White Coats and Red Hands

Chapter 3- The Missing Appointment

The handshake lingered just long enough to feel like a promise.

Benji Hart’s grip was steady, his ring — a simple black band — catching the low sunlight that slipped through the blinds of the precinct. He smiled, the kind that never reached his eyes, and tapped my arm in that oddly reassuring way he had.

“Any time, detective,” he said. “I’ll be right here for any help required.”

His words hung in the air for a heartbeat, the faint scent of his cologne fading as he walked away.

June Navarro stood beside me, flipping through his notepad with the quiet precision of a man who thought too much and said too little. The sound of paper against paper was almost rhythmic. He shot me a look that said, let’s get this over with, and I nodded.

We left the precinct soon after, stepping into the morning light that bled across the concrete. It was a pale sort of light, washed out, as if the day hadn’t fully decided what kind of mood it wanted yet.

The Baker residence was about a thirty-minute drive from the city — an old two-story home sitting at the edge of a quiet neighborhood where the sound of the wind was louder than the traffic. The garden, wide and trimmed with precision, gave away wealth without trying to. Roses, white and deep crimson, lined the path to the door.

When we reached the porch, I paused for a second, taking in the faint perfume of flowers and the squeak of the wooden steps beneath my boots. The doormat was clean — too clean for a household in grief.

June followed silently, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. He wasn’t one for small talk. I could almost feel the tension in him, like a bowstring drawn but not yet released.

I rang the doorbell. A gentle chime echoed from within.

Seconds later, the door opened with a slow creak, revealing a woman who looked like she’d been sculpted from both grace and sorrow. Her eyes, though stunning, carried the kind of tiredness that came from crying more than sleeping.

Mrs. Baker.

Her voice came out soft, melodic even, but hollow. “It must be you two… Detective Rhys and June Navarro.”

June gave a polite nod, his tone calm and respectful. “Yes, madame. We came here to talk about the case of your daughter.”

The corners of her mouth trembled in what was meant to be a smile. “Please… come in.”

---

The interior of the Baker home was immaculate — too organized to feel lived in.

Every picture frame was aligned perfectly; every vase placed just so. It was the kind of home where silence felt natural, not awkward.

We were led into the living room, its centerpiece a large white couch that looked like it had never been touched. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and cleaning polish.

Mrs. Baker sat opposite us, clutching a white cloth between her fingers like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to this world. June sat beside me, his notebook already in hand, pen poised.

I leaned back slightly, eyes drifting over the family portraits lining the mantle — a husband, a daughter, vacations in Paris and Vienna. Liah Baker smiled in every photo, the kind of genuine, luminous smile that made people stare for a moment too long.

“So,” I began, keeping my voice steady but gentle, “may you tell us what happened?”

Her fingers tightened around the cloth. She dabbed at the corner of her eye before she spoke.

“My daughter, Liah,” she began softly, “in her early twenties, had been experiencing anxiousness and arrhythmia in her heartbeats. She booked an appointment at St. Alder Memorial Hospital — with Doctor Elias Verren. He’s… well, he’s quite famous, you must’ve heard of him. A trauma counselor. Everyone says he’s one of the best.”

Her eyes flickered, uncertain. “She never came back. We called the hospital, desperate for an answer, but they told us she never arrived. No record. No sighting. Nothing. It’s been over a month.”

June’s pen scratched against the page, jotting down every detail. His handwriting was small, efficient. He didn’t look up, but I could sense the focus radiating off him.

“When exactly did she leave?” I asked.

“May 15th,” Mrs. Baker said quietly. “8:45 a.m. She told me she’d be home by noon.”

I exchanged a glance with June. He muttered, mostly to himself but loud enough for me to catch, “That’s correct… we’re currently the 7th of June.”

The timeline formed in my head — too neat, too exact.

“Could you tell us more about St. Alder?” June asked, lifting his eyes for the first time.

Mrs. Baker hesitated. “It’s… ironic, really. The security there is supposed to be exceptional. Cameras everywhere, staff at every entrance. And yet my daughter managed to vanish right under their watch.”

Her voice cracked slightly at the end, and for a moment, she looked smaller — fragile.

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. “Then if the hospital insists she never entered, that means she must’ve disappeared near the gates, before she could reach the appointment. Possibly within camera range.”

June’s brows furrowed, the gears in his mind turning visibly. “We’ll need access to the footage,” he murmured. “If she was taken or followed, someone would’ve caught it.”

Mrs. Baker nodded weakly. “They told me the footage from that day was… unavailable. Corrupted.”

