by Harry Kraus
“Seriously. Don’t you think there could be another explanation for all this?” He picked up his hand and gestured in the air. “You’re in a serious brush with death. It could make you think seriously about what’s really important, help you get in touch with your emotions.”
“Good try. But you seem to remember, we’re on this trip because this same heart not only made me a bit more emo, I’ve been the recipient of some pretty scary memories.”
He tapped the steering wheel. “Right.” He glanced at Tori. “So it was the jumper after all.”
“I’m not sure she jumped. I remember falling. I remember fire.”
“Hmm.”
“I wish you’d stop doing that. It sounds judgmental.”
He put his fist to his lips and chuckled. “I almost did it again.”
She smiled. “Okay, this should go both ways. I want to know something about you.”
“Fair enough.”
“You get to know all about my life. I want to know about yours. What about Phin MacGrath? Happy life?”
“I’m an only child. My mother is a hairdresser, the stereotypical small-town stylist who knows everyone’s business. My father is a civil engineer. He works with a construction firm designing concrete walls.”
She decided to give him his own medicine. “Hmm,” she said, trying her best imitation.
She watched as the corner of his mouth turned up before he turned sober again a few moments later. A reflection of pain flashed behind his dark eyes. “I married my college sweetheart. She was killed by a drunk driver three years ago next Sunday.”
“Oh, Phin, I’m so sorry.” The ski picture on your desk.
He stared straight ahead and stayed quiet. Eventually, he coughed and spoke again. “That’s pretty much the high and low points.”
Tori didn’t know what to say. In spite of her occupation, she’d always found herself uncomfortable when dealing with her patients’ emotional pain. In fact, she’d always avoided it, said it was something she left for the hand-holding nursing staff.
But just then, as she found no words adequate to comfort him, she naturally let her hand rest on his again. Skin on skin, a practical encouragement without words.
And for Tori, it just felt like the right thing to do.
That afternoon, Tori and Phin walked into the Baltimore Central District Police Station. A female uniformed officer looked up from behind a counter. “Can I help you with something?”
Tori cleared her throat. “I need to talk to someone about a crime.”
“What sort of crime?”
“Murder.”
The officer, no older than thirty, stood.
Phin put his hand on her arm. “Maybe you should explain.”
“There was a fire in this district a few weeks back. Two people were reported to jump from the fifth floor to escape being burned.”
The officer nodded. “I remember that. A break in some old wiring or something caused it.”
“I don’t think it happened like that. I think someone started the fire in order to kill one or both of the jumpers. The woman may have been pushed.”
“And you know this how?”
Tori hesitated. “I remember it like I was there.”
The officer squinted.
“Could I just talk to the on-scene officer who responded to the fire?”
“Why don’t you just try explaining to me what you’re talking about?”
Tori took a deep breath. As much as she didn’t want to, she knew she’d have to convince this officer in order to get further. “Look, this may sound weird, but the woman who jumped—well, she was a heart donor. And I’m the one who received her heart.” Tori smiled meekly. “And along with her heart, I have received some memories. These memories tell me that my donor was in trouble and was likely murdered.”
The officer sighed.
Tori could see she didn’t believe. Or understand.
“So you don’t really have evidence of foul play?”
“Other than my memories, no.”
“Look, our homicide division is really busy. Why don’t I take your name—”
“Can I just talk to the officer who was on scene?” Tori retrieved a copy of the news article from her purse and traced her finger down the print. “Officer Bundrick.”
“Officer Bundrick is on patrol.” The officer turned away for a moment and snapped open the drawer of a tall filing cabinet. Tori watched her as she slowly walked her fingers across the top of several files before depositing a paper into one of them. Even if the policewoman didn’t roll her eyes, Tori felt her negative attitude. The officer glanced over her shoulder. “If you insist on staying, have a seat. I’ll have dispatch see if Officer Bundrick is available.”
Tori sat next to Phin in a row of wooden chairs. “She thinks I’m crazy.”
Phin shrugged. “We knew this was going to be a hard sell.”
“She made me feel stupid.”
“You’ve got to admit, when you try to explain it, it sounds pretty crazy.”
Tori couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice. “Thanks.”
She settled into her chair and looked around the crowded waiting area. Two officers wrestled an angry drunk in handcuffs. “I know my rightsss,” he slurred.
A tattooed man sat on the floor, slumped against the wall. A woman with too much mascara tugged on the edges of a short leather skirt. A young couple stared straight ahead, their shoulders slumped in despair. A teen with hair spraying out from a knitted cap closed his eyes and bobbed his head, a response to whatever was booming through the cord leading from the pocket of his jeans to his ears.
Tori shook her head. A message seemed to rise from the people around her. I’m lost. And it was a message she didn’t want to hear.
