Mendez Genesis

by Edward Hancock II

  “But hope for the best,” came Mike’s gentle voice. In all her nervousness, Lisa had tuned out the world around her. Mike’s calm intrusion was most welcome. “Yang, what are you trying to do? Scare Mrs. Mendez needlessly?”

  “No,” said the small Asian doctor matter-of-factly, “I’m trying to prepare her that her husband may not be the man she knows.”

  “For a man who says he doesn’t deal in ‘what-ifs’, you sure are dealing in a pretty serious one there if you ask me,” said Mike, exhibiting the first sign of any malice to which Lisa had borne witness.

  “Mrs. Mendez,” continued Yang, solemnly, “we are doing everything we can for your husband. Please understand that. I have not given up and I will not give up. Once he is alert, we’ll be able to know more. But I don’t want to fill you with false hope or unreal expectations either. Can you understand my position?”

  Lisa nodded.

  “When they are all done in there, Mike can see you back into your husband’s room.”

  “I’m sure I can find my way back in,” Lisa scowled.

  Dr. Yang nodded but said nothing, turned and started down the hallway.

  “Who is Dr. Death?” Lisa asked Mike, only half turning toward him.

  “Don’t mind him,” Mike said. “Dr. Yang came over here from Japan, I think, a couple of years ago. Korea maybe. He’s smart as heck. Sharp as a tack, but absolutely no bedside manner.”

  “Sharp as a tack?” Lisa asked. “So, there’s a chance—” She couldn’t finish her thought.

  “That he could be right about Alex?” Mike finished. “I suppose he may have a decent perspective on your husband’s health, but he’s not God and he’s not the only doctor working on your husband either.”

  “Alex could die,” Lisa sobbed.

  “Everyone dies,” Mike reminded her. “The idea is to make the most out of life in the meantime. Life doesn’t hand out many second chances.”

  “Well,” Lisa said, wiping her nose “If what Dr. Yang said is true, Life just handed my husband a second chance.”

  “Yes it did,” Mike agreed, “So when you get him home, you make sure to make the most of every day.”

  “Alex might not walk again.” The realization hit Lisa like a ton of bricks. In all the commotion, the thought of him not walking had gotten lost. Suddenly the weight of it all came crashing down upon her and Lisa felt ready to crumble.

  “How big is your house?” Mike asked.

  “My house?”

  “Yeah, big enough to get a wheelchair through the hallway? Through the den or bedroom?”

  The very mention of the word “wheelchair” sent images rocketing through her of a paralyzed Alex. She saw herself lifting Alex onto the toilet, helping him feed himself, shave himself and get himself in bed. She saw Christina crawling clumsily into the lap of a father unable to assist her. She watched as the image in her mind’s eye turned into a frail façade of her former husband.

  “Here,” said Mike, bringing her back to reality. He was holding a business card with the words “Mobility Carrier” embossed beside the image of a wheelchair.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s my cousin’s business card. His name’s Tim. Anything you need, he can get it for you. Wheelchairs, ramps, handrails, lifts, beds, toilet seats. He’s got it all. He installs everything personally, and if he overcharges you just let me know.” Mike winked.

  “I can’t—” said Lisa weakly, handing the card back to Mike.

  “Can’t what?” he asked, looking almost offended. “Can’t be prepared?”

  “I can’t fathom this,” Lisa admitted. “I can’t picture bringing my husband home to a home he can’t even move around in. I can’t imagine putting him in the tub, helping him in and out of bed, feeding him, shaving him. I can’t imagine all of this is happening.”

  “Who’s to say it’s going to be all that bad?” Mike asked. “So he has a little trouble walking. Not every person in a wheelchair is quadriplegic you know. Most, as a matter of fact, have relatively perfect use of their arms and hands. Even some quadriplegics have limited arm use. Some paraplegics even have limited leg usage. And with physical therapy—You’re letting Dr. Yang worry you needlessly.” Still holding the business card, Mike flipped it over and began scribbling on the back. “This is the number to one of the social workers here in the hospital. She’s a real sweetheart and I know she’ll be able to help you.”

  “I don’t need a counselor,” Lisa said, angrily.

