by Hamric, Zack
CHAPTER 4
Manny Rivera wrinkled his nose with distaste as he sat nursing the last of his café con leche. The pervasive smell of mold, antiseptic, and other scents he would rather avoid identifying were finally beginning to overwhelm even the strong sweet aroma of the Cuban coffee. He also suspected the sweaty suit that seemed to grab him in all the wrong places and the wrinkled shirt he had worn since the previous evening
were the prime suspects in the aromatic assault on his nose. Nothing too unusual with any of this-such was the glamorous working life of a cop. The only benefit to being a detective in homicide, he thought wryly was that instead of wearing a cheap, uncomfortable uniform, he was able to wear a cheap, uncomfortable suit-one that happened to smell like last night’s garbage.
He hated this hospital-too many bad memories-it was like a bad acid flashback anytime he walked through the door. Miami General was a shit hole– most weekends brought a steady stream of hookers, drunks, and the forgotten dregs of humanity streaming through the well-worn doors of the Emergency Room. A cop would never come here unless he had just been shot. In that case it was the best ER in the world; the number of unwilling victims bearing unwanted chunks of lead in their bodies was double any other ER within two hundred miles.
He had been through the ER twice as a reluctant patient and managed to survive-the first time was six months after he signed on the force when some drunk cold-cocked him from behind with a Budweiser bottle. That one cost him thirty stitches and a concussion. Along with a lesson learned-never turn your back on a drunk even if she is five two and looks like a Miami Heat cheerleader.
The second time, it was a ricocheting fragment from a 9mm that hit him in the right hip. A car thief cranked off a couple of rounds in his direction during a wild chase through the narrow alleys on a hot Miami night. He instinctively returned fire; after limping up to where the gunman had fallen, could see the blood bubbling blackly out of his nose in the moonlight while he gasped his last breath. Turned out to be a punk fifteen-year old kid.
It wasn’t much of an excuse, but he liked to think that was part of the reason for all the sleepless nights, the drinking, and lousy relationships that had defined his life for the past ten years. The Department had insisted on psychological counseling for six months after the shooting-a total waste of time blabbing to another empty suit. Better to spend a few hours on a Friday night talking to another cop over a few beers.
He crushed the empty cup in his hand, briefly considered the distance and tossed the crumpled paper toward the waste can across the room. Rimmed the dented lip and skittered across the waiting room floor. It was going to be that kind of day.
Time to focus on the problem at hand. He looked across the waiting room at Jean Roland, the floor nurse for the ER. Jean was a leggy California blonde who had come to Miami a few years before when South Beach was still in its prime. Both she and South Beach still attracted some attention on occasion from the tourists, but their glory days were definitely behind them. Jean and he had a little personal history between them going back for a few years-most of which he remembered fondly.
Somehow, there had seemed to be a distinctly chilly edge to their conversations anytime they had talked over the past few months-could be that her memories of their time together weren’t nearly as positive as his. It was more likely she had just gotten tired of the late night calls when he had been drinking and had struck out at the local bars. Those nights seemed invariably to end with the sheets on his bed being twisted into a sweaty mess and mornings that brought nothing more than awkward, angry departures.
He caught her attention and gave her his most charming smile from across the room. “Jean, can I get a few minutes alone with your mystery man?”
She glanced up with an annoyed expression that spoke volumes. That look was usually reserved for the ragged drunks who staggered in through the doors of the Emergency Room every night like the foul smelling tide flowing into the stagnant recesses of Biscayne Bay.
“Manny, I’ll let you know later. Right now he’s in no shape to talk to anyone. He’s in pretty bad shape-hasn’t been conscious since he came in last night. I think they just brought him back from an MRI. In the meantime, just cool your jets and let me do my job. I’ll check on his status and get back to you,” she said as she twirled on the well-worn marble floor and stalked out of the room.
“Yeah, she still loves me,” Rivera muttered with an embarrassed smile.
