Happily Ever Alpha: Until Falco (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Jesse Jacobson

  She stopped and turned toward me for the first time, looking downward as if trying to hide her face. I leaned over and opened the door of my Ford Focus and flashed my badge, just to make sure she knew I was the real deal.

  She limped toward the car and started to get in. As she approached, I could see she was wearing a light-weight faded green t-shirt. It was only forty-one degrees outside. She had to be so uncomfortable. I turned on the heater in the car. I offered her my coat. She shook her head, no, she didn’t want it.

  When she sat, the first thing I noticed was body odor. The woman was ripe, not that I should have expected anything else. I saw tiny bits of grass and leaves on her wool hat. She had been sleeping outside all right. She closed the door and looked straight ahead.

  “Seatbelt,” I said.

  She quietly reached over and grabbed the seatbelt, pulling it across her chest and buckling it.

  Being brand new to the area, I Googled ‘emergency rooms near me’ and hit ‘get directions’ for the nearest one. It was only seven minutes away from our current location.

  “So, what’s your name?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Can you talk at all?”

  No answer.

  “Can you point to the area that hurts?”

  She pointed to her left knee.

  “Did you get injured last night?”

  She nodded, still looking straight forward, still hiding her face as much as possible.

  “Did you fall?”

  She nodded.

  “Did someone push you or attack you?”

  She shook her head, no.

  “Accident?”

  She nodded.

  “Ok, then,” I said. “We’ll be at the hospital in just a few minutes.”

  Another nod of acknowledgement.

  I pulled into the emergency room parking lot and parked next to the door, turning off the engine. I saw a wheelchair sitting just inside the glass doors. I jumped out of the car, opened the door and grabbed it. I pushed it to the passenger door. The young woman opened her door and struggled to get out. I reached in and slid my right arm under her legs and left arm around her back, lifting her out of the car. She was light and thin, easy to carry. I placed her gently in the wheelchair and wheeled her inside.

  Once inside, I identified myself as a police officer and told them what I knew, that she was a Jane Doe white female in her mid-thirties, no ID, homeless, unable to speak, suffering from a knee injury and had been exposed to the elements.

  A nurse came out and performed a triage, noting her heart rate and blood pressure were both low. They whisked her away. Just before they disappeared down the hallway with her a nurse called out to me, “Have a seat out front. The doctor is going to want to talk with you.”

  “But I don’t know any more than I told you,” I said.

  “Just have a seat,” she repeated.

  As much as my heart went out to the poor woman and wanted to see her safe, warm and cared for, I had just worked through a long, if uneventful day and I was tired and hungry. I knew that with her being injured with no ID, no known address and no capacity for speech, they would call in Social Services.

  In the end, I decided I would do as instructed and sat in the waiting area, which was surprisingly empty. The chair was far more comfortable than I imagined it would be. Between my previous late-night alcohol consumption and the long day today, I was exhausted. Within ten minutes I fell asleep.

  The next thing I remember was a deep voice calling my name, “Officer Falco?”

  I opened my eyes and sat up. A sixty-ish year old white-haired doctor and a heavyset fifty-ish year old black woman stood beside me.

  “I must have fallen asleep,” I grumbled. “What time is it?”

  “It’s about eleven thirty in the evening, Officer Falco,” the woman said. “I’m Cassandra Waldrip with Social Services.”

  “And I’m Dr. Reed, the attending emergency room doctor here,” the white-haired man said. “We both wanted to talk to you about your Jane Doe.”

  I rubbed my eyes, “I’ve been asleep for three hours?”

  “Sorry it took so long,” Dr. Reed said. “We’ve been looking after the young woman you brought in.”

  “What’d you find out?”

  “The knee was a simple sprain,” he said. “She needs anti-inflammatories and pain killers. We fixed her up with a brace.”

  “What about her overall health?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s actually what we wanted to talk to you about,” Waldrip, the Social Services lady, said. “There were signs of previous physical abuse.”

  “What signs?” I asked.

  “Since we couldn’t get her to tell us how she got her sprained knee, I ordered a radiograph. That’s when I saw what appeared to be an old fracture that hadn’t healed properly. So, I took some more pictures of her arms, head and shoulders. Jane Doe has a series of old injuries and healed fractures that are consistent with what I see in battered wife syndrome.”

  “Oh, that poor girl,” I said. “What happens to her from here?”

  “Well, that’s just it,” Reed said. “The psychiatrist feels like she is mentally competent and able to speak, just chooses not to. In addition to the knee brace we rehydrated her. We fed her IV fluids and nutrients. Medically there is no reason to hold her here.”

  “So, do you have a battered-wives shelter or someplace for her to go?” I asked.

  “Officer Falco, we have no beds anywhere in the area,” Waldrip said. “I’ve called everywhere. There is no place that can take her tonight.”

  “I don’t get it. Are you telling me you’re going to kick her to the curb?”

  “She has no money, no insurance and there is no medical reason to hold her,” Reed said. “She can’t stay here.”

  I looked at Waldrip, “And you can’t pull some strings and find a bed for her?”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve tried,” she said.

