Ch. 7 Justice for All

When Stanley woke he was over taken by a strange sensation. At first he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was a feeling he missed, one that he no longer took for granted.
Warmth. That’s what it was. He was warm. He lay under heavy blankets in a heated room. The next thing he registered was not so pleasant. He hurt like hell.
His face felt discernibly puffy. His ribs ached. His back ached. His legs and knees felt like when he used to bike ten miles a day; maybe a little worse.
He eased his eyes open, but they only opened about halfway. They were swollen. The room that appeared was white, clean and bright. A memory sparked. He could remember angry voices and ambulance lights. He must be in a hospital.
He turned his head toward the door and was greeted by the smiling face of a middle aged nurse, in an obvious hurry.
“Hello sir. You’re in Washoe County General. You were assaulted. You’re beaten and bruise. You sustained a broken nose and two cracked ribs, but that’s it. You were lucky. You’ll be out of here in a day or two.
“A detective will be by in a while to ask you some questions. You didn’t have any I.D. when we got to you. Do you have a name for your chart?”
“Stan-Stanley Patterson,” His voice cracked as he spoke.
“Okay Mr. Patterson. Your dinner will be by soon. I’ll be in and out to check on you.”
Stanley nodded. Speaking seemed too much effort.
Stanley did little more than look around the room once, quickly glance at the T.V. the nurse had turned on as she left, before dozing back off. What felt to be little more than a moment later he was awakened by a gentle voice.
“Mr. Patterson, the detective is here to ask those questions.”
Stanley sat up in bed, pain radiating from most every where, and looked back to the door. He only caught a glimpse of the nurse as she left the room, undoubtedly on her way to see a patient more likely to pay the bill. In her stead she left a fat man in brown slacks and a well worn brown jacket. His face had the familiar look of an alcoholic. Red nose, heavy bags under the eyes, veins in the cheeks.
“Hello Mr. Patterson, I’m detective Ridly. I want to ask you a few questions about the attack. Do you have an address?”
“That doesn’t seem to have much to do with the ass-beating I took. Does it?”
“It’s a standard question, Mr. Patterson. I need it for my records.”
“Quarter mile past the Wells Avenue Bridge, third bush on your left,” Stanley stated with conviction.
“You don’t have a home? You live by the river?”
“I live under a bush near the river. That’s right,” Stanley finished his stab. The fat detective never smirked, or glared, or reacted at all. It was easy to see how much he hated his job.
“What were you doing when the attack started?”
“Sleeping.”
“Could you identify the guilt parties if you saw them?”
“Parties?” Stanley’s eyebrows rose.
“Yes. The witness said three young men were beating you in your bed. Don’t you remember?”
“No, I don’t think ever woke………”
“You never woke up? Not even as three men brutally beat you? How could that be Stanley?” Now a smirk started across his obese face.
“I was passed the fuck out, okay?”
“So you couldn’t identify anyone, or maybe a vehicle?”
“No.”
“Do you have any enemies? Owe anyone money? Been in a fight recently? Any idea who might have wanted to hurt you?”
“Not in this town. I don’t know anyone here.”
“All right, your story pretty well matches the witnesses’. We’ll do our best, but we don’t have many leads. We’ll be in touch. I’ll leave a card; call if you think of anything.
Like Stanley could be found for more questioning, like he could afford to use a phone, like he gave a shit. With that the fat miserable man waddled away. Stanley knew he’d get no justice. He didn’t really care. He was in a warm bed. He could here the food cart rolling his way; worse had happened to Stanley Patterson.