His Name Is John

by Dorien Grey

  Probably just his imagination, and imagination can be misleading. He knew full well that simply staring long and hard enough at anything—even at a word like the—could play really strange tricks on the mind. He realized that the chance he might actually ever have seen John before the ER was too remote a possibility to be seriously considered.

  He once again questioned his own mental state. He still could not comprehend how, if John were a real, albeit a non-corporeal, entity, how could he not know who he had been in life? In fairness, Elliott reasoned, he had no idea what it was like to be dead and what that might do to memory.

  Yet, while his logical nature strongly preferred to continue to believe John was real, his heart and instincts still told him he probably wasn’t. So, he once again resolved to simply go along and see what developed. If there was a chance that John was truly a lost soul, Elliott felt an obligation to help him find himself.

  The ringing of the telephone ended further speculation at the moment, and he hastened to answer it.

  “Elliott?” Rick’s voice asked, as if he might have any doubts. “It’s Rick. I really want to apologize for not having gotten back to you sooner.”

  “No problem,” Elliott replied. “I assumed you were busy.”

  “Well, yeah, I have been, actually. I…” there was a long pause, then: “Look, can I come over for a few minutes? I know it’s getting late, but I really want to talk to you about something, and I don’t want to do it over the phone.”

  Elliott glanced at his watch. It was 9:45 and tomorrow was a work day. Still, he could tell from Rick’s voice that it was important to him, even though Elliott was pretty sure he already knew what it was about.

  “Sure,” he said. “Come on over.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  He called downstairs to tell the doorman Rick was expected, then carefully returned John’s photo to the envelope and carried it into the den to set it on the desk. He didn’t want to think any more about it just then.

  Rick arrived shortly after 10 and Elliott suspected he’d probably called from his cell phone while already on the way over. He looked uncomfortable as Elliott led him into the living room.

  “Like a drink?” he asked.

  “No, thanks,” Rick said. “I don’t want to keep you too long.”

  Gesturing him to a seat, he noticed that Rick sat on the front edge of the couch, leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, hands folded between his spread knees. Elliott himself sat in his favorite chair and leaned back.

  “So what’s up?” he asked.

  Rick took a deep breath before saying: “Joel’s back.”

  “So I gathered,” he said. “He answered the phone when I called earlier.”

  Rick looked up, surprised. “Really? He didn’t tell me.”

  Elliott suppressed a wry smile and reserved comment. “No big deal,” he said.

  “Well, he was getting ready to head back to DeKalb. He’s doing some post-grad studies at Northern Illinois University. He…well, he called me about a week ago and said he’d thought the whole thing over and said he was really wrong to have broken it off between us, and wondered if maybe we could get together again. I really don’t know what to do! I mean, I met you and we seem to get along really well, but we haven’t known one another long enough to tell where we might be headed, or if we’re headed anywhere at all, and I sure as hell don’t want to screw over your life, and…”

  Elliott realized that if there had been no accident—and subsequently no John—he very well might be viewing the situation somewhat differently.

  “That’s okay,” he said, trying to find a balance between giving Rick the impression it didn’t really matter at all to him and coming across as being bravely noble. It did matter—he was really quite fond of Rick, but they hadn’t reached the point where the issue of whatever their relationship may have become would have a too-serious or long-lasting effect.

  Besides, Elliott reasoned, his life was much too busy at the moment for Rick’s possible absence from it to leave an unfillable void.

  “It’s not okay,” Rick insisted. “I really like you and enjoy being with you, and I feel like a real shit just cutting it off. But I never did get over Joel, and if there’s a chance… But hell, who knows, he dumped me once. What’s to say he won’t do it again?”

  Elliott smiled. “Hey, Rick, it’s okay. You have to do what you think is right. If you want to try it with Joel again, fine. And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll most probably still be around and we can think about picking up where we left off.”

  “Jeez, Elliott, I really appreciate your saying that. I was afraid you might be angry with me, or hurt, or…”

  “I understand,” Elliott said. “Really. I could always tell how you felt about Joel, and if you think it can work this time, go for it.”

  * * *

  Rick left a few minutes later, and Elliott got ready for bed. He was really rather pleased with himself for taking the entire situation so much in stride. But he was glad Joel reentered the picture now rather than six months from now. Rick wasn’t his first aborted relationship, and he’d be surprised if it was the last.

  Elliott had always enjoyed dreaming. It helped balance his more practical side while awake. He was lucky enough to be able to remember at least the gist of his dreams. He particularly enjoyed dreams in which he could fly, or find himself running down a street or descending long flights of stairs without allowing his feet to touch down.

  Occasionally, he dreamt not in thoughts or pictures, but in concepts—reams of paper, or boxes, or random shapes. He didn’t enjoy those dreams since they were devoid of both logic and emotion.

  He awoke sometime during the night with the distinct impression of weight, as though he were sleeping under a gigantic mound of blankets or had several mattresses piled on top of him. He willed himself back to sleep.

  Sorry.

  You don’t have to keep saying that.

