by Ian Ballard
It was also Lucinda who began acquainting me with the few known facts of my existence. She told me I’d been in a fire and that during the fire I suffered a head injury. It was the head injury that left me in a coma. This should have been obvious from the condition of my body, but it came as news to my redeveloping mind. She also told me I was a transfer patient sent to Baltimore General from somewhere else, especially for the treatment of my burns.
After five months of rehab, the doctors decided I wasn't sick enough to hang around anymore and they needed to figure out what to do with me. I was sixteen by then, at least that was what they estimated my age to be. This made me ancient by orphan standards and made my prospects of being adopted slim to none. The only option offered me was foster care. My foster family had two kids of their own and spots for four more foundlings like myself. Sometimes the bunks were full, sometimes empty. No one ever hung around long.
My English got better and I started asking questions. Where was I from? What happened to my family? Unfortunately, my foster parents knew next to nothing about me and seemed little inclined to help me find out. They did tell me I was probably from Mexico and that my parents must have died in the fire, since that was the most plausible explanation for how I wound up in foster care to begin with.
Later, I asked the same questions of my foster care case worker, a fastidious and bow-tie wearing black man named Ensel. Ensel hadn’t become involved until the hospital got in touch with social services toward the end of my rehab stint. All he had to go by were the documents in front of him, mostly medical records that included nothing about the fire or my life before.
Ensel pointed out that my amnesia had short-circuited the system. The process presumed an individual who knew about his own life and could fill in the gaps when the case was shuffled between agencies. I was not such an individual. As a result, fire investigators, medical care providers, and social services knew next to nothing of one another’s work. Information that could have instantly led to the recovery of my past vanished into administrative black holes.
And yet, a few of the omissions in my case file were hard to attribute to the blind bumbling of bureaucracy. In particular, my Baltimore General records listed me as a transfer patient. This meant I’d received medical care in at least one other facility. However, no records, or even references to earlier treatments, were contained in the file. What’s more, on my intake document, all details related to the transferring hospital were left blank, an omission which confounded my efforts to trace the location of the fire that had landed me there in the first place.
When I brought all this up with Ensel, it seemed to make him uncomfortable. Usually forthcoming and garrulous, he was suddenly tight-lipped and legalistic. When I pressed him, he conceded it was possible some documentation had been purposely omitted from my file.
“What?” I asked, flabbergasted.
“It happens, not often, but sometimes,” he said. “Upstream agencies, like the police, withhold information from other agencies like social services.”
“Why?”
“Well . . .” He balked and cleared his throat. “It’s usually when a case has sensitive circumstances.”
“Like what?”
“Like cases that involve rape or incest.” He took a dilatory sip of coffee. “Or when there’s an ongoing criminal investigation, or where the police are protecting the identity of a witness.”
My eyes presumably bulged out a bit in my head. “Does one of those apply to me?”
Ensel squirmed like an under-oath witness, for whom lying and telling the truth were both equally unappealing options. “Yeah, it’s possible,” he finally said. “But good luck getting a hold of anything at this point. Even if you could figure out who withheld information, it’s very, very unlikely they would ‘fess up and turn it over now.”
It took days for the full meaning of this to sink in.
Naturally, the notion that a crime lay behind my missing memories—and a crime serious enough to merit a cover-up of some sort—did nothing to curb my now-rampant curiosity. Soon, I was frequenting the Baltimore Public Library, searching for newspaper articles on fires. Fires from October or November of 1992, with injuries to persons of Hispanic descent. First I focused on Baltimore, then Maryland, before finally expanding my search nationwide.
I spent hundreds of hours looking at old newspaper articles on microfiche. There were leads. Cases I couldn’t rule out. I got it down to a dozen contenders at one point, but in the end, I couldn’t connect myself to any one of them. What I needed to find was a specific fact that matched my circumstances, that would allow me to zero in on one event—a teenage victim in a coma, a case where a Hispanic couple died, survived by a son. But I had no luck and soon exhausted all avenues my neophyte research skills afforded me.
But it wasn't all for nothing. All that following up on leads may have been what sparked my interest in law enforcement and eventually led me to the Bureau. After high school, I got a degree in criminology and with the aid of a Hispanic scholarship, managed to get through law school. After graduation, I worked for a while as an assistant prosecutor, twice taking and twice failing the FBI entrance exam. The third try was a charm, and following my background check—a quick matter considering the brevity of my known lifespan—the Bureau offered me a job, and the rest is history.
At some point in my current incarnation as Jake, I convinced myself I no longer wanted to know the truth—or, at least, that holding out hope of knowing was counterproductive. I didn’t want to spend my whole life viewing myself as something incomplete, someone whose existence was in some way invalidated by those missing years.
So, I’m just Jake. A man whose life started that day I woke up in 1992.
