Milwaukee Deep

Sam stood outside the cell that housed Michael Burton. The prisoner sat alone on a metal bench. He was dressed in an orange prison jump suit, slouched forward, his head resting in both hands.

“Michael,” Sam said calmly.

Burton looked up.

“Michael, do you mind if I come in?” Sam looked over to Sheriff Patterson and gestured for him to open the cell door.

The prisoner sat still on the bench – he didn’t respond.

“Boy, it’s hot in here,” said Sam as he took of his suit jacket and entered the cell, “I tell you, three hours of flying and an hour and a half of drive time really gets you cooking.”

The prisoner didn’t respond to the stranger’s remark. He just watched as Sam sat opposite him on the other metal bench in the cell.

Sam looked at Michael Burton for the first time. The Sheriff was right. He hadn’t aged at all. In that cell sat a man who looked exactly as he did in his picture – that was taken more than eighteen years ago.

“Michael,” Sam said in an even tone, “my name is Agent Sam Crease. I’m from the FBI and I’m here to help you.”

“Help me? If what they tell me is true, I’m beyond help.”

Sam leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Can you tell me what you know, what you remember?” he asked.

Michael sat back up against the concrete wall, his head against the hard wall; his eyes gazing at the ceiling. The uniform he wore clung to him, sweat seeping through it as the temperature in the cell continued to rise.

“Last night I rang my wife and told her I would be late,” he said softly, “I hung up the phone and, and…that’s it. And here I am!” The distress in his voice was evident.

“It’s okay,” replied Sam, “There’s no rush.”

“How the hell is it eighteen years on!?”

“Look, we’ll figure this out, okay,” Sam said reassuringly, “I promise.”

“Figure this out? I’m in fucking Florida for God’s sakes! You don’t understand – I spoke to her yesterday and now eighteen years have passed. Where the fuck have I been for all this time?”

Sam stayed calm. Or silent, at any rate. His normally steady heart beat was faster now, but he had nothing to say.

He waited for Michael to compose himself.

“Michael, I understand this is hard for you, but I promise you we’ll figure this one out – we have to. Now let’s focus on what we do know, okay? Where were you when you last spoke to your wife?”

“Work I think…I don’t know. The only thing I remember was talking to her over the phone.”

“Okay, good.”

“I remember hanging up and then,” Michael went silent for a moment, “and then nothing.”

“Its okay, Michael,” said Sam, “is there anything else you can remember – what you were wearing – the time you called, how hot it was where you were, anything that may trigger your memory?”

Michael took a deep breath. He looked across at Sam and nodded slightly. He leaned forward and closed his eyes.

Sam sat with him, in silence.

Michael looked up at Sam.

“Nothing,” he said softly, shaking his head, “all I can remember is my family. My wife, Kelly. My daughter, Marianna. That’s all I know.”

“Okay” replied Sam not wanting to push the prisoner, “Let’s focus on the things we can then, huh? First thing’s first, I need you to come with me to see a doctor.”

“A doctor? I don’t need a doctor – I just want to go home. I want to see my wife – my little girl.”

“Michael, the Sherriff told me that you have a deep cut on your leg. Now I want to take you home, trust me you’ll see them soon,” Sam said, “but before that I want to take you to see a doctor – make sure you’re okay and all.”

Michael looked back at Sam. He still wasn’t sure if he could trust him.

“Am I free to go?” he asked.

Sam looked back at Sheriff Patterson.

“Well, that’s up to the Sheriff, Michael, not me. You’ve been charged with disturbing the peace, indecent exposure and assault.”

“Assault! But, I didn’t touch her!”

“Calm down, Michael. I’ll go and talk to the Sheriff and straighten this out, if you agree to let me take you to see a doctor, deal?”

Michael went silent for a moment.

“Okay. Deal.”

“Good. Now once I finish with Sheriff Patterson, we’ll get you some new clothes, visit the doctor and we’ll catch a plane back to New York. I’ll take you home as soon as we land. Sound good to you?”

