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THe Victim is a Jay Dubya detective story that appears in the book First Person Stories (538 pages).
“The Victim”
I opened my eyes and everything I discerned appeared nebulous and hazy. My mind was dizzily vacillating-around in suspended animation and my perception of my immediate environment was definitely distorted and quite convoluted. My only recollections were florescent lights behind translucent ceiling panels and what my addled brain vaguely recognized as an I.V. bag suspended from a portable stand.
A gentle female voice assured me that I was safe and resting. My disarrayed thoughts were still in a swirling quandary, my encumbered brain desperately attempting to interpret my surroundings more lucidly. “Where am I?” I asked the figure dressed in white standing above my lower horizontal position.
“You’re in a private room at Kessler Memorial Hospital, Hammonton, New Jersey,” the attending nurse informed. My eyes then scanned the room to further validate the woman’s bland statement. “You’ve just come out of unconsciousness. You’ve been in that coma-like condition for six hours now. Besides having a nasty bump on your head,” the benign nurse proceeded to explain, “you’ve sustained a number of minor injuries ranging from superficial skin lacerations to a badly dislocated shoulder. But the Emergency Room doctor said you would pull through and so you have. But you must certainly be in pain.”
I repeatedly blinked my eyelids endeavoring to clear some of the mental images that were cluttering and impeding my inquisitive mind. “Well then nurse, who am I?” I desperately wanted to know. “I can’t seem to remember who I am.”
“We’re still trying to determine that!” the sympathetic caregiver informed me. “That’s why two gentlemen are here to ask you some basic questions. Dr. Kalani has given approval for them to discuss certain matters with you. You must be an American because you're here in New Jersey speaking English with a local accent!”
The sympathetic nurse stepped out of the room and two men, one in plainclothes and the other wearing a police uniform entered from the adjacent hallway. Immediately the tall detective introduced himself along with then identifying his austere-looking colleague. My erratic thought processes were still intensively laboring to distinguish the true nature of my entire medical situation. My disheveled mind required more pertinent data to evaluate.
“Hello,” the man in the business suit began. “I’m Detective Pete Reynolds from the Winslow Township Police Department and this is Sergeant Tony Dunsmore from the Williamstown Police. We’re here to ask you a few questions. Dr. Kalini told us that your physical condition is strong enough to endure a brief interrogation. If you cooperate,” the grim-faced detective elaborated, “we’ll be able to piece missing parts of the puzzle together and then have some solid answers about the circumstances relative to your recent injuries, and also about establishing your identity. Everything’ is a bit sketchy at the moment since you had no I.D. or wallet on you when you had been rushed to the hospital.”
“Our departments are also working closely with the Hammonton Police and all information we obtain will then be shared with them,” Sergeant Dunsmore added. “In your sleep you kept mysteriously mumbling the words ‘weed spray!’ Sir, does ‘weed spray’ have any particular importance to you? We couldn’t directly determine its exact significance!”
“No,” I emphatically replied with excruciating pain being felt in my injured right shoulder. “I can’t seem to associate that specific reference to anything right now. And I can’t see how weed spray could land me in a hospital bed other than the fact that it’s poisonous if swallowed. Have I been poisoned with toxic chemicals too besides having my right shoulder in a harness?”
“No Sir,” Detective Reynolds assured me. “But I believe we have to go back to square one to ascertain certain facts. Tell Sergeant Dunsmore and me what you recall about getting that massive lump on top of your skull. Were you in a fight? Did more than one person assault you?”
My brain was still a little fuzzy with general ideas expanding and contracting like the colorful elements viewed inside a kaleidoscope. Then finally one thought settled and materialized in my head like eddying dust collapsing onto a wet pavement. I was finally capable of communicating something meaningful to the investigators that my recollection deemed relevant. “I remember waking-up lying on the side of a road,” I related. “My head hurt really bad just above my right eye. An old bicycle was right there on the ground next to me and it had a flat tire with a broken front rim. My first impression was that I had been riding the bike and then got clipped by a passing vehicle in a hit and run accident,” I candidly expressed as my right shoulder again badly throbbed. “But after feeling my aching head I then realized that I was not wearing a safety helmet. And then everything went blank again.”
