Chapter Nine

"He doesn't want to talk, but it's the only way to trigger his memories, so you need to go in there and see what you can do," the doctor explained. "Now that we know who he is, I've contacted his own doctors, and they'll come see him, but from what you tell me, you're most likely to be of help."

"Thanks." Karen felt green at the gills as she followed the doctor back into Jim's room. He was sitting now, and pulled his hands away from his face as they approached, as if caught.

"Good afternoon, Detective Dunbar." The doctor used a too bright voice and Jim smoothed his face into a neutral expression. Pretending he was back in control again, ready to handle what was thrown at him.

Karen studied Jim's face intently. When the doctor had used his name, there had been no recognition from Jim, no sign that he had identified with the title. She felt herself blanch a little more. He didn't even remember he was a cop.

"Detective Bettancourt is here. She'll help you get your memory going. Believe me, you'll feel a lot better when you start to remember everything." With that, the doctor left them alone. Karen thought he looked relieved he was allowed to escape. She found herself hoping Jim had been giving the doctor a hard time.

She took a breath and plunged in again, "So, Jim, I'm supposed to help you remember things." She dropped into a chair by his bed. "Where would you like to start?"

"Let's start with the perp. Motive."

Karen marveled. This was the real Jim, flaky in that he didn't remember things but his attitude, his way of going about a case seemed exactly the same as ever.

"If she fabricated this story of me attacking her, we can assume she came to me specifically to kill me. Why would she want to do that?"

"We don't know yet. Could be she's crazy – she hates you enough for putting her away."

At Jim's puzzled face, she filled him in on the Desmond case.

"Why me, why not the whole squad? A cop killing - I expect the whole squad was in on it?"

"Yeah, but, everyone else started looking at her as a victim. Except you."

Jim just nodded.

"Any memories coming up?"

Jim shook his head. He'd been thinking about now, not really looking at recovering memory.

"How 'bout we try something else," Karen suggested. "Let's start with the job."

"Okay." Jim would have preferred to work on what had happened to him now.

"You joined the 8th Precinct in let's see, March 05. You work robbery/homicide with me, Marty Russo, Tom Selway and our Lieutenant, Gary Fisk. Sound familiar?"

"Nope." Jim sat up in the bed with his arms crossed against his chest, the IV tube in his hand snaked over the sheets and up over his shoulder. His head was tilted a little to the right, and his lips were pursed.

His attitude reeked of condescension. Karen felt her anger rising, why couldn't he at least work with her on this? "Come on, help me out here, you gotta have questions?" She tried a laugh, "You always have questions, Jim."

"Okay," he nodded, "Let's ask the questions then. You say I'm a cop and you say I'm blind?"

"Yep. The only one, so you must be doing something right, as you like to say."

Jim snorted, "I work back up for you and these others you mentioned?"

"No, you're a regular detective. First grade actually, you've been a gold shield for, I don't know, ten, fifteen years."

Jim's hands were held open, he turned away. "And I work robbery/homicide?"

"Sure."

His face screwed up with disbelief. "What the hell do I do at a crime scene?"

"Well, you work it. You know, with me. I describe what I see, and you ask a bunch of questions. We toss ideas around and you decide what we do next."

"I do?" It was clear Jim thought Karen was spinning him candy floss bullshit.

"Yeah. Well, when it's your case. Or mine. You're a bit bossy." She hoped to inject some humor, but he wasn't buying it. Judging by his expression, he was still thinking she was leading him on.

"So I work crimes scenes, even though I can't see anything?"

"Yes."

Jim's façade began to fail, his wall of sarcasm cracked and his face fell. "You sure there's nothing, not even a little bit?" Jim's voice wavered at the end and Karen had to dig her nails into her hands to keep from reaching out to touch him.

This was too hard, having to come to terms with total blindness all over again. She had heard a faint echo of hope in his question. Was it like this the first time around? "You mean your vision?"

He just nodded.

"Nothing. Far as I understand it, you can't even tell night from day."