Even when angry, he still loved the way she knew how to make an exit. The other occupants of the waiting room temporarily took their attention away from watching Oprah reruns long enough to enjoy watching him squirm like an awkward fifth grader at his first dance.
Rivera suddenly feigned a profound interest in his police radio as he turned up the volume and found yet another way to annoy everyone around him as he started scanning the patrol frequencies. With their unexpected entertainment over for the moment, the rest of the occupants sank back into a resigned stupor designed to carry them through the endless hours of waiting.
As Jean marched purposefully down the hall toward the ICU, the throngs of people blocking the hallway parted like the Red Sea before her as she resolutely walked through.
“Damn him” she raged under her breath. For at least the tenth time this month, she asked herself why she continued to put up with Manny’s inability to comprehend even the rudimentary basics of what it took to have a relationship. As near as she could tell, this guy had reached his full maturity in high school as far as his dealings with women and was never going to change. He obviously didn’t have a clue and the sooner she accepted that, the better. Distracted by her frustration with Rivera, she stepped just past Room 17, realized her mistake, spun on her heel and forcefully shoved the heavy wooden door open.
She startled both herself and the doctor who was leaning over the patient adjusting his pillow. “Oh. I’m sorry to barge in….” The words caught in her throat as she suddenly took in the sight of a doctor she had never seen before. He was wearing a lab coat from the hospital that barely contained his muscular bulk. The unshaven face, the crude black tattoos on his forearm barely visible under the sleeves of the coat all screamed that something was very wrong.
Completely frozen in shock, she was like a rabbit suddenly confronting a rattlesnake. She stumbled backed against the white plaster wall as he stepped closer and exposed a toothy grin containing some of the worst dental work she had ever seen. No time to dwell on that as he almost gently grabbed the front of her scrub uniform, mumbled something with his rancid breath like “Es gonna be OK.,” and slammed her head with such force into the wall that the IV bottles fell off the bed side stand and shattered on the linoleum floor. Jean knew none of this as her world faded to black and she crumpled unconscious to the floor. Without a second glance, her assailant picked up the pillow and turned his full attention back to the unconscious man lying on the bed.
CHAPTER 5
The harsh jangling and vibration of his cell phone jolted Rivera out of his reverie. He realized he had been dozing in the humid warmth of the ER waiting room. An old wrinkled prune of a woman graced him with a silent look of reproach and nodded solemnly at the No Cell Phone sign hanging askew on the wall. Rivera nodded politely at her, decided he would probably go to hell for what he was thinking about a woman who was certainly old enough to be his Grandmother, and thumbed the TALK button on the phone.
“What?”
“Damn, you’re in a great mood this morning,” said Zapata, a senior detective who worked with Rivera in the Criminal Investigation Unit.
“Screw you, and what the hell do you want? I’ve been sitting here for three hours in this shit hole and I’ve got work to do. You ever get out from behind that desk you’re so fond of and you might actually learn something about that.”
“Chill the attitude and listen up. This is important. It’s about your John Doe,” said Zapata with an ominous tone in his voice that Rivera had rarely heard in their many years
together.
“OK, so who is he?” asked Rivera.
“No idea on that yet-still a mystery, but we just got a call from a patrol unit responding to another 911 call in same alley a couple of hours ago. Some cook for a Chinese buffet was taking out the morning trash-found a dead chick dropped off in the dumpster out back. Of course, he totally freaked out and started screaming for help in Chinese. Judging from the way her neck was flopping at an angle God never intended, it looks like some big bastard snapped her neck. Other than that, we don’t know much. Too much blood to tell what else happened to her.”
“Got to go,” yelled Rivera as he slammed the phone closed and sprinted to the rear doors of the ICU. It was only a couple of long hallways to the Intensive Care Unit and Rivera mentally cursed himself every step of the way. In just a few moments, his John Doe had gone from appearing to be the innocent victim of a violent crime to somehow being involved in a vicious murder-and Jean was walking blindly into his hospital room. Rivera skidded on the slippery tile around the last turn to the ICU and knocked over a female intern busily updating a patient’s chart. The papers flew into the air and were still fluttering to the ground as he bulled his way to the room.
