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“I was only here a few minutes before you. I was trying to gather my courage. They said she was in rough shape over the scanner. I was—I was preparing myself. Please, just let me see her.”
I sigh, feeling some sympathy through my annoyance. “I’m sorry, but it’s not Rebecca, and I can’t allow you to enter a stranger’s room without their permission. Now leave before I have to escort you off the premises.”
He leans toward me and hisses, “You don’t know that!”
I mimic his position. “You’ve got five seconds.” I reach into the inside pocket of my leather jacket and pull out my spare cuffs. His eyes widen. His mouth drops open as if he’s about to counter back, but at that second, a shrill scream comes from the room two doors down. It doesn’t stop. The woman keeps screaming in an agonized voice, terror echoing through the halls so loudly, I can feel her fear in my bones. A team of medical professionals files into her room, several of them carrying items and one pushing a cart. For one second, I take my eyes off Mr. Stewart to watch the team, and in that split second, the moron dashes away from me to her room. Motherfucker.
At least he has the smarts not to step foot in her room. I really don’t want to have to arrest him and explain to my boss why I was here, but he’s really testing my patience. While he’s fixated on the girl, I step up in front of him and plant my hand on the center of his chest. I feel like I can physically feel the force of the girl’s screams on the back of my neck as they become louder and more frantic. My heart pulls in sympathy for her. I’d be afraid too if a team of doctors ran into my room, and I had no idea what they were doing.
I push off Mr. Stewart’s chest enough to make him step back a foot. “Last time I ask you to leave. The next time, I’m hauling you out of here in cuffs.” We lock eyes, and while he appears distraught, I swear I see a bit of challenge in them.
“She has the same shape of her face… and—and her eyes look the same. Please, Detective, please look harder. It could be her. What if someone dyed her hair?”
“We’ll discuss this later. You’re breaking the law by being here, and if you don’t go on your own, I’ll be forced to do something about that.”
The distress on his face evaporates and in its place is a hard sneer. “I’ll be in touch,” he spits and stomps to the elevators.
I watch until the doors close him inside then turn my attention to the room. The girl struggles against the restraints on her wrists. Her back bows off the bed, nearly bending her in two, and she thrashes her feet wildly. A wild mane of tangled brown hair hides half her face. A doctor to her right readies a needle, probably a sedative to calm her down.
Our eyes lock from across the room, and the terror there is heart wrenching. I’ve dealt with a lot of distraught families over the years. I’ve found and spoken to many victims who’d wished they’d died rather than go through the torture they had, so I can’t help but feel sad for what this girl is being put through now after only God knows what else she’s been through. We still don’t know if she’s a victim or a prostitute or just a homeless girl who was looking for shelter. What I do know is that life hasn’t been kind to her. Holding her down, restraining her, drugging her—none of that is probably helping.
I take her in while all this happens around me. Time slows considerably while my heart speeds up. I consider myself a compassionate man. I feel for my victims and their families, but I’ve also learned to distance myself over the years and not to carry the weight of their pain around with me. I have enough of that on my own. But her injuries are barbaric.
Half her face is covered by brown hair that is so dark with filth it could possibly be blond. Debris is twisted in the strands. Patches of hair are so matted they’ve formed dreads that will need to be cut out. As if she hasn’t been through enough physical trauma already, she’ll probably need to shave her entire head. Her hair is just the beginning.
I can’t begin to catalogue all the fresh cuts on her skin.
Thin red lines crisscross her flesh, patches of dried blood joining them to form red webs. Even more scabs and scars are present. Not an inch of skin isn’t marred. Both of her flailing feet are wrapped with bandages, and her legs mirror her arms. Her face seems to have taken the worst damage. The entire left side is so swollen her eye is puffy and shut. Her left cheek and lower jaw are the size of a softball and so dark purple that it almost looks black. A thick, still-healing keloid scar runs from her right temple, parallel to the side of her face, and stops just level with the corner of her lip.
“Stop.”
That word falls from my mouth without much forethought. I’m no medical professional, and I have no business trying to get in the way of what they’re doing. It feels wrong, though, to watch her struggle.
Every head in the room turns in my direction, and to my shock, the girl falls silent and stills her fight although her limbs tremble.
“Who are you?” a balding doctor asks. I assume he’s the one in charge. I pull out my credentials and flash him my badge.
“Detective Niko James. I came by to ask Jane Doe a few questions.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. James. She’s in no state of mind to answer questions today,” he replies, not unkind, but I can tell he’s tired. It could be this patient or this day, but his face is drawn, and lines and dark circles surround his eyes. I think someone needs to give him a mandatory vacation, too. Looks like he could use it.
I cock my head to the left, not taking my eyes away from the girl who’s still staring at me. “Understandably, you’re the professional here, but she was brought in a couple of days ago, and we still have no idea who she is. Surely, a few minutes of questioning isn’t too much to ask?”
He sighs. “You heard her screaming. She’s very distraught.”
“She’s not screaming anymore.”
The doctor blinks hard as if he just surfaced from a daydream and jerks his head in her direction. “Huh. I guess she’s not.”
“A few minutes, please. We could use anything as a lead at this point.”
“Okay. Yes. A few minutes,” he concedes, scrubbing a hand over his tired brow.
“Hey, Doc,” I call as he starts to leave the room. He turns back and raises an eyebrow, probably at my less-than-professional acknowledgment. What can I say, it slipped out. I lower my voice so only he can hear. “Why’s she restrained? And so damn dirty? From my impression of the intake report, she’s more likely than not a victim. Where’s the compassion?”
The older man looks toward his shoes before making direct eye contact. “It’s for her safety. She was fine when they brought her in, but during her exam for the kit…” He trails off, making the rest very clear. I swallow hard. “We haven’t been able to touch her since. Anytime someone gets close, she lashes out.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
