At the same time that Maria was questioning a cryptic computer program, the doctors and nurses at the county hospital just a mile away were conducting an investigation of their own.
At around 11 PM, Patient Strangled X had staggered into a convenience store on a broken leg, then collapsed onto the counter in agonized exhaustion. Scrapes and bruises mottled his skin, and vivid scratches marred his neck. When the clerk asked him what had happened, he rasped that he'd 'had a fall.'
As the EMTs loaded the injured man onto an ambulance, they noted that he was responsive, but not thinking clearly. Based on his evasive answers, bloodshot eyes, and unwillingness to state his name, they put down his status as 'intoxicated.’ This was an understandable error; being nearly strangled to death can leave a person a little woozy.
By the time Strangled X got to the hospital, the pain, stress, and possibly internal injuries had knocked him out cold. On arrival, the nurses took his vitals and an IV drip into his wrist to relieve his mild dehydration. The guy had big, easy veins; definitely not a regular user of injected drugs. A doctor then examined him, correctly interpreted the marks on his neck and the blood spots in his eyes, and assigned his appropriate, if grim, temporary name.
Of course, the man could also have been called “Leg Fracture X,” but they’d already had a Leg Fracture JD earlier in the month. Leg Fracture X had turned out to be an escapee from a memory care unit. And “Possible Long Fall X,” “Beaten by Loan Sharks X,” and “Pushed off a Cliff??? X” would all have been purely speculative. So “Strangled X” was the best option remaining.
Now it was time to ask the important questions:
Who’s this guy, and who the hell's going to cover his bill?
Strangled X had lacked the foresight to collapse while carrying an ID or, better yet, an insurance card. One distinctive identifying mark could be seen: a tattoo of a compass, about the size of a quarter, on his left bicep, where it would normally be covered discreetly by his sleeve. A Masonic symbol, probably. A walkie-talkie was clipped to his belt, and inside his coat pockets, the nurses found a broken phone, a remote control with no manufacturer's logo, and a small paintbrush.
His clothing oozed class, or at least conspicuous cost, though -- a sharp dress shirt, silk tie, jacket, and designer slacks, all a little beat up, but clearly tailor-made. (In the worst case, one nurse noted, they could check up with the tailor.) And he was, all bruises and scrapes aside, well-groomed, well-fed, young-ish, and perhaps even a little handsome.
The mystery patient was the subject of much speculation. Hypothesis one: some local businessman walking late on the wrong side of the freeway got mugged, strangled, and left for dead. But why didn’t the mugger take his phone? And why the paintbrush?
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A quick inquiry to the police about missing persons turned up no local matches, but that just meant that they'd have to cast a wider net. Had the team known about the shooting at Saturn Technologies, this process would have been much easier. They would surely have realized that 7-11 where Strangled X had been picked up was only a few blocks from the scene of the crime.
But that’s not how it happened.
Later that night, while Strangled X slept in his curtained hospital bed, left leg immobilized in a bulky splint, Noelle Park called the emergency department. She planned on trying all the local hospitals; it was a shot in the dark.
“I’m looking for my cousin,” she said, trying to sound panicked and stressed; she did not have to try very hard. “My cousin sometimes gets mixed up with… um, violent people. I heard there was a fight, and… and... did anyone show up tonight sometime after ten-thirty?” She rushed out the last sentence.
Noelle had reasoned thus:
Maria heard two shots. Only one bullet was found in the body, and none was found at the scene. Therefore, it was more than plausible that the culprit walked away with a gunshot wound. If, by some miracle, he went to a hospital for treatment, he’d probably arouse at least some suspicion, and might have given a false name.
“I’m sorry,” replied the on-call at the emergency desk. “We can’t release private details without consent.”
“I know, I know… but there were gunshots!” said Noelle.
Had she guessed “strangulation” or “a broken leg,” the call might have ended differently. But as it stood, the on-call only smiled and replied, “Well, I’ll tell you this much. We haven’t had anybody come in with a gunshot wound tonight. Okay? I hope your cousin is safe.”
“That’s a relief,” said Noelle, hollowly. “Thanks.” And she moved on to calling the next hospital in the area.
Still later that night, in the early hours of the morning, Strangled X woke up. He took stock of his situation, saw the clock on the wall, and realized a vital fact. He called for the nurse.
“Hey…” he said, with a weak smile, voice still raspy. That grip had done a number on his neck. “I think I’m feeling a little better.”
“That’s good to hear,” she said. “Now, are you thinking a little more clearly now?”
“Yeah. Um… can I borrow a phone? I’ve got to tell my family what’s up.”
She nodded. “All right. Then you can fill out an intake form, okay? It’ll be good to know your real name.”
“What’ve you been calling me?”
“Strangled X.”
The patient chuckled, as if at a private joke, then took the phone without saying anything else. The first few numbers he tried all went to answering machines; either these people were asleep, or they were in a place without reception. Which made sense, come to think of it.
The last call went through, though. And that was good, he thought, because he was going to need all the help he could get.
But sneaking out of a hospital couldn’t be that hard, could it?