The Shadow Catcher

If this is a prank, you oughta know I’m reporting this to the police as soon as I hang up—

I assure you, Miss Wiggins, this is not a prank. There was a newspaper article about you in his wallet, which is how—

OK, that’s it.

(I hang up.)

And immediately dial 411, ask for the general telephone number of Sunrise Hospital in Las Vegas to compare it to the number this Rosen lady left. The area code and first four digits are the same. I dial the general number, ask for Cardiac ICU.

Cardiac, hello?

Hello. To whom am I speaking, please?

Nurse Furth. To whom am I speaking?

Ma’am someone purporting to be from your hospital has been calling my home in Los Angeles all day long, regarding a patient who was brought into your unit this morning? John Wiggins?

I’m not at liberty to divulge patient information over the telephone.

Well, can you tell me if someone called Emily Rosen works there?

Oh yes — she’s in Admitting. Are you the daughter we were trying to find earlier?

(I’m too stunned to form an answer.)

I tried to find a number for you earlier, when your dad came in. We’ve got him stabilized, but I think you’ll want to get here a.s.a.p.

Ma’am: my father’s dead.

Oh god, is that what they told you—? Oh lord no, no, Mr. Wiggins is still unconscious, but—

Mr. Wiggins is dead. My father is. My Mr. Wiggins. I don’t know who your so-called Mr. Wiggins is, but my Mr. Wiggins died in April 1970. So this is some mistake.

Well I apologize, Miss Wiggins. But I don’t see how that’s possible.

— you don’t? It’s not like JOHN and WIGGINS are low-probability NAMES. Don’t you run I.D. checks? Go online. Check the Social Security Death Index. My father’s facts are in there. Anyone with reading skills and a computer could have stolen his identity.

Well only if they’re eighty-four years old.

(She’s got a point. Absurd as it may sound.)

How old does your guy look?

Eighty. Eighty-ish. Plus he had a Universal Donor card in his pocket with you listed as his next of kin.

(I stare out my kitchen window at the sunset. And blink a couple times.)

Miss Wiggins—?

Yeah I’m thinking.

Let me transfer you back to Mrs. Rosen so she can run that DMF for you.

(I wait. DMF, I know, stands for Death Master File. I know this because I logged onto it, myself, researching Curtis.)

— Miss Wiggins?

(I recognize Rosen’s voice.)

I apologize for hanging up on you before, Mrs. Rosen, but I needed to verify your call.

I’m running that DMF check right now — yup. Well golly. Here he is. Just like you said. JOHN F. WIGGINS. Died April 1970. Sorry about that. We don’t normally check to see if someone’s already dead when they come in with valid I.D. and a warm body. Don’t know how this happened. I’ve never had a situation quite like this.

Are you going to notify the police? I’d appreciate knowing who this imposter is — how he got his information. You say I’m listed as the next of kin? Was mine the only name?

Yep.

— because I have a sister and she should have been listed, too.

Well, Identity Theft. There’s no explaining how it works. It’s everywhere. I don’t suppose…? there’s any chance…?

(What?)

That your father had a twin?

No, Mrs. Rosen.

— or that he might still be alive?

None.

— had to ask. — alrighty, then. — let’s stay in touch.

(I check the time — eight thirty on the East Coast, in Virginia. I dial my sister, and she answers.)

— hey, little bird (I say.)

— hey! I was just thinking about you!

Am I interrupting?

Heck no we’re just crashed out in front of the TV.

(It’s unusual for me to call her at this hour, during family time, and she intuits something.)

Listen — something weird just happened: I got a call from a hospital in Las Vegas. They say they’ve got an eighty-year-old man who claims he’s daddy.

You’re joking.

No. Someone’s posing as him. Swear to god. Some eighty-four-year-old with daddy’s name and Social Security number…And the thing is — (We both fall silent. Until J-J asks:)

Why are you doing this?

This isn’t my idea, J—

Somebody’s using his old I.D. So what?

Some eighty-year-old-man. I think I oughta go and see.

Thirty years, and you’re still—

— don’t you ever wonder?

No.

Well I do.

Well you shouldn’t.

Don’t you ever dream that — I don’t know — he went somewhere? — instead? I dreamed once he showed up and told me he’d been living in another city all this time. It was really strange. I woke up strangely…confused…but sorta happy.

(She doesn’t answer, but it sounds like she’s breathing funny. Then finally she says,) That’s a childish fantasy.

I know, but—

Please don’t do this, Cis.

— we never saw the body.

Marianne—

Uncle Nick went to identify him. You probably don’t remember. And I think Nick took George or Mike or Archie with him. Now they’re all dead.

— just stop this, will you?

(I stop.)

It’s morbid.

(She may be right.)

I mean, Las Vegas! (she says, as if that, in and of itself, should settle any argument.)

I think I should go find out what this guy’s story is (I say.)