My Life with Death

Holding cell, Baltimore Police Department, Maryland, January 26, 2019

6:58 a.m.

Everything hurt; I was sick, and I could smell blood. Blood in my mouth, blood coming out of my nose. My hands hurt. I do not know why. I had no idea what had happened. Did I fight with someone? Did I cause even more significant problems than I was already carrying? I was armed, after all. Given my condition, I shouldn't even be carrying a gun. That's why they took her away from me. They had good reason to do so.

10:15 a.m.

I woke up drenched in sweat. I was cold. I felt horrible. Worse than the worst hangover ever. My arm hurt, but in a different way than before. And only one. I tried to touch the place with my other hand. I couldn't even pick her up. I didn't feel her. I couldn't raise my head to look. It hurt so much to open my eyes. Especially since the lights were shining where I was, so bright that it was as if knives were stabbing me in the eyes. With all the strength left in my body, I raised my head and opened my eyes long enough to find out at least where I was.

I was lying on a couch with the veins on my right arm punctured. I was in a small room. Two sides were a wall, and two were a lattice. There was a bucket and a bottle of water on the floor by the lounger. My body was tied to the couch with fabric straps. I only had a free hand, from which the tubes came out and fluids flowed into my body.

I knew where I was, but I didn't understand it. I couldn't remember anything. I didn't even know if it was still night or the next day, if the sun had already risen, or if it was still dark. But what I knew for sure was that my clothes reeked of alcohol and possibly worse liquids. I had blood on my shirt. I didn't know if they were mine. I also had it on my hands, on my knuckles.

1:14 p.m.

I was lying on something hard. My face was bruised from it—suppressed hand. I was broken. Pain gripped my body. My head was pounding. I opened my eyes. I was the first to see the outlines of a human figure with my blinded eyes. I opened my eyes once more and adequately. A man was sitting across from me, flipping through some papers. It seemed like it had been sitting there for a long time. I looked around me. I was sitting at the table. I lay across his metal plate. I wanted to lean back. Something twitched my hand. They were handcuffs. I had my hand tied to that table. I carefully leaned back. My hand was bandaged with handcuffs. My joints were stiff.

"But... who woke us up?" replied the man sitting on the chair opposite me with sarcasm.

"Where am I?" I mumbled in confusion.

"You are at the Baltimore City Police Station," he said thoughtfully. "You were arrested for assaulting a stranger under the influence of alcohol and other substances and threatening with an illegally held weapon," the official added. I didn't know what to say to that. I was waiting for more questions.

"I ask you again... are you aware of your rights?" he asked. "you have the right to an attorney, you have the right to a phone call, you have the right to remain silent, but be aware that anything you do or say can and will be used against you in court."

"I don't want a lawyer," I replied. "no one must know I'm here," I added nervously.

He looked confused.

"What?" he blurted out.

"I need to get out of here. Tell me what the bail is..."

"It doesn't work that way," he responded.

"I know how it works... you must listen to me."

"Why should I listen to you?" he wondered. "I don't even know who you are. You had no documents, and your fingerprints are not on record," he added. I wondered if I should tell him who I was. It probably wouldn't help me if it might hurt me even more. I didn't know how to get out of this mess. I did not know such a situation. I always sat on the other side of the table.

"So what... will you tell me your name?"

I continued to be silent. The policeman sitting across from me stood up and knocked three times on the double glass on one of the walls. I knew what that meant. The number of knocks on the glass indicated the status of the detainee. Two knocks meant a confession or conviction of a possible accomplice, and three knocks meant a reluctance to cooperate, i.e., immediately being taken back to custody or leaving the perpetrator alone in an interrogation room with constant observation of the situation from the outside. So he left the room and left me sitting there. The camera in the room continuously recorded the situation inside and watched my every move. I thought about my situation and the options I had left. I had to use all my experience and remember various stories from my time at the academy about the cleverness and resourcefulness of criminals. The last of all options was the worst. Escape. I could do it, but then what? I thought about the consequences of such an act. I would lose all recognition and all opportunities. I would lose everything. I would become an outcast of society.

There was one more option that I wasn't too keen on because I needed to figure out how it might turn out. I could try to reveal my identity and hope for a miracle. I considered the pluses, which practically did not exist, and the minuses, which were innumerable. I wanted to give it a try. What have I got to lose? I told myself that it couldn't be worse and that this was not a dream from which I would wake up and everything would be as before.

So I waved first to the camera and then through the glass. "I want to tell you something," I called into the void. The door burst open within a minute, and the same policeman who had left the room a few minutes ago entered the room. He stood in front of me and stared at me. "So, have you made up your mind?"

I looked him in the eye with absolute seriousness and said, "I'm an FBI agent, Alexis Stepman," I announced. "I know it sounds unbelievable, and you have no reason to believe me, but you have to," I added desperately.

From the look on his face, he didn't expect this.

"What?"

"I won't repeat that to you, sir," I said, looking him over. "You're from the West Coast, your wife recently left you, and you have a dog... a Great Dane," I surmised.

"How...how do you know?" he stammered.

"I told you so. I'm an FBI agent. Will you release me?'

He still looked quite shocked and incredulous.

"Why should I let you go? You are still being held for assault and possession of a weapon."

"I shouldn't have to tell you, but we're investigating a case, and my boss thought I could infiltrate the group we're tracking in disguise to find out more information; that's why I don't have my badge or my service weapon on me," I told him the first thing, which occurred to me at that moment as the justification for all of this.

He just nodded his head. It was too much information for him in a short time. He thought about it. "All right then. I will release you, but you could inform us about such an investigation next time."

"I promise," I replied.

He removed my handcuffs and returned my things. Luckily for me, he was an inexperienced cop, and I was a good enough liar that he believed everything.

1:51 p.m.

I quickly left the police station. I walked down the street into town. I reached the parking lot in front of the promenade with shops. I sat on the bench, pulled my phone out of my pocket, and dialed Agent Finlay's number. I needed to get back to the case and a ride. I had to get out of town as fast as possible because I didn't know if the cop would check my alibi with the FBI. I heard the typical dialing sound. I waited for him to take my call.

"Hello, who's calling?" came suddenly.

"Samantha," I addressed her. "This is Alexis Stepman," I introduced myself.

"Agent? Pardon. I'm sorry," she said.

"I need your help," I said. "Can you come to Baltimore? I will explain everything to you later," I assured her.

Nothing came from the other side. So I took it as consent and hung up.