Tension mounted inside my thumping, pressurized skull, nerves twitched, and my bloodshot eyes danced with every tick tock of the noisy, repetitious clock. Frazzled bolts of sleep-starved aggravation. I eased the black and chrome Sig 45 Nightmare from the nightstand and gripped it tightly in my sweaty hand as I arose from bed, ears perked on sounds of the night, blurred eyes struggling to focus, heart pounding . . ..

___________________________________

Rudely awakened, I threw up my arm to block the blazing sunlight between a twisted shade slat. It had pierced my aching left eye and a tear trickled down my cheek, as if running erratically from the pain. A seasonal calendar hung on the wall at the foot of the bed, above a padfolio with clipped notes, in a sleeve attached to the bed’s footboard. The red circled date clearly marked the day after my agonizing night.

Blue and green scrub-clad physicians and nurses hustled frantically. Doctors’ white coats with pen filled pockets, stethoscopes dangling around their necks. Attendants and nurses either clomped in Dansko clogs or bounced along wearing cushy and comfortable Hoka’s Bondis, shuffling between the hallway traffic’s madhouse of confusion. A practiced routine, people parted to make way for a racing gurney, an unfortunate shooting victim beneath the bloody sheets.

 

Lying locked in place, annoyed by the smell of antiseptics, beeping machines, and my restricted wrists cuffed to the hospital bed's metal rails. Two cops sat stationed outside my door. I needed answers, quickly. But so far, there were only questions. Like, how did I end up here, and why?

Two suits, obviously detectives, walked up and stopped to talk with the blueblood gatekeepers outside, then eased the door open and stepped into the room.

“Good morning, sir. How are you feeling?” The tall guy was the talker—which meant, Squirt or Too Short as I’d disrespectfully monikered him—would take notes. The game was to trip me up and expose my lies or contradictions. But without a hint of the previous night’s activities, beyond the intrusion, they were digging in an endless sludge pit of nothingness.

“I’d say, I’m far from hero, and close to zero at this point, in my best guesstimation. Could one of you please tell me what’s going on and how I ended up here?”

“You had a wild night. Seems you murdered four people, shot at cops, and left your Sig Sauer in the hallway of your condo, before hiding out in the field behind where you live.”

“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. A little after 9:00 last night, I drank a glass of milk from the refrigerator and climbed into bed. Quick to doze off, I was awakened as the bed spun me into a sickened qualmishness. No alcohol in my system, I couldn’t understand why I’d become so nauseated.

“Straight away, I was startled by a loud crash. Shattered glass from the rear-door panes tinkled across the kitchen floor. Then, an intruder’s horror-movie footsteps approached—each crunching on the scattered shards—coming undeviatingly closer, steady, controlled, and calculated.

“Dizzy and distorted, my head swam. I grabbed my pistol from the nightstand and sprang from bed to defend myself.”

“Then, what happened?” Lurch asked. Lurch, the name I’d given the tall, spider-legged, cocky prick.

“Honestly, I don’t know.” The detectives’ evil-eyed stares turned toward each other. Too Short shook his head, then turned away smiling. An obvious signal of his disbelief. But I was telling the God-awful truth. The last thing I remembered was standing, before waking up here in the hospital.

“Well, let me fill you in on the details, Mr. Zambrano.” The officer flipped open a steno notebook and started reading. “Sir, you supposedly intruded into two different homes on the floor below yours . . . where you murdered a husband and wife in Unit 2 and two college-aged kids in Unit 3. Both households had been under strict surveillance for criminal enterprise.”

“First off, my name isn’t Zambrano.” Although, it was, before it was changed to Hoskins when I was put into witness protection ten-years ago. But how did they get the name Zambrano? Are they really detectives? Should I fess up? I think not. “My last name is Hoskins.”

“When we found you last night, your driver’s license, credit cards, social security, and other documents all had the name Robert Anthony Zambrano on them. We checked out your Facebook page, which shows you and a list of a couple-hundred friends.”

“I don’t have a Facebook page. Never have, never will.”

“Well, would you like me to show it to you?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, promptly opened his laptop, typed my name into Facebook, and turned the screen around letting me see my picture on the site. The one, I supposedly didn’t have.

“I don’t understand this. I’ve never had a Facebook account, and my name is Richard C. Hoskins, the “C” is for Charles.”

“There it is, right in front of your eyes . . . and you keep denying it? Is that not your picture plain as day? I think it’s time you give up the charade.”

“I’m telling the truth. I’ve never been a Facebook member and my name is Richard C. Hoskins. There is something bad wrong here. Someone must be trying to frame me.”

“Yes, well, if they are, they’ve done an outstanding job so far.” Both detectives laughed. My mouth fell open and not a word came out, face scrunched in debilitated silence.

“Detectives, you can’t be that shallow. What kind of nut case would leave a pistol with his own prints in a hallway where he’d just murdered four people?” I sat, trembled, jangling the metal cuffs against the bed rails, and proceeded with my pleading overture.

“Come on now, don’t be stupid. Had I killed four people, I surely wouldn’t have left my handgun and gone out back to take a nap in the bushes. Wouldn’t I have more likely wanted to get rid of the gun, maybe have kept it to defend myself against the cops. I mean, killing a few more wouldn’t have stiffened charges enough to matter—and besides, under the circumstances—wouldn’t getting away or destroying the evidence have been the better ideas?”

“If that’s your story, Mr. Zambrano, and you’re sticking to it . . . looks like we’ve done about all we can here.” They turned, smirking, and walked away.”

A few minutes later, a nurse came in, asked if I needed anything, and brought a fresh pitcher of water and a new Styrofoam cup. And although I couldn’t use either hand to pick it up, she positioned the overbed table so I could lean forward and drink from a straw.

“Nurse, may I ask you a question?”

“Why of course . . . my name is Patti. Ask away.”

“Why am I in this hospital?”

“You were unconscious when they brought you in early this morning. You had an irregular heartbeat, your blood pressure was 228/147, which indicated a severe Hypertensive stage-3 crisis that needed immediate attention. The doctor wants to keep you until everything is regulated before releasing you into police custody.”

“Did anyone draw blood that you know of?”

“I couldn’t say for sure, but most likely they started treating the most life-threating symptoms first.”

“So, they might not have checked my blood to see why I was unconscious?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Then, could I request that you take a few vials, to have tested? I don’t know how, but someone had to have given me something to knock me out last night.”

“Normally, we have to do what the doctor instructs us to do, and there is no request for blood tests.”

“Nurse, please, take a few vials of my blood. I’m sure they will find I’ve been drugged.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can only act according to doctor’s orders.”

“Then, would you please have my doctor come to see me ASAP?"

"Sir, your doctor’s out right now, but he is scheduled to return around 4:00 this afternoon for patient checks. I’ll have him come in then.”

“Patti, honey, that may be too late. If I don’t get a sample of my blood, I may be unable to prove my innocence for four peoples’ murders that I didn’t commit. I was drugged and framed, and you are my last chance.”

Patty slipped up, and before I could react, she injected a sedative into my IV, saying, “The doctor ordered something to help you relax.”

I screamed out “No, no, please!” But it was too late. The room blurred and my head drooped back against the pillow.

The last chance to prove my innocence melted away as my consciousness faded.