A murder mystery

Tags

#HaeMinLee, Adnan Syed, Hae Min Lee, True Crime, Unsolved Murders

I am, at this very moment, debating the wisdom of creating this post and putting it out there for the world to read. Reasons: it’s none of my concern, and I’m not a sleuth of any sort. I’m just your average citizen who happens to enjoy watching detective procedurals and speculating about a few true crime stories. I don’t have a Reddit account, for example, and have never been involved in online sleuthing. I can’t even say that I follow true crime in the news. But, once in a rare blue moon a story grabs me. The last one was probably the Laci Peterson murder nearly 20 years ago. In the last two weeks, I became exposed to the story of a murder that took place in January 1999. Someone dear to me suggested I check out a podcast and YouTube channel that posts weekly on true crime stories, and so I did. After two separate stories about unsolved murders, I then began listening to the many consecutive episodes about one murder in particular: the Hae Min Lee murder. A man went to prison for this crime 22 years ago and very recently he was released. The charges against him were withdrawn because the police that had been so certain of his guilt reviewed the case and found they could not be certain anymore. New evidence had come to light and Hae’s murder is now considered unsolved (although I’m sure that’s just temporary).

What this post will not be is a synopsis of that story, details of it are all over the Internet. What it will be is my very simple alternative hypothesis as to who could have murdered Hae and why. I would like to emphasize that everything I’m about to say is purely my own opinion and is not based on anything more than speculation about the events as I know them, through second hand sources. I do not know any of the people involved and easily a great many facts exist that I have no way of knowing, facts that could debunk my hypothesis.

If you have been following the murder of Hae Min Lee, then you are no doubt as deeply affected by this tragic story as I am. As a mother of two daughters, her death represents my worst nightmare. My heart goes out to Hae’s family. I can’t begin to imagine how horrible this is for them and they have my deepest sympathies.

For the past couple weeks I’ve been haunted by two songs: These Are The Days of Our Lives, by Queen; and Set Fire to the Rain, by Adele. Neither song could mean anything to Hae, but both songs seem to reflect aspects of her life prior to that terrible day in 1999. For my own peace of mind, I want to speculate on the events of that day without any focus on the then-teenager, Adnan Syed, who was convicted and sentenced to life for Hae’s murder. And instead offer this alternative hypothesis.

On or about January 1, 1999, Hae, who had been 18 at the time, had begun dating a co-worker who was 22. I only know his name to be Don. Don was ruled out by police soon after Hae disappeared because he had an alibi (confirmed by his mother) that placed him at work during the time frame they believed Hae was murdered. A little more than three and a half weeks following her disappearance, a man discovered Hae’s body in a shallow grave in a wooded area known as Leakin Park. (I can’t count the number of times I misheard this as Lincoln Park.) Three days later an anonymous tipster told police to look into Hae’s former boyfriend, Adnan, and this tip became the focal point of the investigation which led ultimately to the conviction. The framework of the investigation was built around the testimony of a drug dealer who was an acquaintance of Adnan: Jay Wilds. There are many people out there who think Jay was the actual murderer because he knew details that only a person involved could know and he confessed to assisting in burying her body. The deal he made with police was he would lead them to the killer if he could have a reduced sentence – he was given two years as an accessory but served zero time in jail. And I do not dispute that Jay was an accessory. Indeed, for a short time I also thought he was guilty of Hae’s murder. I just can’t work out the motive.

Jay’s testimony, albeit contradictory and mostly unsubstantiated, convinced police that Hae was murdered in a very narrow window of time: between the time she left the school campus that day, shortly after 2:15 pm, and 2:36 pm (the exact time Jay receives a call purportedly from Adnan). This timeline is fraught with problems, namely the cell phone data (reminder, this is 1999 when cell phones weren’t as sophisticated as today’s smartphones) which doesn’t match Jay’s various and conflicting testimonies, and the cell tower data only muddied the waters.

