His Name Is John

by Dorien Grey

  The guide sketched in only the roughest of background information, and the object was for the rest of the players to figure out the entire story by asking questions to which the guide could only answer “yes,” “no” or “not relevant.”

  In this case, Elliott was in the position of trying to solve the mystery of John’s identity only through finding answers to his specific questions. Unlike the game, however, there was no real guide. While John was the key to everything, he was as much in the dark as Elliott was, though he could recognize and acknowledge those things that Elliott got right. He could also apparently let Elliott know when he was totally off-base, such as his thinking John might be G.J. Hill, but without knowing details as to why. He had more than once, since waking in the hospital, had the distinct impression he was doing a high-wire act without either a balance pole or a net. It was not a pleasant sensation.

  Once again came the unacceptably disturbing thought that he was basing everything on his total acceptance of John’s existence. But if he didn’t—if after all this time it turned out that he existed only in Elliott’s mind—the implications of that never ceased to frighten him.

  He suddenly realized he was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white, and forced himself to relax, pushing his doubts of John’s existence back into the corner from which they’d come. There was simply too much evidence, ephemeral and elusive as it might be, supporting his conviction that John was real.

  Which returned him to one basic question. If John was real and was not G.J. Hill, why would Rob Cole say he was?

  Even though he’d never set eyes on the guy, there was something about Cole he instinctively disliked. He didn’t know how much stock he could put into the fact that John appeared to share his impression.

  Letting his mind sort through what little he knew of Hill and Cole, he found an admittedly wild scenario taking shape. Hill, from everything he knew, was pretty much a recluse. That he lived in a motor home and therefore may not have a permanent address made being reclusive a bit easier. But would a recluse have a lover?

  Cole had said Hill refused to have his photo taken, and his books contained neither a bio nor a photo. What would prevent Cole from just saying John’s photo was Hill when in fact it wasn’t? He could just show the photo of a John Doe—conveniently supplied by Elliott—to the police and claim it was Hill.

  And why would he do that? Elliott asked himself.

  The only plausible reason, he determined, would be if Hill were himself dead, and Cole knew it, maybe even been involved in it. Fingerprints from the motor home or anything Hill owned would verify John’s contention that he—the man in the photo—was not in fact Hill, but what were the chances that the police would bother to take fingerprints on a simple missing persons case? Slim to none.

  So, if Hill was by some chance dead and Cole was responsible, being handed a photo of a John Doe who died a thousand miles from California would provide him with a solid alibi, especially if he could prove he’d been in California at the time John was murdered.

  But then why, Elliott asked himself, would Cole even have bothered to report Hill missing? He could have just driven off in the motor home—no one would know.

  No. Elliott took a mental step backward. Someone would have had to know Hill had disappeared sooner or later. The motor home’s license would come up for renewal, or Cole would have to try to sell it. And Hill’s publisher may eventually have become curious enough to start looking around. So, reporting him missing was a logical thing for Cole to do. Especially if he had done something with Hill’s body to guarantee it would never be found.

  Again, since Elliott had no idea of what Hill’s and Cole’s relationship might have been like, it’s quite possible, from what he picked up of Cole’s attitude, that he may have seen Hill as nothing but a meal ticket.

  He forced his mind away from his wild speculating. Even the concept of deus ex machina had its limits.

  The adrenaline of the speculations faded, and rationality took over once again. Elliott, John’s presence notwithstanding, still considered logic to be the cornerstone of his life. There had to be some logic to everything, and there was none here. People didn’t just go around killing their partners, and then conveniently being handed a photo of some far-off John Doe to be used as an alibi. Life was indeed strange, he knew, but not that strange.

  And how was he going to explain all this to Brad?

  The one thing of which he was absolutely sure was that John—real or not—was beginning to border on an obsession, and taking up far too much of his life.

  * * *

  He got home and fought off the urge—whether his or John’s he couldn’t tell—to call Brad the minute he walked in the door. It was time, he decided, to take control of himself and the situation.

  He deliberately went into the kitchen to fix himself a drink—a strong one—and went into the den to watch the news—or, rather, to stare in the general direction of the TV, and to think about what he was going to tell Brad. Though he himself wasn’t the least bit hungry, he waited until he was fairly sure Brad had finished dinner, and was just reaching for the phone when it rang.

  “Hello?” he said, picking it up on the first ring.

  “Elliott,” Brad’s voice was that of a policeman, not a brother-in-law. “I thought you were going to call me.”

  “I was waiting until I figured you’d have finished dinner,” Elliott said, feeling more than a little guilty. “I was just picking up the phone to do that when you called.”

  “So are you ready to tell me what’s going on?” Brad asked. “Who is this G.J. Hill? How do you know about him? What makes you think there is any connection between him and this particular John Doe? And how, since Hill was reported missing and his partner claims John Doe is Hill, are you so convinced that it’s not?”

  Elliott took a deep breath.