“I see,” Detective Pete Reynolds said as the cop hastily scribbled-down some vital words onto his notepad. “Do you remember checking for your wallet before you passed-out? You didn’t have any credentials on your possession so that’s why we have no I.D. for you.”
“No Sir,” I respectfully returned, shaking my head in disappointment. “My sole concerns were the severe ache in my head and getting someone to help me. Everything else was a big senseless blur at that moment. Maybe some relative or friend will show-up here to identify me, I had thought.”
“Can you describe the road where you had been dropped-off?” Sergeant Dunsmore asked. “For example, was it a dual highway, a farm road, an avenue?”
“There were woods on both sides, that I’m pretty sure of,” I recalled and shared. “And the telephone poles appeared different than usual with larger wires, and I remember that there was a road-level wooden bridge to my left. And oh yes,” I recalled and verbalized, “incidentally, it was a two-lane country road with plenty of garbage strewn all along and also in the woods. The trees were mostly evergreens. Yes, that’s correct, mostly evergreens,” I reiterated with a degree of certainty.
“You’ve just described the Winslow-Williamstown Road,” Detective Pete Reynolds of the Winslow Township Police Force verified. “It has two lanes, woods on either-side, a wooden bridge and a brook that separates Winslow Township from Williamstown Borough. The tall thick telephone poles on that road are of the high-tension line variety. And litter is often tossed into the woods and the debris can be seen strewn all along the rural highway. But we don’t yet know whether or not you were riding a bicycle before suffering your nasty trauma! Are you in any way familiar with Winslow-Williamstown Road?”
“No Sir,” I reluctantly answered. “Never heard of it. Is it near Hanf Avenue?”
“Where’s Hanf Avenue?” Sergeant Dunsmore chimed-in. “I’m familiar with Winslow Township, Williamstown and the Hammonton area and there’s no Hanf Avenue anywhere in those three South Jersey municipalities. We’ll have to run a thorough computer check and locate Hanf Avenue. That search might help us figure-out exactly who you are since you had no wallet or I.D. on you when you were admitted into Kessler Hospital. How do you spell Hanf?”
“H-a-n-f!” I articulated from what was left of my somewhat disintegrated memory. “Yes, H-a-n-f! And how did I get here in New Jersey?”
“What state do you live in?” the Winslow Township detective inquired. “If we can learn that essential detail,” Pete Reynolds declared, “it would make our job a lot easier and also will assist you in putting together your I.D.”
“I can’t seem to remember,” I honestly acknowledged. “But my street address is 8507 Hanf Avenue. Maybe I’m sufferin’ from temporary…..”
“Amnesia,” the Williamstown Sergeant competently completed my statement. “That often happens after receiving a wicked blow on the head like you had. Did you snap out of your stupor after going unconscious along the road's shoulder? I mean to say, what happened next?”
“Well Officer, I staggered to my feet and my head was really pulsating like crazy as if it was goin’ to explode. I was very groggy, to say the least,” I replied in a frustrated tone of voice from my hospital bed. “I think I walked about a hundred feet or so and passed the wooden bridge I've already told you about. Suddenly a dark red car stopped and offered me a ride. Naturally I got inside.”
“How many people were in the red car?” Detective Reynolds asked.
“Three,” I promptly answered. “The driver and a passenger in the front and another man seated in the rear.”
“What nationality were these three men, or was it a mixed ethnic group?” Sergeant Dunsmore queried.
“They all spoke what seemed to be Spanish and they looked like Mexicans,” I visualized and uttered. “Yes Sergeant, I’m almost sure they were Mexican farm workers by their dress, their complexions and their spoken language.”
“What make or what kind of dark red automobile was it that picked you up?” the Winslow Township Detective asked. “A Toyota Camry, a Dodge Intrepid? A Pontiac Grand AM?”
“I didn’t get a good look at the car so I can’t really say,” I sincerely indicated, still a trifle bewildered. “It had good air-conditioning though, that I can tell you! And the car was definitely red with black interior.”