You might, at this point, stop me and say ‘hey, Lese, aren’t you leaving out some critical factoids?’ Yes, I am because those actually would cause you to look at Adnan and I don’t want to do that. Instead, I want you to look at Jay, minus his dependence on Adnan’s car and phone.

Jay got his information from somewhere, right? If he isn’t the murderer then he remains the self-admitted accessory. So right now, let’s just continue with Jay being the accessory.

And, I want you to follow me as I look at Hae.

The two different podcast/You Tube sources that I listened to afforded me a unique opportunity to listen to Hae’s own words, starting in 1998 in the form of her personal diary. While I’m deeply offended that something never meant to be shared publicly was subsequently shared with the world, I’m thankful that we were given a chance to get to know her. I found her to be very intelligent, kind, accomplished, serious, and dedicated to not only her life as a student but to her family. Dutiful doesn’t even half describe how seriously she took her responsibilities. But she was also a teenager and had normal teenager thoughts, ideas, spontaneity and a sense of fun.

On the heels of her painful December break up with Adnan, Hae turned her eyes to co-worker, Don. I must have a mental block on the couple of weeks they were an item, or she didn’t write a great lot of detail about him, or she did and the podcaster didn’t spend a lot of time reading it. Whatever the case may be, I am aware that she fell “in love” with Don in a short space of time. On January 12, the day before she went missing, she was up late on the phone with him and she doodled in her diary about it. She wanted to play hookie, but Don talked her out of it. They planned to have a date the next night, after Hae got off work. They worked at the same Lenscrafters location at Owings Hill Mall, but on January 13, she was scheduled to work from (I think) 6pm to 10pm, and he was going to work normal 9-5 hours (ish) at a different store. I don’t know if he told her he was going to work at the other store, but it’s my hypothesis that she did know.

She had a very busy school day on January 13, with early classes, and a news channel interview about her athletics award, etc. The kink in her dating and work plans came when Hae learned from a fellow student that she was needed that night at a wrestling match (she was manager and score keeper). Hae either forgot about the match or it was impromptu. Either way, Hae showed evidence of worrying about her plans with Don, especially at lunch. She was also going to miss work, something I think she had not done before. At 2:15 pm, after her last class (which she shared with Adnan, by the way) Hae rushed to her car, and at least one witness testified she said she had to hurry to meet Don. (Debbie testified Hae planned to meet Don after school.) She further rushed through the concession stand line to grab a snack (not even having enough time to pay) and I believe she also told another witness that she was in a mad rush to meet her boyfriend and had to pick up her little cousin, and maybe the same witness said she would miss the bus that would be going to the match – so she would drive herself.

Desperate to meet Don while fulfilling her obligations, I can just envision Hae waiting impatiently at each and every stop light, counting the seconds anxiously.

I firmly believe that Hae knew Don was working at the other Lenscrafters, which was located in what was then known as Hunt Valley Mall. Nowadays it’s called Hunt Valley Town Centre. That location was approximately a 15-20 minute freeway drive from the Woodlawn High School, where Hae attended. She would not have been able to call Don at work because she didn’t have a mobile phone (nor much money as evidenced by a bank statement shown on one of the episodes). She probably calculated that if she drove fast, she could make it there … quickly tell Don that their plans would be aborted … and still have time to get to her cousin’s school (Campfield) by 3:15 pm. Round trip was less than 35 miles at freeway speeds. But, when Hae reached Lenscrafters, Don either couldn’t immediately visit with her or asked her to wait. Short on time, she wrote him a cheery, upbeat note on lined notebook paper: ‘Hey sweetie, sorry I couldn’t stay …” and she outlined how she had this game at Randallstown, etc., and said she would call him when she got home. She also promised him a recording of the news channel interview from that morning.

I believe Hae either left the note for Don at his work or on his car. Police never questioned his co-workers, so I am free to speculate. While it is true that no witness came forward saying they saw Hae in the store that day, police also never looked for any surveillance footage at the location.