And yeah, it's a lot of work—this kind of life. There's so much to rebuild. You chase after details, like they were gold coins rolling down a street. You handle each new perception like you were embalming butterflies. You exaggerate, embellish, and invent because there are so many wings to fill in this fledgling museum of memory. Finally, you arrange it all, and with desperate and painstaking care, you become a curator of yourself.
But do I ever stop wondering about that other me? Not really. There's always curiosity. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Sometimes I question everything. Perhaps this life is just like a second-string love that I'd drop in a heartbeat, if the first one came back into the picture. Who knows?
At least I can say that through my work at the Bureau, my life achieves a balance. The edgy and slippery equilibrium of a log roller. With each closed file, I solve by proxy the mystery of myself. I satisfy the restlessness, if only for a while. There are cycles, as there are in the lives of those I hunt. We both have demons that will always come back. Theirs, a need to kill. Mine, a gnawing to know. They sharpen their knives. I reach for the next file from the overflowing stack at the corner of my desk.
That’s me in a nutshell. There are one or two important footnotes we haven't touched on yet—like the time I fell in love—but I'm sure we'll get there.
Ahead of me, the line of cars slowly dwindles until I’m staring down a stern-faced border guard who's shining a light in my face. He looks at my passport and then at me and asks me what the purpose of my trip is.
“An investigation,” I say.
“What's the nature of the investigation?”
I take out my badge and show him. “A multiple homicide.”
He does his best not to look intrigued. “What's the intended destination?”
“The desert of Juárez.”
He's dying to ask me more, but after a moment’s hesitation—perhaps in deference to his professionalism—he seals his lips and waves me through.
6
Colorado
I'm holding the phone in my hand. It's still vibrating with the incoming call. The name “Jessica” flashes on the screen. What's happening now feels surreal. A slow, underwater dream sequence. My body hasn’t fully reacted yet. My heart and lungs haven’t been t
riggered. Maybe because part of me doesn't fully believe it.
But it's happening. It's real. And I’d better get used to that fact.
What the heck should I do?
The cops mentioned this might happen. Jessica’s phone was missing. He might have taken it. They'd be tracing it.
Shit. I have to answer. I take a deep breath, hold it for a second, and let it out. I can do this. On what must be the sixth or seventh ring, I answer the call and bring the phone up to my ear.
“Hello,” I say, telling myself this is just a phone call and that I’m perfectly safe.
A silence. “This is Chris,” says the deep voice on the other end of the line.
More of what the cops said is coming back. “If he calls you, just keep him on the line as long as you can. Make chit chat. We’ll take care of the rest. He may say some pretty outrageous stuff. He's just trying to get a rise out of you. Don't take it to heart.”
“Are you there, Nicole?” he asks.
I can do this. I’m just going to pretend this is a role in a play. “I thought there was no one named Chris,” I finally say, quoting the note he gave me on the stairs. My voice cracks a bit at first, but then I manage a measured tone.
“I am not what I am,” he whispers.
I know that one. Othello.
Just as I’m getting a handle on things, an image of Jessica flashes through my mind. Now the adrenaline and the pounding heart kicks in. Why is he doing this? Just to torture me? Or is it to taunt the cops?
But I’m not going to think about any of that. I’m just going to stay composed. He likes Shakespeare. I’ll give him Shakespeare. “Honest, honest Iago, to what do I owe the pleasure?” I say.
“Just wanted to give you a ring and say how nice it was to meet you this morning,” he says.
“Likewise,” I say, my voice under control again.
“Good. I was hoping things didn't get off on the wrong foot,” he says.
“It was a bit awkward, now that you mention it.” Feeling calmer now. Getting into the role.
He laughs. “The course of true love never did run smooth.”
“Midsummer Night’s Dream?” I feel myself smile when I say this—not sure if it's real, or if I'm acting.
“Point for Nicole,” he says.
“But when did love enter into it?” I ask. Is this maniac going to propose or something?
“When’s love ever beside the point?” he says, playfully.
“When the love interest is a murderer,” I say.
“So you admit there was interest?”
“I admit there was interest on your side of the table,” I say.
“And I had you pegged for a love-at-first-sight kind of girl.”
“Maybe I am. But I don’t fall for everyone I see the first time I see them.” It's messed up how comfortable this feels.
“Maybe next time you’ll start to warm up to me.”
“Next time?” I laugh. “Like at the police station when I point you out in the lineup?”
“Who knows?” he says. “It could be sooner than that.”
That's just him messing with me. If I flinch, I lose. That must be how this works. “And what about you? Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“I'm sure it happens,” he says.
“Have you experienced it?”
“Love’s not an emotion my mind is . . . predisposed to—at first sight or otherwise.”
“That's too bad,” I say.
“Why's that?”
“Because it’s the reason we’re here.”
“The reason we're where?”
“You know—on this planet.”
He pauses. “I've never felt it. So, I’ve had to come up with other ways of filling the time.”
