Forget to Remember

by

Alan Cook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Alan Cook on Smashwords

Forget to Remember

Copyright ©
2010 by Alan L. Cook

All rights reserved. Without limiting the
rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the
prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used
without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not
authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark
owners.

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ALSO BY ALAN COOK

California Mysteries:

Run into Trouble

Hotline to Murder

Gary Blanchard Mysteries:

Honeymoon for Three

The Hayloft: a 1950s mystery

Lillian Morgan mysteries:

Catch a Falling Knife

Thirteen Diamonds

Other fiction:

Walking to Denver

Nonfiction:

Walking the World: Memories and
Adventures

History:

Freedom’s Light: Quotations from History’s
Champions of Freedom

Poetry:

The Saga of Bill the Hermit

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Sincere thanks to Colleen Fitzpatrick, the
forensic genealogist who suggested the idea for this book, helped
me with the DNA material, and told stories about searching for and
identifying people. Also to my wife, Bonny, a genealogist herself.
Dawn Dowdle did her usual fine job of editing. Any errors, of
course, are mine.

DEDICATION

To all the non-persons of the world who have
lost their identity.

CHAPTER 1

What Rigo liked best about his job as a
dishwasher was taking out the garbage. This might seem
counterintuitive to some people, but it gave him a chance to get
away from the hot kitchen and into the balmy air, if only for a few
seconds.

He had noticed this joy as a teenager when
dishwashing produced his first real paychecks, not just a few small
bills handed to him for dog sitting or babysitting. It was still
true ten years later as he returned to the minimum-wage job of his
youth, using it as a safety net during a recession that had closed
down all possibilities of a real job for the proud holder of a
newly minted master’s degree in psychology.

This was his first garbage run of the day.
The brunch crowd was out in force on a sunny Sunday morning. They
were better dressed and had fatter wallets than patrons of the
typical Southern California restaurant, even if this meant their
jeans were clean and they were just managing to make their monthly
credit card payments. The recession seemed to affect everyone.

The gate to the wooden-fenced enclosure was
unlatched. Carlos had taken his place as dishwasher last night
while Rigo attended a tennis tournament. How did Carlos expect to
keep out the raccoons, skunks, and possums that roamed the
hillsides of the Palos Verdes Peninsula? Rigo would have a word
with him. He opened the gate quickly and was happy to see no
surprised varmint challenged him or scooted under the
Dumpsters.

The green Dumpster lids were closed; at
least Carlos had gotten
that
right. Rigo raised a lid with
one hand, intending to swing the plastic trash bag up and in with
the other. He stopped in mid-swing as something inside caught his
eye—something in the enclosed depths that wasn’t black like the
bags.

The bloated bag pendulumed back and hit him
in the leg. He dropped it on the ground, heart racing, gulping air
permeated with the stench of three-day-old garbage. He cautiously
peered over the metal rim, hoping, almost praying, that what he’d
seen wasn’t what he thought it was.

He jumped back, involuntarily, vomit rising
in his throat, and the lid came crashing down. The noise startled
him into full alertness. The patrons sitting outside on the patio
would hear. This was no time for weakness. He swallowed hard and
lifted the lid again, carefully, until it stayed open by itself.
The Dumpster now took on the appearance of a coffin. Gripping the
rim hard with both hands, he forced himself to look inside
again.

The human arm he had seen led to a shoulder,
topped by a head with short, dark hair. The body had sunk into the
spaces between the bags, but Rigo could see part of a back and a
leg. He forced himself to lean into the coffin and saw the curve of
a breast on the other side of the arm. It was a girl—or a woman.
She wasn’t wearing any clothes.

He thought he saw her ribs move. Getting up
all his nerve, he touched her arm. It was cool but warmer than the
air; she was alive! His heart leaped. He had to act fast. He
reached into his back pocket and pulled out his cell phone. It was
turned off—“Cell phones must be turned off during working hours.”
His hands were shaking so much he had trouble pressing the button
to activate it.

It took valuable seconds to start up, but
the alternative, racing into the restaurant and yelling that he
needed to use a phone, would take longer and cause a panic. He
didn’t want to leave the woman. He knew he could get service in
this out-of-the-way place; he had made calls from his cell phone
previously at the restaurant. When he finally saw the bars he
pressed 911 with fumbling fingers.

“Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”

He cleared his throat. “There’s an
unconscious woman in a Dumpster at Carlson’s Restaurant.”

The operator asked for his location. Of
course—he was on a cell phone. “I’m at Golden Cove on Palos Verdes
Drive West and Hawthorne Boulevard in Rancho Palos Verdes.”

Even secluded as they were, in the southwest
corner of the Palos Verdes Peninsula, he knew there was a fire
station just five minutes from here. The operator assured him help
was on the way. She stayed on the line with him, asking him
questions.

