Chapter 3 - The Hospital

I was ready to leave the room with a wave of the hand towards the stranger when the door opened. A springy, middle-aged, tall woman with sharp grey eyes and a friendly expression rushed in, popping out a hand.

“I heard you’re here for our patient,” she said, pointing with her chin towards the man in the bed. “I’m Dr O’Malley, treating physician.”

With a smile, I grasped it. A warm, firm, reassuring handshake. My gut told me she was someone following her vocation, keeping calm in the storm of the ER. I bet her presence reassured the patients, giving them courage and faith to confront the future.

“Sergeant O’Reilly, what’s the craic with our patient? Alcohol level? Drugs in his system? Low blood sugar?”

Her lips stretched, and her eyes twinkled in amusement. “I see you have some notions of medicine.”

I shrugged. “Not much, but I got by bringing people here. All kinds of cases, I assure you.” And some in the family, too. I kept the last part to myself. “I bet you see many stranger situations, though.”

She nodded. “Indeed.” A slight pause ensued, and I sensed a hesitation in her demeanour. She frowned and shook her head, making her tight brown curls bounce around her face. As she spoke, she glanced through the almost-illegible, hastily scribbled notes she had about our stranger. “We did blood and urine samples. He’s clean. Unfortunately, we cannot ask him if he’s experiencing any specific symptoms as we don’t understand his language, so we would require additional testing to ensure he’s not sick.” She closed the notebook and slid it back in her pocket.

“Is it possible, um, that he has a brain lesion? Or a tumour? Or, maybe a car hit him?” I grasped at straws.

“I cannot say. His preliminary results just came back not so long ago, so I’d have to reevaluate his state and see what else we could do to help this poor soul.”

I glanced at the “poor soul”, then approached while sniffing discreetly—no alcohol or strong body odour.

“Was he cleaned or washed since his arrival?” I asked.

“No. We just put on him the examination jacket you see him in right now.”

He looked fit and well-fed for someone living on the streets, if that was indeed his case.

Besides, the hard life of the homeless didn’t fit his general appearance.

His blond hair shone, pure and soft, tempting me to touch it. Instead, I focused on his large, veined hands, noting the softness of his skin and the cleanliness of his nails. No calluses or dirt under or around the nails. He was not someone who did manual work.

“No traces of ligatures or redness on the wrists,” I mumbled to myself.

I inhaled with too much noise. “No, not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that people constantly find new ways to harm themselves. Is it possible that he used some new drug we are unaware of? Something that doesn't leave traces on the system?”

Some compounds can evade routine screens,” she said. “They can disappear from basic samples unless the lab looks specifically for them."

"Please look then."

She nodded.

“But I don’t see traces of ligatures if he was a victim of human trafficking.” I challenged. Then, I added: “Have you examined him for, um, if he had been subjected to ah, violence of any sort?” I sensed my face heating.

She understood without me spelling it out loud. “No, no traces.”

I didn’t know what to ask her, except: “What now?”

“Just to make sure he’s not sick, I’ll check his brain, but I don’t think that’s the case. I’ll refer him to a specialist and schedule a neurological consult. The psychological evaluation would have to wait until we found a way to communicate with him. I’ll keep you posted on the situation.”

I smiled and fumbled with my breast pocket while pulling out a business card for her. “Please inform me as soon as possible if you get anything new. Could he be a mental patient?”

She sighed. “How could I say? He appears composed, calm, neutral, but says nothing we comprehend, and no one has yet figured out his language. And we have personnel here from all around the place.”

“I’ve checked with Google.” I blurted out.

O’Malley fixed a hopeful gaze at me. I shook my head. “Even the computer can’t figure it out.”

Her brows hit her hairline. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Strange.”

“Indeed,” I agreed, and lifted my phone to play a short clip I had recorded of his speech.

“I’ll let you know if we find a translator.”

“That will be of utmost help.” She flashed me another appreciative smile.

I then shared my last working hypothesis. “Could he be so confused that he invented a nonexistent language?”

“I’d refrain from commenting for now, but nothing offers clues in this direction. We’ll have to wait for the test results.”

I thanked her.

Even though my shift had ended, I had to update the case file before leaving for home.

Before I left, I slipped by the cracked door, glancing one last time at the mysterious man. His eyes were now closed, either in meditation or deep sleep. The hospital scent clung to my coat as I left; only the outdoor air could chase it away. After the door clicked shut behind me and I exited the building, his image lingered in my mind, refusing to fade.

Confusion churned in my head with every step. Each clue raised more questions. My job was to find his place, his kin, yet doubts crept into my mind. How to succeed when I had nothing to start with? Not even a crime. Indecent exposure? Hah!

Who was this man? The truth is, we didn’t know—his background, his objectives, nothing.

As soon as he was cleared health-wise, I’d bring him to the station and do my job—fingerprints, database searches, whatever it took, consent or not. My first priority was public safety, and I couldn’t discard anything yet.

Handle him with care, Laura. He deserves that, no matter who he is.

Failing to figure out who he was could spark a diplomatic rift—for not doing enough for a foreign citizen in need—or blow up into a case of wrongful accusation. Or a local political discussion that could turn into a media circus about another undocumented immigrant. Some people think they only ask for resources, but have they ever considered how much those communities give back in labour, culture, and resilience? In hope of survival and in humanity?

