Up in the ICU, I stopped just outside of room 102 where the homeless man was moved. A nurse was leaving as I arrived.
“Hi, Jill,” I said, stopping as she closed the door behind her.
Jill, an older woman with eyes entirely too close together and an unfortunate abundance of facial hair, gave me a smile. “I heard you were given this case. I’m glad. I feel so bad for him.”
I peered through the window into the hospital room, but couldn’t see much beyond the monitors and a lump under a white blanket.
“What can you tell me about him?” I asked, opening the file and looking again at the details about my new mystery client.
Jill sighed and pulled out the chart that hung beside the door. “He came in pretty roughed up. He hasn’t really woken up enough for anyone to speak to him much. He had a CAT Scan around seven and it showed some swelling on the brain, but Dr. Howell thinks it will go down quickly, then he should regain consciousness. Though from what I’ve heard about how he was found, maybe he doesn’t want to wake up.”
I made notes on my pad of paper and nodded. “I heard he was found underneath the Seventh Street Bridge,” I said lightly, hoping Jill didn’t pick up on the tightness in my voice.
Seventh Street Bridge.
Like a sledgehammer, the memories always came. Fifteen years and they still hit me with a crushing weight.
“I’ll meet you under the bridge. I promise. Wait for me, Imi…”
Jill finished her notations and handed me the patient’s chart. I read through the medical jargon quickly and didn’t see any further information that I hadn’t already been given.
“He’d been beaten pretty badly. The police seem to think he had been attacked by a…” Jill leaned in close and dropped her voice into a scandalized whisper. “By a john. He’s some sort of male prostitute.”
She sounded horrified. Her disgust erased her earlier sympathy.
“Well, it’s a good thing it’s not our job to judge him then, isn’t it?” I remarked sharply, though I understood her censure too well. I had shared her revulsion once upon a time.
Jill’s eyes widened. “I didn’t mean—”
I lifted my hand and waved away her words. “I was told that the police came by to take a picture. So they know he’s a hustler, but they don’t know his name?”
Jill bit down on her lip, looking contrite by my reprimand. “No. The detective that was here earlier said so many of them hang out by that bridge and near the river, they can’t keep track of them all. He thought he had spoken to him in the past though. So obviously this man has been out there doing whatever he was doing for a long time.” Jill made a face. “I just don’t get how people can do that sort of thing. To be used like that for money. It’s awful!”
“You have no idea what people are willing to do to put food in their belly or drugs in their body. A life on the streets makes people desperate,” I snapped.
“Oh, well, that’s true. But anyway, the detective left his card so you can call him.” She handed me a small white business card, which I promptly tucked into the case file.
They didn’t know his name. Only the sordid details of his obviously tragic life. The man had been thrown away. Discarded. Forgotten.
I felt my anger flare and my stomach knotted uncomfortably.
“Are you running blood tests to check for STDs?” I asked.
“Of course. We should get the labs back soon,” Jill answered.
I handed her the patient’s chart and turned towards the closed door. “Well let me go see Mr. Mysterious.”
Jill put a hand on my arm. “Just be prepared, he looks really bad.”
I didn’t need the warning. I had seen some awful things in my seven years at the hospital. I was positive I could handle it.
“I’ll be fine.” I twisted the doorknob and walked inside, clutching the client file to my chest.
“But you can tell he’s a looker. Such a waste,” Jill muttered.
Don’t smack the nurse. That would be bad, Imogen,I reminded myself. Instead of commenting, I shut the door in Jill’s face.
The room smelled sterile. Too clean. Even though I was used to the hospital stench of cleaning products and sickness, it was anything but pleasant.