Michael looked up.

“Sure, okay.”

“Good,” Sam stood up to walk out of the cell.

“Agent Crease,” said the prisoner, “could I have some food?”

“Of course, Michael, I’ll arrange for something straight away - oh, and by the way, it’s Sam.”

Anthony Perks stood quietly and listened as Secretary of Defence George Willow answered another one of his many phone calls.

“Will they deal with it soon? Good, keep me informed,” said Willow and closed his cell phone.

“Sir, do you need a minute?” ventured Perks

“No, Agent Perks, I do not. Now where were we?” asked Willow.

Anthony walked over to the map of Central Park that lay sprawled open over two desks in the briefing room.

“As you can see, Sir, they found Hillary’s shoe here and then the cloth was found in a bin, just here.”

“Have they uncovered any prints off either the shoe or the cloth?”

“Sir, they’re working on it,” Agent Perks said with some trepidation.

“Well how long, Perks, this is my daughter we’re talking about!”

Perks looked down.

“Sir, we’re working as fast as we can. I promise you as soon as we get something -”

Agent Myles walked into the briefing room. Perks looked up.

“Sir, have you got a moment?” Myles quietly interrupted.

Perks looked at the Secretary of Defence. “Sir, I won’t be long,” he said and walked out of the room with Myles.

“What have you got?” asked Perks

Myles slowly walked past Willow’s security guard who was standing post outside the briefing room. With Perks on his left, he waited for enough distance to gather between them and the guard before finally speaking to his superior.

“We pulled the prints,” he said.

“Excellent. Have we got a name?”

Myles paused.

“Rob, have we got a name?” repeated Perks

“I don’t know if you’re going to like this.”

“What do you mean?”

Myles took another look at Willow’s security guard - a good fifteen to twenty yards away.

“The prints we pulled were off a dead guy,” he whispered,

“What?”

“David Reese Ganton, aged thirty-one. He died in 1983 - in a road accident two hours out of San Francisco.”

“He’s dead?” Perks’ voice carried down the hallway.

“Yes,” Myles again lowered his voice, “I’ve got a faxed copy of his death certificate in my top drawer.”

Perks stood silent in the hallway not more than twenty yards from where the Defence Secretary of the United States sat waiting to hear news about his kidnapped daughter. The thought of telling him that the man who they’ve determined responsible for holding his daughter captive is in fact someone who died more than twenty eight years ago made him sick to his stomach.

“Hold on, how the hell can a dead person’s prints turn up on our cloth?”

Myles looked at Perks. He didn’t respond.

“Damn it, are you sure this isn’t a mistake?” Perks demanded.

“I don’t make mistakes, Anthony.”

Perks didn’t know what to say.

“There’s more,” Myles added.

Perks looked at Myles. He raised his hand to his brow and started to rub.

“This guy, Ganton - he’s ex military.”

Perks waited with his head down.

“Worked two years, 82 and 83, get this, at NORAD – part of special ops.”

“NORAD?” Perks looked up at Myles, “Hold on didn’t Willow run NORAD for years?”

“Sure did - from 1978 to 85.”

Perks closed his eyes for a moment.

“Okay, all right, we’ve just got to think about this,” Perks looked up at Willow’s guard – the large, six foot three, ex-ranger - his eyes focused dead ahead. “Look, there’s got to be a file on this guy that tells us more than what we already know. I want you to access the military database and see what you can find. I want to know everything there is about this guy, do you understand me?”

“Sure.”

“I mean it - I want to know every move he made up to and including the day he died. I want to make sure we get to the bottom of this, and fast.”

“Got it,” Myles then added, “so what are you going to tell Willow?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve got to stall him – at least until we find out what the hell’s going on.”

Sam walked into Doctor Daniel Gordon’s office and closed the door behind him.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Doc; I know you’re very busy.”

“My pleasure, Agent Crease, please, take a seat.”

