Chapter 2
They waited for the police to arrive. "Maybe we should introduce ourselves," she said. "My name is Helen. Helen Fisher. What's yours?" He was startled. It felt for a second as if he might answer her, but of course he drew a blank and couldn't.
She chuckled. "I thought maybe that would work," she said. "You never know." She rummaged around in her pocket and pulled out a small wallet. It had a pen attached, and she found a scrap of paper in it. She wrote down her name and phone number.
"I'd like it if you would call me later and let me know how it's going. If you think of it." She handed him the paper. "Unless you'd like me to go to the police station with you?"
"No, I've imposed on you enough. But thanks." He took the piece of paper, a grocery receipt, and looked at her name. He realized it was the only name he knew. He turned it over and studied it.
"Andy's Market. Belmont, Washington. Is that where we are?" It didn't sound familiar, which gave him a sinking sensation. He was lost for sure.
"Yes. I guess you probably feel like a stranger here." She held out her right hand and he put his in hers and they shook hands. "Welcome to Belmont," she said, and gave him an encouraging smile.
They sat in silence for a few moments, and then she touched his arm. "I think they're here." She stood up and waved at the black and white cruiser nosing through the parking lot towards them. The patrolman parked the car and walked in their direction, a small clipboard in his hand. He was short, and thick around the middle. His belt looked strained with its effort, and his black uniform shirt was stressed at the buttons. In spite of that, his walk was cocky. Too many donuts. It was a comfort to realize he knew about cops and donuts.
The patrolman looked from one of them to the other. "Are you the woman who called? Mrs. Fisher?"
"Yes, and this is our mystery man. I hope you can help him." The officer looked him up and down, appraising.
"I'm Officer Peck. What's the problem here, sir?"
"The problem is I seem to have lost my memory." It sounded dumb.
"And your name, sir?"
"Well that's one of the things I don't know. I don't know who I am."
"You don't know your own name?" Peck seemed disturbed. Maybe he was irritated because he couldn't fill out his report form.
"I'd tell you if I could, officer. I'm sorry, but I can't. That is the problem. I was hoping the police could help me figure it out." Now he was getting irritated, and wished they hadn't called after all. He didn't need this attitude.
"What are you doing here in the park?" Peck wore dark glasses with a shiny, mirrored surface that hid his eyes.
"Here in the park? Apparently I've been running. I don't remember anything else."
A crackling voice emanated from the policeman's shoulder, and he tipped his head towards the two-way radio clipped to his collar. "I'm on the scene here at Waterside Park. Subject says he doesn't know who he is." The response was unintelligible. "White male . . . " he said into the radio and then turned and asked, "How old are you, sir?"
"I don't know!" That was another shock. He had no idea.
"Mid-thirties, I'd guess. He doesn't know that either." The radio crackled back and he replied.
"Roger that. Heading your way."
"Sir, why don't we go down to the station and see what we can find out." The officer held out a beefy hand to take his arm and he jerked away.
"I'm coming." They walked towards the patrol car with Helen following along. Officer Peck opened the back door and gestured for him to get in. There was a wire screen barrier between the front and back seats.
"Do I have to sit in the back? You're not arresting me, are you?"
"Regulations, sir."
He was embarrassed. He knew he was the center of attention as the people in the park nearby turned to look at the minor excitement. What were they thinking? That Helen reported him for being a pervert in the park or something? They'd probably go home and say, "I saw the cops pick up a guy in the park this morning. I wonder what they were arresting him for."
Helen stood by the car and gave him a little wave before the door was closed on him. "Call me if you can," she said.
"Thanks for your help," he said. "I will."
The police car wound around the parking lot, headed up the hill, and turned left on a main street that bordered the bay. He watched everything out the window as they went, looking for something familiar. There were condominium buildings all along the way. Did he live in one of those? Nothing rang a bell. They reached downtown, in silence. There were people on the street, probably on their way to work. He wondered again where he was supposed to be this morning. He must have a job.
They arrived at the police station. As they approached the big glass doors, just before Officer Peck opened and held the door to usher him into the lobby, he caught a quick glimpse of Peck's reflection. And just behind him, a gangly young man in exercise clothes.
That was me!
It was bare in the lobby except for two chairs on either side of a table that held a little pile of magazines, and a rack of brochures about safety and security. A young redheaded woman in uniform sat in a glassed-in booth, probably bulletproof. She looked up as they approached her position, and Peck leaned his elbow on the counter and inclined his head towards the little microphone attached to the window. He took off his shiny shades. "Good morning, Doll." She twisted her mouth at him in mild contempt, and he straightened up and shrugged.
"Buzz us in, will you?" They crossed the lobby and waited for the sharp rasp that indicated the door was unlocked.
On the other side of the door was a green painted hall with a pair of elevator doors on one side. The hall opened into a room with maybe eight grey metal desks, half of them empty, and a couple of doors on the far wall. There were chairs along another wall, only one occupied, by a disheveled young man muttering to himself. Slow day in cop land. He was escorted to a metal desk manned by an officer who obviously took a little more pride than Peck in his appearance, trim and crisp in his uniform. Silvering hair, aviator glasses. Neat desk too, no errant papers, everything lined up squarely.
The officer at the desk looked up and asked Peck, "This our John Doe?" For a split second he wondered how they already had his name. Officer Peck handed over his report form, which had hardly anything written on it.
"Have a seat, sir. I'm Sergeant Wilcox." He waved Peck off and pulled a pad of paper towards him on the desktop. He asked politely, "How can we help you?"
