Don't Look Away or You'll Forget Me | Part 1

A nurse who murdered patients with unprescribed insulin injections. A sadistic killer whose murder was inspired by the hit TV show Dexter. These are just a couple of the dark, true crime stories you'll hear each week on the Crime Hub podcast. In each episode, I dive deep into new disturbing true crime stories, like the story of the religious cult Heaven's Gate, a group who convinced its followers to commit suicide in order to reach a level of existence above human. Searching true crime stories like these are what make the Crime Hub podcast worth listening to. If you enjoy my horror stories, then you'll absolutely love my true crime stories. Go check it out today by searching Crime Hub and the search bar on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or Amazon Music. Be sure to click follow to get notified every time a new episode is released. Want to hear brand new horror stories brought to life? Live? Call me every Sunday at 7pm Eastern Time on the Dr. No Sleep Podcast YouTube channel, where I narrate fresh, never-before-heard stories in real time. Just search Dr. No Sleep Podcast on YouTube and make sure you're subscribed with notifications on so you don't miss it. Dr. Nicely. The moment I was born, I was forgotten. I was birthed and bathed and set aside. If it wasn't for my screaming, the nurses and attendants would have cleaned up the operating room and just walked away, leaving me naked and alone and so hungry. Luckily, my screams pierced deep into some instinct and a nurse shifted her body enough that she caught sight of me out of the corner of her eye. I don't know what she said or what happened after that. I don't even know what I was thinking since thought was such a new concept for newborn me. But if I had to guess, I was probably thinking, where was everyone? Where was my mother? Where was the warmth and security of being held? I know, I know, those are advanced and lofty thoughts for a person only a few minutes old. But I've always been a quick study, so I wouldn't put it past tiny me to be thinking along those lines. I was taken to the nursery and promptly forgotten again as soon as the nurse left. Once more, luck was on my side and I happened to be next to four other crying, sleeping, pooping, yawning newborns. What I wouldn't give to see the looks on the nurses faces every time they came into the nursery and saw me, I can only imagine what they said. What the hell? Where'd this guy come from? Somebody chip the charts! You'd think it would be easy to remember a child just born, especially if it's your job. You'd also think it'd be easy to remember when there's a new mother in a hospital room waiting for her baby to be brought to her. Except that last part, the important part, the part about my mother waiting for me. That didn't ever happen. It wasn't until I was older that a social worker told me my mother had died in childbirth, leaving me all alone in this cruel world, always left behind, always forgotten. I never saw that social worker again because guess what? She forgot about me. Yeah, she had a file and once a month she'd open that file and get a nice little surprise. Bonus case! Where'd that come from? Is what I'd imagined she'd have said to herself. She'd probably pick up the phone and call my foster mother about me. And unless I was within my foster mother's line of sight, she would have replied, Who? Kid Doe? Never heard of him. You got the wrong file, lady. That would lead to an in-person visit because the social worker didn't have the wrong file and lo and behold, I would be discovered all over again. Oh, right. This little shit. My foster mother loved to make their social worker glare and frown. I can't never seem to remember he even lives here half the time. Hello, kid. The social worker would ask me to sit on the couch with her as she went over my file. That's an interesting name. Hospital named me. Which was true. Never named a Doe on my file. That part stuck at least. But only because there were now duplicate files. At the hospital, and one having been processed through child services. I was six when that social worker came by to tell me my story. Or the story that was in my file. I never saw her again. No clue why. Maybe my file was lost. Maybe she got another job and the new social worker didn't know to look for me. Not that the old social worker knew either. I was just an out of sight, out of mind kind of kid. Just like I'm an out of sight, out of mind kind of adult. I still go by kid Doe. Because a name is a name. And that's been the only constant in my life. And as I sit in this chair, waiting for the hotel room door to open. I think about what it's like to be forgotten the second someone looks away from me. Because that's what happens. That's my life. I can spend hours with a person. Talking and laughing and eating and drinking. Sharing stories and memories and secrets. But the moment they turn away. And can no longer directly see me. I am lost to them. Any memory of me is wiped clean and, depending on the amount of time between sightings, possibly gone forever. It makes dating nearly impossible. The pistol rests in my lap. My right hand casually draped across it. My