I believe that Hae was still in the parking lot, probably walking to her car when Don read the note and rushed to catch up to her. I don’t think he believed her story about the game. Did he suspect maybe she was still into Adnan? I think he became angry. I peg him as having a short fuse (based on some employment records shown on an episode.) I think they argued and that he may have struck or grabbed her. I think that Hae tried to leave but Don climbed into her car in an attempt to stop her. And maybe he stopped her in a way he never intended.

Somehow the note that Hae wrote to Don ended up in the backseat, or the trunk (I can’t remember which). I don’t know if it was ever tested for fingerprints (surely it was, but I can’t readily find reference to it.)

I speculate that Don, at this point, reached out to Jay. Hae probably already told Don that her best friend, Stephanie, was dating a drug dealer. And maybe she even told him how angry she had been when she found out that Jay cheated on Stephanie, and Adnan covered for him. I believe Don knew who Jay was. Maybe he found contact information in Hae’s pager. Maybe she had an address book in her purse.

I know that Jay had a phone but I don’t know if it was only a landline. (There is a call from Adnan to Jay once on January 13). I speculate that he probably had some kind of phone or pager because he was a self-proclaimed drug dealer running a drug business out of his grandmother’s house. How else would clientele reach him? I imagine that Don would have used Jay the very same way Jay claims Adnan did: you’re a drug dealer, you know how to get rid of bodies, help me or else. Make it go away. It took nearly a month for the anonymous tipster to lead police to Adnan, right after news broke about her body being found.

And the rest we know from Jay, from the trunk pop to burying the body in the woods. All the crazy, ever shifting stories of Adnan, just stirring up the mud, drawing attention away from Don. I can hear one solitary voice out there who says, ‘wow, it was really risky to blame it on someone who easily could have had a solid alibi.’ Yeah, it was risky for sure. But, Jay played his role very well. He looped in a co-conspirator (Jenn), had her witness getting rid of the vast majority of the evidence – including Hae’s pager (which Adnan did not call) and his own clothing (but not Adnan’s). He even got Adnan so drugged after track practice that he could barely remember which end was up.

Except Jay left Hae’s shoes in her car. Why are the shoes significant? Because Jay told the police that Hae struggled and kicked while being strangled. The cops didn’t test the shoes back in the day, so maybe they didn’t test the note either.

2022 is a different story. All I can do is wait for the news to break to see whose DNA was on the shoes.

Edited 29-Dec-2022 for clarity.

For more on Adnan Syed go here. http://KSL.com

Evenfall – an Update

Tags

personal, Writing

Dear Evenfall readers,

I am pondering taking the story into the realm of self-publishing. This means that I will continue to write chapters but I won’t post them to this blog at least until I decide if the story will be novel worthy. I will periodically keep you updated. Until then, feel free to ask questions or leave comments.

Warm regards to all.

Visit the CaffeM~path Trattoria

Tags

cooking, Gluten-Free, recipes

Happy weekend, dear readers! Did you know I have a page called Trattoria? It contains a small collection of my personal recipes. Newly posted is Frittata with a Twist. You can check it out by clicking the heading Trattoria, or here. Enjoy!

Evenfall – Chapter Six

Tags

personal, Writing

Chapter Six

For some reason, I was unable to think. My brain felt as if it were mired in quicksand. What I needed to do should have come so easily to me, after all this was my dream job, one I have been successfully performing every day for many years. Yet, here I stood, staring blankly out the shop’s front window. The street below virtually unseen, the glittering sea beyond a blur melding with the sky.

A rude jangling and buzzing sound startled me out of my thoughts, bringing with it awareness of the sounds of hammering and sawing. My mobile phone lay on the counter next to the cash register. I glanced down at it, saw Abby’s number. Heaving a sigh, I answered.

“Hey.”

“You sound terrible,” Abby said matter-of-factly.

I realized at that precise moment I indeed felt terrible. But, not in an illness way. What could I say to that? One can’t exactly brighten one’s tone and quip, ‘Nah, I’m brilliant.’ Instead, I said, “It’s good to hear your voice, Abby.” And I meant it.

