Chapter 10: The Controlled Exposure

Miller pushed out of the booth and walked away from the booth toward the glass double doors of the diner. The doors hissed open, and he stepped out into the damp, cold air of the parking lot. He moved immediately into the patch of deepest shadow cast by the neon sign above the entrance, allowing the darkness to swallow his silhouette immediately. He did not look back at the diner, not wanting to give Sarah Jenkins any reason to confirm his immediate direction. He crossed the parking lot at a steady, efficient pace, utilizing the intermittent pools of darkness between the overhead lights.

Miller moved along the outer perimeter toward the rear of the property. He was heading for the pre-arranged observation point he had scouted earlier in the evening while waiting for Jenkins to arrive. This point was an abandoned delivery truck bay located at the extreme corner of the lot, partially concealed by a trio of overflowing industrial trash bins. The bins were heavy steel containers, stained with years of grease and rain, creating a perfect blind spot from the road and the diner windows.

He reached the bay and slipped behind the largest bin, pressing himself flat against the cold concrete wall. The air here was thick with the acidic smell of spoiled food and oil, a familiar, unwelcome scent that faded quickly as his senses focused completely on the task. He adjusted his position, finding a narrow vantage point that allowed him a clear view of Jenkins’s booth through the diner window and also covered the entire parking lot exit. He needed to confirm that she was entirely committed to the bargain before he moved on to the next phase of his operation.

Miller secured his position, remaining motionless beneath the oppressive cover of darkness. He focused his attention on the brightly lit interior of the diner. He could see Jenkins still sitting in the booth, her figure clearly visible through the scratched glass. She was still bent over the table, presumably reviewing the details he had just provided. Her posture indicated deep concentration, the slight slump of her shoulders suggesting she was processing the sheer volume of information and the complexity of the agreement.

After several long minutes, Jenkins pushed back from the table. She slipped out of the booth, performing the movement with minimal fuss, then paused near the table's edge. Miller watched her retrieve a napkin and wipe some residual grease from her fingertips, a minute detail of ordinary behavior that momentarily distracted him. She smoothed out her jacket, then moved decisively toward the main exit doors of the diner. She maintained a casual demeanor while walking, not looking back or betraying any sign of haste, which Miller noted with approval. She was acting her part well.

Jenkins exited the diner into the weak light of the entrance area. She moved past the double doors and paused directly beneath a flickering streetlight near the edge of the parking lot. The light was harsh and unreliable, giving her figure an unnerving, strobing quality. Miller watched her actions with intense concentration. She reached inside her jacket pocket, pulled out the Manila envelope, and extracted the three Polaroids. She held the small photographs beneath the dim, stuttering light, rapidly reviewing them one last time.

The way she handled the evidence gave Miller assurance. It was not the detached examination of a professional; there was a flicker of something close to awe or excitement in the intensity of her focus. She was recognizing the weight of the exclusive she held, the sheer scope of the story she could spin from these few blurry images. The photographs were indeed the dynamite he had promised, and Jenkins knew it. She had fully internalized the leverage he had granted her.

Jenkins quickly secured the photographs back inside her jacket. She used a small piece of masking tape to seal the inner pocket flap, a final professional touch that showed her commitment to protecting the evidence. Miller watched her walk briskly across the asphalt toward her vehicle, a late-model, mid-sized sedan parked several rows out. The car was slightly dusty and unremarkable, the kind of vehicle an investigative journalist would drive to blend in.

She unlocked the car. The click of the door mechanism was barely audible across the lot. She slipped inside, started the engine, and then pulled out of her parking spot with a sharp, rapid movement. The sedan sped quickly and decisively out of the parking lot, hitting the street with a slight squeal of the tires before disappearing in the direction of the highway access ramp. There was no hesitation in her departure, no looking back, no attempt to observe or confirm Miller’s own movements. She had the story now, and the hunt for the next step of the exclusive was already driving her forward.

Miller remained pressed against the cold concrete for another full minute after the taillights of Jenkins’s sedan vanished. He needed to be absolutely certain she was gone, that no unexpected complications or lingering observers remained. He felt a deep, slow release of tension in his shoulders. The first, and most crucial, maneuver in controlling the narrative had been successful. He had planted the exact seeds he needed—doubt about the police investigation, verification of his skill, and a convenient, fire-resistant story about the events—and he had done so in the most public way possible, leveraging a journalist’s hunger for exclusivity.

He finally pushed away from the wall. The operation to establish the "firewall" was complete, and he was now satisfied that Jenkins was fully committed to publishing the article exactly as he intended: a detailed exposé contrasting his professionalism with the police’s supposed sloppiness. With the public narrative now safely outsourced and under controlled exposure, Miller needed to check on the situation at the Allegheny Regional Medical Center.

He walked quickly back across the nearly empty parking lot, moving toward the spot where he had left his vehicle. He had parked several hundred yards from the diner, tucked away in the poorly lit corner of an adjacent hardware store lot, another layer added to his attempt at anonymity. He reached the vehicle, a reliable, inconspicuous four-wheel-drive he used for his infrequent excursions into the wilderness areas, and slipped inside.

Miller drove the short distance from the diner toward the section of town that housed the hospital complex. The sky was still the dead gray of pre-dawn, and the streets were mostly empty. He turned off the main access road and drove slowly through a series of residential blocks adjacent to the hospital. He did not want to approach the main entrance directly, certainly not in his vehicle, which could be easily traced by a diligent investigator running plates hours or days later.

He secured his vehicle four blocks away in a dimly lit residential area. He chose a spot on a side street where street parking was common, near an unmarked van that already seemed abandoned for the night. He double-checked the locks and then set off on foot, walking quickly but not running, toward the massive, illuminated bulk of the Medical Center.

