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Happy Birthday
Chapter 12
The previous day's trip to New York City had netted very little new information for the Hardys who now sat at the conference table in Fenton's office poring over what they did know, trying to determine what the victims had in common.
"The one thing they all have in common that stands out is the fact that they are all twenty-four years old," Fenton commented.
"Same age as me," Frank said, absently.
"I hope that doesn't mean something," Joe joked.
Frank laughed. "Unless this guy is going after everyone on the planet who's twenty-four, I think I'm safe."
"That would be pretty ambitious. I doubt you're in any danger," Fenton joined in the joking. He quickly sobered as he saw Joe frowning in concentration. "Did you find something, Joe?"
"I'm not sure. I mean it could be nothing but…"
"But it could be everything. What is it?" Frank prodded his brother.
"Well, they were all hugely successful in their careers. Isn't that pretty unusual considering they're so young?"
Fenton shuffled a few papers, scanning the contents. "You're right."
"Do you think that's it? That's the common denominator?"
"I think there's more to it than just the fact that they were all successful so young, but I have a feeling you're on the right track," Fenton said encouragingly.
"Child prodigies," Frank observed, looking up. "They were all considered child prodigies in their field."
"So they were all 'gifted', so to speak. And they're all twenty-four years old. Now we're getting somewhere."
Frank was about to speak, when a low beeping sound stopped him. Trying to hide a smile, he turned to his brother. "What's the appointment for this time?"
Joe slumped back in his chair, holding his left arm up. "Therapy," he answered glumly. "Why do these appointments always come up just when we're getting to the good stuff?" Joe complained. He looked longingly at the papers spread out on the conference table then gazed at his father pleadingly. Fenton arched an eyebrow letting his silence speak for itself.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Therapy comes first, work second," Joe said with disgust. Collecting his copies of the reports, Joe pushed his chair back from the table, stood and trudged half-heartedly towards the door.
"Call me when you get home." Frank called out to him, which Joe rewarded with a dismissive wave of his hand.
oooOOOooo
Several hours later Joe lay on the couch in his apartment, eyes closed wondering when the hydrotherapy and rehabilitative exercises for his arm would cease being excruciatingly painful and become simply uncomfortable. In an effort to forget the constant throbbing in his arm, Joe concentrated on the discussion he'd had with Dr. Gregory right after his therapy session, hoping the aspirin he took would hurry up and kick in.
Ever since his one error in judgment when he'd been hospitalized in Chicago and turned to morphine for an emotional escape, Joe had decided to forgo any kind of prescription painkillers and tough it out with whatever over the counter concoction would work. He still shuddered recalling how quickly that one little pill had taken away all his pain and made everything bearable again, now fully understanding how easy it was for someone to become addicted to that feeling.
Attempting to find a more comfortable position, Joe briefly thought about getting the prescription Dr. Gregory had given him filled and immediately decided against it. Other than the hour or two following his therapy sessions, the physical pain was almost non-existent. The mental and emotional pain, however, was a different story entirely. As they always did when Joe was alone with his thoughts, the horrible memories of his abduction came roaring back full force bringing with it the guilt and fear. Although he'd made a few attempts in sessions with his therapist, Linda, to work through his emotions about the torture he had endured, Joe still wasn't able to come to terms with his own feelings.
Feeling the familiar burning sensation of tears whenever he let his mind wander in this direction, Joe instinctively curled his right hand into a fist, unaware that his nails were digging into his palm. The same taunting questions swirled in his head; questions he had no answers for.
'Why couldn't I hold on? When did I become so weak? So weak that I just wanted to die?'
As far as his family and friends were concerned, Joe had been something of a hero, sacrificing himself to ensure the safety of a United States Senator and the President. Yet every time he looked in the mirror at his own reflection, one word popped into his head – coward. He'd been kidnapped too many times to count, sometimes beaten mercilessly in the process, and never once felt the way he did now – scared.
'Stop!' Joe commanded himself. 'You need to get over it. Rashman will eventually come to trial. You'll have to testify. There's no way around it and you can't let him see he got to you!'