  But I am. For weighing you down.

  What do you mean?

  I’ve been thinking of that photograph. I know it is me, but I still have no idea of who I am.

  Elliott was aware of the gentlest of breezes, and identified it as John’s equivalent of a sigh.

  Or, rather, of who I was.

  You’re John.

  He was aware that even in sleep he was trying to be conciliatory.

  Yes, but John who?

  He sank into a deeper level of sleep, where there is no awareness. He had no idea how long he was there, until:

  The picture books.

  Elliott rose to just below the surface of sleep.

  What about them?

  The mountains and the desert and the ocean. I’m sure they mean something.

  I wish I could help you, but if you don’t know, how can I?

  They’re… familiar.

  These particular pictures, or just pictures of deserts and mountains and oceans in general?

  I don’t know. They’re the only pictures I’ve seen.

  Even for a dream, Elliott was aware that was an extremely odd statement. Feeling a mild wave of frustration, he released his grip on semiconsciousness and let himself sink back to the depths of oblivion.

  * * *

  One significant thing about his conversations with John, he thought as he stood, coffee cup in hand, waiting for the toaster to disgorge his English muffin, was that he remembered most of them clearly, and on reflection he recognized in them a slow but definite development of John’s awareness.

  John had come to him a totally blank slate, knowing only that his name was “John,” and Elliott suddenly realized that he had become a conduit through which John was, like sketching out a complex mathematical formula, linking together individual bits of information, which would enable him to solve the equation of who he was. For whatever reason, it was only through him that John was able to gather these bits of information.

  If the photos in Hall’s books triggered an awareness of fami
liarity and feelings of connection in John, though he didn’t know how, it was through Elliott that the connections had been made.

  It was only after Elliott had obtained the autopsy photo that John recognized himself.

  On the other side of the coin, had he not felt John’s presence so strongly in the basement, would he ever have bothered knocking a hole in the wall to check what was behind it? He could not imagine what the fact of there being a body behind the wall might have to do with anything, other than to provide another blurred glimpse into whatever plane of existence John found himself in. So, was it any wonder, he thought, that John had used the word “we”?

  He ate breakfast, pulled a chicken breast out of the freezer for dinner, packed his lunch, and drove to work on autopilot, his mind still largely on John, interspersed with a few thoughts of Rick. Once at work, his self-discipline kicked in and he immersed himself in the details of what had to be done for the day.

  On the way home from work, however, his thoughts returned to John and the fact that he himself was more than just a simple conduit through which to help John find his identity. He was, as near as he could tell, the only means John had for becoming aware of anything on any level. When John told him that the photos of mountains, the desert and the sea in Hall’s books were the only photos he’d seen, he’d meant it literally—because they were the only photos that Elliott had looked at since John’s appearance. He knew only what Elliott, in effect, presented to him.

  The weight of the responsibility for finding answers to questions that might lead to John’s identity teetered on the oppressive, especially when he realized he had no exact idea of what questions to ask.

  The recurring element in the puzzle was G.J. Hill’s photos, but he couldn’t be sure whether it was specifically Hill’s photos that triggered John’s fascination and sense of familiarity, or if mountains, desert and the sea were generic clues to where John came from. Chicago, of course, had neither mountains nor deserts, but as he thought of it he realized he was often aware of John’s presence either at the windows overlooking Lake Michigan, or on the balcony. Maybe, Elliott thought, being so high in a building reminded him of being on a mountain.

  So, it was quite possible, as had occurred to Elliott before, that John was from California, which offered easy access to all three elements. The fact that G.J. Hill’s publisher was also located in San Francisco might underscore the California connection.

  By the time he had reached his condo, Elliott had determined to look for more general pictures of mountains, deserts and the sea, to try to narrow down whether John was responding to general geographical features or specifically to those in Hill’s photos. If, as he suspected, it was the latter, he’d then think about contacting Hill’s publisher or possibly Hill himself. Maybe having more specific information about exactly what areas the photos were taken might give him—and though it was unlikely, maybe John—a general area to start zeroing in on. If he could come up with that, he or Brad might send a copy of John’s photo to the local police to see if anyone matching his description had been reported missing.

  Since he wasn’t planning on leaving the condo, after changing out of his work clothes and washing up, he threw on a comfortable pair of old pants and a faded tee shirt. He didn’t bother putting on socks or shoes. Grabbing a beer out of the refrigerator and checking to see that the chicken breast was completely thawed, he wandered into the den to watch the evening news.

  During a commercial break, he glanced at the bookcase beside the TV and noticed that in the stack of old magazines on the bottom shelf, there were several back issues of National Geographic, to which he once had a subscription. One thing about National Geographic, he knew, was that there was never a shortage of pictures of mountains and deserts and oceans. But he resisted getting up to retrieve them and instead concentrated on the news. After the news, he returned to the kitchen to start dinner, and only after putting it in the oven did he go back to the den to take the National Geographics from the bookcase.

  He detected in the surge of John’s presence that John knew what his objective was, and he got the impression that John was as curious as he was to see what his reaction might be.

