Chapter 2

Minnesota

June 18, 1990

The carcass of the squirrel was draped over a limb and held in place by the talons of a young hawk. The large bird gave forth a short screech, and then tore some meat off the dead squirrel with its sharp beak. Three crows, perched on nearby branches of the tree, watched the hawk with a kind of patience unusual for the species.

A young woman wearing a torn dress stumbled through the underbrush. Her feet were barely protected by a pair of high-heeled shoes. The open front of her heels had left her toes vulnerable to the debris of fallen tree limbs, brambles, and rocks. Her toes were cut and bloody. One of her shoes had lost the heel thereby exaggerating her ungraceful movements. She tripped over a root of an old oak tree and fell to the ground giving forth a scream of frustration.

Her mascara, which had once been carefully applied, had run down her face as a result of tears. She ran a hand over her cheek smearing the mascara even further. Her nails were chipped and cracked. Hair that had once been neatly brushed was now a tangled mess.

The hawk watched the scene below for a minute and then returned to its meal. The crows, excited in the hope that the activity below would chase the hawk away, settled back on their perches in disappointment.

The woman rose from the ground with a whimper. Her dress caught on a branch and tore further, exposing even more of her legs to the simple discomforts of the wild. The abuse that had been heaped on her body and her missing heel made it difficult to stand steadily. She bent down and broke off the heel of her other shoe. She tossed the heel into the brush before continuing her journey through the rough woods.

The woman pushed her way around two bushes and came to a sudden stop. It took a moment for the scene to register on her exhausted mind. She stared at the thin ribbon of asphalt, and then dropped to her knees beside the road. Her body swayed and then collapsed when she lost consciousness.

The trucker was driving along the lonely stretch of road, singing the lyrics of the country-western song that was playing on his radio. It wasn’t until he had nearly driven past the woman that he realized something wasn’t quite right. A quick glance in the mirror gave him a glimpse of a bare leg. He slammed on the brakes and came to a stop well down the highway.

He pulled the truck over to the side of the road and climbed down from the cab carrying the aluminum stick that he used to check the air pressure in his tires. He wasn’t sure what he had seen. As far as he knew, it could have been a dead body, a manikin, or just a figment of his imagination. It didn’t matter what it was; he wasn’t going to take any chances.

The trucker slowly approached the woman, hoping that it was a manikin. When he was close enough to clearly see her, he swore and said, “I hope she’s not dead.”

His stomach sank when he was close enough to make out the dozen flies crawling over the cuts on her legs. Halfway convinced that he had stumbled upon a corpse, he edged closer filled with dread. Keeping his distance, he poked her shoulder with his stick to see if there was any reaction. When her leg moved, he leapt backwards with his heart racing as another curse word escaped his mouth.

He stared at the woman trying to decide what to do with her. Finally, he went back to his truck to call for help. He had to drive up to the top of the hill to get a cell signal. It took twenty minutes for the police and ambulance to arrive on the scene in response to his cell phone call. It was another twenty minutes before the trucker was able to continue on his journey.

Later, at truck stops around the country, he would tell the story of finding the nearly dead mystery lady on the side of the road. In his telling of the story, he was much more heroic about the whole matter than had been the reality of the situation. He didn’t mention his fear of approaching her and then poking her with his stick. Instead, he told about approaching her full of confidence, and immediately rendering first aid. In time, he even began to believe his story. Of course, that was just human nature.

The woman was taken to a nearby hospital where she lay in bed for nearly eight hours before regaining consciousness. Outside of cuts, scrapes, and dehydration there was little wrong with the woman physically. Her mental state was another matter. She woke confused and disoriented. She couldn’t remember her name or how she had come to be found by the side of a desolate portion of a highway, tens of miles from anywhere. She had no idea what date it was, what state she was in, or even what country.

Jane Doe was quite a mystery. She had no identification, jewelry, or distinguishing characteristics that could have helped identify her. A search through the national database for her fingerprints returned nothing. No missing persons reports were found that described a woman of her appearance. News stories in towns near where she had been found did not result in any response from the local citizenry.

The doctors kept her in the hospital for three days before releasing her. They could treat her minor injuries, but not her amnesia. The local sheriff, Harold Thompson, was a deeply religious man who felt that his job was one way of serving God and his fellow men. He was unwilling to send the woman out on the streets. He worked with the local church to set her up in a job at a local motel where she would have a roof over her head, time to recover from her ordeal, and enough money to pay for food. A clothes drive at the church one Sunday yielded enough clothes to allow her to have several changes of outfits.

Jack Dunn, the owner of the motel, was a short balding man in his mid-fifties who was just a tad overweight. Some might have described him as being pudgy, but even that would have stretched the truth a little. He was soft. All in all, he was a nondescript man who would have easily been overlooked in a crowd.