Day 12: Max's Bar
"Feeling better," Dad asked me as I sat at the bar . . . he had a beer waiting for me . . . it didn't look appealing.
"I'm better . . . I just needed a few days to get over the flu," I lied . . . I had spent five days lying in bed . . . barely able to move . . . consumed by guilt.
"How's the case?" Dad asked me . . . he watched me swirl my beer . . . take a sip . . . swirl the amber liquid some more.
"I don't know . . . Peter was working on it this week . . . he left me a couple messages, but I just wasn't feeling up to it," I rambled.
"Is this the same Jordan talking . . . what's going on with this case that's got you so . . . cooperative," Dad asked me.
"I don't know, Dad," I said.
"You and Woody . . . this whole town seems to be going crazy. This isn't good for business, Jordan," Dad lectured.
"Why? What happened to Woody?" I asked growing concerned . . . I hadn't heard from him in five days . . . not a word.
"Some guy was hassling him last night . . . the guy said something about blood samples and an election," Dad replied . . . noting that I had suddenly begun to take some interest in what he was saying.
"Do you know who the guy was?" I asked.
"Said he was with the Richards campaign . . . didn't want Woody to stir up controversy," Dad replied.
"Dad, I need your help . . . can I come back at bar time?" I asked as I began to stand up.
"Jordan, you better be here," Dad said looking concerned . . . more concerned for my safety than anyone else I knew.
I stormed out of the bar . . . ran down the street in the rain. I had no idea where I was running . . . I found myself in the park . . . Dalton Park . . . running down the jogging path . . . my lungs hurt . . . I stood still for a moment . . . my chest tight . . . my hard pounding. I looked around . . . silent . . . dead silent . . . no noise . . . just me and my thoughts.
I heard footsteps . . . I instinctively turned around to locate there source. A figure moved toward me . . . almost floating on the wet grass. My heart began to pound harder . . . I called out to the figure . . . told him my name . . . asked what he wanted. He didn't replied . . . he just continued to float on the grass toward me . . . the rain caused my hair to stick to my face . . . drops made trails into my eyes . . . partially occluding my vision. My voice shook as I called out again . . . he didn't respond . . . I began to run again . . . run into the woods.
I could hear the footfalls growing near . . . I concentrated on running as fast as my feet would carry me . . . the scenery became a blur in my periphery . . . I prayed that I was hallucinating . . . that there wasn't really anyone chasing me. The figure had closed the gap . . . I could nearly feel his breathe on my neck as I tried to run faster. I fell . . . the blacktop scraping my hands as I tried to get back on my feet.
I felt something connect with my head . . . my vision blurred . . . periphery grew black and my point of focus exploded into a million points of light. I tried to yell . . . but the blackness took over.
Day 13: Dalton Park (4 am – Woody's POV)
I dreaded the phone call . . . I hated picking up the telephone at night. Telephone calls so seldom offered any good news . . . at least these last few months had done nothing but haunt me with the faces of dead teenagers. Dispatch had called tonight . . . said there was a woman found down in Dalton Park . . . she was alive . . . found not too far from where the body of Elizabeth Perkins was left to die less than a week ago. Dispatch thought that it might be related . . . the attack pattern was the same. There was no struggle . . . gaping head wound . . . strangling. The operator had reported that a security man had walked in on the attack . . . a dark figure was trying to strangle the woman . . . shots were fired . . . the security man wasn't sure if he hit the figure . . . CSI was there to look for the bullets. What a shitty job.
I walked the park . . . I began to know this jogging path rather intimately. I searched for a familiar face . . . I called Nigel asked him to come collect evidence . . . I trusted him. Nigel wasn't thrilled at the prospect . . . he asked me to call Jordan . . . she was well rested coming off her sick leave. I told him I wanted him . . . someone without an agenda.
"Dr. Macy?" I said . . . it wasn't the statement I intended to give . . . it was more of a question.
"Nigel left in the ambulance . . . your boys aren't talking to me," Garrett replied . . . meticulously photographing the crime scene . . . mumbled something about the rain and CSI doing a shitty job.
"What happened to Nigel?" I asked . . . the rain poured down around me . . . soaking through my coat . . . sinking into my shoes . . . made that squishing feeling every time I walked.
"Nigel went with Jordan to the hospital," Garrett replied . . . nervously clicking more photographs than I thought was possible.
"Dr. Macy," Peter yelled as he ran up to the older man, "She's breathing on her own . . . Nigel said she doesn't remember anything."
"Did her physical exam pan out okay?" Garrett said . . . I wasn't sure what he meant . . . I stared at the men . . . excused myself to find the patrol officers already on the scene.
"What the hell happened here?" I asked one of the patrol officers.