Phin seemed to be studying her face. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “Let’s get out of here.”
“We can’t leave now. We came all this way.”
“They think I’m crazy.” She waved her hands toward all the people. “And all of this.”
“What?” He leaned toward her. “You feeling claustrophobic?”
“No.” She searched his face. “Don’t you feel it? All these people,” she said slowly. “It’s like I feel their despair.” She shook her head. “I don’t like it. I want to leave.”
“Ma’am?”
Tori looked up to see the policewoman standing behind the counter. “Officer Bundrick should be here in a few minutes.”
“See,” Phin said. “You can’t leave now.”
Tori took a deep breath. “Maybe if I get some water,” she said. “I think I saw a fountain down the hall.”
With that, she walked slowly away, trying to build a defense against the clamor of human noise.
Phin walked behind her. When she reached the fountain, she turned. “Don’t you feel this?”
“What?”
“Hopelessness. It’s overwhelming.”
He looked back at the people in the lobby. “You’re depressed.”
“I’m not depressed. It’s like I feel—” She hesitated. “Like I feel their pain.”
Phin’s expression reflected his confusion and concern.
“Come on. Let’s step outside for a minute. I need some air.”
They walked into the Baltimore sunshine. Phin smiled. “We should go down to Inner Harbor. We can relax, get some seafood.”
“Don’t.”
“What?” he said. “I like seafood.”
“You’re trying to distract me. You think I’m crazy too.”
“It’s not like that, Tori.” He huffed and looked up the street, busy with traffic. “I’m just being a friend.”
“Oh, so maybe we should jus
t forget about this mess and go grab a hot dog and a beer, take in an Orioles game. Forget about the pain.”
“Lighten up, Tori. We’re here. We’re dealing with your old memories, okay? I didn’t come all this way because I think you’re crazy. I’m with you in this.” He shrugged. “But everyone deserves a little fun.”
She sighed. “I know,” she said, shaking her head and squinting up at the sunshine. “That cop just made me feel silly. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
A few minutes later, a police officer paused at the front steps to straighten the front of his uniform. Tori read his ID pin. “Bundrick.” She tapped Phin’s shoulder. “That’s our guy. Let’s go.”
Tori followed him in. “Officer Bundrick.”
He turned. He was only five foot seven, Tori’s height, but muscular, like a man who spent too many hours in the gym. His chest was broad, his neck thick, almost making his head look a size too small. His hair, what she could see of it, was clipped short, only an inch of it visible below his cap.
She held out her hand. “I’m Dr. Tori Taylor,” she began, hoping that her title would help build a little weight to her story. “I believe you’re here to see me.”
“Doctor?” He paused, and his eyes quickly moved from her head to the floor, taking in everything along the way. “You’re the woman reporting memory of a murder?” His voice was too high. She found herself expecting it to crack like an adolescent’s in puberty.
This is better, she thought. His voice wasn’t as intimidating as his muscled physique.
He took her hand, and she nodded. “I’m an oncology surgeon at the Virginia Commonwealth University Medical Center.”
He raised his eyebrows and glanced at Phin. “You’re Mr. Taylor?”
Phin smiled. “Just a friend.”
The officer nodded. “Follow me.”
He led the way past the throngs of waiting people, down a hallway decorated with pictures of uniformed men, something akin to an officer-of-the-month display. He opened the door to a small room with a mirrored glass wall, a small table, and three chairs. It was straight out of a movie set, a 1980s interrogation room. Tori walked in and wondered when he was going to switch on the bright lights. “Tell me where you were at eight o’clock on the night of June 14th!”
“Officer Detweiler tells me you have some information about a possible crime.” He held up his hand toward two seats on one side of the empty table.
Tori sat opposite Officer Bundrick. “Let me begin by telling you about cellular memory. It is a recognized and respected theory about how memory transfer takes place after heart transplantation.” Tori really didn’t know that the theory was respected, but she didn’t want to be turned away again.
The officer leaned back in his chair. This didn’t seem to interest him.
Tori explained the theory, then leaned forward. “I received a heart from Dakota Jones, the woman who was reported to have jumped from an apartment in this district to escape a fire.”
“And you believe that to be false?”
“My memory tells me differently.”
The officer shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. He pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket. “Just what does your memory say?”
“I remember the fire. I remember being afraid. Dakota felt threatened.”
“By whom?”
“I’m not sure. Someone she wanted to expose. There was a number. Three one six. I think it’s a clue to uncovering what really happened.”
The officer wrote the number down and grunted. “Uh-huh.” He looked up, unable to hide his skepticism. “And you know this how?”
“I remember her voice. She said, ‘Memorize this. It’s the proof. I want to make that bastard pay.’”
“Three one six.”
She nodded. “I think it’s a PO box or something.”
“This is all you have?”
