Hey, you still know me? Ok, I'll make it short this time. Just say to
wuemsel that Obst rules and mean cupboards are no reason to be scared
of...as long as you are tall! I'm insane, does that actually matter?
Disclaimer: I don't own the song. "How Will I Know" was sung by the singer Jessica in 1998.
So, enjoy! :-)
"OK guys and our next hit is from Jessica and I wanna hear you sing really loud: "How will I know who you are"...."
I don't know how or where to start
But here we're standing again
And I see now from where we are
That our road has come to an end.
Though we've come this far
I don't know why
But I still can't see who you are.
....
It's too late now
We've gone this far
To see what's hidden within
Though we said that we'd never part
Maybe I've been trying to hard
To believe in love
I don't know why
But I still can't see who you are....
Dr. Robert Bakins glared at the small radio on his desk as he turned and pressed the several buttons to find another channel. Other music. Something classic without singing and pouring feelings out to a whole nation. Or even to the world. Having put in some calming piano tootling, Robert ran his strong hands through his mouse-brown short hair, then he started to search for a pencil that he had just dropped onto the floor. When he had finally found it, he tried to concentrate on these files again, but soon he realised that his hands were trembling and that his eyelids became heavy. He hadn't got much sleep in the last nights. Too many thoughts.
From his office on the sixth floor in the building of the "Shane Arthur Williams Clinic", a private clinic in the heart of New York City, he could watch the people in the Central Park. At 6 o'clock in the morning there were only some joggers and men with their dogs. All of them lived their ordinary stupid life day for day without ever thinking about it. When they came home, they would eat a yogurt, kiss their wives, take their children to school, drive through the NYC traffic, go to work in one of these stifling offices, quarrel with some colleagues and drink a few cups of coffee, then drive home again, look through their mail, watch TV and then turn in and maybe make a bit love with their wives or girlfriends or read "War and Peace".
Robert got up from his chair, went to the small cupboard and poured himself another Jim Beam. The third today. Normally he didn't drink before working, but he needed something that would improve his mood and return him to that warm cosiness he missed so much. The phone ringed. Wondering who was calling at such a time, Robert walked over to his desk, set his glass down on one of the opened files, whereby he accidentally spilled some of the alcohol, which left a light-brown moist circle on the front paper, and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?" He said and noticed horrorfiedly that he was already babbeling a little.
"Good morning, am I talking to Dr. Robert Bakins?", asked a voice which certainly belonged to an older male person.
Robert didn't recognise the voice. He only hoped that it wasn't anybody of his superiors. Those would be quite disappointed when they discovered that he had drunk, though he had lots of patients today. Private clinics couldn't afford any scandals. And a chiropracticer who accidentally caused a paralysis because he wasn't sober was definitely one. Robert calmed himself down with a glance at his wristwatch. Dr Perkins was probably still dreaming sweetly next to one of his about three girlfriends and it was very likely that Dr Miller had just ended up the second hole at the Milford Golf Course with a wonderful put and a birdie. And he himself had still got left three hours to get the alcohol out of his blood system.
'God save the cliches', thought Robert, chuckling and answered: "Yes, I am Dr. Robert Bakins. What can I do for you?" 'at a time when everyone else is standing under the shower, trying to transform himself from a sleepy monster into a reasonably handsome human being' he added in his mind.
The man at the other site of the line hesitated. "Dr Bakins, you probably don't know me any more, I'm Dr Mark Sloan from the Community General Hospital in Los Angeles..."
Robert slumped into his chair as though he had been shot. He couldn't remember Dr Mark Sloan in person, but he knew the Community General Hospital. He had been there at a congress about one years ago. Actually that had been the time when his problems had started. Taking a pencil in order to have something in his hand he could throw against the wall without causing too much damage, Robert sat now very erectly in his seat and said politely:
"I'm very sorry to say that I cannot remember you, but of course I know your hospital. How can I help you?"
Though both men were talking very friendly, you could hear that there was hostile tension between them.
"I wanted to ask you something about your relationship with the nurse Susan Hilliard...you should have known her quite well..." Mark started directly. Seconds later he heard a cool, sarcastic laugh at the other end of the line.
"Oh yeah, I believe I knew her. What has that little bitch done this time?" A wave of anger floated over Robert, but the Wiskey and the pain which was slowly eating him from inside, hampered him in getting control over his rage.
"Actually someone tried to murder her!" Mark assumed that the man was drunk. His pronounciation was completely blurred.
