleep tonight with this new revelation.”
Cunningham threw him a pinched look, mouth tight with agitation. “I may be old, Detective, but I do sense sarcasm when I hear it.”
“Noted. No disrespect, but this talk of memories is not why I’m here. I just need information about the patient.”
“I understand.” The doctor looked so crestfallen Ethan almost felt a twinge of pity. But then he started up again as if having his own contradictory relapse. “I can get carried away by the intensity of this subject matter. It boggles my mind. For example, a friend or colleague tells you a story of his life, and during his conversation perhaps some image or word sparks one of your own memories – one that had not been on your mind for years, yet you can remember with the greatest precision like it were yesterday and not five, ten or twenty years ago.”
Ethan ground his teeth. “You know what? I’m remembering something now. On April 23, 1986, thirty seconds ago, I told you I didn’t care. I just came to see the man I inquired about, not for a science lesson.”
Cunningham sniffed and cleared his throat. “This way then.”
Blessed silence was granted for the next several moments of their walk until they came to a gray metal door.
“Why is this type of confinement needed?” Ethan asked. “I thought he was a harmless man with memory loss.”
The doctor pursed his lips. “He … has demonstrated instability in the past. Steve and Luke will be outside if you need assistance. I’m not sure if you’ll get the information you came for, but take as long as you like.”
Steve and Luke, the muscle enforcement of St. Jeremiah’s who had traveled the hallways with Ethan and the doctor, now stood by the door to the solitary wing. They both wore scowls that seemed to have been permanently transfixed on their faces.
Where’s Nurse Ratchet?
“I can’t guarantee the patient will be helpful in answering your questions; he has primarily been unresponsive. You may reclaim your gun at the front desk when you’re ready to leave. Good luck and good day, Detective.” Cunningham gave a perfunctory nod to the two beefy bouncers and left, humming a merry tune as he traversed back down the east ward.
One of the musclemen pulled on the metal door. It screeched and grated outward with reluctance, as though unaccustomed to being opened.
Inside the room, an elderly man, gaunt and sickly white, rocked back and forth on the edge of a small bed. His ginger colored facial hair magnified the pasty paleness of his skin. He stopped rocking and craned his thin neck, staring at Ethan with distant eyes. There were several missing teeth in the man’s mouth, and his shoulder was misshapen – like a bone had broken long ago and hadn’t seated correctly into place as it healed. It was painful to look upon. Ethan averted his eyes, forcing them back to the man’s skeletal face. Despite Patient 3944’s dead features, his eyes seemed to hold an eerie, knowing expression. Like recognition.
“Hello, traveler,” the patient rasped through dry, cracked lips. “Has it been averted yet?”
So a conversation had been initiated. This was a good start. The bad part was it made as much sense as a rubber crutch. “My name is Ethan Tannor. I’m a detective with the NYPD.”
“Ethan? Ethan? No, you have no name now. You are a traveler, a lonely traveler like me. You must be careful what you say, and more careful what you do.” He raised a bony finger in warning, and Ethan could see faded scars, infected scabs, and fresh cuts all along his arm.
“Okay.” This was going nowhere quick, but Ethan soldiered on. “I have some questions about a visit you may have received from my uncle. Do you remember a man named Tobias Keane?”
“No other visitors, only you.” The old man squinted a filmy eye at Ethan. “Has it been averted?”
“Has what been averted?” Ethan was beginning to think he should have heeded Cunningham’s earlier advice. This was a waste of time; the Skeletor look-a-like was giving him nothing to go on.
“The War.”
War? Which war? It could be any – World War I, World War II, Korean, Vietnam? The Cold War? Well, that one’s still in play. But Ethan didn’t think the Cold War was what this disturbed man was referring to, and all of the other ones had ended. Best to just play along. “Yes, it has been averted.” He wasn’t good at talking out of his ass, but if got the man back on topic he would attempt anything for answers.
Patient 3944 visibly relaxed, and as the tension ebbed from one shoulder, the deformed one appeared to jut higher. “Good, then they got my message after all.”
“What message did they get? How did you get here?” Every minute Ethan spent in this room with the old man increased his feeling of disconnect. Where was this taking him?
A finger raised again, this time pointing at the yellowed wall where there was a series of letters and numbers written in no discernible pattern. The random markings had been made in dark rust colored paint, but wait – that couldn’t be right. A patient this unstable wouldn’t be given paint. Then the healing scabs on the old man’s arms made complete sense. It wasn’t paint on the wall, but blood.
Repressing a shudder, Ethan pulled out his pad and wrote down the jumbled sequence. “And what does all this mean?” he asked, not really expecting a coherent answer.
“Hope. We have hope now.” A gap-toothed smile spread across the sickly face, eyes staring at Ethan, looking through him and beyond to some place far away. “Yes, traveler – it’s all letters and numbers, quatrains and words. There is a message … a message that needs to be delivered. It is for me and me alone to know. The code is the key and the key is the code.”
Sweet Jesus, he’s talking in riddles! “Quatrains?” A thought occurred to Ethan and he reached into his trench coat, pulling out The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam. “Does it have anything to do with this?”
The man only smiled and continued to stare.
“What does it mean, and what does this,” Ethan waved the book, “have to do with that?” He jabbed it at the blood code on the wall.
The man stood up slowly, as if measuring his frail body’s reaction to the mov
ement, then shuffled toward Ethan with an unstable gait from what appeared to be a damaged hip. “Can I borrow your pen?”
Ethan handed it over but readied himself for a surprise attack. These people could be like wild animals, lunging without notice. Not to be trusted.
But Patient 3944 just took the pen and moved to the wall, studying his handiwork. “I can go now. My mission is done.”
Ethan glanced down at his pad to compare the two messages and ensure their accuracy, but he remained confused. Everything was going around in strange circles, one coded clue here, leading to another, which wrapped back on itself. This was the most baffling case he’d worked on.
The sound of a dull thunk followed by a gurgle snapped Ethan’s head up in time to see the man drawing back the pen and plunging it into his neck again. “What the fuck?”
The man dropped to his knees but kept ramming the sharp end of the writing implement into his jugular again and again, blood spattering in disjointed patterns around him. Then he fell over, eyes frozen in death, a lop-sided smile stretched across his face.
23 Trace/Off
April 23, 1986, 6:10 PM
The cramped records room of St. Jeremiah’s made Ethan feel almost claustrophobic as he sat surrounded by volumes of books. The fiasco of Patient 3944’s suicide had died down hours before and in the aftermath Ethan had demanded to be taken to the archives.
Again, he battled with the frustration of knowing something huge was in motion, but he still had no clue how all the pieces fit. Not for the first time, Ethan wished his uncle was still alive so he could have his own personal interrogation with the man.
At last he came to the page he’d been searching three hours for: a sign-in guest registry dating back fourteen years.