"Someone tried to strangle Dr. Cavanaugh . . . security caught him in the act . . . pure luck," the man replied calmly.
"I want ever inch of the crime scene protected . . . I want CSI here until they have processed everything. No one is leaving until every millimeter of this scene has been processed," I ordered . . . leaving the patrol men . . . walking over to Dr. Macy and Dr. Winslow.
"Let's go," I said to Dr. Macy.
"Peter, Bug will be here soon . . . process everything," Garrett said gruffly as he followed me to my car, "What do you think Jordan got into?"
"I think it's the senator's daughter . . . she must have been on to something," I replied as I turned on the siren and lights.
"Is that necessary?" Garrett asked . . . still nervous around me . . . worried about Jordan.
"You want to see her don't you?" I replied.
Day 13: Boston General Hospital
I laid back into the pillows . . . my head was killing me . . . a few images of last night continued to haunt me. I couldn't sleep . . . despite all the painkillers and sleeping pills that had been prescribed. Dad left only an hour ago . . . I made him leave . . . he needed to go get something to eat . . . I was going to be fine. Woody and Garrett had camped out in the family room . . . the nurse ratted on them . . . I had told them to go home hours ago.
"Still awake?" Woody asked as he walked into my tiny hospital room . . . pretending that he didn't just wake up . . . trying to straighten himself out.
"So you are going to talk to me again?" I asked trying to smile . . . desperately trying to keep from crying.
"How are you feeling?" Woody asked as he sat next to my bed.
"Tired . . . sore," I admitted . . . my head needed fifteen stitches . . . my neck had begun to bruise . . . deep purple bruises.
"I'm glad you are okay," Woody said softly.
"So am I," I replied as I stared straight ahead . . . trying my hardest not to cry . . . I don't know why he always made me feel . . . emotions were so much safer when they were locked away.
"What do you know, Jordan?" Woody asked.
"The strange thing is this time I don't know anything . . . I have nothing . . . no good DNA evidence . . . no name . . . no witness," I rambled . . . the tears threatening to fall down my face.
"All I have is a hunch," Woody admitted . . . I hadn't noticed that he was holding my hand . . . so small in his . . . his hands warm . . . sweaty.
"J. Abrams Richards," I replied.
"Yeah . . . what would the value of Candice Ellington be to him?" Woody asked.
"Why would he need to kill child prostitutes to protect himself?" I added, "Who do you want to be . . . J. Abrams Richards or Candice Ellington?"
"Feeling better," Dad asked me as I sat at the bar . . . he had a beer waiting for me . . . it didn't look appealing.
"I'm better . . . I just needed a few days to get over the flu," I lied . . . I had spent five days lying in bed . . . barely able to move . . . consumed by guilt.
"How's the case?" Dad asked me . . . he watched me swirl my beer . . . take a sip . . . swirl the amber liquid some more.
"I don't know . . . Peter was working on it this week . . . he left me a couple messages, but I just wasn't feeling up to it," I rambled.
"Is this the same Jordan talking . . . what's going on with this case that's got you so . . . cooperative," Dad asked me.
"I don't know, Dad," I said.
"You and Woody . . . this whole town seems to be going crazy. This isn't good for business, Jordan," Dad lectured.
"Why? What happened to Woody?" I asked growing concerned . . . I hadn't heard from him in five days . . . not a word.
"Some guy was hassling him last night . . . the guy said something about blood samples and an election," Dad replied . . . noting that I had suddenly begun to take some interest in what he was saying.
"Do you know who the guy was?" I asked.
"Said he was with the Richards campaign . . . didn't want Woody to stir up controversy," Dad replied.
"Dad, I need your help . . . can I come back at bar time?" I asked as I began to stand up.
"Jordan, you better be here," Dad said looking concerned . . . more concerned for my safety than anyone else I knew.
I stormed out of the bar . . . ran down the street in the rain. I had no idea where I was running . . . I found myself in the park . . . Dalton Park . . . running down the jogging path . . . my lungs hurt . . . I stood still for a moment . . . my chest tight . . . my hard pounding. I looked around . . . silent . . . dead silent . . . no noise . . . just me and my thoughts.
I heard footsteps . . . I instinctively turned around to locate there source. A figure moved toward me . . . almost floating on the wet grass. My heart began to pound harder . . . I called out to the figure . . . told him my name . . . asked what he wanted. He didn't replied . . . he just continued to float on the grass toward me . . . the rain caused my hair to stick to my face . . . drops made trails into my eyes . . . partially occluding my vision. My voice shook as I called out again . . . he didn't respond . . . I began to run again . . . run into the woods.
I could hear the footfalls growing near . . . I concentrated on running as fast as my feet would carry me . . . the scenery became a blur in my periphery . . . I prayed that I was hallucinating . . . that there wasn't really anyone chasing me. The figure had closed the gap . . . I could nearly feel his breathe on my neck as I tried to run faster. I fell . . . the blacktop scraping my hands as I tried to get back on my feet.