For a moment Robert didn't know if he should start laughing or crying. After all he had loved her once. Or at least believed he had. But on the other hand she had practically played with his heart. She did deserve it, somehow. But what did this doctor Sloan want from him? "How...how have you got to know my number?" He asked, rubbing his eyes. He couldn't even look clearly.
"Oh, my son is homicide detective...that wasn't difficult..." Mark wondered what would happen next. It was obvious that the man he was talking to was anything else but sober, so what would he do?
"Homicide detective...you must be very proud of him..." , Robert's tone was still sharp.
Nevertheless Dr Sloan didn't seem to be very impressed. "In fact I have wondered if you could give me some information about her. Where did she work, where did she live, about her friends, had someone a motive to murder her?..."
Robert's fingers clenched around the pencil and seconds later it broke in two. 'I knew I would need it', he thought furiously and aggressively jumped up from his chair. "What has she told you, doc, what?!" He yelled into the receiver. "That I never loved her, that I am a bad man?! Yeah, in her opinion that's all true. Why are you asking anyway?! Has she maybe told you that I beat her? Ok, I did, but only once, I swear, I didn't mean it that way, it just happened! I don't know anything about her! Maybe you could ask your wonderful Dr Travis! He is the one she loved, he must know everything about her, not me, who only spent one year of my damn life with her!
Have a nice life doc!" With these words Robert put down the receiver with a loud bump and fell into his chair, barely able to hold back the tears. He had made so many mistakes. Someone had tried to kill Susan and he hadn't even shown a bit of pity. What a great fool was he anyway?! He could deal with so many things, so why couldn't he deal with what was happening now. At the end he had to admit to himself that his relationship to her had been lie. 'Get over her, Rob!' he commanded himself. Something as it had just had happened, was not to happen again!
He got up and, swaying a little, he went to the mirror in the one corners of his office. He grimaced at his own sight. His tie was hanging loosely around his neck, his shirt was blotched with red wine and scotch and the sharp creases in his trousers couldn't be recognised any more. His hazelnut- brown eyes were bloody red and framed with black shadows, he was rather unshaved and his normally so youthful face was showing deep lines. It was lamentable.
Robert pulled on his tie and took his jacket. If he buttoned it up, the dirt on his shirt would be hardly to see. A shaver was always in one of the drawers in his desk and if he made a short trip to one of the washrooms, he would again look like a successful young doctor within ten minutes. He was still busied with rummaging in the drawers, when the door opened and someone quietly entered his office. A pair of leather shoes slid over the red carpet and seconds later Robert found himself staring into the face of someone he had never seen before in his life.
"Who are you?", he asked confusedly.
Instead of an answer the other one lifted a gun. A bang sounded through the whole administration area of the "Shane Arthur Williams Clinic", but as there weren't any people at work, yet, it remained unheared. Dr Robert Bakins was lying on the floor in his office in the west wing and a round bloody wound gaped in his forehead. He was definitely dead. The unknown person smiled satisfiedly to himself as he escaped as quickly as he had appeared before.
Mark looked at the receiver and shook his head. Robert hadn't even given him a chance to say what was going on. That Susan hadn't told them anything, that she was in coma and in a very bad condition. According to Robert's reaction, he had really loved her. Maybe he had just been too hurt, too overwhelmed by his feelings to think properly. Mark decided to try it later again. Right now he was too tired.
"You've called him, have you?" Jesse was leaning on the doorframe, still dressed in these bloody scrubs, hardly able to make only one step forward.
Mark looked up and felt a bit caught, though he hadn't done anything wrong, but he was scared of his friend's possible reaction. "I had to, Jess! Maybe he knows something..."
Jesse shrugged and hoped that Mark would believe that it really didn't matter to him. He hadn't known Robert very well anyway. The doctor wandered over to the cupboard to grab his mug. To Mark he didn't look like the young enthusiastic man he had known for years. The invisible weight on his shoulders seemed to paralyse him, seemed to crush him.
"Has he at least said anything useful?" asked Jesse, while looking out of the window in a -for him untypical- apathetic way. Mark sensed that it wasn't the best idea to tell his friend what Robert Bakins had shouted into the receiver in his morningly intoxication, so he only shook his head. The following depressing moment of silence was suddenly disturbed by a loud bang. Jesse had felt the mug sliding through his fingers, but hadn't made any attempt to catch it before it burst on the floor. He only mumbled a half-hearted curse and then knelt down to pick up the remains of the porcelain.
Mark watched him for a while, then he got up from his chair and knelt down next to Jesse, who didn't make any attempt to finish this aggravating occupation as fast as possible.