His hand rose to his mouth, he fidgeted, biting at his knuckle. Then he took a breath, "And still you say I'm a cop?"

"Yes, Jim." She tried to be patient, but hell, that was his forte, not hers.

Jim desperately wanted this woman to leave. He needed to be alone. He hadn't liked it when he was full of questions. He liked it even less now that he was getting answers. Disbelief warred with dying hope. There were holes in this case, big ones, Jim attacked,

"You're a cop, where's your evidence?"

"Evidence?"

"Yeah, you going to just repeat everything I say or give me some evidence?" His voice was hard, rasping, and demanding.

"Okay, so you want evidence. Of what? That you're cop or that you can't see?" She could hear the sarcasm in her own voice and felt embarrassed.

He turned to her, the expression in his face clearly stating he thought she was an idiot.

"Evidence that this isn't new." He touched the side of his face near his eyes, ironically his hand met with the scar from his gunshot injury. "I don't remember being blind before… and it … it doesn't feel right."

Karen didn't know what to say. Where the hell was Dr. Galloway?

"The cop thing," he nodded a little considering, "That feels like maybe it's right, but, the NYPD would never ever keep someone on the job with a … a… disability like that. It's just unthinkable." As he said it, the side of his mouth curled up and a disbelieving half laugh escaped. "So one way or the other, it doesn't add up."

Karen was exasperated, this was so… Jim; picking up the pieces that didn't add up and following the trail to find the facts that bound them together.

"Okay, evidence." Her eyes wandered the room. Then she pulled his badge from her pocket. Saunders had sent it over. Apparently it had slipped through a hole in his pocket into the lining of the coat they had pulled from the river.

His hand lay limp on the sheet. She turned it and placed his badge in it.

He stared down hard, grimaced and then ran his fingers over the face. "Could be anyone's. Probably yours." He almost sneered, knowing, somehow, that it was his. "And if I am a cop, well that argues against the "blinded in bank robbery" theory you're trying to sell me."

Karen's eyes grew wide, "If it's not true, how'd you know it was a bank robbery?"

He chose to ignore that one.

She looked further. The trolley by his bed had a drawer. She looked inside, his pager and watch lay there. She went to take the badge from him, he held it tight, then tucked it away and held out his hand. She dropped the pager into it.

As he explored it, she pulled out her cell phone and hit his speed dial number. "I'm dialing you."

The pager buzzed and bucked in his hand. It beeped several times. He just held it. She reached over and pressed the answer button. An electronic voice spoke, "Karen Bettancourt."

He shrugged, still unconvinced, and tossed the pager away.

She sighed and took out his watch.

"Do you recall wearing this watch before anyone found you?" She took the pager and placed the watch in his hand. He brought both hands up and felt it all over.

"I'd need to be able to see to use this," he pointed out. When she didn't answer, he hedged, "Feels like the same one."

"Yes or no, Dunbar?" If he wanted to act like a suspect, she'd treat him like one.

"Yes," he conceded. It was the same. There was no doubt.

She took his right hand and placed his finger on the button. "Push."

He hesitated, looked green in the face, and then his jaw clenched. He popped the crystal, his hand knowing the move instinctively, and his fingers floated above the face. Gently Karen pushed him toward the open watch. He resisted for a long moment and felt the face. "Two twenty-five," he said quietly and bowed his head.

Karen's pager beeped, there was no electronic voice. "It's the boss; I have to go make a call."

"How is he?"

After a prolonged wait, Karen took her frustrations out on her boss. "He doesn't remember me, he doesn't even remember himself, and he refuses to believe he's permanently blind. How do you think he is?" she snapped.

It was Fisk's turn to be silent.

Karen let out a sigh, "Sorry. It was hard. He really doesn't remember."

"Does the doc say how long it will last?"

"Couple of days, but they're hard to pin down. Jim's questioning me like I'm a perp and when I mentioned the shooting, he brought up the bank robbery so…I'd put money on it not taking too long."

"You needed there?"

"No, the doctor's with him again, they're doing more tests."

"Okay, get back here."