Tori squirmed. “Did she have green eyes?”
The officer seemed to brighten. “Yes.”
“I knew it. That proves the memory is accurate.”
He raised his eyebrows in question. “Proves it, huh?”
“How about a tattoo? Did she have a tattoo, a little one with two hearts?”
“I have no idea.”
“I can tell you she did. I remember.”
“And you think all of this points to a crime?”
“Someone wanted Dakota Jones dead.” She leaned forward. “Why else would I feel such fear?”
“Maybe because she forced herself to jump to escape being burned alive?”
Tori thought about that for a moment. “That doesn’t feel right. She definitely felt threatened by a man.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know.”
The officer shook his head then rose from his chair. “I’ll look into it. Can I have a number in case I need to contact you?”
Tori handed him a business card as she stood to keep his line of sight.
“Fine,” he said. He scrutinized the card then placed it in his little notebook and folded it closed.
“I’m a surgical oncologist,” she explained. “A doctor who operates to treat cancer.”
This seemed to impress the high-pitched talker. His gaze traveled over her again, floor to face, face to chest, where his eyes stopped to rest. The thought that she was both beautiful and a surgeon seemed hard for him to digest. He brightened and pulled up his sleeve. “Hey, doc, would you look at this mole?”
She stepped forward, but he laughed and rolled down his sleeve again. “I was just yankin’ your chain.”
They stood together without talking as the officer chuckled over his own joke.
“So that’s it?”
“I said I’ll look into it. That’s all I can do.” He paused. “Why is this so important?”
When she hesitated, he continued. “Let me play devil’s advocate. This girl, Dakota Jones, was a nobody, a drug addict most likely, and no family has come around showing any concern. Why should I spend my time on her?”
“She wasn’t a nobody to me.” She paused. “And I doubt she was a serious drug addict or she couldn’t have been a heart donor.”
He turned and opened the door. Apparently the conversation was over.
“A woman died to give me life. A woman that I think was killed. I think I owe her a chance at justice.”
“Thanks for coming in.”
“How can I contact you? I want to know what you find out.”
He handed her a card. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Tori and Phin stood motionless. “That’s it? We’re done?”
“If that’s all you know, we’re done.” He smiled and reached out his hand.
Tori shook it, but something in his demeanor spoke to her, something layers beneath the tough-guy surface. It was something that chilled her.
Behind his plastic smile. I’m afraid.
18
On Saturday morning, Christian sat at the breakfast table staring into his cereal bowl.
His father set his coffee mug on the counter and picked up his stethoscope. “Coming?”
Christian shook his head. “Not today.”
“I could use your help. Keep the kids on peds occupied with a magic trick while I talk to their parents.”
“I need to work on a paper for English.”
His dad knew better. He sat opposite his son. “You know it’s not up to us who lives and who dies.”
Christian looked away. “I know.”
“And people can accept or reject our message.”
“Sure.”
His father sighed. “Why are you torturing yourself? If a man dies without Christ, it’s not like it’s all on your shoulders. You were obedient. You gave him his ch
ance.”
“I know that!” Christian stood and walked to the sink, dropping his bowl with a clatter against the other breakfast dishes.
“So what is it?”
“Voices.”
His father raised his eyebrows in question. “Voices?”
Christian nodded. “It’s crazy.” He stared out the window beyond a loquat tree toward the dusty path leading to the hospital.
“Help me understand.”
“It’s like I hear their souls calling to me. Not an actual voice, but it’s like I just know their feelings.”
“The patients?”
“I feel their loss, their sorrow, their lack of hope.”
“It’s a hospital, Christian. Everyone feels that.”
“Not like I do. It scares me. It’s overwhelming.”
Dan Mitchell walked up behind his son, laying his hand on his shoulder. “Maybe it’s a gift, son.”
“A gift? Well, maybe I don’t want it. I didn’t ask for it.”
“Compassion is something I need more of.”
“You can have it. Remember last week? I left after five minutes on the peds ward.”
“I remember. You didn’t feel well.”
Christian stepped away from his father’s touch. “I wasn’t sick, Dad. I just didn’t want to cry in front of everyone.”
“Maybe it’s just the stress of the move. You had to leave your friends. Emily—”
“This has nothing to do with her.”
“Sometimes when I’m tearful about one thing, and I hold that thing dear to my heart, it seems like just about anything can bring on the tears at a moment’s notice.”
“That’s not it.” He shook his head. “I do miss Emily. But I’m not spending every night crying in my beer.”
His father chuckled. “You’d better not be drinking beer.”
“It’s only an expression.”
Dan moved his hand up and down as if weighing his stethoscope, his eyes intent on Christian’s face. “So I’m on my own today, huh?”
He nodded. “Most people don’t think about hell.”
His father gave a quick shake of his head. “Where’d that come from?”