The door exploded inward as he threw his shoulder into it while in the same motion smoothly pulling the Glock from his shoulder holster. Time slowed to a crawl in the first seconds as he surveyed the utter devastation in the room. His heart sank as he saw the fresh blood splattered high on the walls of the room and the pieces of broken furniture scattered everywhere. After a long moment that stretched to eternity, he saw Jean lying unconscious on her side under the bedside table. He knelt beside her and gently pulled the damp wisps of hair back from her face. Thank God she was breathing.
Her eyes fluttered slowly open as he held her. She struggled to speak and finally managed to choke out, “God, he hurt me. Some guy was trying to kill my patient when I walked in on him. What happened?”
“It’s OK Jean, you’re safe, I’ll get you some help,” said Rivera. As he glanced behind him, he could see the hospital staff standing in the doorway unsure of what had just happened or how they should react. “It’s OK,” he said flipping open his badge for them to see. “I’m a cop with Miami Dade. Get her some help in here.”
As he stood back to give the medical personnel more room to work on Jean, he could see an outstretched arm lying under the bed in a rapidly growing pool of blood. For the second time in as many minutes, he cursed his carelessness. He should have cleared the room before allowing anyone to enter.
Taking a quick step around the end of the bed leading the way with the muzzle of his gun, it was immediately obvious this guy was no threat to anyone. His skull was crushed on the left side and his face was completely unrecognizable under the mask of blood that had run from the head wound. Judging from the bloody, bent metal shaft of the IV stand lying on top of him, it was pretty obvious how the killer had done the deed.
Rivera’s job had just gone from difficult to damn near impossible. Instead of a living John Doe who he could at least question, he had nothing to work with except for two dead bodies-the girl in the alley and the John Doe. A complete dead end at this point and no one still around to answer the hard questions.
After the CIU arrived to secure the crime scene, Rivera stepped outside to check on Jean. He was relieved to see she was sitting in a wheelchair. “Jean, are you doing OK?”
“I’ve been better,” she said managing to muster a least a weak smile in spite of her hands betraying her words by continuing to shake uncontrollably. “How’s my patient doing?” she asked.
“Dead,” Rivera said.
As he was about to elaborate, the lead CIU investigator walked out shaking his head. “What a lousy way to die-I’m not sure his own mother would recognize him. Should be a fairly easy ID though-how many Docs with prison tattoos you have working in the ICU today?”
CHAPTER 6
I was a wounded animal-no reasoning, just an overwhelming primal urge to escape and survive. I was fading in and out of consciousness as I drove away from the hospital-just flashes of memories like bolts of lightning exploding out of turbulent storm clouds over the bay. The night before was a complete blur-some memory of an iguana, searing pain, flashing lights echoing in my head. A few vague memories from then, but all jumbled together in a way that I couldn’t make sense of.
Next came the dream this morning-a really bad one. It felt like drowning-a crushing pressure on my chest while I tried desperately to breath. It ended as suddenly as it began when the pressure disappeared. A loud crashing like the thunder that’s so damn close you can you can feel it throbbing through your bones. That crushing pressure started again-worse than before. And that’s when I woke up… to a nightmare.
I could see the grayish white fabric of the hospital pillow that was being used to smother me. I could feel the weight of the guy-he felt like a linebacker-all muscle and lots of it as he tried to get more leverage to finish me off. Fortunately for me, he dropped the metal rail on the side of the bed. As he shifted his feet to bring more weight to bear, he slipped in the fluid from the broken IV bottle on the floor.