“Where were you’ taken?” the Winslow Township investigator questioned. “I mean, our report indicates that you had been dropped-off here in front of the Emergency Ward at Kessler Hospital!” Detective Pete Reynolds informed me. “You were discovered lying on the pavement by an outpatient and the woman immediately summoned a security guard. After you had been taken inside the building, the security guard immediately contacted the Hammonton Police,” the very capable detective further contributed. “Captain Martinez is waiting downstairs and the three of us are going to coordinate all of our information and develop a few possible scenarios to finally explain how you received your injuries. Captain Martinez has already interviewed Dr. Kalani and Mrs. Hutchins, your nurse, and they’ve provided us with everything you’ve been mumbling while you were unconscious. After our conference we’ll get back to you. I must admit that this is indeed a very fascinating case.”
“Thank you,” I solemnly said with an element of gratitude. “I’m very weak now and need to shut my eyes. Please get back to me with an update when I’m more rested!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The following afternoon I was visited by Detective Pete Reynolds of the Winslow Police Department, Sergeant Tony Dunsmore of the Williamstown Police and Captain Jerry Martinez of the Hammonton Police Force. It seemed logical to me that since my disappearance and travels had occurred in three separate political jurisdictions that naturally three simultaneous investigations were being jointly and cooperatively conducted.
“Good morning Mr. Robert Berkheimer of 8507 Hanf Avenue, Baltimore Maryland, Zip Code 21236,” Detective Reynolds greeted me with a broad smile. “May I have the pleasure of introducing you to Captain Jerry Martinez of the Hammonton Police.”
“Hello,” I automatically and cordially responded. “Glad to make your acquaintance. Now Officers, I do remember that my name is Robert Berkheimer and my wife’s name is Mary. If my memory serves me correctly, I had come to New Jersey to visit my second cousin John Wiessner who lives on….”
“The White Horse Pike, Route 30,” Captain Martinez capably finished my incomplete sentence. “699 North White Horse Pike to be exact. Your second cousin is a retired English teacher that lives in a light gray two-story colonial house with dark blue shutters and matching dark blue garage doors. There’s a wide u-shaped driveway in the front of his home.”
“Yes, now I recall,” I stammered as my fragile mind gradually exited its prolonged stupor. “Cousin John and I were going to attend a Phillies-Baltimore Orioles game, which I guess I missed because I’m here recuperating in the hospital. He’s an avid Phillies fan and I’m an ardent Orioles’ rooter. Cousin John had two box seat tickets at Citizens Bank Park. His wife Joanne and their children were spending the week in Ocean City, New Jersey at a rented beach house. I arrived early in the area,” I continued my lengthy narrative, “and Cousin John was busy mowing his lawn and asked me a favor. He asked if I could drive to the local Hammonton Wal-Mart and buy him a quart of….”
“Concentrated weed spray,” an animated Sergeant Dunsmore injected into the jigsaw-puzzle discussion. “Round-Up was the particular product’s name, I do believe. But anyway Robert,” the Williamstown cop continued, “after your cousin gave you directions to the local Wal-Mart store you made the purchase and when you left the place….”
“You were accosted by six Mexican farm workers that were planning to kidnap you and steal your fine car,” Captain Martinez deductively informed me. “During the scuffle that ensued you were hit over the head with a blackjack and were knocked unconscious. The Mexicans were idly hanging-out there at the Hammonton Wal-Mart because they had just gotten-off work early from a blueberry farm. They clobbered you over the head and then recklessly tossed your limp body into the back of the white van and then others in their party stole your dark red…”
“Nissan Maxima!” I realized and exclaimed with apparent disgust. “Actually the car’s official color is merlot. Hey, I just comprehended something awesome. After I was dropped-off by the white van in the woods, the other Mexicans that had taken my’ keys and had stolen my treasured vehicle in the Wal-Mart parking lot stopped and picked me up in my own merlot Maxima. And that business about the damaged bicycle lying beside the road….”
“Was just a crazy weird coincidence Mr. Berkheimer, a crazy weird coincidence that made you think that you might’ve been riding the object prior to going unconscious along the roadway,” Sergeant Dunsmore very intelligently communicated. “The bike was just a discarded piece of litter along the roadway. And when your cousin got done mowing his acre property three hours later, he waited another two hours and then got nervous and finally reported you as missing to the Hammonton Police.”