Mark patted his friend's shoulder. "Let me do that, Jess!", he offered gently, but Jesse shook his head. "No, Mark, that mess is my problem!"
"You are too tired, you will only cut yourself!", replied Mark sensibly.
"I'm used to that!", mumbled Jesse.
"Am I at least allowed to help you?"
Again Mark earned a strict shaking of the head. "No, I can handle that on my own, I think..."
Both knowing that they weren't talking about the mug any more, Mark's and Jesse's eyes met now. Two pairs of blue eyes were watching each other, both with a glint of fear in them, a fatherly worry in the one and a guilty shame in the other.
"Ok", Mark gave up and smiled softly. "But promise me to tell me if you want me to help you!"
"I promise!", Jesse nodded and smiled back. Then he stood up, balancing the fragments in his hand and went over to the waste-bin
Mark threw a quick glance at his watch. 3 o'clock in the morning. "Why don't you go home?", he suggested.
"I'm too tired to drive, so if you don't mind I'll stay and sleep here..." Actually Jesse was tired of contradicting Mark and arguing with him. After all the elder doctor was right, he hadn't slept for hours and couldn't work in that condition, his shift was also long over.
Mark knew that it wouldn't make any sense to offer Jesse to drive him home, as he would refuse anyway. So he let him settle on the couch and watched how the young medic drifted away into a petty, restless sleep. He would have loved to sit there and keep an eye on his friend, but now his cell- phone rang again and he hurried to answer the call because he didn't want to disturb Jesse.
"Hello?" he said, leaving the lounge to be able to talk in a normal tone.
"Hello. Who are you?" asked a serious voice at the other end of the line.
"I'm doctor Mark Sloan! And who are you if you allow me that question?"
"Lieutenant Steinberg, homicide detective for the NYC police departement...I'm calling from Robert Bakins office. Your number was the last one that was displayed on his phone..."
"You mean he is dead?" asked Mark shocked.
Steinberg looked down at the body at his feet. It had been marked with white tapes and the people from the unit for securing of evidence were running through the office in the Arthur Shane Williams Clinic, taking pictures of all parts of it, including the corp behind the desk. He had fallen to the ground, under his head there had been formed a puddle of almost fresh blood. Letting his eyes wander over the crime scene, which was not a quite unusual sight for him, Steinberg answered: "Yeah, he definetly is!"
And though he didn't know the circumstances, he wasn't really surprised as he heard a heavy gulp at the other end of the line.
Disclaimer: I don't own the song. "How Will I Know" was sung by the singer Jessica in 1998.
So, enjoy! :-)
"OK guys and our next hit is from Jessica and I wanna hear you sing really loud: "How will I know who you are"...."
I don't know how or where to start
But here we're standing again
And I see now from where we are
That our road has come to an end.
Though we've come this far
I don't know why
But I still can't see who you are.
....
It's too late now
We've gone this far
To see what's hidden within
Though we said that we'd never part
Maybe I've been trying to hard
To believe in love
I don't know why
But I still can't see who you are....
Dr. Robert Bakins glared at the small radio on his desk as he turned and pressed the several buttons to find another channel. Other music. Something classic without singing and pouring feelings out to a whole nation. Or even to the world. Having put in some calming piano tootling, Robert ran his strong hands through his mouse-brown short hair, then he started to search for a pencil that he had just dropped onto the floor. When he had finally found it, he tried to concentrate on these files again, but soon he realised that his hands were trembling and that his eyelids became heavy. He hadn't got much sleep in the last nights. Too many thoughts.
From his office on the sixth floor in the building of the "Shane Arthur Williams Clinic", a private clinic in the heart of New York City, he could watch the people in the Central Park. At 6 o'clock in the morning there were only some joggers and men with their dogs. All of them lived their ordinary stupid life day for day without ever thinking about it. When they came home, they would eat a yogurt, kiss their wives, take their children to school, drive through the NYC traffic, go to work in one of these stifling offices, quarrel with some colleagues and drink a few cups of coffee, then drive home again, look through their mail, watch TV and then turn in and maybe make a bit love with their wives or girlfriends or read "War and Peace".
Robert got up from his chair, went to the small cupboard and poured himself another Jim Beam. The third today. Normally he didn't drink before working, but he needed something that would improve his mood and return him to that warm cosiness he missed so much. The phone ringed. Wondering who was calling at such a time, Robert walked over to his desk, set his glass down on one of the opened files, whereby he accidentally spilled some of the alcohol, which left a light-brown moist circle on the front paper, and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?" He said and noticed horrorfiedly that he was already babbeling a little.