  “Jesus Christ,” I snapped. “You’ve seen her. She’s not a street-wise homeless person. I doubt she’s been homeless much more than a year. She can’t survive the elements out there.”

  “I’m sorry,” Reed said. “I wish there was something I could do.”

  “We need to communicate with her, and find out if she has friends or family,” Waldrip said. “Someone we can call. I don’t want her out in the elements any more than you do.”

  “Can I see her?”

  Reed shrugged, “Sure.”

  As I followed Waldrip and Dr. Reed to Jane Doe’s room, I couldn’t help but notice that one out of every four rooms had empty beds or were empty altogether. It pissed me off that the system in place would put a woman like her out on her ass under these conditions.

  I noticed her sitting up in the bed of the hospital room as I approached. Her hair was still tucked under her sock hat and her face was still covered in soot. They couldn’t even be bothered to wash her face. I guess the fact that Jane Doe had no insurance and no apparent way to pay bought her the bare minimum treatment. No soap for you, Jane—not medically necessary. She looked so tiny and frail, sitting there. I noticed a hint of a smile when she saw me walk in.

  “So, how’s the patient?” I asked, trying to smile for her.

  Her smile seemed to widen, but again, she said nothing.

  “She seems to be connecting with you, Officer,” Waldrip said. “Did you see her reaction? She smiled at you?”

  Jane Doe looked at Waldrip and the smile disappeared.

  “Maybe I could have a few moments with her alone,” I suggested.

  “Good idea,” Dr. Reed said. “I have rounds, anyway.”

  “I’ll be just outside at the nurse’s station,” Waldrip said.

  I looked at the tubes connected to her arms as the two of them left, “They tell me you were malnourished and dehydrated. This stuff is supposed to provide you nutrients and water, but personally, I’d rather have a cheeseburger and a milkshake. What do you say when you get out of he
re, we go get a cheeseburger?”

  The smile returned. She nodded—an acknowledgement.

  “You ever had a Murff’s burger?” I asked. “Damn, they’re good. They have one just down the road. They have great shakes, too. My favorite is strawberry. You like strawberry?”

  Her smile widened and she raised her eyebrows and gave me a slight nod. Whatever was going on with this woman, she understood things just fine.

  “Damn, I forgot, it’s late. Murff’s is closed. You know what is open all night though? Krystal. I could go for a few cheese sliders, maybe some fries. You like fries?”

  She nodded again and smiled.

  “I’ll tell you what. We’ll call your mom. We’ll go grab a bag of Krystal sliders and wait for her to come. How’s that sound? Does your mom live near?”

  Her smile disappeared. She shook her head, no.

  “No? What about your dad? Brother or sister? Husband? Boyfriend?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Anyone? Dog? Parakeet?”

  She smiled again, this time letting out a breath in sort of a half laugh. She shook her head, no, again.

  I sighed, “Well, they tell me they have to release you, because you don’t have insurance or money or an address. So, we have to figure out something. How about you and I get the hell out of here and figure it out?”

  She raised her eyebrows, smiled and nodded.

  I sat there for a moment, looking into her pale blue eyes. The feeling of familiarity grew stronger but I still couldn’t place it, but an idea did finally come to me. I smiled. She saw me smiling and smiled back, this time showing off a very nice set of white teeth. Those white teeth told me she had, indeed, not been homeless for very long.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said. “I’m going to get your discharge paperwork started. We’re getting out of here. Ok?”

  She held her smile and nodded.

  “I’ll be back.”

  I stepped outside the room.

  “Nurse,” I called out. “Please get Jane Doe ready for discharge. I’m taking her out of here.”

  “Where are you going?” Waldrip asked.

  I pulled my cell, dialing a number from memory. I held up a finger at Waldrip, silently asking her to give me a moment. I took a few steps away.

  A man answered on the second ring, “Clifford?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need help. I need to call in a favor.”

  "It's really late, Falco."

  "It's important."

  Cliff Jenkins ran a homeless shelter in Franklin, Tennessee, my old stomping grounds. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it, earlier. Franklin was only twenty minutes south of Brentwood. He owed me a favor. He got pulled over two years earlier and the officer found two joints in his car’s ash tray. I got him out of that.

  “Do you have a free bed tonight?”

  “No,” he said.

  “You owe me, Clifford,” I told him. “I need a free bed for someone.”

  “Sorry, Falco, we’re overcrowded already.”

  “Clifford, I need this.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A homeless girl I picked up in Antioch.”

  “Antioch? I can’t take her. Antioch is in Davidson County. This is Williamson County. I could lose my funding.”

  “Ok, then,” I replied. “I picked her up in Franklin. Is that better?”

  “Dammit, Falco.”

  “Thanks, Clifford, I knew I could count on you,” I said. “I’m checking her out of the hospital, now. I’m going to grab a burger for her for the road. We’ll be there in an hour or so.”

  “Goddammit, Falco, this makes us even,” he said.

  “No, what will make us even is for you to feed her in the morning, call Social Services, and personally see to it she finds a spot in a battered wives shelter.”

  I could hear him sighing, “Ok fuck it,” he said. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll get a bed ready somehow and see you when you get here.”

