Chapter 1- Kissingani
The shadow of late afternoon is beginning to cast its welcome shade on a humble building that houses a simple clinic.
Carter is making his rounds though the patient filled halls. The sight of their helplessness and poverty, as always, tears at his heart but he is impressed with their perseverance, patience, and kindness even in the most desperate of situations.
"Bonjour", John calls out in an American-tinged French accent as he walks down a particularly wide corridor. He tries to greet the patients and their families with a smile and warm expression, knowing that this is the best comfort that he may be able to give many of them.
He rounds the corner and enters a small office that contains a window, a worn chair and a meager desk that is indiscriminately covered by towering piles of paper. The walls are decorated with hastily hung pictures and mementos in an effort to try to humanize the room's otherwise austere appearance.
He sits in the chair and begins to jot down some notes.
Died September 5, 2005 - orphan girl from the Central Congo. Name: - unknown. Exact age: - unknown. Approximate age: - between 10 -15 years old. Cause of death: – pneumonia caused by Haemophilus influenzae type b. Distinguishing marks: - crescent shaped mole left upper thigh. Slight overbite.
He writes everything as quickly as possible, and then he proceeds to hastily staple a Polaroid of the child to his notes.
There are 5 other 'John Doe' patients who died over the last 72 hours, and he wants to try to get through all of their details before Angelique calls him for some backup.
Deep down he knows that writing these cases up is an exercise in futility – Angelique has even said as much – but he hopes that one day someone will care enough to lookup these people and find out what became of a son, or a daughter…or a beloved sibling.
He sighs as he finishes writing down the brief details for the last John Doe, and then he allows his right hand to caress his smooth face. He grins as he remembers the first time he worked in the clinic. His beard had grown in nicely by that time – at least in his apparently isolated opinion – and it had felt pleasantly coarse beneath his fingertips.
He pauses, leans back slightly in his chair, and looks out the window as he thinks of Paris and how he came to be in the Congo again.