Karen was ashamed to admit to herself she felt grateful she didn't have to go back in to see Jim for now. For all the brave face he was putting on, his pain was raw and she found she had no shield against it herself.

The doctor had finished his routine questions and checks. "Are you feeling tired at all, Detective? I'd like you to get some more sleep."

"Tired, maybe, but not sleepy."

"Hmm, I need to know what sleep medication you're on."

Jim was taken aback. "Why would I be on sleep medication?"

"The trigger for sleep is a lessening in the amount of light hitting the eye and since that's not a changing factor, most people with no light perception require sleep meds to keep them on a regular pattern. You don't remember what meds you're on?" When Jim didn't respond, he continued, "Could someone go look in your home?"

Jim nodded. "I think I could ask Detective Bettancourt. She says she's my partner, she can go look for me."

The doctor put the phone in his hand and he dialed a number that rose from nowhere into his mind.

"Bettancourt."

"Detective. It's me," he hesitated, he still didn't feel comfortable with the name everyone gave him. "James Dunbar. I have a favor to ask you."

On the other end of the line, Karen shivered. Hearing him call her detective rather than Karen was creepy. She reminded him again. But when he used her name at the end of the call, he said it awkwardly and it came out like a foreign word in his familiar voice.

Karen brought the pills from Jim's medicine cabinet and bedside, as well as a supply of toiletries and clothes and gave them to the nurse who told her he was sleeping. The hospital wasn't too far from her apartment and after dinner, she swung by again.

The doctor met her this time. "Try taking him out of his room. He's off the drip now and a walk would do him good." He looked at her kindly, but he could afford to, he wasn't the one who was being torn up inside. "There's a cafeteria next floor down."

Karen took a breath and knocked on the door. Jim sat in a chair by the window, already wearing some of the clothes she had brought from his apartment. Jeans, a t-shirt, loafers. His hair was wet from the shower, and he smelled like Jim again. Karen smiled at her own thoughts. Before partnering up with him, there was no way she'd even thought of a person having a particular smell. These days, it was almost standard description between them when discussing suspects.

"Come in." He turned to the door.

"It's me, Karen."

"Oh, round three huh?" He smiled a thin smile to take the edge off the comment.

"Well, I thought we could take a break, maybe get some coffee. The doc says there's a cafeteria next floor down?"

Instead of the relief she expected to see, he looked more anxious and at a loss for words.

"Is there a problem?" she asked. "You love coffee, let's go get you addicted again."

He tried a smile. "No thanks." He shook his head and turned away.

"Besides, you must be itching to get out of this room." And with that comment, she saw it. Her jaw fell open. He was worried about how to get there. She could see it in his face.

She closed the distance between them and put her hand on his shoulder, holding it there despite his flinch. "Here, I'll guide you. It's okay."

He stood, trying to keep his face neutral but failing. "No. I'm ready for round three."

"Here," She took his hand and placed it on her arm. "I'll make sure the path is clear. Really, we do this all the time."

She had to take it very slowly. As the elevator dropped, Jim reached out for the wall. She waited a moment after it settled at their floor before walking him out. She began a layout description as they entered the café but wasn't sure he took much in. People rushing past dragged his attention, and she decided to sit him at a table rather than take him through the line.

He sat upright, clearly uneasy in the large space, his head being jerked to the side when someone laughed, and then to the other when a baby started to cry. Karen's fears rose. Was this how it was for him when he first got shot? This was nothing like the confident and competent man she knew. She brought the coffees over and started chattering to cover the discomfort. He was mostly interested in the cases they were working, and shied away from talking about himself.

After returning to his room, Jim fell into a deep exhausted sleep even before the nurse brought him the sleep meds. Somehow, knowing who he was, who he was supposed to be, hadn't brought any light to the situation. If possible, he felt worse than he had at the dump.

Leslie was on nights again and spent quite a bit of time in room 24 where the detective, no longer a John Doe, had nightmares and woke in sweats and fear. She watched as he clutched the cold metal of the bedrails and fought to slow his breaths. But when she asked him, he couldn't tell her what was in his dreams.