Disclaimer: All characters belong to their rightful owners...it will start off with the Joss/ME characters, and any other characters or real-life folks are clearly not mine. NO money is involved. None are mine. I do not own the characters or any rights to the television show The Sentinel. They were created by Danny Bilson and Paul DeMeo and belong to them, Pet Fly Productions, UPN, and Paramount.
June 12th, 2003 – 6:30 PM
After two amazing hours of betting, Detective Frank Hayes had helped the strange John Doe find some more clothes and a place on the border of Cascade and Seattle, a rather large place over a pleasant enough blues bar going upscale-enough to attract more money from the gentrifying folks moving into the neighborhood, but without turning its back on the long-time clientele. Frank had remembered when Joe Dawson had run the place, and that 'Digger' was a partner that had sometimes come in during the summers a few weeks at a time to tend bar and give the other man some time away.
Remembering that a friend of his, Jim Ellison of the Cascade PD, lived only a couple blocks over, Frank headed that way.
"Hey Frank, how's it going?" the former Ranger greeted as the man entered the loft and saw a hippie-like dude and a bunch of papers at the kitchen counter. "Come in, come in. Hey, Sandburg! I'd like you to meet a friend from Seattle…Frank Hayes. Frank this is Blair Sandburg."
The two shook hands, Hayes looking at the college guy, "Sandburg, if you don't mind my saying so, you don't strike me as the kind of guy they'd partner up with Jim here."
Jim rolled his eyes, "He's not my partner, Frank. He's doing a thesis on police evidence gathering."
"And to do that he's still going to be a ride-along…partner," Frank jibed, causing Jim to roll his eyes and Blair to smile at the interplay between the two. "So, Sandburg, Blair, that big book looks like it's on Central America or something. You gonna be comparing us to those old death squad guys, or what?"
"No, no, no, no, not at all," Blair tried to cover, "Just some side research I'm finishing up, plus I know that Jim's background included time in the jungle, so I'm asking him for his impressions."
Frank turned to Jim in amazement, "You telling him about that mission in Peru where my team found you before I got out?"
"Not exactly, Frank. The chief, here, isn't getting anything classified. He just thought it might give a little insight into how I might approach things instead of another officer on a case."
"Okay, I can see that. But how'd your captain let anyone near you?"
"Well, I don't have a partner right now, so I'm the lucky one. And he doesn't seem so bad for an egghead."
"Hey!"
"Tell me about it," Frank said with an eye roll and explained his John Doe case. "So I guess we both get to deal with the big brains."
"Sandburg, how about we link you up with this Doe guy. With all those languages, maybe you'd recognize him or something."
"Sure thing, Jim. So, Frank, how's the guy going to get by without id or anything? That's got to be a pain."
"Well, I was hoping that Jim could tap a few of his old contacts to suggest something legal that won't take months. Jim, the kid seems like he's out of LA or somewhere, so I'm sure he's one of ours. But that's all."
"Okay, Frank, sounds like a plan. Bring him by next Monday to the station. I should have something for you by then if you can fax what you have over there tomorrow. I'll be getting Sandburg through the paperwork then, so I'll have some time."
"That's great, thanks Jim."
June 13th, 2003
John had had a long and unusual day; in spite of Frank's caution about setting up an id on his own before the detective's contacts could look into things a little more, the man without a known past just had way too much energy to sit back and do nothing.
He'd hacked into the Social Security Administration and other systems after breaking the computer security at the public library. After creating a complete identity that gave him a birth date of January 1, 1980, and a similar set of records in the collapsed and somehow familiar-sounding town of Sunnydale, California that had fallen into the Earth the previous month, all he now lacked were the hard copies the modern world relied on for confirmations.
And after overhearing a couple of youths talking about Malcolm X, John had inserted the initial as his middle one, no meaning, to signify his own search for identity and relevant affirmation.
He'd answered question after factual question in the center of the library, hoping to find an area of publicly-available knowledge he hadn't known, but his limits seemed not to include 'psychic answers' to questions. When a young woman had asked him in front of others when she'd die, instead of saying he just didn't know, he'd asked her a series of actuarial questions and had told her she'd most likely statistically live until 2056 as a best guess.
His next step after wiring and placing a high priority on his documents, he'd caught a taxi to the various government agencies, including Motor Vehicles, and come away with a new start as John X Doe, age 23. He'd then managed to get over to establish a bank account next to Seattle's version of Wall Street.
At three-fifteen, he entered the office of a young stock broker with an established local firm, a brought with him a bearer's check for thirty-five thousand dollars. The man had been happy to establish an account with the company, but had been both amused and confused at John's insistence, then explanation, on the investment he'd wanted to make on the Croatia-Zagreb Exchange, on margin, then selling it off just before the exchange closed.
Thirty-five thousand dollars at a ten-percent margin rate, and the man had quadrupled his money during a twenty-minute upsurge. Even after the firm's fee, John Doe walked out of his office at four-fifteen with a balance and draw-down account totaling a hair under a million. The stockbroker headed off to the four-thirty end-of-week meeting having a big step up because of the new account.
John decided with his money that he could afford a well-engineered sports car of some type. It was mostly the preponderance of article references in favor of certain types and models, and allowing variables such as his likely demographic information to determine that he'd go with the Dodge Viper SRT-10 in a black color. While slightly showy, it might also be enough to get him noticed and thus properly identified.
And after ten minutes of practicing the information in his head, and a few bumpy starts, he was able to not only drive, but drive frighteningly fast. And pulling up to his address, it felt right to have something to park in his secure garage space.
About eighty that evening, after he'd eaten, John had found himself playing the piano in the bar; he was able to play it and feel attached more to the song than the playing skill he'd discovered.
"Not bad, amigo," the proprietor, a man he'd met only briefly in regards to the apartment, commented. "Want a job?"
"I, I don't know. I just seemed to be able to play."
"How's that?"
"I have amnesia before a couple of weeks ago. Everything's new to me, and this is just one more thing."
"Strange, my friend. But the offer still sits on the table. Don't know how well you remember things now but folks call me Digger," the man smiled slightly with a nod and offered his hand. John shook it. "I prefer in kind or cash, but however you decide to come on board, let me know."
"Thanks…and what do you mean in kind?"
"You wanna order your groceries through the bar, that sort of thing, you can draw against your pay or if you exceed yourself, pay in cash. You get the wholesale discount and I don't report anything."
"Ah, I understand, and can see the advantages of that."
"Great, we'll talk it through tomorrow, but whenever I don't have someone up on stage, it'd be nice to have some background music people can relax to and maybe make requests."
"Um, okay, that sounds fair. Thanks…Digger."