  “You might need more than you realize,” said Mike. “Besides, you might not be the one to need the counseling. Alex is going to wake up to some major adjustments. And Sarah does more than just counsel people who are depressed or overwhelmed. She’s a good resource for people who have been in situations like yours.”

  “Situations like mine?” Lisa almost hissed. “You mean where some idiot takes a pipe and beats the life out of your husband?” Lisa was becoming steadily angrier. She had begun to unnerve herself.

  “I mean situations where there has been a sudden unexpected life change and you don’t know where to turn. Don’t know what resources might be available to assist you. Do you have any pets?”

  “Pets?” Lisa asked, roughly. “What do pets have to do with anything? Don’t tell me. Alex’s injuries are going to make him allergic to cats or something?”

  “Lisa, look,” Mike held out the card and placed it in Lisa’s hand. “Have you ever heard of a program called Helping Hands for the Disabled? Or what about Pet Helpers?”

  “Can’t say I have,” Lisa admitted.

  “Most disabled people, even those that are temporarily disabled, have needs they can’t meet themselves. Another person isn’t always readily available to help them. So, Helping Hands is this group that trains dogs to be somewhat of a workhorse for them. Anything they need from picking something up off the floor to getting a canned beverage out of the refrigerator. Sarah has a contact at both places and she can help you file the insurance papers to get almost the entire thing paid for. And these dogs are usually very good with kids because they are chosen based on certain temperament qualities. They match each dog with the specific needs of the home and family. So you’re free to go back to work and Alex has pretty much all the help he’ll need.”

  “Sort of like a seeing-eye dog.”

  “Something like that,” Mike nodded. “But much more. These dogs are seriously trained to accomplish specialized tasks. I’ve seen ones that can get things out of cabinets too high for most wheelchair-bound people to reach. I’ve seen them open and close refrigerator doors, take out bags of garbage, turn on and off light switches. Heck, one guy even trained his dog to work the television remote with a simple pat on the head. Ask anyone. I can’t think of anyone who would say the program doesn’t work.”

  “Why are you being so nice?” Lisa said, suddenly overwhelmed by the very life changes Mike had been going over. Tears welled up in her eyes again and her nose began running with renewed vigor.

  “Lisa,” Mike said softly, “everyone needs help from time to time. It’s my job to help. This is me,” he remarked, pointing to his name badge. “This is me being a helpful person to someone in need.” He paused for just a second then, in a feigned TV announcer’s voice, asked “Any questions?”

  “Only ones you can’t answer,” Lisa admitted.

  “Try me.”

  “Is my husband going to live?”

  “Yes,” Mike said, almost matter-of-factly. The blind confidence in his voice both comforted and threatened Lisa. Comforted because she wanted to believe Alex would be okay. Threatened because…well, Lisa wasn’t sure why, but it was eerie to see the confidence. To feel it in Mike’s concise reply.

  “Is he even going to wake up?” Lisa sighed

  “Sure he is.”

  “What will I do if he dies?”

  “Do you believe in God?” Mike asked.

  “What?” Lisa was immediately uncomfortable at the mention of anything religious. “
I suppose I do. Yeah, why?”

  “Haven’t read much of the New Testament though, huh?”

  “Haven’t read much period,” Lisa admitted. “New or Old.”

  “It’s real simple, Lisa. ‘Faith Hope and Love…but the greatest of these is Love.’ Ever heard that?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Mike continued, “You love Alex, right?”

  “Of course!” she said, almost offended at any implication to the contrary.

  “And do you believe that if he were here right now he’d do anything he could to protect you?”

  “He always does,” Lisa whispered.

  “That is because he loves you. Lisa, without first loving someone, you can’t have faith in them. Do you have faith in Alex?”

  “Faith? What in the cat hair does faith have to do with anything when he’s in there laying in a bed fighting for his life?”

  “Faith has everything to do with it,” Mike said, frowning slightly. “If you don’t have faith in Alex’s will, his strength to fight, why should Alex bother to fight? What is he fighting for? A wife that doesn’t believe in him?”

  “Oh Geez!” Lisa grunted, “I don’t need a sermon, Reverend Graham.”

  “Look, Lisa. I’m not preaching at you. What I’m saying is this. You say you believe in God. Well, have you ever heard of the parable of the mustard seed?”