As he walked, Miller mentally transitioned into the "George M. Keller" persona. This alias, simple and innocuous, was his current shell, the identity he had constructed for the motel and his initial foray into monitoring Neumann. It required a specific posture, a certain kind of vague, quiet worry that an ordinary citizen would naturally exhibit when seeking information about a non-relative patient. He adjusted his jacket, pulled his features into an expression of general, unthreatening concern, and approached the hospital’s main entrance.

Miller entered the hospital lobby. The air inside was warm, thick with the antiseptic smell of high-grade cleaner, and strangely quiet despite the movement of a few night-shift staff. The lobby was expansive and brightly lit, designed to look calming and reassuring. Miller moved with calculated moderation, neither too fast nor too slow, maintaining the facade of a man on an errand of quiet necessity.

He navigated the lobby and the first set of security checkpoints with practiced ease. He avoided direct eye contact with the single, bored security guard lounging near the entrance desk, offering nothing that might invite closer scrutiny. His movement patterns were precise, honed by decades of needing to be invisible. He sought the centralized information desk, located deep within the lobby, near the main bank of elevators.

He approached the desk where a young woman in light blue scrubs was idly flipping through a patient roster list. She glanced up, her expression tired and professionally neutral.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice low and carefully modulated for the night shift.

Miller leaned slightly toward the desk, adjusting his voice to convey a gentle, concerned tone. “Yes, thank you. I was hoping to inquire about a patient. I’m a friend, and I haven’t been able to reach the family yet. It’s important to know if he’s doing well.”

“Certainly, sir. I’m only allowed to give status updates if a patient is not under restricted access. Do you have a name?”

“Karl Neumann,” Miller stated, using the name firmly but softly. He watched the attendant’s face for any reaction, any sign of recognition that might indicate Neumann was already a person of interest beyond a typical trauma patient. She showed nothing more than detached patience.

The attendant typed the name into the hospital's secured information system. Her eyes tracked across the screen for a moment.

“Neumann, Karl… Just a moment, let me bring up the current status.” She paused, reading something specific. “Yes. Mr. Neumann is currently listed in stable but critical condition. He is secured in the Intensive Care Unit, 5th Floor. No visitors are permitted at this time, sir.”

Miller absorbed the information, validating his previous assumptions. Stable but critical was the key phrase. This meant he had survived the immediate impact of the neurosurgery and the shock of the injury. The fact that he was secured in the ICU on the fifth floor suggested a high level of monitoring and confirmed the severity of his condition.

“Thank you,” Miller said, projecting relief into his voice. “I… I was the one who found him up in the mountains, you see. I’ve been quite concerned.”

The attendant looked up, her interest piqued slightly. “Oh, the hiker? The police were asking about you. They were very appreciative of your efforts, Mr…?”

Miller allowed a small pause, a hesitation designed to make the disclosure seem reluctant and truthful. “Keller. George Keller. I gave the initial account to the paramedics. It’s a great relief to know he’s stabilized.”

He kept the narrative clean and short, providing just enough personal context to justify his presence without inviting follow-up questions. His carefully controlled information drop was necessary; he needed the hospital records to connect 'George Keller' with the rescue, solidifying the alias's legitimacy should further investigation arise.

Miller’s gaze drifted toward the list on her monitor, subtly allowing his eyes to scan the data the attendant had pulled up. He noticed a small, bracketed note next to the status update: ‘Medically Induced Coma.’

He felt a deep, internal affirmation. This validated that Neumann remained in a medically induced coma, confirming his temporary non-communicative state. The coma was crucial; it provided Miller with the necessary time. While Neumann was unconscious, he posed no threat of exposure. There would be no frantic declarations about a former POW camp, no names named, and no inconvenient memories surfaced. This non-communicative state also translated to a reprieve from immediate and intense police scrutiny into Neumann’s background. The investigation would remain focused on the "simple hiking accident" until Neumann was lucid enough to offer a statement.

“Is there any current estimate on when he might… wake up?” Miller asked, his question masking a deeper tactical need.

The attendant shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir. That information is only available to the designated physician. But they are keeping him comfortable. That’s all I can tell you.”

“I understand completely,” Miller said, giving a polite, final nod. “Thank you for your help. I hope to come back when visitors are allowed.”

Miller successfully slipped away from the information desk, dissolving back into the low-level activity of the hospital lobby. He moved toward the nearest set of exit doors, avoiding the groups of nurses chatting quietly by the elevators and ignoring the occasional night-shift security personnel making their rounds. He retained the non-descript expression of quiet concern until he was fully outside the building and back on the dark residential street.

He walked quickly back to his vehicle, his mind already churning through the next steps. The timeline was now clear. Jenkins’s article would hit within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, creating the necessary public diversion focused on police incompetence. Neumann would remain in a coma for an indeterminate time, giving Miller an operational window to prepare.

Miller drove back toward the motel where he had established his base camp. He needed to be resting, alert, and wholly prepared to manage the public fallout expected from Jenkins’s sensationalized news report. The immediate task was to secure his room at The Crossroads Inn, ensuring his gear was optimized and his defenses were arranged. He couldn't afford a single oversight in the upcoming storm.

He pulled into the parking lot of The Crossroads Inn, parked his vehicle in the same discreet spot, and retrieved his key. He moved through the motel lobby, ignored by the desk clerk dozing behind the counter, and walked silently toward his room. Miller let himself into the small, sterile motel room. He locked the door and immediately drew the heavy blackout curtains across the window. He was alone now, and the second phase of his plan was about to begin. He needed to review all his strategies. The fallout from the article would be widespread, and every contingency had to be planned for. He checked the contents of his satchel, confirming the small radio scanner and the pre-paid mobile phone were fully charged and ready for use. He had hours before sunrise. He would use every minute wisely.