"How are you feeling?" asked the man. He was dressed in a white coat over baggy shirt and pants that were blue. Scrubs. This was the doctor.
He smiled again. He thought it was funny for a doctor to ask someone in his condition that question.
"I think I'm all fucked up."
A very bright light suddenly flashed into his one eye and he blinked.
"Ow."
"Did that hurt?" asked the doctor, leaning back. He had something silver in his hand. A flashlight.
"No. It just surprised me, that's all."
"No apparent concussion," said the doctor, apparently to the nurse. He leaned back over.
"What do you remember?" he asked.
"I'm an author."
"An author," the doctor repeated. "What else?"
"That's about it."
"When I say the word 'home' ... " The doctor paused for a few seconds before going on. "What do you remember?"
He thought. He knew he had a home, somehow. He had a vision of a brown couch sitting on a hard wood floor. Everything around it was fuzzy and indistinct. He suddenly saw a commode. The walls in the bathroom were white. He wondered if he spent most of his time on that couch and commode, because that was all he could remember.
"Not much," he said.
The doctor did things with his hands. They were out of sight.
"His vitals are normal. Other than the memory loss, he's doing much better. Change him to guarded and get him something to eat." The doctor bent over him. "They're going to get you something to eat," he said, as if he suspected the man in the bed were deaf. "After that, try to get some sleep."
"I'm not sleepy," the patient said.
"Try to get some sleep," said the doctor again. "Your memory loss is probably only temporary. I don't think you have a concussion. There might be a little residual swelling in the brain, but I feel pretty good about your condition."
As if he'd lost interest, he turned and left the room, leaving the patient alone with the nurse.
"Why am I being guarded?" he asked.
"What?" The nurse sounded confused. He wished he could see her better.
"He said for you to make me guarded. Why? Am I dangerous?"
She giggled. "No. He just meant you're condition isn't serious anymore, just guarded."
"Oh," he said. "What does that mean? I mean I understand serious. But what is guarded?"
She knew that "guarded" meant that his physical condition had improved to the point that he no longer needed constant monitoring. She'd been around long enough to know it also meant that, physically, this man would probably recover completely. But the doctor had no idea how his mental condition would progress. "Guarded" was simply a way of him stating that something bad could still happen, but maybe not. Some doctors used the term to cover their asses, in case the patient tanked. She didn't want to tell the patient that, though.
"Oh, it just means that we don't have to spend quite as much time keeping an eye on you, that's all." She tried to sound cheerful.
"Oh." There was a long pause. "You really don't know my name?"
She tried to think about what Mitch would want her to say ... or not say. She knew there was some mystery about this man. Since he'd awakened, he'd seemed like any other guy ... not dangerous or scary. It occurred to her that Mitch would want to know he was awake.
"Um ... " She stalled. "I think there was a billfold in your pants when they brought you in. They just probably haven't had time to update your records."
"How long have I been here?" he asked.
"About eight hours," she said.
"And they couldn't update my records in eight hours?" He sounded skeptical.
"It's seven in the morning," she said. "You came in around midnight. The police were here, but didn't say much to me about you. They might want to talk to you, now that you're awake. The Patient Affairs Office will open up soon and I'm sure everything will get updated."
"Oh," he said. "okay."
"I'll get you something to eat."
"Okay."
* * *
He watched her as she left, and when she swung the door open, he had a sudden vision of a car door, right in front of him. He was driving and the door opened. He made a startled sound as the memory flooded back into his mind. There had been a man too. He had hit the car door ... and he had hit the man!
Then the memory just stopped. That was all he could remember. He'd been in an accident and had hit a man. But he couldn't remember anything after that.
While she was gone, he lay there, exploring his mind. Misty things wavered in and out of existence. She had said the police wanted to talk to him. That was no wonder. But why hadn't they told him he'd been in an automobile accident?
He thought back. She had asked him what had happened. What had she said? He closed his eye. She'd said "some kind of accident," as if she didn't know what kind of accident. Surely if he'd been in a car accident ... if he'd hit a man ... they would know that. He began to doubt his own memory ... what seemed to be left of it.
Nothing else came to him. The vision of that opening door, and the man he'd hit - if he'd actually hit him - was clear as could be, but there was nothing else at all, except the words, appearing on a computer monitor, that told him he wrote.
What did he write? He couldn't read the words in his mind. They were just amorphous black blobs on a white background. But he knew they were some kind of story. He didn't know how he knew that, but the feeling was strong.
He was distracted by a thick wrinkle of cloth under him, that was pressing into his body uncomfortably. He tried to sit up, but was discouraged from doing that, both by how weak he felt and by pain that blossomed in his body as he tensed his muscles.