eyes glued to the door. I'll have maybe four seconds to act when that door opens. My hope is it'll be a quick one without any hiccups. I do not like hiccups. Hiccups are how you get shot. Been there more than once. And would rather not be there again, thank you. I left my foster mother's house when I was eight. I doubt enough. Enough neglect. Enough isolation. Enough abuse. And when everyone forgets you, it's pretty easy to pack up and walk out the front door without a single soul trying to stop you. With a backpack full of my three changes of clothes, my one extra pair of tennis shoes, a toothbrush, and my stuffed elephant, I left that house and never looked back. It was my turn to forget something. The world is not a nice place for an eight-year-old. There are some downright bastards out there who would just love to get their hands on a kid like me. I've run away without any ties. I was a diddler's dream. Except all I had to do was run around a corner and chester the molester forgot all about me. Same with curious cops or concerned carons. I was scared and lonely, but I was never hungry. I was never broke. I was never cold. A store clerk would glance at me when I came in, and then that'd be that. The second their attention returned to their magazine or whatever, I didn't exist. Chips, jerky, candy bars, sodas, it all went into my backpack. If I was caught, I'd just run in circles until the clerk lost sight of me, then I'd walk out the door like it never happened. Kids learn fast, and I learned faster than most. I'd knock on a door, and I would know instantly by who opened that door whether or not I had a warm place to stay in. It was easier to hide in plain sight amongst a family than it was to hide with a single person. In all of the household chaos, all I'd have to say is, I'm your daughter's friend. Or I stayed over with your son. You talked to my mom, remember? They never remembered, because I was lying my pants off. But what self-respecting parent wants to admit that a child in their house, supposedly in their care, just doesn't ring a bell? They would smile and nod and get me a bowl of cereal, all the while I could see them puzzling it out. Of course, I had to say it all over again when they turned their backs to get the milk from the fridge or the sugar pops from the cupboard. It's probably why I'm such a great liar. There isn't a situation on this planet I can't talk my way out of. Yes, I have the advantage of this short game. No long cons with me. I only have to be convincing enough to not get shot or beat up or arrested before I'm forgotten all over again. The arrested part is the worst. You want to see an angry cop? Like a really angry cop? Just try being me handcuffed in the back of a cruiser. Each time the cop looks in the rearview mirror, they almost have a heart attack because they think they're seeing me for the first time. I've been tased, beaten with batons, kicked over and over, thrown into muddy ditches, thrown into oncoming traffic and shot three times. Staying away from cops is a pastime of mine. Keeping myself from ever being handcuffed again is a lifeline. I have a feeling I'm only one interrogation room away from never waking up again. Listen up. That means you. Yes, you. We know you're pointing at yourself. When it comes to party power games, we've got a place made for all sorts. From the experts to the drama queens. It's me, the JC. The finance bros. Look at those stalks lads. We'll stick with slots. It's what we're good at. And not forgetting you. Yes, you, the one listening. Because at party power games, we've got all sorts of games for all sorts of trickles. Eligibility rules in terms of conditions apply. Please come by responsibly. 18pluscamelaware.org. I see a shadow pass by the hotel room door and grip my pistol. But it's only some other guest walking by on the way that they're less than luxury accommodations. Sometimes I get lucky and my targets are holed up in a western penthouse or an omni-suite. This job has me in a holiday in off I-40 in Kansas. No turn down service here. No mints on the pillows. Clean sheets and towels are the bare minimum. And I wouldn't want to put a black light to either, if I'm being honest. My target should know that they are on a kill list. The people I tend to do jobs for aren't non-profit charities or philanthropic organizations. I take jobs from low-lifes and scumbags. CEOs and boards of directors. Off the books, government agencies and long-established secret societies. Crime syndicates and ruthless dictators. My services keep the wheels greased with blood because blood, not money, is what makes the world go round. A shadow pauses at the door and I lift the pistol, casually aiming it at the hotel room's tiny entryway. Housekeeping. Housekeeping? It's 11 o'clock at night. That's not housekeeping. Three more knocks. Housekeeping? I hear the buzz, then click of the door's lock, disengaging. I watch the sliver of hallway light appear, then widen until someone, someone small, slips inside the room and closes the door, returning everything to the darkness I prefer. A sniffle. No, no. A sniff. The small someone is smelling the air. Hello? Mr. Chabon? Housekeeping? A woman. Another sniff. The shadowed