PART 4 — The files on the desk
My name was there. Not written in hasty handwriting, but typed on an official report bearing the hospital's logo. At the top of the page it read: Subject: Frank de Jong – Behavioral Observation and Patient Status. Wait a minute. My last name wasn't De Jong. I was Frank Visser. Why did it say De Jong? And more importantly: why was I being observed? I swept the flashlight beam across the desk.
Dozens of photographs were scattered about. Photographs of me. Not from years ago, but very recent ones. I saw myself walking with my cleaning cart on the third floor. I saw myself drinking coffee in the cafeteria. I even saw a photo of my living room, taken through the window from the street outside. An ice-cold shiver ran down my spine. I had never been invisible.
Not really. They had been watching me all eighteen years. "Impressive, isn't it?" a voice suddenly called out from the dark corner of the room. I jumped back, nearly dropping my flashlight. I aimed the beam toward the voice. Stepping out from the shadows of a tall bookcase was an old man. He walked with a limp, leaning on a wooden cane. His face was deeply lined with wrinkles, but his eyes were as sharp as razors.
I recognized him. It was former director Dr. Houtman, who was supposed to have retired fifteen years ago. "You… you shouldn't be working here anymore," I stammered. Dr. Houtman gave a faint smile. A tired, sad smile. "No one ever really leaves this hospital, Frank. Especially not those who know too much. Or in your case… those we had to protect." "Protect?" I shouted, my anger overwhelming my fear.
"My wife… my husband, Thomas! You killed him, or you made it look like he died! And you kept me here cleaning like a slave for eighteen years just to keep tabs on me!" Houtman slowly shook his head. "Thomas wasn't murdered, Frank. But what he discovered… the outside world could never be allowed to hear. And you stayed here because you thought you were searching for answers, while we were actually steering you.
We knew that if we sent you away, you would go digging where we didn't want you to." "What was this all about?" I asked, my voice choked up. "What was Thomas doing here?" Houtman walked slowly to the desk and laid his hand on the open folder. "Thomas discovered that this hospital was not just curing patients. It served as a testing ground for a pharmaceutical experiment by a multi-billion-dollar corporation.
People who came here for routine operations… disappeared into the statistics as complications." He looked me straight in the eyes. "And your husband was on the verge of taking the evidence public. The night he supposedly died at a construction site… was the night we had to stop him here." My world shattered completely. All the pieces were falling into place, but the pain was unbearable.
"So he's still alive?" I asked, a sliver of hope in my voice. Houtman hesitated for a second. Then we suddenly heard heavy footsteps descending the steel staircase outside. "Too late," Houtman whispered in a panic. "They've caught onto us. Take this folder and flee through the emergency exit behind the bookcase. Now!"