  “I dunno,” she said, showing her dwindling interest. “Yeah, I think it sounds familiar. Something about mustard seed growing better in soil than on rocks, right?”

  “Matthew 17:20 says that if you have faith even the size of a mustard seed you can tell a mountain to move and, so long as your faith does not waver, the mountain will move.”

  “Never seen a mustard seed,” Lisa said.

  Reaching into his pocket, Mike whispered, “I just happen to have some for emergencies.” He looked around, and then pulled a small bottle of what looked like common kitchen spice. He unscrewed the lid and let a couple of seeds fall into his hand. “Here,” he said, “Have some faith.”

  Lisa was not sure how to react. What kind of kook carries mustard seed in his pocket, she thought to herself. But in the next instant, she found herself moved by the message Mike was trying to depart. She found herself concentrating on the tiny seed resting in the palm of her hand.

  “So, this is it huh?”

  “Yep,” Mike said, putting the bottle back into his pocket. “That’s all it takes. That teeny, tiny, little, itty-bitty morsel of faith can make the difference between whether or not Alex lives or dies.”

  “So,” Lisa said, still staring at the tiny speck in her hand “you always carry a spice rack in your pocket or did I just catch you on a good day?”

  Mike laughed, a belly laugh not unlike the friendly bellow of old Saint Nick “Hey I was a Boy Scout in a former life.”

  Chapter 5 ~

  The Collins residence was abuzz with patrol units, Sheriff’s deputies, highway patrol and unmarked sedans of varying shades of blues and browns. When Danny Peterson turned into the huge circle drive, he counted six cars, but thought he noticed what looked like another patrol car parked around back. It seemed as if every policeman in the county had converged on this one scene – a little bit of overkill in Danny’s mind, to be sure. The old stone mansion itself possessed a modest appearance. Two small upstairs balconies with ivory-painted wood adornments were visible even as Danny pulled into the driveway.

  Danny knew the house well; though until today, had never known even the slightest detail of the house’s occupancy. The house itself was a source of a certain level of envy for Danny. A sense of something social he was unlikely to ever achieve. While it wasn’t anything Danny lost much sleep over, there were many times when driving by this place he’d caught himself wondering what it must have been like to live within its walls. There weren’t many houses like this one in East Texas and what few there were didn’t hold the intrigue that this house seemed to hold for Danny. Unlike most manors of its day, this one bore no cliché literary name. Danny, however, had long ago taken to calling it Stone Cold Manor. The old rust-colored stones that made up its walls made Danny think of Alcatraz, or some other famous prison. Stone walls, he thought, without remorse. Cold and without feeling. Unwilling to reveal its secrets to the outside world. Built, Danny often surmised, to keep secrets in more than to keep the world out. The whole façade of the building was stuffy. It was everything Danny was not and yet Danny always seemed to find himself curious. Curious, if nothing else, as to what it must have felt like to live there. Would he feel free or would he be trapped behind the cold stone walls? Prison or Fortress? Each had its own charm, he supposed. Even among objects of two different types, sometimes opposites still attracted. There was no doubt about this house. As opposite as Danny was to the quiet, mysterious Stone Cold Manor, he couldn’t help but find himself drawn to it.

  Though Danny had no deep dark secrets, he couldn’t help but wonder what it must have felt like to hide your true self behind the walls of Stone Cold Manor. A little, he thought, like playing dress up. In secret, behind closed doors, one can be whatever one chooses to be. Even now, as he pulled into the driveway for the first time in his life, he found himself feeling one moment like a kid getting their first taste of forbidden fruit and, in the next, reminding himself that he was a professional, with a very important job to do. Occasionally, he would slip and catch himself appraising the value of the huge fountain which adorned the circle drive and wondering how, on a cop’s salary, he would be able to afford this house once it inevitably came on the market.

  Unformed officers and deputy sheriffs wandered about unsupervised, sending angry chills down Danny’s spine. Whoever the idiot was that was supposed to be in charge, he wasn’t doing a good job of preserving the crime scene and coordinating investigative efforts. Frustrated, Danny slammed the car into park and let out a loud growl as he flung his car door open, missing a nearby patrol car by inches.