That word hit like a stone dropped in still water.

June and I both looked at each other. He was the first to speak. “Corrupted?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Baker said, almost whispering it. “They told us the camera system had a malfunction that morning. The hospital claimed it was just bad luck.”

Bad luck. That phrase had been used in every failed investigation I’d ever seen.

I leaned forward, lowering my voice slightly. “Mrs. Baker, did your daughter mention anything strange before she left that day? Anyone she met? Anything that made her anxious?”

Her gaze drifted toward the fireplace as if searching for memories in the ash. “She said something the night before. I almost brushed it off.”

June straightened. “What did she say?”

Mrs. Baker’s lips trembled. “She said she’d been dreaming of a man. He had cold eyes… and a voice that kept telling her she was next.”

Silence followed — the kind that feels heavy, like air before a storm.

---

When we finally stood to leave, Mrs. Baker rose too, clutching the cloth tighter than before. “Please,” she said, her voice barely audible, “find her.”

I gave a small nod. “We’ll do everything we can.”

Outside, the air felt different — too still. The afternoon sun glinted off the hood of our car, but the world seemed muted somehow.

June opened the passenger door and paused, looking back at the house. “Dreams of a man with cold eyes,” he muttered. “Classic trauma pattern or a message?”

“Could be both,” I said. “But what gets me is the footage.”

He nodded, sliding into the seat beside me. “Yeah. Malfunction, huh? Always convenient.”

The drive to St. Alder Memorial Hospital took us through the outskirts of town. The further we went, the more the world turned sterile — fewer houses, more glass buildings, and the kind of white-gray architecture that tried too hard to look trustworthy.

The hospital stood tall, an ivory monolith framed by trees and steel gates. The security cameras perched like vultures at every corner.

June exhaled, staring up at the building. “You ever notice how hospitals always smell like fear trying to disguise itself as disinfectant?”

I smirked faintly. “You’re getting poetic, Navarro.”

He shrugged. “Just observant.”

We parked and headed toward the main doors. The automatic glass parted soundlessly, swallowing us in the cold fluorescent light.

At the reception desk, a woman with a practiced smile looked up. Her name tag read: Marla, Administrative Officer.

“Detectives Rhys and Navarro,” I said, flashing my badge. “We’re here regarding the disappearance of Liah Baker.”

Her smile faltered just enough for me to notice. “Oh. That case…”

“Yeah,” June said flatly. “That case.”

The sterile brightness of St. Alder Memorial Hospital stung the eyes. Everything about the place screamed perfection — white walls, spotless floors, the faint chemical scent of antiseptic trying to hide something deeper. The hum of ventilation filled the silence that hung between the three of us at the reception.

Marla, the administrative officer, straightened in her chair. She was in her late thirties, maybe early forties, with sharp features and the kind of cautious politeness that came from years of dealing with authority.

“Detectives,” she said, tone clipped but polite. “I assume you’re here about Miss Baker’s case.”

June nodded. “You assume correctly. We’d like access to your security footage from May 15th. Especially the east entrance, near the gates.”

Marla’s expression froze for the briefest second — the kind of microsecond hesitation that only someone trained to notice details would catch.

“I’m afraid that footage is… unavailable,” she said.

“Unavailable,” I echoed, letting the word hang between us. “Because it was ‘corrupted,’ correct?”

“Yes,” she said, hands folding neatly on the counter. “We had a malfunction that morning. The security system rebooted automatically, and the data was lost.”

June tilted his head, scribbling something in his notebook. “Interesting timing.”

Marla smiled tightly. “Just bad luck.”

There it was again — that phrase Mrs. Baker had used.

Bad luck.

The words had a way of following the trail of human error like a shadow.

“Then we’ll need to speak to your IT department,” I said calmly. “Maybe they can tell us exactly what kind of malfunction it was.”

Her eyes flickered toward a hallway on the right, then back to us. “Our IT manager is currently on leave.”

“Convenient,” June muttered under his breath.

Marla’s lips pressed together. “If you leave your card, I’ll have the administration reach out once he’s available.”

I leaned slightly closer, voice quiet but steady. “We’re not leaving until we at least see the area ourselves. I assume you have no objection to that?”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Of course not, detective. I’ll have someone escort you.”

She pressed a button on her desk phone and spoke softly, summoning a security guard to lead us.

---

The guard’s name was Connor, tall and square-shouldered, with a buzz cut and the kind of stoic face you’d expect from someone whose job was to watch screens all day.

“This way, detectives,” he said, his tone neutral.

