Chapter 3 - The Ghost on the Screen
The security office of St. Jude’s was a windowless, concrete room in the basement, smelling of ozone and floor wax. Bank after bank of monitors lined the walls, showing the deserted hallways, the parking structures, and the quiet, blue-lit wards of the hospital.
A young guard named Tyler sat at the console, his fingers clicking over the keyboard as he pulled up the camera feed for NICU Room 3, Camera B.
"Here we go," Tyler said, hitting the spacebar to play the video. "This is from 1:30 a.m. to 1:50 a.m."
I leaned over his shoulder, my hands gripping the back of his plastic chair. Beside me, Officer Miller stood with his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the screen. Ethan sat on a metal folding chair in the corner, his knees pulled up to his chest, staring at the floor.
On the screen, the NICU was quiet.
The camera angle was high, looking down from the ceiling corner near the handwashing station. We could see Sophie’s incubator clearly. The blue light from the canopy cast a soft glow over the floor.
At 1:36 a.m., the door to the unit slid open.
A figure entered.
My breath caught in my throat.
The man was wearing a dark gray utility shirt, dark work pants, and a black baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. His movements were quick, deliberate, and entirely professional. He carried a small, black plastic tool pouch in his right hand.
"Wait," Officer Miller said, leaning closer. "Zoom in on his chest, Tyler."
Tyler clicked the mouse, magnifying the image.
The man’s ID badge was indeed pinned to his shirt pocket, but it was flipped completely backward, the white plastic backing showing instead of his photograph and name.
"He didn't check in at the desk," Miller muttered, his face tightening. "How did he get through the security doors? Those require an active badge swipe."
"He must have tailgated behind one of the residents," Tyler said, scrubbing the video back a few minutes. "Look here. At 1:34, Dr. Park went through the doors. This guy was right behind her, carrying a clipboard. He looked like he belonged."
We watched the screen as the man approached Sophie’s incubator.
Ethan was sitting in the corner of the room, reading a book under a small reading lamp. When the man approached, Ethan looked up.
The man didn't speak to him. He knelt down beside the wall, his back blocking the camera’s view of the outlets. For forty seconds, his hands moved quickly near the baseboard.
"He's putting something in," I whispered, my heart hammering. "Look at his hands. He’s plugging something into the white outlet."
The man stood up, adjusted his cap, and walked quickly out of the room. He didn't look at Ethan.
Then, the video showed Ethan standing up.
He walked over to the incubator. He stood there for several seconds, looking down at the cord.
On the video, we couldn't see the smoke, but we could see Ethan suddenly recoil, his hand flying to his nose. He bent down quickly, grabbed the black cord, and yanked it out of the wall with a single, desperate pull.
The lights on the incubator flared and died.
"Oh my God," I whispered, my knees going weak. "He was telling the truth. He saved her."
"Tyler," Miller said, his voice rising in panic. "Trace that guy. Where did he go after he left the room?"
Tyler’s fingers flew over the keyboard, switching camera angles. "He’s going down the North stairwell... he’s exiting the building through the loading dock... there. He’s getting into a gray Dodge Caravan. No plates on the rear."
"Get the plate from the street cameras!" Miller yelled, grabbing his radio. "We have an active breach in progress! Suspect is a white male, gray utility shirt, driving a gray Dodge Caravan heading north on Medical Parkway!"
The radio crackled to life with urgent, chaotic responses from the patrol cars outside.
I turned to Ethan.
He was still sitting in the corner, his face pale, his hands wrapped around his knees.
I walked over to him, dropping to my knees on the cold concrete floor, and pulled him into my arms. He was stiff at first, his small body rigid with the defense mechanisms he had built up over the last three days.
"I’m sorry, Ethan," I sobbed, burying my face in his hair. "I’m so sorry I didn't believe you."
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This time, he hugged me back. His small fingers dug into the fabric of my shirt, and he began to cry—quiet, heavy tears that had been held back for far too long.
"He wanted to hurt her, Dad," Ethan whispered into my neck. "The box was making a sizzling sound. It was going to catch fire."