  Danny wasn’t wholly a “by-the book” cop by any means – though don’t tell any of the countless rookies he’d trained over the years. He’d been known to fracture the occasional regulation when it suited his needs – but he was a big believer in doing things the way that worked and, for him, it worked to keep the crime scene orderly and intact. It just made sense to catalog anything and everything that might look the slightest bit out of the ordinary. It made sense to serve justice and the interests of the innocent public who depended on him. In truth, he wasn’t so valiant as such sentiments might imply, but he believed in making a good impression and in doing his job well. Since his job was to serve the public interest and protect the innocent, he would do that job better than anyone. He would have felt the same if his job had been collecting trash or painting the stripes on newly-completed highways.

  He’d spoken to the Captain for thirty minutes this morning, soaking up every detail of David Collins that could be uncovered. A broken marriage, some fifteen years dead. If he had any children, he hadn’t seen them in as many years. Whether by choice or not, he hadn’t played any real part in anyone’s life except his own. He didn’t date, had few employees but – at least according to his housekeeper – kept them all very well compensated. He didn’t appear to show up on any social radar anywhere despite having accumulated quite a comfortable sum in his bank account. He was not the original owner of Stone Cold Manor either, though he had lived in it some 20 years or more.

  His finances were a story all their own. Even with a few mildly successful business ventures, all signs seemed to indicate he earned his money on the deaths of others. That is to say he was a product of inherited wealth. Now, with no one to pass his money on to, Danny couldn’t help but wonder who might stand to gain from Dave’s untimely death. It seemed to Danny, after all, that the most likely suspects were those closest to him – his staff. But, Danny rationalized, wouldn’t it be in their best interests to keep working for their generous compensation than try a snatch and grab of one huge sum?

>   Based on the Captain’s assertions, Danny figured most of Dave Collins’ staff reached retirement preparedness within 10 years. Tax returns and payroll sheets both showed that the bulk of his employees flirted with six figure salaries. Unheard of in the personal servitude occupation. Perhaps knowing he had no one to which he could leave his wealth, he had opted to be generous to the only people in his life.

  Danny hadn’t yet been afforded the luxury of going over David Collins’ Last Will and Testament so his list of suspects was, at least for now, a speculative grabbing at every straw he could stir up. What sort of charities might have benefited from Dave Collins’ untimely death? Would some desperate charity worker knock him off to save a floundering cause? What about some disgruntled former employee? What about a long-lost love affair come to seek revenge? Even as he fought to remain professional, to make no assumptions until he’d had time to go over the facts, his mind began to invest itself in the realms of fantastic possibilities available to the tale of Dave Collins.

  Standard cop procedure, even for cops who occasionally bucked the system and did very little by the book, was to explore the money motive first. Murder for money was one of the oldest motives. On his way from the station to the Collins residence, Danny had already explored the money motive, in his mind, to death. Even though cop instinct put a different stench in Danny’s bloodhound nose, he would do what was expected of him, at least for now, and eliminate the obvious trails first. He would interview the necessary suspects, witnesses, etcetera, but this did not smell of money. Revenge perhaps? Maybe a bad investment or a business deal gone awry, but that was about as close to money as this thing might have come.

  Walking toward the cordoned-off border of the crime scene, Danny noticed the ME already heading into the house. Hopefully, Danny thought to himself, they weren’t already removing the body. The only suit he recognized was Teresa Roelig and that did not comfort him. She was a serious spitfire but had a rookie’s weak attention span, despite having been a detective for some time now. Even as a detective she didn’t seem to understand the basics of police procedure. She was no doubt an eager beaver, but that eagerness seemed to do nothing but work against her in everything, professional and personal. She’d been a detective for nearly three years and, in that time, she had botched at least four investigations and nearly screwed up two more. In the end, her score card showed two killers released on technicalities to kill again, one child molester allowed to skip bail, only to be picked up in Oklahoma for molesting kids on the baseball team he had been coaching for six months and a fourth guy – a Muslim Army Lieutenant – released, though clearly guilty, after several broken bottles found their way into the lifeless body of an over-zealous Marine. Teresa had failed to properly handle the subject before detectives questioned him. He was never told of his right to have a lawyer present and walked out of the police station into the hands of Military Justice, which failed to move any more swiftly. Within six months of his release, he hijacked a military cargo plane loaded with fuel and flew it into a barracks full of Marine recruits, killing 38 people, including himself.