For me it was pure, desperate instinct-when he lost his footing, I rolled into the fall and landed on top as his head smacked into the unyielding linoleum floor with a dull thud. I grabbed the IV stand in both hands while I straddled him. He started to move and I hit him hard …and then maybe a few more times for good measure. Stole his wallet and cell phone-not too sure why. Could be I didn’t have an identity and it seemed only right that I should take his.
Not too sure of the details after that-everything going fuzzy around the edges-rolling down a hall in a wheelchair wearing a gown…out the front door like I was checking out… A vague memory – did I steal a car from the valet?
I can sure pick them-car must belong to somebody here on business-suitcase full of nice clothes…XL…almost fit me, but not quite. Checking the alligator wallet I lifted from the dead guy-hit the jackpot here-at least a couple of grand in hundreds, a Florida driver’s license for one Boris Kirov, sounded Russian maybe? …and an assortment of credit cards to complete the package.
Where the hell to go now? When you don’t know where home is, one place is about as good as any other. I checked a well worn map I found in the car stuck down alongside the driver’s seat-decided to head to the South end of Ocean Drive on South Beach-seemed somehow familiar to me.
Crowded-lots of action. Guys hustling business for the restaurants. Girls hustling fake Cuban cigars to the tourists. A Jamaican with a big python and a bird taking pictures with anybody drunk enough to think it was a good idea. I would be invisible here-after seeing a guy walking down the street wearing a leopard print miniskirt with high heels and his fat little hairy belly sticking out, I knew I’d fit right in. Had to lose the car-dumped it in front of some tacky tourist joint with girls dancing on the bar-Mango’s? Mongos? Who knows… left the keys in it. Figured it would last five minutes before someone stole it.
I had to get some new clothes that fit. Stopped in the first place I saw on the tourist strip and bought some flowery Tommy Bahama shirts that did a better job of hiding my two hundred thirty pound, six-four frame. The idea was for me to fit in, look like a tourist, be non-threatening to any cops that I might run across while I wandered down the street.
I actually began to relax a little. Walked casually down the street watching the people go by. A blend of every culture and color you could imagine. In the space of one block, I think I heard at least five languages being spoken and realized that I understood many of the snippets of conversation I overheard. Interesting-apparently I had either spent a lot of time either traveling or working overseas.
I started trying to sort through my priorities. I needed information. Starting with-who was I? That one could actually wait. A more immediate concern was who just tried to kill me and why? Might not play out, but at least I had wallet from the guy who tried to kill me in the hospital. I could try to
retrace through his ID and contacts to see where it might lead.
I was passing an electronics store, paused and stepped through the heavy glass door. It closed with a faint swoosh behind me and cut out the cacophony of noise from the music, traffic, and hot, sweaty tourists on the street.
“Can I help you?” asked the clerk, a thin, pale kid featuring a pierced lip and jet-black hair falling over one eye.
“Ah, yeah I guess so,” I said. This was going to be harder than I thought. There seemed to be an endless number of computers lining the shelves. Too many damn choices.
“I’m down for a vacation and left my computer at home. Just need something to get on the Internet and check my email.”
“If you just need something to use until you get home, how about this,” he said handing me a thin rectangle with a black glass front.
The face lighted as I touched the button at the bottom. “That’s pretty amazing,” I said. “Is this some kind of computer?”
“Yeeaah…it’s called an iPad,” he said with a nasally, condescending voice reserved for anyone over the age of forty or the mentally challenged. “Let me show you how it works.” His fingers flew over the sleek tablet as he demonstrated the magic inside.
“I’ll take it.” I fumbled in the wallet and took out the first available credit card. Looked like a normal bank debit card. Took a deep breath, hoping there wasn’t an alert or hold on the account as the kid scanned the card. I exhaled a long, slow breath when APPROVED flashed across the terminal. I could feel myself sweating in the cool confines of the shop. Had to get back on the street.
“Thanks and have a good day,” I said as I grabbed the bag and headed for the exit. The kid acknowledged my departure with a roll of his eyes as he texted his friends yet another account of how stupid tourists could be.