Sam sat in the leather chair opposite Gordon and waited patiently until the doctor finished signing the medical evaluation forms of Michael Burton. As the doctor signed the forms, Sam starred up at the wall to the left of him taking in the many diplomas and certificates displayed.

“Now,” said Gordon, “Let’s start with the CT scan.”

The doctor turned his chair around and faced the illuminated board that hung on the wall just behind his desk.

“As you can see, Agent Crease, there’s no sign of any damage here.”

Gordon stood up.

“We ran the CT scans over six stages to ensure thoroughness and they speak for themselves,” he continued pointing to the image of Burton’s brain.

“So what does that mean – he shouldn’t be suffering from any memory loss?” Sam asked.

“No, all I’m suggesting is that the memory loss is more than likely psychological rather than physical. There’s no sign of any lesions, or bruising. If there is a reason for memory loss I’d be more inclined to get a psychiatrist to help uncover it.”

“Interesting,” mused Sam, “is it common to suffer memory loss without a cause of physical damage?”

“Yes it’s possible.”

“And what might trigger such an event?”

“Well that’s difficult to determine, every situation is different, Agent Crease, but I would say this, in most cases when memory loss occurs and that loss is not directly attributable to a physical incident, more often than not it is because of a significant traumatic event experienced by that particular individual.”

Sam looked at Gordon and nodded his head.

“Now,” Gordon continued, “in regards to the rest of the physical examination, other than his leg, Michael’s in perfect physical health.”

“What about the leg?”

“Well, I stitched up the wound and in about a week he should be fine.”

“Did he say anything about how it happened?” asked Sam.

“No he did not. I must say though, it was a perfect cut.”

“It was?”

“Yes – very precise.”

“Hold on,” Sam leaned in a little, “are you saying someone did that to him?”

“Yes, almost certainly. I’ve been in medicine more than twenty-three years now, Agent Crease, and I think I know a surgical incision when I see one.”

“And he doesn’t know how it happened?”

“That’s what he maintains.”

“And what about his appearance, Doctor?”

“Well we ran some blood tests and the results came up clear.”

“So, nothing out of the ordinary – I mean he looks pretty good for a forty-three year old wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes – I was hoping to uncover his secret, to be honest.”

“So that’s it, then, you’re obviously happy for him to fly?”

“Yes, I’d just signed the release forms before you came in.”

Sam stood up.

“Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you, Doctor; once again I appreciate you seeing us on such short notice.”

“Don’t mention it, Agent Crease, always glad to be of assistance to the FBI,” replied Gordon, and handed Sam Michael’s medical report and flight release form.

Sam smiled at Gordon and turned for the door when he remembered one last question.

“Sorry, Doc. You mentioned that a traumatic event might have triggered Michael’s memory loss.”

“Yes,” replied Gordon.

“Well is it possible that he might never get it back – that the memory loss is permanent?”

Gordon took a moment.

“Unfortunately, yes. It is possible.”

Tom Harding walked into General Mcafee’s office.

The General was on the phone...

“Sir, we’ve uncovered his name and his location – I’m just waiting for the right time. Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir. Leave it with me.” The General put down the phone and looked up at Tom.

“What?”

“General, the FBI has made contact. We’re following them as we speak. Once we have our chance, we’ll move in,” said Harding.

“Do we know where they’re heading?”

“Yes, Sir, New York.”

“Well what are we waiting for? Can’t we just take him out at the airport?” asked the General.

“It’s too dangerous, Sir. The risk of contamination is far too great, particularly at an airport. Now we’ve determined that the FBI agent will be taking the subject to reunite with his family. From a containment point of view that is the safest place for interception, Sir.”

The General pondered his options.

“Very well, send the clean up crew to New York City.”

“Yes, Sir,” Tom turned to walk out of the office.

“Harding,” the General called out.

Tom turned around.

“Sir?”

“Make sure no one gets a hint of what we’re doing, understand?”

“I understand, Sir – leave it with me.”