He led us down a corridor lined with posters about mental wellness and heart health. The hum of fluorescent lights followed us like a distant whisper.

As we walked, June tapped his pen against his notebook. “So,” he said casually, “how long have you been working here, Connor?”

“Five years,” the guard replied.

“Then you’d know if this kind of malfunction happens often?” June pressed.

Connor shook his head. “Never seen one before. Cameras here are top-notch. We get automatic system checks every morning.”

“Except for May 15th,” I said.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Except that day.”

We reached the east entrance — a large set of double glass doors leading to the main parking lot. Outside, through the glass, the gates stood tall and unyielding, their metal gleaming under the afternoon sun.

“This is where she would’ve entered,” I said quietly.

Connor nodded. “Cameras up there, there, and one over the lot entrance.”

I followed his gesture — three cameras, all perfectly aligned, all supposedly “malfunctioning” that morning.

June crouched, inspecting the base of one of the doorframes. “You notice this?” he said.

I leaned closer. A faint scratch mark, about half an inch long, ran parallel to the metal edge — the kind made by something being forced or dragged.

Connor frowned. “Could’ve been maintenance.”

“Could’ve been,” June agreed, jotting something down.

I looked past him, through the glass, where the reflection of the hospital merged with the world outside — a surreal blend of order and chaos. “If she was taken,” I murmured, “it happened right here. In broad daylight.”

Connor exhaled. “You think someone inside’s involved?”

“I think,” I said slowly, “that hospitals are good at keeping people alive — and even better at hiding the truth.”

---

We spent the next hour questioning staff — nurses, receptionists, even the janitors. Most had nothing useful to say.

But patterns emerged in the quiet — small inconsistencies.

One nurse mentioned seeing a girl matching Liah’s description near the parking lot around 8:40 a.m. Another claimed the girl looked nervous, clutching her phone and glancing over her shoulder. But according to the hospital’s log, no patient named Liah Baker ever checked in that day.

June and I regrouped in the small staff lounge. He leaned back against the counter, flipping through his notes.

“So,” he said, “we have three malfunctioning cameras, a missing IT manager, and a girl who was last seen outside the hospital but never entered.”

“Plus,” I added, “a doctor with a spotless record and no apparent reason to lie.”

June tapped the page thoughtfully. “Elias Verren. You think he’s clean?”

“Too clean,” I said.

The name alone carried weight. Dr. Verren had been featured in multiple medical journals, praised for his trauma therapy methods. His patients claimed miraculous recoveries — almost unnaturally quick ones.

“Let’s talk to him,” I said.

---

Dr. Elias Verren’s office was on the second floor, east wing — a pristine space behind frosted glass doors etched with his name. The hallway leading to it was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every footstep sound intrusive.

When we knocked, a calm voice answered, “Come in.”

The man behind the desk looked younger than expected — mid-thirties at most, dark hair neatly styled, white coat immaculate. His eyes, however, were what caught my attention. Cold. Analytical. The kind that measured a person before speaking.

“Detectives,” he said, rising to shake our hands. His grip was firm, his smile courteous but distant. “How can I help?”

June wasted no time. “We’re here about Liah Baker. She had an appointment with you on May 15th.”

Dr. Verren’s expression remained unchanged. “Yes, I remember. She never arrived.”

“You’d been in contact with her before?” I asked.

He nodded once. “We’d exchanged emails. She described symptoms of anxiety and heart irregularities. I’d suggested a consultation to evaluate if her condition was stress-induced.”

“And you didn’t think it odd that she disappeared the same day she was supposed to see you?”

“Of course I did,” he replied smoothly. “I cooperated fully with the initial investigation. I even gave access to my correspondence with her.”

His tone was flawless — rehearsed, even.

June stepped closer, eyeing the certificates lining the wall. “You have quite the record, doctor.”

Verren smiled faintly. “I take pride in my work.”

I caught a flicker of something in his eyes — not arrogance, but amusement.

I leaned forward slightly. “One more thing, Doctor. The hospital claims the cameras malfunctioned that morning. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

For the first time, the mask cracked — barely, but it did. A brief pause. Then:

“Technical issues aren’t within my expertise, detective.”

“Of course,” I said evenly. “But you’d agree the timing is strange.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “In my field, detective, coincidence and tragedy often walk hand in hand.”

---

When we left his office, June exhaled sharply. “He’s hiding something.”

“Obviously.”

“You see that twitch when you mentioned the cameras?”

“Yep,” I said. “He knew something.”

June snapped his notebook shut. “So what’s next?”

“Next,” I said, glancing down the corridor, “we find the missing IT manager.”