"Good morning, am I talking to Dr. Robert Bakins?", asked a voice which certainly belonged to an older male person.
Robert didn't recognise the voice. He only hoped that it wasn't anybody of his superiors. Those would be quite disappointed when they discovered that he had drunk, though he had lots of patients today. Private clinics couldn't afford any scandals. And a chiropracticer who accidentally caused a paralysis because he wasn't sober was definitely one. Robert calmed himself down with a glance at his wristwatch. Dr Perkins was probably still dreaming sweetly next to one of his about three girlfriends and it was very likely that Dr Miller had just ended up the second hole at the Milford Golf Course with a wonderful put and a birdie. And he himself had still got left three hours to get the alcohol out of his blood system.
'God save the cliches', thought Robert, chuckling and answered: "Yes, I am Dr. Robert Bakins. What can I do for you?" 'at a time when everyone else is standing under the shower, trying to transform himself from a sleepy monster into a reasonably handsome human being' he added in his mind.
The man at the other site of the line hesitated. "Dr Bakins, you probably don't know me any more, I'm Dr Mark Sloan from the Community General Hospital in Los Angeles..."
Robert slumped into his chair as though he had been shot. He couldn't remember Dr Mark Sloan in person, but he knew the Community General Hospital. He had been there at a congress about one years ago. Actually that had been the time when his problems had started. Taking a pencil in order to have something in his hand he could throw against the wall without causing too much damage, Robert sat now very erectly in his seat and said politely:
"I'm very sorry to say that I cannot remember you, but of course I know your hospital. How can I help you?"
Though both men were talking very friendly, you could hear that there was hostile tension between them.
"I wanted to ask you something about your relationship with the nurse Susan Hilliard...you should have known her quite well..." Mark started directly. Seconds later he heard a cool, sarcastic laugh at the other end of the line.
"Oh yeah, I believe I knew her. What has that little bitch done this time?" A wave of anger floated over Robert, but the Wiskey and the pain which was slowly eating him from inside, hampered him in getting control over his rage.
"Actually someone tried to murder her!" Mark assumed that the man was drunk. His pronounciation was completely blurred.
For a moment Robert didn't know if he should start laughing or crying. After all he had loved her once. Or at least believed he had. But on the other hand she had practically played with his heart. She did deserve it, somehow. But what did this doctor Sloan want from him? "How...how have you got to know my number?" He asked, rubbing his eyes. He couldn't even look clearly.
"Oh, my son is homicide detective...that wasn't difficult..." Mark wondered what would happen next. It was obvious that the man he was talking to was anything else but sober, so what would he do?
"Homicide detective...you must be very proud of him..." , Robert's tone was still sharp.
Nevertheless Dr Sloan didn't seem to be very impressed. "In fact I have wondered if you could give me some information about her. Where did she work, where did she live, about her friends, had someone a motive to murder her?..."
Robert's fingers clenched around the pencil and seconds later it broke in two. 'I knew I would need it', he thought furiously and aggressively jumped up from his chair. "What has she told you, doc, what?!" He yelled into the receiver. "That I never loved her, that I am a bad man?! Yeah, in her opinion that's all true. Why are you asking anyway?! Has she maybe told you that I beat her? Ok, I did, but only once, I swear, I didn't mean it that way, it just happened! I don't know anything about her! Maybe you could ask your wonderful Dr Travis! He is the one she loved, he must know everything about her, not me, who only spent one year of my damn life with her!
Have a nice life doc!" With these words Robert put down the receiver with a loud bump and fell into his chair, barely able to hold back the tears. He had made so many mistakes. Someone had tried to kill Susan and he hadn't even shown a bit of pity. What a great fool was he anyway?! He could deal with so many things, so why couldn't he deal with what was happening now. At the end he had to admit to himself that his relationship to her had been lie. 'Get over her, Rob!' he commanded himself. Something as it had just had happened, was not to happen again!
He got up and, swaying a little, he went to the mirror in the one corners of his office. He grimaced at his own sight. His tie was hanging loosely around his neck, his shirt was blotched with red wine and scotch and the sharp creases in his trousers couldn't be recognised any more. His hazelnut- brown eyes were bloody red and framed with black shadows, he was rather unshaved and his normally so youthful face was showing deep lines. It was lamentable.
Robert pulled on his tie and took his jacket. If he buttoned it up, the dirt on his shirt would be hardly to see. A shaver was always in one of the drawers in his desk and if he made a short trip to one of the washrooms, he would again look like a successful young doctor within ten minutes. He was still busied with rummaging in the drawers, when the door opened and someone quietly entered his office. A pair of leather shoes slid over the red carpet and seconds later Robert found himself staring into the face of someone he had never seen before in his life.