form by the door doesn't move. Then I hear the distinct noise of a slide being drawn back as the unknown visitor cocks her gun. I fire twice and the second shot produces a loud grunt. Son of a bitch! The woman immediately yanks open the door and slips out into the hallway. I get up to follow him in no hurry. When I get to the hallway, she's gone, except for the drops of blood showing me which direction she fled in. A decision is at hand. Do I follow and finish her off? Probably not a bad idea. A better idea is to follow and snatch her for questioning. This wasn't an open bid job. This was exclusive to me. But that's what I was told. I wouldn't mind finding out what she was told. The other option is to pack it up and call it a night. I could just go back to the Airbnb I rented and kick back, drink some beers, order some pizza and wait for a certain phone call. Then I'll ask the person on the other end of that call what the motherfucking hell is going on. Both options aren't without their difficulties. This new player, this woman, she might be highly skilled. I'm good, better than most. But I have never really had to rely on hand to hand or weapon skills to stay alive. All I have to do is pull the shirt up over an attacker's head in poof. No memory of who they are fighting. I once punched a guy so hard in the balls that he squeezed his eyes shut for like 10 whole seconds. When they popped open, I was leaning against a dumpster, acting like a drunk. The guy with the bruised balls didn't even glance at me. He just limped past, very confused. It's really a wonder that anyone even tries to take me out. Curiosity wins out and I followed the droplets of blood down the hallway and to the bank of elevators. The first one that opens is clean, so I let it return. When the second car arrives, I see the drops of blood and step on. The lobby would be the obvious destination when one wants to escape. But I see a smear of red on the button with 10 on it. She's heading to the rooftop bar. Yes, this Holiday Inn has a rooftop bar. They'd have to, or the two-star reviews would scare off every potential guest. I press the button and take a ride to the top. When I was 15, I decided I wanted to learn how to drive. So I taught myself in a Walmart parking lot, having borrowed an older Honda from a nice woman who didn't even notice me slip her keys out of her coat pocket. Man, when you never have to deal with running away from a mark, you'll learn how to become an expert pickpocket. I had all the practice and failures in a week that most pickpockets get in a decade. So with a Honda sliding on the slick pavement of the Walmart parking lot, I taught myself how to drive. And we aren't talking keeping your hands at ten and two kind of driving. I power slid that Honda around and showed it who was boss. Security tried to chase me, but I'd just drive around back and they'd forget all about me. By the time that old lady came back to her car, I'd pretty much trashed it and was long gone. I only got better from there. Now, standing in a different kind of car, I check my pistol for the third time as I slowly rise up through the spine of the Holiday Inn. I don't know. Something doesn't feel right. There's a hitch in my guts that tells me I should stop the elevator at the ninth floor and get off there. I can take the stairs down to the lobby and slip out the back door. When I have the urge to check my pistol a fourth time, I just go ahead and press the button for nine. The elevator slows, stops, dings, and the doors slide open. Alpha dozen men with automatic weapons all turn and stare at me. Or I think they stare at me. It's hard to tell with the cheesy sunglasses they have on. It's eleven at night, fellas. I say and raise my pistol. Might want to take those off. I fire off four shots before twisting to the side, pressing my back against the bank of buttons as the fellas get their shit together and open fire. I hear only three weapons, so I must have tagged at least half of their group. Not bad for blind firing while dodging out of sight. The weird part is they keep shooting. They can't see me. They should have forgotten what they were doing and who they were doing it to. But they are still unloading their magazines into the elevator. My hand scrambles behind my lower back and I feel for the braille symbol where the lobby button is. I press it and the doors close while a couple of bullets ricochet and ping around the elevator. I duck into a crouch, covering my head, hoping I don't catch one of those stray rounds. It makes me think of the day I walked into a pawn shop for the first time, thinking I could boost whatever I wanted. Except I didn't count security cage at the front door. That thing slammed down tight on me when the tag on the disc man I stole went off. I had to stand there as the owner of the shop walked toward me, a sod and half baseball bat, slapping rhythmically against his leg. He pointed that bat at me and sneered. He stepped into the wrong shop kid. His eyes locked onto me. From the looks of you, I'm guessing you ain't got no folks waiting at home. Shit kid, I doubt you got a home. When was the last time you took a goddamn shower? I can smell you from here. I didn't say a