  The cover of the top magazine on the stack listed an article on “Secrets of the Kalahari,” and he opened it immediately. Impressive photos, as expected, and a wide variety of subject matter, but he perceived no particular reaction from John. Searching through the other issues, he found articles featuring a number of mountain ranges and ocean vistas, but again sensed no particular spiking of John’s presence or interest.

  Having gone through all of the magazines with no reaction from John, and with a sigh, which caught him rather by surprise, he got out of his chair, put the magazines back in the bookcase, and went into the kitchen to check on dinner.

  * * *

  What now?

  Later that night, the mental voice, like a commercial break in a TV show, interrupted a dream in which he and Rick were exploring an old house, finding new rooms where no rooms should have been.

  I’m not sure. You didn’t react to any of the photos.

  They were just pictures. There was nothing to react to.

  So, what were you reacting to in the other photos?

  I’m not sure.

  Perhaps because you’ve been there?

  You asked that before.

  And you said you didn’t know. But that was before you saw those other pictures. Do you know now?

  I’m still not sure. But perhaps. I wish I knew.

  Elliott once again sensed and shared John’s desperate frustration in grasping for things just beyond his reach. But it was clear to him, even in the fog of sleep, that Hill’s photographs were the key.

  * * *

  The next evening, he went directly to his computer. He assumed Retina Press, the publisher of the G.J. Hill books, would have a website, and he was correct. He learned that the company was devoted exclusively to producing high-quality art and photography books, publishing only two or three titles a year since its founding in 1991. G.J. Hill was one of only a dozen or so artists it represented.

  There was no indication of a website for Hill, nor any biographical information. Moonrise, Sand Petals and Sea Dreams were Hill’s only books, which verified the results of his earlier Google search.

  Returning to the site’s home page, he looked for a “Contact Us” link and, finding it, wrote asking if there was some way, as a fan, he might directly contact G.J. Hill. He didn’t hold out any real expectation of a response, but he figured it was worth a try. If Hill could tell him the exact areas his photos were taken….

  He’d just hit the “Enter” tab to send his note off to Retina Press when the phone rang. He quickly got up to answer it and was a little surprised to hear Brad’s voice.

  “Elliott, hi. Just thought you might be interested to know we have an identity on the body in your basement.”

  “Wow,” Elliott replied, impressed. “That was fast. From what you’d said I thought it would probably take forever.”

  “Well, normally it probably would have, but with your pointing us toward a connection to Vittorio Collina, we were able to cut more to the chase, as it were. We have a guy in administration, Chet Green, who is our resident expert on Chicago mobs and gang activity during the prohibition days. When he heard about the body and I mentioned Collina, he started going through his files. It seems that one of Bugs Moran’s top lieutenants, Little Joe Donnelly, disappeared in February of 1929. His body was never found. That in itself was a little unusual, since mob murders were often pretty much public spectacles—gangs used hits like telegrams to send a message to their rivals. But Donnelly was one of the relatively few gangsters to just vanish without a trace. What zeroed Chet in on Donnelly was that one of the people the police questioned was a woman named Patricia Cargill, who was rumored to be a mistress of one Vittorio Collina. Donnelly was apparently trying to make a move on her. And guess where Patricia Cargill lived?”

 
; “I suspect I don’t have to guess,” Elliott said.

  “Yep,” Brad continued. “Her address was given in a newspaper article at the time. We verified it by checking Capetti’s rent receipts from 1929.”

  “Interesting indeed,” Elliott said. He was aware of John’s presence and wondered what if anything in Brad’s story might account for it. He still couldn’t imagine what interest a murder more than three-quarters of a century old might hold for someone so recently murdered himself—other, of course, for the fact of murder itself.

  He did not have time to reflect on the possible relationships of the dead because Brad’s voice brought him back to reality.

  “So that wraps that one up,” Brad said.

  “So Collina killed Donnelly—or had him killed—and walled him up in his girlfriend’s basement?” Elliott asked.

  “No way to be sure of the details, but exactly who killed him and why really doesn’t matter after all these years. Everybody directly involved is now long dead. The main thing is that we identified the body and notified what family we could find. But that leaves the little question of, if Capetti’s father was as clean as his son says he was, exactly how someone could have used his basement to wall up a body without his knowing about it. Anyway, the case is closed now, and I just thought you’d like to know.”

  “Well, thanks, Brad. I’m really glad you told me. That makes one less John Doe in the world. Maybe there’s hope for mine.”

  “We’ll keep workin’ on it,” Brad said. “Based on the possibility he was gay, we’ve been showing it around at several of the bars and other gay places along Halsted, but nothing yet. Have you had a chance to show it to anyone?”

  “I really haven’t been out to the bars at all,” Elliott admitted, “so I haven’t really had a chance. I may make it a point to go out this weekend, though, and see if I can find anything.”

  “Okay,” Brad said. “Keep me posted. Do you want to talk to Cessy? She’s in the kitchen, and I don’t think she knows I’m talking to you.”