"Who are you?", he asked confusedly.
Instead of an answer the other one lifted a gun. A bang sounded through the whole administration area of the "Shane Arthur Williams Clinic", but as there weren't any people at work, yet, it remained unheared. Dr Robert Bakins was lying on the floor in his office in the west wing and a round bloody wound gaped in his forehead. He was definitely dead. The unknown person smiled satisfiedly to himself as he escaped as quickly as he had appeared before.
Mark looked at the receiver and shook his head. Robert hadn't even given him a chance to say what was going on. That Susan hadn't told them anything, that she was in coma and in a very bad condition. According to Robert's reaction, he had really loved her. Maybe he had just been too hurt, too overwhelmed by his feelings to think properly. Mark decided to try it later again. Right now he was too tired.
"You've called him, have you?" Jesse was leaning on the doorframe, still dressed in these bloody scrubs, hardly able to make only one step forward.
Mark looked up and felt a bit caught, though he hadn't done anything wrong, but he was scared of his friend's possible reaction. "I had to, Jess! Maybe he knows something..."
Jesse shrugged and hoped that Mark would believe that it really didn't matter to him. He hadn't known Robert very well anyway. The doctor wandered over to the cupboard to grab his mug. To Mark he didn't look like the young enthusiastic man he had known for years. The invisible weight on his shoulders seemed to paralyse him, seemed to crush him.
"Has he at least said anything useful?" asked Jesse, while looking out of the window in a -for him untypical- apathetic way. Mark sensed that it wasn't the best idea to tell his friend what Robert Bakins had shouted into the receiver in his morningly intoxication, so he only shook his head. The following depressing moment of silence was suddenly disturbed by a loud bang. Jesse had felt the mug sliding through his fingers, but hadn't made any attempt to catch it before it burst on the floor. He only mumbled a half-hearted curse and then knelt down to pick up the remains of the porcelain.
Mark watched him for a while, then he got up from his chair and knelt down next to Jesse, who didn't make any attempt to finish this aggravating occupation as fast as possible.
Mark patted his friend's shoulder. "Let me do that, Jess!", he offered gently, but Jesse shook his head. "No, Mark, that mess is my problem!"
"You are too tired, you will only cut yourself!", replied Mark sensibly.
"I'm used to that!", mumbled Jesse.
"Am I at least allowed to help you?"
Again Mark earned a strict shaking of the head. "No, I can handle that on my own, I think..."
Both knowing that they weren't talking about the mug any more, Mark's and Jesse's eyes met now. Two pairs of blue eyes were watching each other, both with a glint of fear in them, a fatherly worry in the one and a guilty shame in the other.
"Ok", Mark gave up and smiled softly. "But promise me to tell me if you want me to help you!"
"I promise!", Jesse nodded and smiled back. Then he stood up, balancing the fragments in his hand and went over to the waste-bin
Mark threw a quick glance at his watch. 3 o'clock in the morning. "Why don't you go home?", he suggested.
"I'm too tired to drive, so if you don't mind I'll stay and sleep here..." Actually Jesse was tired of contradicting Mark and arguing with him. After all the elder doctor was right, he hadn't slept for hours and couldn't work in that condition, his shift was also long over.
Mark knew that it wouldn't make any sense to offer Jesse to drive him home, as he would refuse anyway. So he let him settle on the couch and watched how the young medic drifted away into a petty, restless sleep. He would have loved to sit there and keep an eye on his friend, but now his cell- phone rang again and he hurried to answer the call because he didn't want to disturb Jesse.
"Hello?" he said, leaving the lounge to be able to talk in a normal tone.
"Hello. Who are you?" asked a serious voice at the other end of the line.
"I'm doctor Mark Sloan! And who are you if you allow me that question?"
"Lieutenant Steinberg, homicide detective for the NYC police departement...I'm calling from Robert Bakins office. Your number was the last one that was displayed on his phone..."
"You mean he is dead?" asked Mark shocked.
Steinberg looked down at the body at his feet. It had been marked with white tapes and the people from the unit for securing of evidence were running through the office in the Arthur Shane Williams Clinic, taking pictures of all parts of it, including the corp behind the desk. He had fallen to the ground, under his head there had been formed a puddle of almost fresh blood. Letting his eyes wander over the crime scene, which was not a quite unusual sight for him, Steinberg answered: "Yeah, he definetly is!"
And though he didn't know the circumstances, he wasn't really surprised as he heard a heavy gulp at the other end of the line.