Don't much care for the dark innuendos. But I'm just going to play it cool. Pretend he's just that guy I met on the stairs. I clear my throat. “You probably just haven’t met the right girl.”
“But how will I know when I do?”
“Because you two will have a lot in common.”
“A girl like that could be dangerous for me.”
“Yeah,” I say, “your soul mate is probably on death row.”
He laughs. “You know, I was just thinking how you and me have a lot in common.”
“You and I,” I correct him.
“You and I.” I can hear the smile on his lips.
“Well, you’re the first serial killer who’s told me that,” I say. “Remind me what it is we’re supposed to have in common again.”
“Let’s see. Similar sense of humor. We're both well read. We both like Shakespeare and—what else?—we’re both good at covering up what we’re feeling.”
Hmm . . . not sure what that last part means. “I agree with the part about you being well read,” I say. “Particularly for a psychopath.”
“As are you, for a sorority girl.”
I frown. “What makes you think I’m a sorority girl?”
“Well, you are, aren’t you?”
“I was," I say. "I’m not any more.”
“Sorority girls always have this look about them.”
“What look is that?” I ask.
His voice sounds dark now. “Like they're hot shit and can’t give anyone the time of day.”
“Let me guess—you haven’t had too many dates with that type of girl?”
“Lots of first dates,” he says. “Not too many seconds.”
I say nothing.
“I bet you’d go on a date with me, though,” he says. His tone lighter now.
“You're sure about that?” I ask. I still sound composed, but am feeling flustered.
“You asked me for my number. Remember?” he says.
“I . . . I was just being polite,” I stammer.
“You thought I was cute. It was written all over your face.”
“What’s attractive to me is a guy with a clean criminal record.”
“I've actually never been arrested.”
“And someone whose Facebook status isn’t At Large. . . . And another thing, I don't really like Shakespeare. It’s required reading for my major.” Of course, this isn't true, but I don't like him thinking we have things in common.
“Shakespeare’s required reading for a psychology major?” He sounds genuinely perplexed.
Shit. Forgot I told him that this morning. “Well, I'm not technically a psychology major. I am thinking of minoring in it though.”
“So you're a fibber,” he muses. “I guess that’s another thing we’ve got in common. What's your real major then?”
“Theater.”
“You weren't lying then. You were just acting.”
“All the world’s a stage. . . .” I say. “But how did you end up being so literary? Shakespeare doesn't seem like it really fits with your . . . your lifestyle.”
“My mother was a rather bookish lady. I take after her . . .” He trails off. “Do you really care, or are you just trying to keep me on the line?” His voice, suddenly suspicious now.
My heart skips a beat. “What do you mean?”
“So they can trace the call—the cops. There are cops present, aren't there, Nicole?”
“No . . . I mean, yeah, of course there are. They figured I could use protection.”
“Don't you always use protection, Nicole?”
“Protection from you.” I’m frazzled now and you can hear it in my voice.
“Oh from me? Sorry, no pun intended.”
He's obviously just trying to get under my skin. Got to stay calm. “Look, the cops are in the other room. They don't know I'm on the phone with you. I asked you that because I wanted to know—”
“Why I like Shakespeare?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’s a good way to learn about the human condition, an area that’s not one of my strong suits.”
“You don’t consider yourself human?” I ask.
“I’m wired differently than most people.”
<
br /> “How so?”
“If you could get inside my head, you'd understand. It's a weird, gray place. Not many emotions.”
“And Shakespeare teaches you how to experience the ones you're missing?”
“More like how to imitate them.”
Goosebumps. I picture him standing there on the stairs. Holding the backpack with Jessica's hands inside.
“Can I ask you a question now?” he asks.
“Sure.”
The line's silent for a moment, except for the sound of his breathing. “Why did you keep my glasses?”
I look over at the window. At the little gap between the blinds and the glass. I can hear my aunt’s dog barking. “How did you know about the glasses?” I ask, my voice a desperate whisper.
“When I looked in through the window, I saw you with them,” he says.
For a moment I can’t breathe. Want to run out of the room and go to the cops. Just to see that they're still there—that nothing’s happened. I rise and take a step toward the door.
“Relax, Nicole. I was just joking. I wasn’t watching you through the window. That would just be creepy.”
The dog’s still barking.
7
Mexico
After crossing the border, I drive into downtown Juárez and meet Silva at the District C Station. I ditch the Explorer, and we take his police issue Land Cruiser because it's got sand tires. Silva's already spent most of the day at the scene along with a lot of other cops from the force and only doubled back to scoop me up.
As we drive through Juárez, Silva's busy on the police radio, trading cryptic remarks on the evidence at the scene with other members of the force. I haven't been filled in on all the details yet and much of the staticy garble comes across like fragments from a nightmare. Snippets like “the blood trail measures twenty-three meters” and “all the feet have been matched up with the discarded footwear.”