"I don't know what you can do. I just found myself in the park with no idea who I am. I guess I was out running. I didn't know who else to call." He waved his hand to indicate his sweats, pulled off his sweatband, and double-wrapped it around his wrist. He tucked Helen's phone number, which was still crumpled in his hand, underneath it. He stripped off his thin gloves and set them on the edge of his chair.
With the gloves off he saw there was a plain gold ring on his left hand. He stared at it, then twisted it on his finger, trying to slide it off, but it was too tight to get past his knuckle.
"Do you have any injuries?" Wilcox asked. "Maybe you fell and hit your head on something. Sometimes that causes a temporary memory loss."
He reached up to feel his head, brushed his fingers through his hair, which felt like it was cut short. It was sticky with sweat.
"Nothing hurts. I think I'm intact. Just completely blank."
"When did you get that scar? It looks new."
"What scar?"
When Wilcox pointed at his own eyebrow, he slid his fingers over his left eyebrow and then his right, where he felt a bumpy ridge running vertically over it.
"I don't know. I didn't know I had that."
"How about identification? Anything on you?"
"No, I looked. I don't even have a pocket."
Wilcox shook his head and leaned back in his chair and smiled. "You seem pretty calm. Shouldn't you be a little upset? I would be."
"Do you want me to cry and wave my arms around?"
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"No, I'm just saying you seem relaxed under the circumstances."
"You don't believe me? Is that what you mean? I'm making this up?"
"No, I just wondered. We hear a lot of stories in here, some of them true, some not. It just seems unusual."
"Look, I came here for help voluntarily. I haven't committed any crime." He realized he was acting as if he were on the defensive, and paused for a second. "At least that I'm aware of." Joking about it made him feel better.
"Sounds like a potential defense, doesn't it?"
"Oh, I get it. You've discovered a murder, and you think I'm faking amnesia to get away with it."
Wilcox laughed. "Not so far. If we do, you'll be the first to know." The laugh made him feel better because it seemed like he'd established a connection and that he was somebody more than victim. Even if he didn't know who that somebody was.
Wilcox continued. "Let's see if we can find out something about you." He glanced at the wedding band. "We need to get you back to that wife of yours."
"It does look as if I'm married, doesn't it. I don't feel like there's anyone, but there's the ring. Is that a clue?" He tugged at the ring again, still with no success.
"Being married is probably our best bet at identifying you if you don't snap out of it by yourself. Your wife will probably be looking for you before long. And she'll eventually call us."
"So I should just sit around and wait? That's all we can do?" He couldn't stand being helpless. He was so frustrated with sitting here in his smelly sweats and waiting for his imaginary wife to rescue him. She'll probably be angry.
Why would I think that?
Wilcox started filling in more of the form Peck had given him. "There are a couple of things we can do. First, I'd like to take your fingerprints and run them through the system to see if you pop up."
"See if I have a record? Maybe I'm a fugitive and you'll catch me. Maybe I've just turned myself in."
"Well, we'll find you if you have a record, and also if you've registered with the police department for a gun permit, or if you're a teacher or coach or someone else who works with children. We run background checks for a lot of things, some kinds of licenses, and what-not."
Wilcox pulled another form out of the drawer and filled in the date and checked some boxes. Then he passed it across the desk with a pen on top of it.
"I need to have you sign this to authorize the prints. We're not arresting you, so we need your permission." Then he sat back and smiled. "I guess you don't know what to sign, do you?" He tapped his chin with his knuckles, thinking.
"Just write your 'x' and I'll sign as a witness. I think that'll pass muster."
He picked up the pen, with his left hand. "I guess I'm left-handed," he said. It was so odd, the way he was learning things about himself, in little pieces. He has a wife. He's left-handed. He has a sense of humor. He looked over the paper and said, "You want me to put the 'x' on the line you marked with an 'x'?"
"Yeah, that's right," said Wilcox, missing the irony. He took back the paper and signed his own name on the witness line. "The other thing is, I'm going to call Adult Protective Services and get one of their people over here. They're just across the street."
"I need protection?" He didn't like the sound of it. It made him feel like some sort of helpless charity case. Maybe he was. But isn't Adult Protective Services for confused old people who are being abused or taken advantage of? And wasn't it interesting that he knew things like that, even without any personal knowledge in his head?
"They're the ones that can help you if it takes a while to establish your identity and get you back to your people. Best case is that you have someone who will be wondering about you already." He looked at his watch. "It's already 9:00, and you're probably expected somewhere by now. Adult Services can get you some food vouchers, and a motel room if you need it in the meantime. Probably a change of clothes too. That okay with you?"
"Okay, go ahead." He wanted out of these clothes. He wanted a shower. He was hungry. A motel room and especially food vouchers sounded good.
"I'll call now, and then we'll get those prints." Wilcox punched in some numbers on the phone, and identified himself when the connection was made. He explained the situation and then hung up and led the way through one of the doors and down a hall and they did the fingerprint thing. Having his fingerprints taken made him feel guilty, in a way, even though there was no reason.
By the time they got back, there was a middle-aged black woman seated in one of the chairs in the office with a little briefcase in her lap.
"Hello Evelyn, thanks for coming. This is John Doe, for the moment." She rose and reached out her hand to him, and he shook it.
"Evelyn Emerson. Nice to meet you," she said. "Sounds like you're in a bit of a situation." She looked smilingly competent.
"You could talk in the interrogation room back there," Wilcox said. "But you probably want to go back to your office. That might be more comfortable."
"Let's do that," she said. "Do you have anything you need to bring with you?"
He picked up his gloves from the chair and said, "This is it. My worldly possessions." He felt much calmer now, like something was finally going to happen, and he could begin to feel like somebody instead of a rootless nobody. He had three people he knew now. Well, four, but Officer Peck didn't count.