“I know what you need,” she said brightly.

“Yeah?”

“Ma’am, you need a drink. I need a drink. What say you take a break from roof repair and meet me at Seaside?” Abby offered.

“I’d say, you’re a dream.” That made Abby laugh, and the sound of her laughter gave me hope.

Seaside Tavern was aptly named. It sat between the shoreline and Old Coast Road where it was a haven for tourists and locals alike, including the dozen or so species of birds that made this archipelago their summer home. Now that autumn was upon us, with the equinox only weeks away, the birds would soon be flying to warmer climates.

The house-like exterior of Seaside Tavern was simple, whitewashed stone with a heavy oak door and a pitched gray roof, while the interior was an unexpected old-world mix of heavily polished walnut and gleaming brass. Outside a gravel courtyard was lined with sun-bleached boulders that separated the property from the sand. I was surprised that Abby had reserved an outside table, but also glad. The sounds of seagulls and crashing waves soothed me as we sipped our beers. Abby regaled me with all the current news of her daughter, Ellie, who had recently been accepted into a private grammar school, and her husband Christopher’s latest travels.

“Spill,” Abby demanded, wiping away a bit of beer foam from her upper lip.

“You won’t like it,” I responded.

“Won’t be the first time,” she said, a smile hovering around her mouth softened the words. This was her way of saying she supported me unconditionally. I didn’t feel like I deserved it. I squinted at the bright waves of the sea and swallowed hard.

“I did what you asked me not to,” I began. “I got involved.”

“How involved?” Abby asked.

I took a deep breath, “I met with the head nurse and a doctor at Wallace’s. I did say I didn’t really know him, that he was a customer in my shop.” I glanced over my shoulder to see if there were any people in earshot, then lowered my voice. “What I didn’t tell them is that I had, erm, inadvertently looked at his medical chart …”

“You what?” Abby leaned forward, her face incredulous.

I squirmed. “Curiosity got the better of me, Ab, and it’s what I saw there that made me want to hear more, so, I …” I stopped, unable to believe I’d dug such a deep hole for myself. “I agreed to take temporary responsibility for him,” I said, and as Abby began to interrupt with what I was sure was an admonishment, I quickly added, “but only until they find his actual family. There’s a police investigation, so that will likely come sooner rather than later.”

“Wow,” Abby stated. “Just, wow.” She shook her head then drained the contents of her beer glass. “What was in his chart that made you do that?”

“That he had head trauma and retrograde amnesia. I really just wanted to understand how that happened to him. I know it isn’t my business, and I inserted myself where I don’t belong, but he asked for me, Ab. If he has amnesia, how could he ask for me?”

Abby didn’t answer, she rubbed at the condensation on the outside of her beer glass. Then she looked up and asked, “So, what happened to him? Who attacked him? You said there is a police investigation.”

“All the nurse could tell me was that he’d been attacked at Saint Labre’s. Five men assaulted him.”

Abby grimaced. “What was he doing at the homeless shelter?”

I shook my head. “No idea. But he was beat up pretty badly. He has numerous fractures, a broken rib, and a fractured skull. Plus, he had a seizure. They are speculating that the seizure and amnesia are caused by the head injury, but they want to watch him for a few days. I was allowed to visit him, but I barely recognized him for all the cuts and bruises.”

Abby raised her eyebrows. “You talked to him?”

“No, he’s being sedated due to the seizures and all.”

Abby sat back. She had finished her beer, but I could tell she was contemplating another. She shook her head, bewildered. “I can’t imagine, Jo, why you would get yourself involved in all that.” Abby laid her hand on mine. “I want you to know, though, that I will help any way I can.”

“Really?” I asked. “I mean, I don’t know what kind of help I need,” I trailed off as Abby’s face split into a smile.

“Besides mental help, you mean?” she quipped, and we both laughed out loud.

