California Moon

After speaking with Jimmy Joe at the station, Ben drove to the airport car rental where John Doe had falsely rented a car. He asked the supervisor to show him the records regarding that particular transaction.

“Mabel Yates, one of our clerks, dealt with that customer. The police were already here once about it. She knows she messed up.”

“Messed up?” Ben asked.

“Yeah, she didn’t check the signature against the customer’s credit-card signature on the back.”

“I see,” Ben said, nodding. “Did she remember the man at all? Give a description?”

The supervisor shook his head. “Most folks look the same to us, we see so many. But she did remember that he was short.”

“Short?” Ben was surprised. John Doe was at least six foot tall. But Adam Rivers is short.

“Yeah. Mabel is tall—five-ten. He was shorter than she is. She says she always notices people’s height.”

Ben reasoned that Adam Rivers had undoubtedly rented the car under an assumed name, then left it somewhere for John Doe to pick up at a later time. But why? Was Adam Rivers protecting John Doe? Was Adam the gofer, doing odd jobs for John Doe the mastermind? Or was Rivers protecting himself? Or both?

After leaving the car rental place, Ben went to a pay phone. Picking up the phone book, he quickly turned to the Bossier City section. There were three Ackermans in Bossier City, but there was no Harvey nor even an initial “H.” He called all three numbers and each call confirmed there had never been a Harvey Ackerman in Bossier City.

Why would Jimmy Joe lie about this? Ben wondered. Or is someone in the department lying to Jimmy Joe?

Ben had thought he’d find answers to his questions.

He’d thought wrong.

John Doe had been assigned to private room 505, located at the end of the hall, surrounded by unoccupied semiprivate rooms. Chief Bremen and the hospital administration had agreed that until more was known regarding the criminal status of John Doe, the safety of patients and staff was of primary concern. No one was allowed admittance to that end of the hall except Ben Richards, Dr. Scanlon, Shannon Riley and Chief Bremen.

“I can understand having Ben around when John was in ICU. But now that we know it may be weeks, months, before John comes out of the coma, is it necessary to have cops on duty all the time?” Shannon asked Helen.

“Chief Bremen thinks so,” Helen said. “He doesn’t want a gang slaying up here any more than I do.”

“Slaying? They think John is in that much danger?”

“Yes.”

“My God.” Shannon swallowed hard, looking around the nurses’ lounge for escape. “I had no idea…”

“Don’t cop out on me, Shannon. I need you on this case. You’re damn good.”

“Besides, no one else will take it?” Shannon offered.

“Something like that.”

“Well, I’ve never worked with an armed guard at the door. All this past week, it’s given me the willies.”

“He’s supposed to make you feel safe.”

“Well, he doesn’t,” Shannon replied tersely. “Maybe I just don’t like cops.”

Helen nodded. “I’ve noticed that about you.”

“What?” Shannon asked, clearly shocked.

“You shake like a leaf when Ben is around. Chief Bremen, too.”

“I do not,” she answered with more confidence than she felt. “It’s the case that has me rattled. You have to admit, this entire case is out of the ordinary.”

“It is.”

Shannon rolled her eyes. “How did I get myself into this?”

“You didn’t. I did,” Helen smiled.

“Remind me to thank you later,” Shannon replied. Making no further comment, she walked down the hall toward John’s room, closing the door behind her.

“Good day, John,” she said cheerily, opening the miniblinds. “Sunny. That’s good.”

She smiled at her patient. “You look better already without your ICU attachments.”

She looked at him closely. The cuts on his face were healing well after only a week in the hospital. There was a remarkable change almost overnight as the swelling had gone down due to Shannon’s trick of placing frozen peas inside the fingers of plastic gloves and laying them across his eyes and cheeks. The edges of his bruises had altered from black and blue to a muddy yellow. She passed her hand over his cheek. “I think Mozart has had a hand in this.” Shannon had continued to play him classical music each day. She leaned over him, putting her face close to his.

No response, not even the flutter of an eyelash.

“Looks like you could use a shave, my friend.”

She prepared water, towels, soap and a plastic disposable razor. After thoroughly washing his face, she smeared a small amount of shaving cream on his left cheek. “Nasty cut on the other side. Better not risk it.”

She carefully shaved his cheek, sliding the razor over abrasions with skilled ease. She applied more shaving cream. “I’ve never shaved a man with such a deep cleft in his chin. How many times did you cut yourself when you first started shaving? Did your father teach you? Did he have a cleft, too?”

She smoothed a clump of hair from his forehead and gazed at him. She was seeing an almost normal-looking man.

“Or was it your mother you inherited it from?”

She looked at him, but not as a nurse looking for signs of health. In some part of her mind, she knew she was projecting herself onto her patient. Patients projected their emotions onto their healers all the time. It was so common it was a cliché in the medical world. In this case, though, Shannon believed that John was a mirror of herself—a person alone, wounded and waiting.

“Like Sleeping Beauty,” she whispered.

Impulsively, she leaned toward him, her lips pursed.

“Do you believe in magic, that a kiss will awaken you?”

She stopped herself midmotion. She straightened up and blinked.

“Stupid. What was I thinking?”

I’ve never done anything like that. Never. Professionalism is my middle name.

Quickly, she gathered up the shaving utensils. “That is the last time I pull three shifts in a row!” she exclaimed and walked out of the room.