He discreetly rearranged the chunky strands of fake hair on his forehead and I pretended not to notice. He handed me a thin folder. I took it and watched as his thumb ran over the thin, gold band that he still wore. I wondered when he’d finally remove his wedding ring.
I absently rubbed the naked skin of my finger where my own metal brand used to sit, thankful that the weight was gone.
“I heard you were asking about these.” I passed him the reports and he barely glanced at them, tucking them under his arm.
“Thanks. That’s great. So, got a new one for you. And it’s a bit of a doozy.”
I sat down behind my desk and opened the folder, sipping on my now cold coffee. “Is this the homeless guy the police brought in?” I asked.
Jason blinked in surprise. “You know about him already?”
I nodded. “Tess told me.”
Jason pursed his lips. “I should have known. Sometimes I think she should have my job. She hears things much sooner than I do.”
I looked down at the patient’s ER admission paperwork. No name, just basic information.
Caucasian male in his late twenties-early thirties.
Severe swelling of the left orbital socket.
Twenty-three hairline fractures along the right cheekbone.
Facial contusions and significant bruising.
Some mild brain trauma resulting in temporary loss of consciousness.
Currently in ICU.
“But then who would bring me muffins every Friday?” I asked and he grinned.
“It’s only because I know how cranky you can get without the necessary intake of sugar,” he argued good-naturedly.
“So tell me about this guy.” I scanned the rest of his information and didn’t see much. The police found him under Seventh Street Bridge a little before three thirty in the morning. I stiffened marginally at the name of the familiar Lupton landmark, but then forced myself to relax.
“He appears to be homeless. One of the police officers recognized him from that burned out warehouse out on Summit Avenue. The one that had that horrible fire years ago. You know, the place people say the homeless congregate—”
“The Pit,” I corrected sharply, cutting him off. “I know the place. They don’t congregate there. It’s where they sleep. It’s dry, for the most part, if not the safest.”
Jason frowned, clearly confused by my tone. “Right. Well, one of the officers had spoken to him several times in the past for possible solicitation, though he couldn’t be sure of the man’s name. When they found him he was already unconscious and bleeding badly.”
“They didn’t ask around to find out who he was?” I asked incredulously, staring down at lines of facts about the nameless man.
Jason shrugged. “They were called out to a car accident minutes after dropping the guy off, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t important to them at the time.” His words were hateful, but also true.
A beat up homeless guy would be far down on the Lupton City PD’s list of priorities.
“So I get the honors of figuring out who he is, huh?” I deduced.
Jason leaned over and patted my hand. “There’s no one better for the job.”
“You mean no one else wanted it,” I amended.
“Tess’s case load is high right now and I know you just closed Ryan Sinclair’s file,” he explained.
“That’s fine. I’ll take it. Someone needs to find out who he is and whether someone’s looking for him,” I said softly, flipping through the pages in the folder.
Internal hemorrhage. Scalp lacerations. Broken ribs. Whoever he was, he had been badly abused then left for dead. The least I could do was find out the man’s name.
“Speaking of your former client, I received a call yesterday from Samantha Sinclair. She wanted me to know how much she appreciated your support during Ryan’s stay. She said it was important that your superiors knew what a fantastic member of the hospital staff you are,” Jason said and I had to smile.
Ryan Sinclair was one of the few cases that I could feel good about. Being a social worker didn’t lend itself to many warm, fuzzy moments. But Ryan’s case had been special.
The five-year-old child had been rushed to the hospital two months ago with severe head trauma after a car accident involving his mother and ten-year-old sister. Mrs. Samantha Sinclair and little Kelsie had made it out with only bumps and bruises.
Ryan wasn’t so lucky. The little boy was taken into surgery on arrival to relieve the cranial pressure he had endured. He remained in a coma for almost a week afterwards.
The doctors hadn’t been sure if he’d make it. The prognosis had been iffy at best. And if he did pull through, his grief stricken family had been told that he would most likely be a vegetable. That decisions would need to be made.
I was assigned the case to start coordinating support services for his parents in preparation for the boy’s probable death.
It was hard. Incredibly so. I spent a lot of time consoling a destroyed mother and placating a very angry father. I had been both punching bag and shoulder to cry on. But that was my job and I bore everything the family threw at me.
I worked with grief services to coordinate counseling. I talked with Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair about their options for Ryan’s on-going care.
We discussed instituting a Do Not Resuscitate plan.
But Ryan didn’t die.