Chapter 18: Dr. Finch

The lead was a small, tarnished metal tag I’d found half-buried in the mud near the corpse in the Maggie Mine. I hadn’t told anyone about this little treasure, not even Maddie. Right now, the only person I trust is myself. I cleaned it off and rolled it around, examining it closely. It was a medical alert tag, not for a condition, but with a patient ID number for St. Jude's Desert Medical Center. It was the first concrete link to anything outside the mine’s dusty darkness. I needed space from Maddie, if only for a few hours. I needed to investigate this lead alone. Depending on what I discover, I will relay some of it to Maddie. I know she doesn’t want to reveal who she truly is, because I have seen this before. There’s a time to be covert and there’s a time for full transparency. I wonder if Maddie will ever realize that?

The hospital itself shimmered in the desert heat, a low, bleached-white building that looked more like a forgotten government office than a place of healing. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of antiseptic and quiet desperation. It was exactly the kind of underfunded, overworked rural facility I expected.

I used my PI license and a story about a missing person to get a meeting with the Chief of Staff, Dr. Alistair Finch. He met me in his modest office, a man in his mid-50s with sharp, intelligent eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses. He projected an aura of weary competence, the kind of doctor who’d seen it all and was still trying his best.

“John Doe, you say?” Finch said, his brow furrowed with practiced concern as he looked at the patient number I’d given him. He tapped a few keys on his computer. “Ah, yes. I remember him. A transient. We get a lot of them passing through. This one had some… significant psychological issues. We did what we could, but he checked himself out against medical advice a few months ago. We never heard from him again.”

It was a perfect, tidy explanation. Plausible. A dead end. “What kind of issues?” I pressed.

“Paranoia, delusions. He claimed he was a scientist, that people were trying to steal his thoughts,” Finch said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. “It’s a tragedy what life on the road can do to a mind. We offered him help, a transfer to a dedicated psychiatric facility, but he refused.” Hmm, he refused because he might have escaped the Mongols. At least, that is my theory for now. I need to ask a few more questions because this doctor might be hiding a secret I need. When dealing with a mafia as vast as this one, I can't afford to take anyone at face value, not even Maddie.

Just as I was about to ask another question, a nurse knocked and poked her head in. “Dr. Finch? We have an emergency in room three. A cardiac event.”

Finch was on his feet in an instant, his focus shifting entirely. “Excuse me, Mr. Draven,” he said, already moving toward the door. “We can talk more later, if you need.” He left, leaving the door slightly ajar and, more importantly, his computer unlocked.

It was a risk, but it was the only reason I was here. I moved around his desk. The patient’s main file was on the screen, matching Finch’s story perfectly. But my eyes caught a sub-folder on his desktop, labeled with the same patient ID but marked ‘NR-STUDY.’ Neurological Research could be what NR stands for, so I clicked it open.

It wasn’t a medical file. It was a series of logs. Cold, technical data. ‘Cognitive Output.’ ‘Processing Efficiency.’ ‘Neurological Benchmarks.’ The language wasn't about healing a patient; it was about measuring a component. It was the language of The Oracle, the same chilling terminology I’d seen on the tablet Sterling had given me. Finch hadn't been trying to heal this man; he'd been cataloging him. This poor fool was nothing but a lab rat.

My blood ran cold. This wasn't just a hospital; it was a sourcing facility. Finch wasn’t a compassionate doctor; he was a gatekeeper, a predator in a lab coat. Well, Dr. Finch, you might be a predator, but I am one hell of a hunter, and you are now in my sights. If I can take away their doctor, I throw a wrench into the Oracle. Any hiccup I could cause will save lives until I can find a way to bring it all crashing down.

I quickly found the print command, printing the core pages of the research file to the small printer beside his desk. I grabbed the warm pages, folded them, and shoved them inside my jacket just as I heard Finch’s footsteps returning down the hall. I erased any sign of my usage, and I was back in my chair, looking like a patient PI, by the time he walked back in.

“Apologies,” he said, his focus returning to me. “A false alarm, thankfully. Now, where were we?” A false alarm, or was it his boss checking in and letting him know how to handle me? My gut says it is the latter. Since Sarah, my instincts were dulled until I set foot in this godforsaken town. Maybe it is because I blame myself for her death, or is there something in this town reigniting the spark I had lost?