Trying to regain control of his emotions, he recalled Frank's promise.
"I'll help you deal with it. I'll hold your hand. I'll be your punching bag."
'Maybe…' Joe thought. His attempts to deal with it in therapy had always ended horribly, although Joe wasn't quite sure why. Deciding maybe it would be a good idea to talk to Frank about it, Joe made a mental note to take his brother up on his offer of a shoulder to lean on. 'Maybe my intellectually gifted brother will be able to make sense of it all,' Joe thought wryly, feeling a little better.
Noticing that the throbbing pain in his arm had diminished considerably to a dull ache, Joe sat up and glanced at the reports he'd brought home with him, now laying on the coffee table. Prior to his nightmare in Chicago, Joe sometimes felt as if he weren't pulling his own weight at work with all the therapy appointments he had. Now with the additional time he had to spend working with a physical therapist, hoping to regain all the strength and range of motion in his arm, he couldn't help but feel he was letting his father and brother down.
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself," Joe said out loud, looking at the police report on Kent Graham. "At least you still have your arm. Now get to work."
With a new sense of purpose, Joe methodically began scrutinizing each report. He knew there had to be another connection between all the victims besides their age and success. He had a strong feeling it was somewhere on those reports, staring him in the face and he just wasn't seeing it. Having become engrossed in his search, Joe was startled when he heard a key in the lock and the door swung open.
Vanessa smiled at him as she walked into the apartment.
"Hey, Babe." Joe opened his arms invitingly.
Dropping her things on a chair, Vanessa quickly scrambled into Joe's waiting embrace, gracing him with a long, lingering kiss.
Reluctantly pulling away several minutes later, she let her fingertips run over his left arm. "How was therapy today?"
"Good." It was the same answer he gave whenever anyone asked, but he surprised Vanessa with a follow up. "I saw Dr. Gregory today too."
"And?" Vanessa asked, sensing good news for a change.
"He said there's a very good chance I won't need skin grafts after all."
Vanessa threw her arms around his neck. "Joe, that's great news!"
"I guess all those vitamins paid off." Joe laughed and hugged her tightly.
"Have you told Frank or your mother?"
"Nope."
"Why not?" Vanessa asked, looking at him with mild concern.
"Because I wanted you to be the first to know." He leaned in and kissed her softly. Releasing her a moment later, he glanced down at the papers on the coffee table.
Vanessa followed his gaze. "How's it going? Any progress?"
"A little. But we need a lot more."
"Then I won't bother you any more." Vanessa stood and with a final kiss, collected up her things. "Let me know if I can help. And don't forget to call your Mom. And Frank," she called out over her shoulder as she headed down the hall towards the bedroom, allowing Joe to return all his attention to the reports.
Picking up the papers once again, Joe tried to look at them as if he were seeing them for the first time. Three assaults. All of the victims permanently disabled in some way. What was the common denominator?
'They're all twenty-four years old, but there has to be more than that.' Joe frowned in concentration. 'Twenty-four years old…maybe…'
Joe picked up the report on the first victim and scanned the first page.
"Date of Birth: July 14, 1977. Place of Birth: New York, NY."
Looking at the second report, his eyebrows shot up.
"Date of Birth: July 14, 1977. Place of Birth: New York, NY."
Joe felt the familiar butterflies in his stomach that always made an appearance when one of his gut instincts was about to pay off in a big way. Quickly scanning the third report, he sucked in his breath, excitement gleaming in his blue eyes.
"Date of Birth: July 14, 1977. Place of Birth: New York, NY."
All three victims had been born on July 14, 1977 in New York City. Had he found the elusive common denominator?
Wanting to share the information with his father and Frank as soon as possible, Joe was just about to pick up the phone when the reality of his discovery hit him. He looked at the reports once again, this time with dread, no longer wanting to see the same birth date and birthplace on every page. The excitement Joe had felt only seconds earlier suddenly turned to apprehension…and fear.
'It's just a coincidence. Nothing to worry about,' Joe desperately tried to convince himself. 'Coincidence. That's all.'
The butterflies in his stomach told him otherwise. And they were never wrong.
