CHAPTER ONE
New York City, New York
It was the first week of December and the Winter chill was definitely settling in. A tricky breeze that whipped through Central Park nipped harshly at exposed flesh and the breakthrough drizzly showers, which would disappear almost as quickly as they started, were enough to drive most people searching for cover.
The scruffy young man - bare foot and wearing nothing but a pair of torn, dark blue jeans and a thin, T-shirt - who was half running, half stumbling between the trees before tumbling out onto a pavement, raised barely an eyebrow until he crashed awkwardly into a heavily set woman who had been walking, headphones in her ears, along the path.
"Hey! Get the hell away from me!" she shouted, giving him a shove which, combined with his poor balance, resulted in him tumbling to the pavement.
The young man tried desperately to scramble to his feet - his eyes wild - as a couple of men on bicycles rode to the assistance of the woman and, quickly dismounting, approached ready to subdue him.
Clearly under the influence of some sort of drug, the two men stopped, unsure whether the other man was armed with any sort of weapon. Staggering to his feet, gait unsteady, the young man turned, fear radiating off him as he tried to back away. The two men stared, wide-eyed, at the blood stains sprayed liberally across his face and down his arms.
"Hey, man, are you alright?" asked one of the men, edging closer to him. The nearer he got, the more evident it became that the young man was not alright. The blood stains were not all his, that much was evident, but there were grazes across his forehead, cuts and bruises extending up both arms and there was something not right with his left arm - the angle was off.
His friend reached behind him and pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. "I'm calling the cops." he said as he punched in 911.
The mention of police seemed to agitate him even more and he tried to scramble up the slight elevation to head back into the cover of trees. The good samaritan took his opportunity and threw himself at the young man, dragging him back to the ground and pinning his arms behind his back. The movement of his left arm caused a wail of pain - almost animal-like - and he bucked and kicked ineffectually as he tried desperately to escape, but to no avail.
Several minutes passed until the police arrived. What fight was left in the young man rapidly dissipated with a combination of exhaustion and pain and he finally stopped fighting and lay his head against the dirt. He was out of breath, out of fight and out of luck. He felt the weight of his captor lift from his back but any thought of escape was quickly squashed as he felt multiple pairs of hands pin him roughly and then the cold steel of handcuffs closing around both wrists. A sudden twisting of his arm as he was being pulled to his feet caused him to cry out as the pain of his broken arm kicked his knees out from under him.
"On your feet, man. Let's go."
He could hear the voice of the police officer but the pain was so intense it sounded distorted and he doubled over, slipping out of their grip momentarily, and ended up cringing on his knees, trying to catch his breath between painful sobs. He could feel his vision cloud and wished for nothing more than to tumble down into blissful unconsiousness. Instead, he felt the hands return - under his armpits this time - and haul him to his feet. He stumbled as he tried to get his feet under him and felt two solid bodies, one on either side of him, offer some steadiness as they began to half walk, half drag him to the waiting patrol car.
The short walk was torturous. Every step sent another jolt of pain through his body. He was vaguely away of his own voice begging the officers to wait, but there was no let up. There were questions being asked…'What's your name, pal?"….."Where do you live?"…"Where did all this blood come from?"….yet he couldn't answer. He was too consumed with not passing out. He felt a wave of nausea sweep up from deep in his stomach and he wretched as they pushed his head down to get him into the back of the vehicle.
"Hey!" shouted one of the officers as he leapt back, "No hurling on my shoes!"
But nothing came up, and instead he collapsed back on the cold vinyl of the patrol car's back seat. His whole body was shaking. He was overwhelmed with sensations - intense pain sending heat radiating up his entire left arm countered with a penetrating cold that intensified his shivering, nausea and, above all else, an irrational paranoia and fear that he could not escape from. He would have to wait for his chance. He couldn't quite remember what he was running from but he knew he had to keep running. He closed his eyes. The car heater was cranked up and he started to sweat. He felt like he was suffocating. A surge of panic coursed through him and he suddenly had to get out. He rolled onto his back and started kicking at the car doors, desperate to get away.
"Hey! Settle down!"
He kept kicking. He couldn't breathe. Terrified, he kicked even harder, panicked tears prickling at the corner of his eyes.
"Hey!"
He was vaguely aware of the vehicle increasing in speed and the wail of a siren but it was peripheral to his one overriding thought - to escape. He was screaming in frustration when the vehicle turned suddenly and stopped. Both officers exited the vehicle and he braced himself to take what would possibly be his only chance to get away. When the door opened, however, multiple hands were back, grabbing him tightly by the legs and dragging him to the edge of the seat. More hands lifted him and he felt himself being transferred onto a trolley. He struggled with all his might, but there was no chance of escape - there were so many hands. He was rolled to one side and he felt the cold hand cuffs being removed while more hands firmly brought both arms out from behind him and positioned them be the edges of the bed. Then the cuffs were back and he found he could move either arm again. He continued to fight - kicking out with his legs and slamming his head back repeatedly against the bed, screaming in frustration. There were too many voices echoing around in his head for him to concentrate on what they were saying and he didn't care.