“God, yes, I need that,” I murmured. I shook my head, and then lowered my voice to a mere whisper, saying, “There’s more.”

Abby stared hard at me, her eyes narrowed.

“They said he has burns on his body,” I whispered.

“Burns from what?”

“Lightning.”

Roddy Quentin sat behind the wheel of the black BMW, his left hand gripped the steering wheel tightly while his right hand carried a lit cigarette to his mouth. As he blew smoke out, he let his hand dangle out the open window and flicked ashes to the road below. Ahead a traffic jam threatened to make him late, and he cursed aloud.

“Cursing won’t make this lot move any faster,” Detective Sergeant Brooke Anderson said, waving the smoke away from her face.

“Yeah? What will?” he countered and took another drag. He had, at least, the common decency to not blow his smoke directly in her face. Instead, he turned his head and blew it out the window, which was only marginally better in her opinion.

Just then, his mobile rang. He answered the call, “DI Quentin.” He listened momentarily and then said, “We’re on our way, sir.”

“What’s up?” Brooke asked when Quentin ended the call.

“That new assault case that came in this morning, the director of the homeless shelter came forward with CCTV footage,” he explained. He fixed his sergeant with a side long gaze.

She thought he looked particularly tired today. His wavy brown hair was sticking up on one side, and his normally trim beard and mustache verged on shaggy. And his blue eyes were bloodshot. If he took better care of himself, Brooke thought, he might actually be handsome. At the very least, his clothing bordered on tidy. Brooke shifted a little in her seat. It annoyed her to no end that his somewhat passable appearance would go unnoticed by the upper echelons, while she had to work hard to stay impeccably groomed or else earn a black mark. That was actually saying a lot, given the past two months of unusually hot weather.

“That ought to help make this cut and dried,” she responded at last.

“Yep, but we still need the vic’s statement,” Quentin said.

“Where to first?”

“Incident team meeting first,” Quentin rolled his eyes.

When DI Quentin and DS Anderson strode into the Shorehaven Police Department’s incident room some twenty minutes later, their Superintendent was already speaking before a small team of officers. While Superintendent Jerry Whitcomb talked, a junior officer affixed photographs to the incident board: five suspects, together with a newly acquired photograph of the victim, presently a John Doe, supplied by Wallace Hospital’s Victim’s Processing Unit. The large photograph showed a bloodied man with numerous facial lacerations and a great deal of swelling and bruising. His eyes were closed.

“ … currently awaiting the results from our fingerprinting unit. Ah, here is DI Quentin, I’ll turn this meeting over to him,” Whitcomb said. He handed a file to Quentin and said, “You look like hell.”

“Thank you, sir,” Quentin responded with a grin and watched his superior exit the room.

“Alright, everyone, I’ll make this quick. At approximately 3:40 this morning, our John Doe was asleep at Saint Labre’s when he was violently attacked by these five suspects. We have all of them in custody at the moment, they’ve been processed, but I need to assign at least two of you to conduct taped interviews.” Quentin began handing out copies of stapled reports to each of the officers. “Detailed questions are included in the reports. Furthermore, ambulatory services were called to the shelter at approximately 4:00 a.m. and our victim was duly transported to Wallace Hospital. I’ve just handed you their preliminary report. Preliminary, because several tests are still awaiting results. As you can see, John Doe has multiple injuries including head trauma that has caused retrograde amnesia and seizures. He has not yet been interviewed; however, Detective Sergeant Anderson and I are scheduled to meet with the attending physician today to get an update and hopefully conduct the interview. As Superintendent Whitcomb stated, fingerprint reports of the suspects and John Doe are pending, as is DNA testing. DC Carter, get the fingerprint reports to me the moment they come in, and follow up on the hospital tests,” DI Quentin said indicating the young ginger-haired officer in the front row.

“Sir,” Carter replied.