  “Okay,” he began. “I admit this is going to sound really strange, and I can’t possibly explain it rationally, so I hope you’ll give me a little leeway here.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “G.J. Hill is a photographer,” Elliott began. “He’s published three books of photos of the deserts, mountains and seashore around southern California. I told you I’d shown the photo you gave me to a guy from around Big Bear who said he recognized him and said he thought the guy was a photographer without my having mentioned it.”

  He hated lying, and especially to a police detective who was also his brother-in-law, but he had no choice. The part about John’s being a photographer just came to him as a way to shore up an incredibly flimsy story. He just prayed he could get away with it and somehow avoid having Brad think he was totally crazy.

  “I just took a really wild swing and thought I’d try to contact G.J. Hill on the far outside chance that he might possibly know some other photographers in the same area. I had no idea at all that Hill himself was missing, but when I got in touch with his…partner…something just didn’t sound right.”

  “I can agree to that,” Brad said, and Elliott wasn’t sure if he was joking or serious, so he just forged ahead.

  “Look, my gut feelings, however strange they may have been, led me to Hill, and the fact that Hill happens to be missing is admittedly an almost unbelievable coincidence. But the same feelings tell me that regardless of what his partner says, our John Doe is not G.J. Hill.”

  Brad’s skepticism was clear in the tone of his next comment. “Based on what evidence?”

  Elliott sighed, feeling as though he were a male Alice descending into the rabbit hole. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but…” and he proceeded to outline the scenario he’d devised in his car.

  “I realize this is asking a hell of a lot,” he concluded, “but would it be at all possible to check with the San Luis Obispo police to see just how carefully they looked into this guy’s story? If they’re just in effect taking his word for it, could you ask them to look just a little further into it, or get some verification oth
er than his word that the photograph is Hill?”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence from Brad’s end of the line, then, “I really don’t know, Elliott. That story is pretty far-fetched, though admittedly interesting. Our main objective is to solve one murder investigation, not to open up the possibility of another one, two thousand miles away. I’m not sure how the San Luis Obispo police would react to our questioning their thoroughness.

  “Identifying our John Doe is all well and good, but this is a murder investigation, after all. We want to know who killed him.”

  “Well, the two things are hardly mutually exclusive,” Elliott said.

  “Of course not,” Brad replied. “Identifying him first would certainly let us know where to start looking for his killer or killers, but finding out who killed him would probably be just as direct a way of telling us who he was.”

  “So how is that part of the investigation going?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid. One of the first things we do is to compare the markings on the bullets used in a crime to see if they might match those from previous crimes. Nothing, other than that all the bullets came from the same gun.

  “It’s pretty obvious that this wasn’t just a coincidental robbery-shooting. The fact that Doe was stripped of anything that might help to identify him is a pretty clear indication that whoever did it knew he wasn’t from around here. They seemed pretty confident that by stripping him of everything, we’d never be able to find out who he was—which also leads us to believe that he probably didn’t have any sort of criminal past that we’d be able to trace.”

  “So finding out who he is moves up to the top priority, then, I’d assume,” Elliott said.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  Another long pause followed, during which Elliott said nothing.

  Finally, Brad broke the silence. “You really feel that strongly about this Hill thing?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, if by some chance it isn’t Hill, that would mean we can’t close the case. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to be absolutely sure.”

  Elliott sighed again, this time in relief. “Thanks Brad! I know it’s crazy, but if there’s any chance at all that John Doe isn’t Hill, and this guy Cole is up to something….”

  “I’ll check it out. And Cessy’s standing here at my elbow wanting to talk to you, so I’ll turn you over to her.”

  “Okay, Brad. Thanks. I owe you.”

  There was the shuffling sound of the phone changing hands, then Cessy’s voice. “I wanted to tell you that Mom called from Singapore. She and Dad will be back next weekend. It seems as though they’ve been gone forever.”

  He realized she was right, and felt a little guilty that he hadn’t thought much about his parents in several weeks.

  “And do you have any plans for two weeks from Sunday?” Cessy continued.

  “Uh, not offhand, that I know of. Why? The folks planning something?”

  “Well, not with us. They’ve got a benefit for the Chicago Symphony to go to. It’s amazing. They aren’t even back in town yet and already their social calendar is filled for the next month. But Jenny’s school is having a recital that same day, and we want you to come.”

  “Did you mention the recital to Mom?”

  “Yes, but they’d already committed to attending the benefit, so…”

  Elliott couldn’t tell from her voice whether she was hurt that they would prefer the Chicago Symphony over their granddaughter’s grade-school recital, but if she was, she didn’t let it show. She was used to it.

  “Sure. I’ll be there. What time?”

  “The recital is at 3, but we can have brunch somewhere first. Would you like to invite your friend? It would be on neutral territory and he wouldn’t have to feel like he was being trapped into anything.”

  He suddenly realized he had not talked with Steve in a while. “Uh, it’s nice of you to offer, but I’m not sure. He might be busy. Let me get back to you. And he’s a friend…I have several.”

  “That’s the problem. But you knew which friend I meant, though. That’s a good sign.”