I felt something connect with my head . . . my vision blurred . . . periphery grew black and my point of focus exploded into a million points of light. I tried to yell . . . but the blackness took over.
Day 13: Dalton Park (4 am – Woody's POV)
I dreaded the phone call . . . I hated picking up the telephone at night. Telephone calls so seldom offered any good news . . . at least these last few months had done nothing but haunt me with the faces of dead teenagers. Dispatch had called tonight . . . said there was a woman found down in Dalton Park . . . she was alive . . . found not too far from where the body of Elizabeth Perkins was left to die less than a week ago. Dispatch thought that it might be related . . . the attack pattern was the same. There was no struggle . . . gaping head wound . . . strangling. The operator had reported that a security man had walked in on the attack . . . a dark figure was trying to strangle the woman . . . shots were fired . . . the security man wasn't sure if he hit the figure . . . CSI was there to look for the bullets. What a shitty job.
I walked the park . . . I began to know this jogging path rather intimately. I searched for a familiar face . . . I called Nigel asked him to come collect evidence . . . I trusted him. Nigel wasn't thrilled at the prospect . . . he asked me to call Jordan . . . she was well rested coming off her sick leave. I told him I wanted him . . . someone without an agenda.
"Dr. Macy?" I said . . . it wasn't the statement I intended to give . . . it was more of a question.
"Nigel left in the ambulance . . . your boys aren't talking to me," Garrett replied . . . meticulously photographing the crime scene . . . mumbled something about the rain and CSI doing a shitty job.
"What happened to Nigel?" I asked . . . the rain poured down around me . . . soaking through my coat . . . sinking into my shoes . . . made that squishing feeling every time I walked.
"Nigel went with Jordan to the hospital," Garrett replied . . . nervously clicking more photographs than I thought was possible.
"Dr. Macy," Peter yelled as he ran up to the older man, "She's breathing on her own . . . Nigel said she doesn't remember anything."
"Did her physical exam pan out okay?" Garrett said . . . I wasn't sure what he meant . . . I stared at the men . . . excused myself to find the patrol officers already on the scene.
"What the hell happened here?" I asked one of the patrol officers.
"Someone tried to strangle Dr. Cavanaugh . . . security caught him in the act . . . pure luck," the man replied calmly.
"I want ever inch of the crime scene protected . . . I want CSI here until they have processed everything. No one is leaving until every millimeter of this scene has been processed," I ordered . . . leaving the patrol men . . . walking over to Dr. Macy and Dr. Winslow.
"Let's go," I said to Dr. Macy.
"Peter, Bug will be here soon . . . process everything," Garrett said gruffly as he followed me to my car, "What do you think Jordan got into?"
"I think it's the senator's daughter . . . she must have been on to something," I replied as I turned on the siren and lights.
"Is that necessary?" Garrett asked . . . still nervous around me . . . worried about Jordan.
"You want to see her don't you?" I replied.
Day 13: Boston General Hospital
I laid back into the pillows . . . my head was killing me . . . a few images of last night continued to haunt me. I couldn't sleep . . . despite all the painkillers and sleeping pills that had been prescribed. Dad left only an hour ago . . . I made him leave . . . he needed to go get something to eat . . . I was going to be fine. Woody and Garrett had camped out in the family room . . . the nurse ratted on them . . . I had told them to go home hours ago.
"Still awake?" Woody asked as he walked into my tiny hospital room . . . pretending that he didn't just wake up . . . trying to straighten himself out.
"So you are going to talk to me again?" I asked trying to smile . . . desperately trying to keep from crying.
"How are you feeling?" Woody asked as he sat next to my bed.
"Tired . . . sore," I admitted . . . my head needed fifteen stitches . . . my neck had begun to bruise . . . deep purple bruises.
"I'm glad you are okay," Woody said softly.
"So am I," I replied as I stared straight ahead . . . trying my hardest not to cry . . . I don't know why he always made me feel . . . emotions were so much safer when they were locked away.
"What do you know, Jordan?" Woody asked.
"The strange thing is this time I don't know anything . . . I have nothing . . . no good DNA evidence . . . no name . . . no witness," I rambled . . . the tears threatening to fall down my face.
"All I have is a hunch," Woody admitted . . . I hadn't noticed that he was holding my hand . . . so small in his . . . his hands warm . . . sweaty.
"J. Abrams Richards," I replied.
"Yeah . . . what would the value of Candice Ellington be to him?" Woody asked.
"Why would he need to kill child prostitutes to protect himself?" I added, "Who do you want to be . . . J. Abrams Richards or Candice Ellington?"