“DC Collins, you will be in charge of witness statements, I’ll expect you to go to Saint Labre’s and get as many as you can, report by end of day. DC George, you will take perps one, two and three; and Johnson, you’ll take perps four and five,” DI Quentin reviewed his notes for a moment. “Perp one, a Mr. Oliver, according to the statement taken at the scene, is the primary. Take his statement first. DC Carter, review the CCTV footage from the shelter, report by end of day. Any questions?”

Detective Constable Liz Johnson raised her hand, and DI Quentin nodded at her. “Requesting permission, sir, to perform preliminary database searches on our suspects,” DC Johnson said. She was a no-nonsense woman with deep brown eyes and short blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears. Roddy recalled she currently held a sharpshooter’s certificate and was a tech whiz.

“Granted. Make a note, as well, if we get a positive ID on our vic, to pull any personal data, employment, address, et cetera. Anyone else have anything to add?”

“One further question, sir,” DS Anderson raised her hand and waited for her superior to acknowledge her. When he nodded, she indicated the report in her hand. “The medical report from Wallace, sir, there is a photograph of John Doe with burns they say are likely caused by a lightning strike. See page five, sir.”

There was a rustling of paper as everyone in the room flipped to that page, including Quentin.

“Yes, I see that, continue,” he said.

“Would you like me to pull recent meteorological reports, sir?”

DI Quentin frowned. “Let’s put that on a back burner for now. However, your question reminds me of something else,” he flipped to a different page in the report and read for a moment.

“Reach out to the lab, find out how soon we can expect the analysis on John Doe’s clothing.”

“Sir?”

DI Quentin ran a hand through his unruly hair. “I don’t know if anyone else noticed, but Wallace’s report fails to acknowledge any blood on the victim’s clothing, yet as you can see from that photograph, the victim is bleeding quite a lot.”

#copyright protected material

Evenfall – Chapter Five

Tags

personal, Writing

Chapter Five

I arrived at Wallace Hospital at half past noon, where I was then required to check in at security.

“Nature of your visit?” the guard asked me, his eyes flat. How many people did he process in a day, I wondered.

“I have an appointment with Head Nurse Tara Macrae.” I was given a visitor badge to clip onto my clothing. It bore a poor quality, grainy photo of my face, my name, and surprisingly, a bar code.

The security guard directed me to a bank of elevators, saying I should go to the sixth floor and the West Critical Care wing. Finding my way through the maze of the hospital made me feel a bit like the proverbial lab rat. When, at last, I found signage that designated the correct wing, I then navigated my way past metal carts stacked with stark white towels and bedding, rolling carts holding various medical equipment and some with fancy computer screens attached, gurneys, and an occasional nurse in uniform, face mask, and paper-booted feet. The cacophony was punctuated by ringing telephones and crying children. The sounds of suffering made me feel queasy. I approached the nurses’ pavilion. There were two men and a woman sitting behind computer screens, working busily.

“May I help you?” a nurse asked me. He seemed unconcerned that a non-staff person had entered into what is clearly a patient-doctor domain. His name badge identified him as “Steven Wiley, Trauma Nurse.”

“Hi, I’m JoAnne Edmunds, I’m here to meet with Tara Macrae and Doctor Cooper.”

Nurse Wiley glanced at the woman sitting in the desk chair next to him. She was on the phone, and upon overhearing me say her name, she looked up over her glasses and gestured “one minute,” by holding up one slender finger. “Yes, yes, thank you so much,” she smiled into the receiver. “No, I fully understand, sir.… Understood, sir,” she nodded as if the person on the other end of the line could see her. Nurse Macrae hung up the phone and blew out an exasperated breath. “Wow,” she said, looking directly at Nurse Wiley, then at me. “Could you excuse us just a moment Ms. Edmunds?” she asked me.

“Of course,” I said. I watched the two of them cross to the other side of the station and speak inaudibly to one another. Nurse Wiley reacted to whatever Nurse Macrae said by widening his eyes and mouthing what appeared to be what the fuck? I turned my back to them in an attempt to not eavesdrop any further.

“I am so sorry,” Nurse Macrae said to me after a moment or two.