“Unfortunately your’ pilfered Maxima has not been found,” Detective Reynolds piped-in. “But the Mexicans in the white van feared that you were not regaining consciousness so they then abandoned their ruthless kidnapping plan. It’s amazing that most of these summer migrant laborers have their own cell phones so what we think happened next was that the Hispanics in the white van called their amigos in your merlot-colored Maxima. Your six abductors were afraid that you might die, and they decided to drive you to the nearest hospital and inconspicuously drop you off. They were smart enough to know that auto’ theft is a much lesser crime than murder and that their chances of getting caught and convicted were much greater for committing a homicide than for engaging in grand theft and selling your highly coveted Maxima to a Philly’ chop shop. Unfortunately,” Detective Pete Reynolds persuasively concluded, “these transient farm workers have a knack for finding nefarious American citizens willing to collaborate in illicit business deals with them. That’s at the moment what we think has happened in regard to your missing Maxima.”
“I really loved that car with a passion!” I attested with a saddened heart. “But the honest-to-God truth is that most people value life over property. The 2002 Maxima’ is fully insured and can be easily replaced. My life can’t be! Thank the Lord that my brutal captors got cold feet and had the decency to deposit me in front of the Emergency Room!”
“The funny part about this entire episode is that you never realized that you had been beaten a second time and then dropped-off by the side of the Winslow-Williamstown Road by the Mexicans in the white van, which immediately took off,” Sergeant Dunsmore emphasized with a wry smile accentuating his chubby facial features. “Several minutes later when you revived near the secluded woods on Winslow-Williamstown Road, you were apprehended and captured by the second wave of alleged criminals riding in your fancy merlot Nissan Maxima. And if you didn’t pass-out and go unconscious for the third time after you were forced into your own red vehicle, for the purpose of being kidnapped for ransom and….”
Just then Cousin John Wiessner stepped into my hospital room to pay me a kind visit. “Heard you had quite a spine-tingling adventure this morning Bob,” my blood relative on my father’s side sarcastically announced and laughed. “That’s the last time I’m ever going to ask you to do a favor or run an easy errand. I had no idea that I was putting your fragile life in jeopardy in these dangerous parts. From all of this insane misadventure of yours, I’ve learned that even performing a casual errand for someone at the neighborhood Wal-Mart could result in a life-threatening situation!”
“You said it Cousin John!” I concurred while feeling a degree of embarrassment for what had happened. “Nowadays a person isn’t even safe livin’ inside the main gold vault at Fort Knox.”
“You said a mouthful!” Captain Martinez chuckled and supplemented. “The next time Mr. Berkheimer you have to perform a favor for someone around this town, kindly hire the Hammonton Unit of the New Jersey National Guard to protect you. And for added security you might want to take along two dozen well-trained Secret Service agents too!” the amused cop exaggerated as if he was doing stand-up comedy. All four thoroughly entertained visitors laughed indulgently at my unfortunate expense. But then Cousin John had something else pertinent to relate that added more accumulative mortification to my humiliation.
“Cousin Bob,” my zany relative seriously addressed me with a stern expression on his sun-tanned countenance, “the Phillies won the baseball game against your beloved Orioles, 5-3. But more importantly Bob, I want to know where’s my’ weed spray? How could you’ be so unreliable as to have misplaced it?”
Cousin John was literally and effectively adding insult to my aggravating and agonizing injuries. “It’s either in the back of the Mexicans’ white van or concealed somewhere inside my precious missing-in-action Nissan Maxima,” I sorrowfully lamented and reported. “That regrettable occasion happens to be the last time I’m ever goin’ to voluntarily do you a personal favor anywhere, including Baltimore! I feel much more comfortable, safe and less flustered ridin’ around metropolitan Baltimore City than I do drivin’ around rural South Jersey!”
“The three police authorities hearing our harmless quarrelsome exchange broke-out into a boisterous roar as if Cousin John and I were two famous veteran comedians engaging in and debating humorous on-stage banter.
Jay Dubya
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intriguing read
Your story paints a unfavorable view of Mexican migrant workers (like Trump). Personally I have found Roundup to be diabolical. You should write a mystery story of why people are willing to use dangerous chemicals in the name of convenience.
Ron