  I hung up the phone and walked Waldrip through the plan. She shrugged, “It’s better than what I could do.”

  “What you did was what we cops refer to as ‘jack shit,’” I reminded her.

  “Touché,” she replied, handing me a gym bag.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “I did manage to bring a few things we provide to battered wives,” she said. “It’s not much, but there are some sweat pants, a sweat shirt, some underwear, toothpaste, toothbrush, hair brush, shampoo . . .”

  “Ok, I get it,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “Thank you for what you are doing for her,” she said.

  I nodded, still unhappy with the fact that there were a dozen empty beds on this floor alone and between the hospital and Social Services, the best they could come up with was ‘treat and street.’

  It took nearly forty minutes for the nurses to unhook her IV’s, bandage her and get the discharge paperwork complete. While we were waiting, I grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom, rinsed it in warm water and washed her face. At first, she resisted but she finally relented. She looked into my eyes with her pale baby blues as I gently wiped her face.

  “Freckles, huh?” I noted. The feeling she reminded me of someone just got stronger. I was trying to figure it out when the discharge nurse came in and interrupted my thought process.

  ______________________

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ______________________

  FALCO

  We sat waiting in the drive through line of Krystal, famous in Nashville for their small, addictive hamburger sliders. I hadn’t yet told Jane Doe what the plan was but marveled at the fact that she seemed at ease with her situation. I wished I knew what was going through her head. She seemed to be just going with the flow, dealing with whatever situation she happened to face.

  The sweatpants and sweatshirt Waldrip had given her were at least two sizes too big on her and hung loosely around her shoulders. I had a feeling her pants would fall off her hips if the draw string hadn’t been cinched so tightly.

  I moved forward in line. There was now one car ahead of us.

  “I’m going to get four regular sliders, some fries and a coffee,” I said, knowing my delicious Bibb salad sitting in the back seat was going to waste. “How about you? You want hamburgers?”

  She shook her head.

  “Cheeseburgers?” I asked.

  She raised her eyebrows and nodded.

  “Three?”

  She smiled and used her index finger to point up.

  “Four?”

  She continued to point upward.

  “Five? Six?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “You’re going to eat six Krystal burgers?”

  She nodded and smiled, covering her reddening face with her hands in faux embarrassment.

  “You’re gonna get the runs, you know that, right?”

  She giggled. It was the first time I heard her voice. It made me smile.

  “Fries?”

  She shook her head.

  “Onion rings?”

  She nodded.

  “So, runs and horrible breath to boot, huh? Coke?”

  She nodded again.

  I pulled up to the speaker.

  “Thank you for choosing Krystal. Order when you are ready,” an electronic voice called out.

  “I’ll take one order of onion rings, one order of fries, a medium Coke, one coffee, four regular hamburgers with extra onions and six cheeseburgers . . .”

  I paused, looking at Jane Doe, “Do you want extra onions?”

  “Yes, but no mustard on the burgers,” she replied.

  My mouth gaped open . . . she spoke.

  I smiled at her. She smiled back and shrugged slightly.

  “No mustard on the cheeseburgers,” I said to the small, gray metal box.

  Three minutes later, I took the freeway entrance heading south toward Franklin. Jane Doe tore into her burgers and fries like she hadn’t eaten in day
s, which may very well have been the case.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you could talk?” I asked her.

  “I did,” she replied. “I don’t like mustard.”

  There was an accent in her voice. I could tell English was not her first language but she was pretty articulate. Danish? Swedish? Russian? I was horrible with accents but this one sounded all too familiar. Shit . . . what was happening? I knew that voice.

  I looked at her again.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  She smiled at me, then reached up and removed her wool cap, allowing a full head of thick red hair to tumble around her shoulders.

  I gasped, taking in a breath and holding it. The accent; the red hair; the freckles; the pale blue eyes. I couldn’t believe it . . .

  “I wish to thank you,” she said, “for all that you have done for me. You are my American hero.”

  “Did you call me your . . . American hero?” I asked. My early teenage years instantly flashed before my eyes.

  “Yes,” she replied. “You have always been my American hero . . . Jackie.”

  Jackie? No one had called me Jackie since . . .

  Oh, dear god! It was if all those years of therapy had created a giant dam, suppressing my unpleasant memories, and now the dam was bursting open and the memories came flooding back into my brain. The Russian girl with the odd accent. The foster girl, and my first . . . my first love. The woman sitting beside me . . . was . . .

  “Irina?” I said. “Irina Petroski?”

  She smiled, “So, you do remember.”

  “Of course, I remember, but I didn’t recognize you at first . . .”

  “I understand,” she said. “When I first saw you approach me, I tucked my hair under my hat and covered my freckles with soot. I didn’t want you to recognize me, but it’s me, Jackie. It’s Irina.”

  Irina’s appearance had changed, but the hair, the pale blue eyes, the freckles, the accent, it was unmistakable.

  It was her—there was no question.

  Everything else came flooding back to me. The train station; the altercation with Billy; me walking her home; seeing her foster father fondling her; me sitting with her at lunch, drawing stares of disapproval from all the other kids . . . and the whole traumatic mess that followed which left me emotionally scarred for years afterward.