  She was good, Elliott had to admit that, but he wasn’t sure if it was a good sign or not.

  * * *

  The issue of not having heard from Steve was resolved shortly after he hung up from Cessy and gone into the kitchen to make a sandwich. He’d just opened the refrigerator door when the phone rang. Answering it, he was pleased to hear Steve’s voice.

  “Hi, Elliott! How’s it going?”

  “Fine, Steve. Sorry I hadn’t called for a while.”

  “That’s okay. I should have called, too, but I’ve been really busy. I figured you were too. Anyway, one of the reasons I’m calling is to see if you’d like to go down to the gallery with me on Saturday. I’ve got to drop off some photos of the paintings that are still at my folks’ house to see if they want to show any of them. It’s not a formal meeting. I just have to leave them for the owner.”

  “That’d be great,” Elliott said, grateful for the chance to pull himself away from work and his obsession with John for a day. “What time?”

  “I was thinking of early afternoon. And maybe, if you have the time afterward, we could go down to Navy Pier. I’ve never been there.”

  “Sure!” he replied. “And have you ever been to Pizzaria Uno or Due? Maybe we could make a day of it and end up there. Fantastic pizza!”

  “It’s a date! You think we should drive or take…what?…the el?”

  “The el’s good. We can meet at the Fullerton el stop, say around one thirty?”

  “Looking forward to it,” Steve said. “Later, then.”

  “So long,” Elliott said and hung up. For some reason he felt much better about life than he had in a while. Maybe Cessy was right, after all.

  * * *

  Friday was spent installing a new iron fence and gate in front of the building, and buying landscaping materials and lighting for the small courtyard. Tuck-pointing had been done, all the windows either painted or replaced, the foyer woodwork completely restored—the building was almost ready for showing, and Elliott was giving thought to looking for his next project. The entire project had run well ahead of schedule and only slightly over projected budget, and Elliott was more than pleased with the results. He’d call Larry Fingerhood within a couple of weeks to talk about listing it as soon as he had done all the financial calculations—basically purchase price plus materials and labor—necessary for him to come up with a realistic asking price and profit.

  He spent Friday night doing just that and even began looking through the paper for a prospective new project.

  He tried very hard not to think of Rob Cole or G.J. Hill or what might be going on in far-off California. That was totally out of his control, and despite a steady sense of curiosity, and somehow concern, which he ascribed as coming from John, he refused to get caught up in speculation.

  * * *

  What will they do?

  What will who do?

  The police. In California.

  I have no idea. I do hope they’ll look into Hill’s disappearance more closely.

  I don’t trust him.

  Who? Cole?

  Yes. He’s…not nice.

  Why do you care?

  I don’t know.

  Do you know anything about Cole or Hill or their relationship?

  I’m not sure…I can’t say.

  Can’t or won’t?

  Can’t. There’s something, but I don’t know what it is or what it means.

  Do you know if Hill is alive?

  I don’t…I… No, he’s not.

  Elliott awoke with a start. Looking at the digital clock on the night stand, he saw it was 3:15.

  Hill was dead? But more important by far was the fact that this was the first time that John had ever stated something definite, other than his denial of being Hill, in response to a question. Was his memory coming back? If it was, John had to have known Hill.

 
Then he realized it could merely be evidence of some broad form of intuition or knowledge to which the dead are privy and not shared by the living.

  Whatever it was, it was yet another solid sign that John was evolving and moving toward…something.

  Knowing from experience that there are few things less likely to succeed than trying to will one’s self back to sleep, Elliott’s mind meandered between full consciousness and the threshold of sleep until shortly after six, at which time he gave up trying and got out of bed. Pulling a pair of sweatpants out of the dresser drawer, he stumbled awkwardly into them, fully aware of his body’s displeasure over his mind’s having deprived it of needed rest.

  He stood standing in front of the coffee maker impatiently while it, oblivious to his stare, hissed and burbled and took its own good time. Tearing himself away from his staring contest with the coffee maker, he put a bagel in the toaster and went to the refrigerator for a bottle of V8 juice and a container of salmon-flavored cream cheese, wishing he had some real lox.

  Drinking a glass of juice in the time between slathering the bagel with the cream cheese and filling his coffee cup, he carried his coffee and bagel through the living room, and sliding the patio doors open, stepped out onto the balcony.

  The sun hadn’t gotten too far above the horizon, and the day was already warm with a moderate, steady breeze. He stood leaning against the railing, looking out at the lake. There were a few people walking along the shore, and in the small park directly below, several dog walkers wandered about, pulled from place to place by their pets. A few had ventured onto the sand. Officially they weren’t allowed there, but no one seemed to pay attention to the rules.

  Wiping a dab of cream cheese from the tip of his nose after taking a too-large bite of his bagel, he set his coffee down on the small glass-topped table and sat down, staring off beyond the light Saturday-morning traffic on Lakeshore Drive to the towers of the Loop.

  So, Hill was dead. He found it interesting that he had reached the point of accepting John’s word. Hill was dead and John was dead, and John was not Hill. Therefore…what?