“It’s no trouble,” I responded with a reassuring smile, although inside I was eager to get this business over with.

“If you could just follow me,” she began, glancing at her watch. “I believe Doctor Cooper is with a patient at the moment.” Nurse Macrae led me to a tiny office outfitted with a gray metal desk and a small round table that had two plastic chairs pushed haphazardly under it. “Have a seat and I’ll be back with Doctor Cooper in a few minutes.” As an afterthought, the nurse asked if there was anything she could get me. “Water, coffee?”

I said, “no, thank you.” I did not wish to be there any longer than I had to be.

She closed the door and suddenly I felt like an errant child awaiting a talk with the school headmaster. I shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair and tried to relax. But as the minutes ticked by, first five, then ten, and then fifteen, I realized that this was like any other doctor visit where you arrive timely for your appointment and end up waiting a half hour for the doctor to show up. Your only sources of entertainment are old fly-fishing magazines and even older copies of People. When I had exhausted the slim supply of reading materials, I pulled out my phone and glanced at it. Did I actually expect to have any service in the middle of this concrete and steel fortress? Exasperated, I slid the phone back into my purse and began to pace, making a promise to myself: five more minutes. If Doctor Cooper didn’t show, I would slip out that door and quietly exit the building.

I stared at my watch. It was now ten past one. I groaned aloud. The roof repairmen would be back on the job by now. I heaved a sigh and steeled my resolve. I twisted the door’s knob and opened the door, peeking out. The hallway was empty. I stepped out, but then hesitated, pondering my next move. Did I want to retrace my steps and walk past the nurses’ station? Or should I try to find another way out? I decided on the latter and began walking in the direction that I hoped would lead me away from the nurses’ station.

The adjoining hallway was punctuated with a half dozen rooms, all with closed doors. Each bore a number and a letter, such as 6A, 6B, and so forth. Mounted next to the door frames were metal holders. Some were empty, but others held red folders. I wondered if they might be patient charts. I glanced around but saw no one. Impulsively, I pulled one of the folders free and opened it. I had my answer in a split second. Indeed, patient charts. As I replaced the folder, a thought burrowed into my brain. Did one of these rooms belong to Even?

Moving quickly, I began to check the other folders. I had reached room 6F when I heard footsteps clacking on the shiny linoleum floor, accompanied by voices. Just then, Nurse Macrae and (I assumed) Doctor Cooper turned the corner and appeared at the opposite end of the hall.

“Oh, there you are,” Nurse Macrae cried, and I felt color stain my cheeks. I just barely managed to slip 6F’s folder behind my handbag but couldn’t be certain they hadn’t noticed.

“Yes, sorry, I am hunting for the ladies’ room,” I managed to say, my heart pounding.

Nurse Macrae frowned, but said, “Take the next hall to your left, first door on your right.”

“Thank you, I won’t be a moment,” I said, and quickly turned in that direction, carrying the patient folder hidden under my handbag. I found the ladies’ room and locked the door behind me. I stood there for a moment, willing my heart to calm down. I looked down at the folder in my hand and sighed. Damn me. Against my better judgment, I opened it. At the top, scrawled in one corner it read John Doe. Could this be Even? I scanned the page trying to read the scrawling handwriting. Obviously John Doe was male, but how old would Even be? I pegged him in his early to mid-thirties. Unfortunately, the line next to “age” was blank. I found I couldn’t make heads or tails of the coded information on the form, except for two things: head trauma and amnesia. I grimaced. The idea of that poor man experiencing a head injury made me feel sick inside. If he had amnesia, though, how did he remember me?

Realizing I had already taken too much time, I closed the folder, flushed the toilet, and then washed my hands. I tucked the folder under my handbag and carried it out of the restroom. As I walked back to the meeting room, I tucked it back into its slot, saying a word of thanks that no one saw me.