He leaned way over the woman to try to see
her face. It had caked blood and ugly red marks on it. He
momentarily placed the phone on the trash bag he had brought out
and moved her head slightly to make sure her nose and mouth weren’t
being smothered by plastic. Since she was breathing, the operator
told him not to try to lift her out of the Dumpster. That could
make any injuries she had worse.

At her suggestion, he took off his apron and
laid it on top of the woman to help warm her up. Although the day
promised to be summery, it was still cool in the shade. Rigo was
getting used to touching her now. He gently felt for a pulse in her
neck. It was slow and faint, but it was definitely there.

Approaching sirens told him help was on the
way. He felt relief and hope. Relief that someone else would take
over the responsibility for her and hope she would be all
right.

***

Rigo backed up three steps from his position
at the net and watched the lob arc downward toward him. Too short.
His savage overhead smash sent the ball into the far corner of the
court where it hit just inside the baseline and then careened away
from Adam Loken who stood like a statue, watching it.

“You’re too good for me today.”

Adam strolled to the net, assuming a
nonchalance Rigo knew was out of character for the very competitive
friend he had known since elementary school. They clasped hands
briefly in the twenty-first century version of a handshake and
walked to the bench at the side of the court where they sucked
water from plastic bottles and wiped the sweat from their faces
with towels.

Adam focused his blue eyes on Rigo. “All
right, I’ve tried to be patient. You were barely talking when we
started. Now tell me about the girl you found in the Dumpster this
morning.”

Rigo was talked out about the girl in the
Dumpster. First the rescue truck had arrived, with its siren
wailing, and several paramedics had raced around to the back of the
restaurant, carrying a bag full of their instruments and a cart for
transporting her. All he had to do with them was direct them to the
Dumpster.

They went to work, quickly and efficiently,
determined she apparently didn’t have any injuries that would be
exacerbated by moving her, and then gently lifted her and placed
her on the cart. They covered her with a sheet, wheeled her rapidly
past the astonished outdoor diners, and slid her into the waiting
ambulance. Before the door closed, Rigo, who had followed the
action around the building, saw the attendant give her what looked
like oxygen.

By this time, a sheriff’s car had arrived.
The Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department provided police
protection for the city of Rancho Palos Verdes. The deputy asked
Rigo questions and took notes. More police types came and put tape
around the trash area. They took the bags out of the Dumpsters and
searched through the garbage. Rigo answered questions and wondered
who was going to clean up the mess they were making.

Last came the media, consisting of a couple
of television trucks with satellite dishes on top and several
reporters, including one for the local
Palos Verdes Peninsula
News
. All of them asked Rigo questions. He would be on the five
o’clock news and in the newspapers. The restaurant manager excused
him from working his shift but that probably meant he wouldn’t be
paid.

By the time everybody was through with Rigo,
he was physically and mentally exhausted. He considered cancelling
his tennis date with Adam but decided that kind of activity was
what he needed to clear his head. He took his emotions out on the
court, and poor Adam suffered the consequences.

Now Rigo briefly summarized what had
happened for Adam’s benefit, repeating the words that had become a
memorized speech. He saw shock and awe on Adam’s face—Adam, who was
usually imperturbable.

Adam waited until Rigo finished before he
spoke. “Damn. No wonder you slaughtered me. I know this sounds like
an inane question, but—is she a babe?”

“She might have been before some asshole
made a punching bag out of her face.”

“Will they catch who did it?”

Rigo shrugged. “I gather they didn’t find
any clues. No weapon, no clothes, no ID. They tried to get
fingerprints off the Dumpster, but I think that’s a long shot…”

“Maybe when she comes to she can tell who
did that to her.”

“
If
she comes to. She looked pretty
bad.”

CHAPTER 2

She was sitting in the vinyl-covered chair
beside her hospital bed reading the newspaper accounts of how she
had been found when the lady walked into the room. She wasn’t
surprised; a lot of people had walked into her room during the
several days for which she had any memory, including policemen. At
least they said they were policemen. They hadn’t been in uniform,
although they had flashed what looked like badges in front of her
eyes.

The lady wore slacks and a shirt unbuttoned
one more button than was respectable for someone her age. She could
stand to lose weight and needed to exercise. Her light brown hair
was too long and looked dyed. She smiled.

“Hi. I’m Andrea McGuiness. I work for Los
Angeles County. You must be feeling better.”

“Thank you. I am. I ate some real food this
morning. Soon I hope to get rid of this.” She indicated the IV in
her wrist with the tube attached to the bottle on the pole beside
her. “I have to roll it along with me when I take my walks. All the
people who’ve been to see me seem to work for Los Angeles County. I
understand I’m in Torrance Hospital, which, coincidentally, is in
the city of Torrance. But people keep telling me this is Los
Angeles County.”

“It is. There are lots of cities in Los
Angeles County, including Torrance, and, of course, the city of Los
Angeles.”

“And where I was found is also Los Angeles
County?”