The nurse returned, a brown tray in her hands. He recognized a carton of milk on it, but everything else was covered by pale blue plastic lids. He wondered if he liked milk. Then he wondered why he'd been able to identify it as milk. He looked around. He knew what most things in the room were. There was a chair. He was in a bed. There were lights and ceiling tiles. He knew all the names for things. Why couldn't he remember anything about himself?
"I'm going to raise the bed," said the young woman. "Tell me if anything hurts while I do that."
She pushed a button, and the bed sat him up. He looked down and saw a paddle, on the end of a cord, which he could have used himself to do the same thing, if he'd thought about it. She pushed a wheeled table over so it crossed his bed. His meal was on it. He lifted a hand, tentatively. It worked fine and he used it to pick up the milk.
"Let me open that for you," said the nurse.
While she did so, he examined her. She was tall and had skin the color of milk chocolate. Her hair was straight, though, and brown instead of black. She was good looking. He stared at her breasts, and examined the feelings and emotions inside him. He hadn't forgotten how to be male. That much was obvious. She handed him the carton and he took it, sipping tentatively.
He liked milk, as it turned out.
Chapter Four
The lab tech breezed in, let a piece of paper float to the surface of Harper's desk, where it landed on top of a coffee cup, twenty-five other pieces of paper, and a staple remover, and stood back and folded his arms.
"Nineteen ninety-eight Buick Regal," he said, with a triumphant note in his voice. "Originally Olympic white, but now a metallic blue color called Champagne Pearl, which, by the way, is a Plymouth color, not a General Motors color. It was repainted after roughly February of 2000." He leaned forward. "And, I might add, it has Goodyear Regatta tires on it."
Jim looked at the report, which he knew would be meaningless to almost anybody but the tech, and then back up at the man who had brought it.
"Tell me how you know," he said.
"It's all right there," said the man smugly, pointing a finger at the report.
"I forgot my reading glasses today," said Jim dryly. "Humor me."
The tech snorted.
"The paint transfer t
old us the colors. Pieces of the headlight told us it was a Regal, and the year. The Chrysler paint was available to body shops in September of ninety-nine, but whoever painted this car probably used stolen paint. There was a shipment of that paint stolen in January of 2000. It could have been repainted any time after that. When the perp slid to a stop, he left a perfect footprint of the Goodyear tires."
"And how the hell do you know it was painted with stolen paint?" asked Jim, actually interested now.
"Because there were thick chips of bondo at the scene," said the tech. "The paint on those matched the transfer on the van that was hit. A body shop that used that much bondo was fly-by-night, or back alley, and wouldn't have paid full price for that kind of paint. They'd use some cheap acrylic that they could get anywhere. For them to use actual Chrysler paint, it almost had to be stolen. I checked the records and found that there was a truckload of the stuff hijacked in early January of 2000. Ergo, the Buick was painted after that."
The tech folded his arms again, looking like the cat that ate the canary.
"He wasn't a perp, by the way," said Jim.
The tech blinked. "Huh?"
"The guy driving the Regal wasn't a perp. You called him a perp. He foiled the kidnapping attempt."
"Yeah, but he left the scene of the accident," said the tech, sounding injured. He'd expected to get a pat on the back, but the fucking flatfoot was just arguing semantics.
"If somebody saved your wife from being kidnapped and maybe raped or killed, and then left the scene, would you want me to bust him for that?" asked Harper.
"I'm really busy," said the tech, looking disgruntled. "You're looking for a banged up Regal that looks a light gunmetal gray, okay?"
"Got it," said Harper. "Thanks."
The tech didn't quite storm out, but, for perhaps the three hundredth time since he'd started working in the police lab, he thought about trying to find other work.
Harper picked up the report and glanced at it. It really was pretty good work. Especially the tires. Most people couldn't get good tire impressions from a scene, even if they had something to work with.
And while a car that had been in this kind of accident could be fixed up and repainted, so that nobody could tell it had been in an accident ... people never thought to change the tires.
He picked up the phone to put out an APB.
* * *
Mitch didn't ask to see the patient. He just went to the room. He looked at the guy, who was sitting up now. Some of the bandages had been removed from his head, too, and now both eyes were visible. The guy was just sitting there, staring straight ahead. The TV was on, but he didn't seem to be watching it.
Jess had given him a call, to let him know the guy was awake. She said he couldn't remember much. That was very convenient for somebody who'd been in a gun battle. He pushed the door open.