Or maybe I’d just be demoted if I messed up.

Still, my gut told me I had what it took to solve this mystery. I had to.

And I wanted that promotion.

Walking toward my car, another possibility crept in. Was he a swindler, a criminal, trying to escape justice? All bets were off until I had concrete, provable facts. At least I had something to start with. I’d seen him: tall—though I couldn’t say exactly how much—fit, maybe around ninety kilos, roughly my age, somewhere between thirty and forty. A few details to narrow the search. The situation confounded and mystified me, leaving me unsettled in a way I hadn’t expected.

I thought he had abused drinks or had taken psychedelics, but based on the test results, that was not the case. Disappointment mixed with embarrassment crept over me. I sighed, fatigue and restlessness tangling inside me at the end of my shift. Still, something stirred—curiosity or worry—pushing me on.

Lately, I’ve often reminisced about my first day on the force. I remember the rare sunrays bathing me in their blessing as I stood outside the precinct, nervous yet hopeful. Back then, I believed we could change the world, one good deed at a time. Cheesy as it sounds, even after years that left me cynical, I still hoped to help whoever needed me and prove my worth.

And this foreigner had looked at me with expectancy and hope to find a family somewhere. If no other clues turn up and I’m unable to ask for his consent due to the communication barrier, I’d apply for exceptional circumstances to take his fingerprints and DNA. I could try 23andMe, Ancestry, or something else if nothing gave results.

When there’s a will, there’s a way, Granny loved to say.

He was probably an undocumented immigrant—but assumptions were risky. Each case was unique. Perhaps he had cheated death to reach here. I couldn’t jump to conclusions until I had hard, indisputable facts.

The only certitude I held was that he was definitely not a god. It was not a prejudice but a fact. Perhaps I’d pinch him next time to prove it. Gods were made of steel and sunlight, and felt no pain. I smirked, chuckled, and turned the ignition on.

I shook my head and yawned. My eyes tinged with dryness. I hadn’t slept well last night. After touching the radio, I informed my colleagues I was leaving.

Tomorrow was another day.

My brain switched to another gear. Pick up milk. And ice cream. I needed comfort food.

***

I arrived home at around seven. As soon as I opened the door, Larry rushed towards me. “Finally! Where have you been?” I rolled my eyes. “Guess where,” I replied, voice dry as old toast. I thrust both grocery bags into his hands. “Perhaps to meet my lover? And, oh, by the way, don’t forget the ice cream.”

Larry paused, his gaze lingering on me longer than usual. A flicker of suspicion—or maybe just concern—crossed his eyes before it disappeared, and he chuckled.

“You pulled my leg again,” he said. After all those years together, he knew my quirky sense of humour well.

My headache thumped like a battle drum. All I wanted was to take off my shoes, walk barefoot, and soak in a hot bath.

Alone to recharge my batteries as a true introvert after an entire day surrounded by people.

I softened my tone. “The ice cream, love, in the freezer. Please?”

He nodded and carried the bags to the kitchen while I peeled off my soaked coat. After all these years, we’d grown into something steady and quiet—less passion, more partnership. He knew when I needed silence; I knew when he needed tea. There was a certain peace in that. A small, shared loyalty that warmth had settled into.

I loved my quiet life with him, the steadiness, the quietness, the warmth.

And we had Rex.

As if on cue, my mastiff trotted over, sniffing at my hand for treats. The rhythmic click of his claws filled the house, a sound as comforting as rain on the roof. I remembered when he used to gallop to greet me, tail hammering the floor like a drum. Now, middle-aged and wise, he just gave me a slow, knowing look.

I should check how much Larry’s been feeding him. The dog resembled a furry barrel. But not tonight—I was too tired for that argument.

“Did you walk Rex?” I called out. 

“Yes, but it rained too hard, so we came earlier. He waited for you.”

I sighed, resigned, slipping the waterproof coat. Rex’s tail wagged instantly—rain or not, adventure awaited.

As I fumbled with the leash, it slipped through my fingers, almost sending me sprawling. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I needed rest for my mental health. Besides, I was not alone, and the message was not urgent.

I opened the door while slipping on my rain boots, but Rex pulled too tight. I lost the battle and stepped out.

I bet our neighbour, Mrs Achmoneck, saw it all. Tomorrow’s headline: Sergeant loses mind, found chasing her dog barefoot in the rain.

I withdrew. After wrestling the leash and my dignity, I finally fastened my boots and stepped out under the torrent, the umbrella a palsy shield against the fury.

Rex tugged with the enthusiasm of a puppy, dragging me into the wet night.

The steady downpour slowed to a pitter-patter, and yet cold drops wormed down my collar. I shivered, dreaming of tea hot enough to burn my tongue.

Rex trotted, oblivious to my mishaps. His joy was so pure it almost made me laugh. Life knew how to mock me: instead of a warm bath, I got a free cold shower courtesy of Irish weather.

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Fine, universe. You win.”

We got back, bone wet, but smiling. Walking the dog cleared my head and made wonders against the migraine. Larry waited by the door with a steaming mug of chai. What could I possibly want more than a loving husband, a dog and a hot bath?

To solve the mystery.

Tomorrow I’d chase again for the truth.