The sterile white laboratory was excessively cold, and the man shivered in spite of the warm clothing he wore. A white robotic arm appeared from somewhere behind him. It twisted and placed a shiny golden cube into his bare hands. It was small enough to fit on his palm but was far more heavy than its dimensions would indicate. Not only that, but the metal felt alive. The man could feel it breathe and pulse against his skin. The sensation was terrible and wonderful at the same time. Lightning flashed abruptly and the air around him crackled with electricity. He then felt a searing heat that began in his hands and radiated rapidly in all directions, encompassing his entire body, all the way to the tips of his toes. Another flash and everything went entirely black. Then, a tiny pinprick of hazy white light appeared, burning as if it were a star hundreds of light years away. The star moved closer and closer. Bazigh! A voice called in his mind. Bazigh!

Even awoke from the dream with a gasp, but almost immediately he was gripped by involuntary spasms that wracked his battered body. Alarms began to sound, a shrill beeping that overwhelmed his senses. He slipped into unconsciousness, as his body continued to quake.

When Even next awoke, he was lying on his side. He squinted into the dim light and focused on understanding what his eyes were seeing. Equipment of some sort, tubes running from it to his hand, held in place with strips of white. Another snaked its way into his nose. He blinked slowly and tried to remember. Bazigh! A high voice echoed in his mind. And then flashes of the remnants of a nightmare. But no matter how hard he tried, the images refused to solidify in his mind. Only the name.

His name.

Bazigh.

And a white room.

A wave of nausea consumed him, and he thought he would vomit. His head swam and the blood roared in his ears. The machine next to him had begun to beep loudly. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to steady his breathing.

A woman dressed in a pale blue uniform entered his room. She touched a button on the machine, and it went blissfully silent. Gently, she lay a cool hand on his fevered brow. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said softly. “I am Nurse Debbie, and I’m going to check your vitals now, please don’t be alarmed.”

Nurse Debbie, he thought as comprehension dawned slowly. I am in hospital. Is this the white room? No, that’s not right. Where am I now? I smell water. A strange almost salty scent. The sea.

His eyes closed involuntarily then, and unconsciousness claimed him once again.

“He’s been like this since he arrived by ambulance. For now, we are keeping him sedated,” Nurse Macrae told me.

I stared at the broken man lying in the hospital bed, a multitude of tubes and things attached to his hand and chest, and an oxygen tube in his nose. His face was almost unrecognizable, it was so swollen with numerous cuts and bruises. His hair had been cut and a white bandage wrapped the circumference of his head. One shoulder and arm were encased in plaster, and his chest was also wrapped tightly. Two fractured ribs. Doctor Cooper told me that he had been attacked in his sleep at a homeless shelter. What was he doing there? Why didn’t he go to the Inn?

“He looks like he’s lucky to be alive,” I said, feeling helpless.

The nurse nodded her head in agreement. “At least five men have been brought on charges of assault,” she said. She then picked up his chart and flipped through the numerous pages there. “He had a seizure approximately one hour ago. It’s likely related to his head injury, but I’ll know more after Doctor Cooper checks him,” Nurse Macrae said.

I looked at her and sighed. I had really dug myself in deep this time. I had no idea who this man was, where he came from, or anything else about him. Yet, here I stood, agreeing to help him. I shook my head, at a loss to explain it to myself, much less to anyone else. Certainly not to Abby.

“You have him well in hand,” I said to the nurse. “I’ll be back this evening to check on him. Hopefully, Doctor Cooper will have an update.” I opened the door to leave.

“The police said they plan to run his fingerprints,” Nurse Macrae said.

This news brought me a measure of relief. I turned to the nurse and asked, “will you keep me posted?”

“Absolutely,” Nurse Macrae responded, then rolled her eyes heavenward. “Oh, I almost forgot!” She hurried to a cabinet and withdrew a large plastic bag. “These are his things, except for the clothes he was wearing during the attack – the police kept those,” she said, handing the bag to me.

I grimaced. I felt the hole I had dug for myself grow ten feet deeper.

_{9-Aug-2022 Edited to repair plot points.}

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