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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.”

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