“Saturday.”
“What kind of name is that?” The woman in white asked.
“No, it’s not Saturday…”
It went like that for a while, the doctor asking me stuff and the woman in white getting frustrated when I turned my head to answer him. But the question that tore it apart was when the woman in white asked: “What’s the name of your insurance provider?”
Insurance, I thought. “I don’t have any.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the room got quiet. It was like a freeze-frame in the movies, like time itself had stopped. The air conditioner stopped humming and even the guy in the next gurney quit screaming. In fact, he raised his bleeding head and gawked at me in a silent, slack-jawed stare. It was as if I were a hardened criminal and had just committed a vicious crime-Jimmy O’Brien, the mad dog, went into a hospital, just strolled in and asked for treatment, my God, without insurance.
“Well, Mr. O’Brien, it appears you might have a concussion and a bad cut on the top of your forehead, but I don’t see any reason to keep you here,” the old doctor said. “Go home and take-”
“I know, two aspirins, and call in the morning,” I said, finishing his sentence.
“No, you don’t have to call. Good day, Mr. O’Brien.” The old-timer turned his attention to the guy on the gurney.
As much as they wanted me out of there, they wouldn’t let me leave without someone driving me home. Liability, no doubt. So, after thinking it over for a moment, I called Rita.
I wasn’t keen to tell her about the dust-up with the goons, but I knew it’d come out sooner or later. One look at me and she’d know that I’d been in a fight.
She picked me up, and after several oh my Gods and egads, drove me to my apartment. On the way there, I told her a white lie. Although I was now sure the beating had something to do with the Farris case, I lied when I explained that it was a simple mugging. I knew she’d worry, so why frighten her?
Rita helped me as I hobbled to the living room couch. Then she darted out, heading to Foxy’s. She said she’d be back with chicken soup. To Rita, every malady was curable with chicken soup, even a black eye and a throbbing headache. Who was I to argue? Besides, I was hungry, and Foxy’s made good soup.
She returned and was in the kitchenette putting the soup in a bowl when it hit me. I was watching a rerun of Dragnet, not really following the plot line, but when one of the bad guys was being fingerprinted the light bulb above my head lit up. I struggled off the couch just as Rita walked in the living room carrying a bowl of soup, the steam wafting.
She stopped. “Jimmy, what are you doing? You should stay down.”
“I’ve gotta get to the phone.”
“Why?”
“Gotta make a call.”
“To who?”
When I didn’t say anything, she went back into the kitchenette with the soup and returned carrying the phone, the long black cord snaking behind her.
I pointed to my dinette sitting in the alcove next to the kitchenette. “Set it on the table.”
She put the phone down, went to the kitchenette, and returned with the soup. I sat down, and Rita placed the bowl next to me. When she left to tidy up, I pulled a pen from my pocket. Then I dialed information, and while waiting for the operator to come on the line, I reached into my pocket again and found a piece of paper.
“Oh, my God,” I said under my breath when I glanced at the yellow-lined paper in my hand, the sheet of paper that had covered my face when I came to after the fight. The paper was a note written in red crayon, a threatening note, just more crap. Not worth thinking about.
“Number, please.”
I turned the paper over and wrote the phone number I’d asked for on the back of it. Rita returned and stood next to me as I dialed the number.
The Barstow Sun’s phone rang. I knew someone would be there, even on Saturday. Small business owners didn’t work forty-hour weeks. On the fifth ring, Tom picked up. After identifying myself, I asked if I could have a word with his wife.
He remembered me, of course, and at first was reluctant to bring Cathy to the telephone. He indicated she was still upset over our visit.
I explained how important it was for me to speak with her. After all, didn’t they want to be sure about Jane? Didn’t they want to know if she was truly dead and buried, or conversely, wouldn’t they want to know that some goons weren’t holding her captive in a supposed teen drug center? I also promised that if I were on the wrong track, I wouldn’t bother them anymore. But, I told him, there was one thing I had to clarify, something Cathy had said about identifying the body.
Tom sighed and finally relented. A moment later, Cathy was on the line.
“I’m sorry to keep dredging up old memories, but I have a question. Was Jane ever in trouble, arrested, anything like that?”
“No, of course not. She was a good girl, and besides, she was only a child. What is this all about?” Her tone still held a touch of hostility.
“You said that when you identified the body, the chief of police told you that he had confirmed Jane’s fingerprints with the FBI.”
“Yes, he said that.”
“But why would that matter? Why would he mention fingerprints if you saw her body and was absolutely sure that it was Jane?”
Cathy hesitated a moment. She had to know what I was getting at. “I didn’t see her face. Burt Krause-he’s the chief of police, been the chief forever, even back then. He said the shotgun blew her face away. Oh, God… Burt didn’t want me to see her in that state.”
“So you didn’t actually see her.”
“Oh, I saw her all right. But a sheet covered her body and her face. And then Burt told me about her fingerprints…” Her voice broke off.
“Cathy, this is important.” I paused for a moment to let the woman gather her wits. “If she had never been arrested, the FBI wouldn’t have her fingerprints on file. Burt was lying.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Listen to me,” I said. “The girl I saw behind the Harvey House was real. She told me her name was Jane. Cathy, the teenager I met looked just like the girl’s mother in the photo. The police lied to you about her prints. You didn’t actually see Jane’s face. You didn’t actually identify the body, did you?”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I could hear her breathing. I let her mull over what I’d said and didn’t interrupt her thoughts. Finally, in a quiet voice she asked, “But whose body was on the table?”
“I dunno, and we may never find out. I have a hunch what’s going on, and it’s ugly. But I know now Jane is alive…”
I didn’t finish the sentence. Cathy let out a whimper and I heard the phone receiver thump as it hit a hard surface.
Tom spoke up. He had been listening on the extension. “Oh, my God, Mr. O’Brien.” An agonized sound crept into his voice. “What can we do to help get to the bottom of this?”
“Tom, listen to me. Your safety is at stake. It is extremely important that you two keep quiet about this. Sol and I are working feverishly to get a handle on the situation, but these monsters will stop at nothing. They have already murdered several people. I’ll keep you informed, but please-”
“Say, no more. I understand.”
I hung up the phone. Rita stared at me, her eyes wide. “Oh, Jimmy, I’m frightened.”
“It’s scary, that’s for sure.” I looked down at the yellow piece of paper on the table.
“What are we going to do?” Rita pushed the yellow paper aside and picked up the telephone receiver. “Jimmy, we have to call the FBI, right now!”
“Put the phone down. Sol already did that. They won’t listen. They said they’ve checked on those people, and they said the base is legitimate, some kind of a gun club.”
“But now with the new evidence, won’t they take another look?”
I leaned forward, took a sip of chicken soup and tried to figure out where I was going with this. Other than sore ribs, a headache, and the nagging tick in my brain, physically I was starting to feel better. The soup went down smoothly, stayed down, and tasted good. After considering the facts at hand, I knew it would be hopeless to go to the authorities with what we suspected.