"Howdy," he said, putting a goofy smile on his face. He liked the Columbo approach, because it actually worked. Criminals always thought they were smarter than the law. That's why they went into crime. They were almost always wrong about that, but he didn't want this man to think he was on the ball. Not yet. The fact that the department let them wear jeans with their uniform shirts added to the image of small-town dumb cop sometimes as well.
"Got yourself sort of banged up, didn't you?" he said amiably. "How you feeling?"
"I'm okay," said the man.
"I just need to finish my report," said Mitch. "Just need to ask a few questions."
"Okay," said the man.
"What's your name, for one thing?"
"I don't remember."
Mitch was trying to watch the artery that ran up the throat on both sides of the neck. While liars could train their eyes not to give them away, they generally couldn't control their pulse. He was distracted by an accent he couldn't quite place, but which sounded familiar.
"No idea at all?" asked Mitch.
"They said you found my billfold," said the man.
"Sure did," said Mitch smiling. Now he recognized it. It was either British or Australian. He wasn't sure which.
"Wasn't my name in that?"
"Sure was," said Mitch, still smiling.
"Then I don't understand," said the man. "If you know my name, why are you asking me what it is? And why won't anybody around here tell me my name? Am I famous or something?"
"No," said Mitch immediately. "Well, I say no, because I never heard of you before. But we're kind of remote up here in the far reaches."
"Far reaches of where?" asked the man. "Where am I, anyway? Why won't anybody tell me anything?"
Mitch stepped closer. He was going to watch the pupils this time. The pulse wasn't telling him anything.
"Tell me about the accident," he said.
He got a reaction there. The pupils pinpointed briefly and the patient was silent for about a second and a half too long.
"I don't remember an accident," said the man.
Mitch stepped back. He turned around, got the chair, and moved it closer to the bed. It would put him below the suspect - he was now a suspect - but maybe that would make the man relax and slip up. He sat down.
"The doc pulled glass out of your face," he said softly.
"Look," said the man. "I woke up here. My car is wherever they found me, as far as I know. I don't even know if I have a car, to be honest. But you're the police. Surely you went to the scene of the accident."
"Oh, I've been to the scene," admitted Mitch. "But I need to hear your side of it."
"What did the other guy say?" asked the man.
Mitch settled back in the chair. This guy was giving all kinds of conflicting signals. First he lied ... or appeared to lie ... and then he told Mitch where to find his car ... sort of. His comment about not knowing if he had a car looked completely genuine, from the body language and voice. Then he tried to get information as to what evidence there was against him. Half of what he did suggested guilty knowledge, but the other half made it look like he really did have amnesia.
"What am I being charged with?" asked the man suddenly.
"Nothing," said Mitch. "Not right now, anyway."
That brought what was obviously confusion to the man's face. Mitch could see that clearly, even with the remaining bandages. He reached into his pocket and took out the driver's license. He looked at the picture on it. Now that the bandages were mostly off, the man was plainly recognizable. On impulse he handed the license to the suspect.
The man took it and stared at it.
"Is this me?" he asked. There was a hollowness in his voice that Mitch was sure would be impossible to fake.
"Seems to be," he said.
"Kristoff ... " The man stared. "Kristoff," he said again. He looked at Mitch. "What kind of name is Kristoff?"
* * *
Mitch faced Doctor Massouf, who was looking at a chart.
"I need to know if he really has amnesia, or if he's just faking it."
The doctor looked up. "And vye vould he be faking eet?"
"You said he got shot," said Mitch. "Maybe he's hiding something."
"Eef I vas shooted, I tink I vould be screaming my head oof abut eet, yes?" The doctor frowned. "Not all peeples who are shooted are being bad peeples."
"I think he's hiding something," insisted Mitch.
"Haff you asked heem who shooted heem?"
"Well no ... not yet," admitted Mitch.
"Eef I ver you I vould be asking heem this, I tink," said the doctor. "I am not being a psychiatrist, you know, but he is acting very much like a peeples who has much frustration about haffing no memories."
It was the longest comment Mitch had ever heard the doctor make, and the closest thing he'd ever heard from the doctor in understandable English, as well.
"How long you going to keep him?" asked Mitch.
"I can be deescharging heem in anozer two or tree days I am tinking," said Doctor Massouf.
"Don't let him go until I say so," said Mitch.
"I can't be k
eeping heem here for no reason," objected the doctor.
"Just do some more tests or something," said Mitch.
He left. He had more to do before reporting to the chief.
* * *
Lou Anne's feet hurt, but that was nothing new. She was wiping down the counter when Jessica came in, stomping snow off her feet and brushing it from her coat.
For Want of a Memory Page 6