He felt the trolley being wheeled and he knew he was in a hopeless situation. Then there were lights. The sudden intensity of the fluorescence made him squint but he couldn't raise his arms to shield his eyes. He groaned in misery. He felt a probe being placed on one of his fingers and, reflexively, tried to ball them into a fist. Instead, he felt strong hands prise them open again and there wasn't a damned thing he could do to stop it.
He felt a tourniquet tighten around his right bicep and tried desperately to pull his arm away but, instead, more hands held his arm tightly down and he gave a miserable wail as a sharp needle pierced his skin. He felt a flush of cold fluid and lifted his head to glare at the person responsible but the movement made his head swim. The lights blurred in and out and he felt a calmness overtake him. He blinked a couple of times as he felt himself starting to feel intensely sleepy and then tumbled down into blessed unconsciousness.
Detective Mac Taylor stood patiently outside of the emergency room. He nodded as he was joined by his colleague, Lindsay Monroe. She smiled back and offered a simple "Hey" before turning her attention to the action in the treatment room. The 'room' was a three walled cubicle - the fourth wall being made of two heavy, clear plastic 'doors' which acted as a barrier from outside contamination but enabled staff from outside the room to see through in case of an immediate emergency. It served its purpose but did little to offer the unfortunate person being worked on any semblance of privacy.
Lindsay winced as the T-shirt was cut off her suspect/victim and tossed to one side. Another emergency room nurse collected the shirt and shoved it into a clear plastic bag.
Mac glanced across at his young detective and gave her a wise smile.
"Let them do their job, Lindsay." he said quietly. "We work with the evidence as it comes to us. Helping the living trumps our evidence."
Lindsay gave a nod of acknowledgement.
"No identity yet?" she asked.
Mac shook his head.
"Nothing yet. He was found dehydrated, hypothermic and disorientated in central park. First responding officers reported him being incoherent when questioned about his name or history."
A nurse pushed open one side of the plastic doors and held out the plastic bag containing his clothes for the Detectives to take. Gloving up, Lindsay put her hand into the bag and patted down the jeans pockets.
"No wallet, Mac. No documentation on him at all."
Mac nodded. He had expected as much.
After several more minutes, the attending doctor exited the treatment room and walked over to the waiting CSI's.
Without wasting any words on pleasantries, the doctor launched straight into his review of the patient.
"Multiple cuts and abrasions, suspected fractured left ulna and fractured ribs - we're waiting for radiology at the moment - and a concussion. We're waiting for toxicology to come back to see what he's taken. He's sedated and ventilated at the moment and we'll keep him under for the next 24 hours until the effects of the narcotics have abated. We'll get radiology done here before we transfer him up to the intensive care unit."
"We're going to need to photograph his injuries, doctor, and collect DNA evidence. Can we have access to him while you wait for X-rays?" Mac asked.
The doctor nodded and indicated for them to head into the treatment room.
Working quickly, Lindsay and Mac both donned gloves, Lindsay unzipped her camera bag and started overall shots of the man while Mac started collecting trace from his hair and scraped under his fingernails. There were injuries all over his body - some recent, some in the process of healing.
After they had completed photographing his body, they moved to the side and let in the nurses who set up a 'bair' hugging blanket to re-warm their patient. Before they left, one final thing had to be attended to - Lindsay took out a small ink pad from her kit and gently lifted each finger individually and got a set of fingerprints. Taking a swab, she gently took a mouth swab as well, careful not to touch the tube of the ventilator.
While Mac went out to the nurses station to leave their contact details, Lindsay packed up her equipment and stole a final glance at the patient. He was maybe late 20's, early 30's in age and had dark, wavy hair - unkempt and greasy. His face and arms were dirty with grime, even despite the crusted blood that had splattered his skin. She felt a pang of empathy for the young man who, through circumstances unknown, had ended up alone, desperate and frightened on a cold day in central New York. She became determined to uncover his identity at the very least.
Back at the crime lab, Lindsay scanned the mystery man's fingerprints into the computer and started running them through the CODIS system. An often time consuming process, she left the prints running and headed to the DNA lab to process his cheek swab and to start writing up her report. She had a busy shift ahead of her with two other open cases as well.
It was several hours later by the time there as a result.
After unsuccessfully sorting though two different categories of CODIS, Lindsay, more out of desperation than actually believing she would have success, scanned through a government employee database. The alarm sounded signifying success as Lindsay was nearing completion of her preliminary report.
The red highlight on her mystery man's name caught her eye before she even had time to lookout the accompanying photo. DECEASED. How could that be? Looking at the image, she confirmed the individual was definitely the man currently lying in the bed at Lennox Hill Hospital.
Reading his profile bewildered her even more.
CSI Detective Timothy Speedle
Killed in the line of duty, 2004
Miami Dade Police Department.
This is my first story after a long break from writing. Please consider writing a review. It really is appreciated.