word, only watched him approach, ready to make my move the second the cage opened. When he reached me, he slammed that bat against the bars of the cage and laughed. Little stinky rat is what I caught. He stabbed the bat at me and looked down at my hands. What you got there kid? A disc man? You take that so you can listen to that hip hop crap. I like jazz. The look on the guy's face was worth getting caught. He took a step back, studied me up and down, then folded his arms across his chest, the bat sticking up like an angry exclamation mark in his hand. You like jazz, do you? He angled his head over his shoulder. His eyes still on me. You hear that Russ? The kid likes jazz over hip hop. A voice comes from the back of the shop. Loud of the same rhythms. Half the samples in hip hop are stolen from the greats. Shit, most of the bunks out there couldn't tell you who Miles Davis is, but they can tell you what one of his frits sound like. The guy in front of me focuses all of his attention on me again. You know who Miles Davis is kid? Bitches brew, kind of blue, milestones, miles ahead, get up with it, steamin'. Oh shit Russ, the kid knows his Miles. Yeah, I heard. The guy in front of me points the bat at the top of the cage. Audio and video surveillance. Our cousin installed it last month. Russ can hear everything you say. Why are you yelling back at him like some old retarded asshole? I pointed the top of the cage mocking him. Can he hear you? There's a laugh from the back and the guy in front of me glares. Open the cage, Richie. What? No way Russ. The little shit stole from us. I didn't say to let him go. I said to open the cage. And do what? Give him a hug? Jesus Christ, Richie. The scraping of chair legs and scuffing of feet echoes down the aisles. In seconds, the largest man I'd ever seen comes walking down the aisle in front of me. A cane in one hand, a shotgun in the other. Open it. He waved the shotgun in my direction and in his brother's direction. Christ, Russ, watch where you're swinging that scatter gun. Shut up and open the cage, Richie. And out, the guy with the baseball bat wasn't the only owner. Nope, the pawn shop I'd walked into was owned and operated by the Rush brothers, Russell and Richard. I would end up calling them the brother's pawn. Richie hated it. Russ humored me. What's your name, kid? Russ finally reached the cage. The guy was huge. Not just tall, but fat as fuck. He looked like a corn fed linebacker who'd gone to seed and just kept going to seed until there weren't no more seeds left for him to go to. Richie slammed the bat against the cage. Answer the damn question, boy. Kid. Both Russ and Richie shook their heads like I'd made the biggest mistake of my life. I sighed because I was used to it. I don't know how many cops had slapped me upside the head when I gave them that answer. It's my damn name, okay? Kiddo. I suppose that could be a hip hop name or a jazz name. He leaned close to the bars. Which is it, kiddo? Are you jazz or are you hip hop? What's it fucking matter? This kid. Let him out, Richie. And do what with him? Bring him in the back. See if he's worth letting live. What the fuck, man? It's only a disc, man. You're going to kill me over a fucking disc, man? No, kiddo. I'm going to kill you for stealing from me. I didn't steal from you. The cage begs to differ. I'm stealing the shop dip shit. I can't steal from you until I walk out the front door. You a lawyer, kid. Richie smacked the bars with the bat again. You got a fucking law degree under that hoodie? What can I say? I shrugged. I live a life made up of technicalities. That's so. Explain. This then turned and glared at his brother. Open the damn cage, Richie. When he looked back at me, he jumped. Then his eyes narrowed. Oh, this is interesting. He smelled at me like a cartoon shark. Or a meth-addled whale considering his size. Richie, look over there. Over where? Doesn't matter. Just look at the kid. Why? Because that's not a reason. Is a shotgun enema a reason? Fuck you, Russ. Just look over there, will ya? I want to try something. Fine. I'm looking over here. Richie turned away, glancing at a wall sign that read, beer me up, partner. With an image of a cowboy riding a can of beer. It made no sense, yet made all the sense in the world. Russ's eyes never left mine. Now look back. At what? Richie stared hard at me, confused. Where the fuck did this little shit come from? Exactly. But that ain't the question you should be asking. Oh, and what is, genius? What the hell are we doing standing here talking to this kid? I don't remember him coming in. And now look, he's locked down like a little thieving bitch. Richie hit the bars with his bat. That what you are? A little thieving bitch? Open the cage and bring him to the back room. And don't take your hands or eyes off of him. I want to try something. With his eyes still never leaving mine, Russ turned to a surveillance camera and gave it a thumbs up. He then pointed at me, pointed at himself, pointed at Richie, and pointed back at the camera. What the hell was that all about? Richie looked from the camera to Russ, then to me. Shit, where'd this fucker come from? Just bring him in back and do not stop looking at him. And be prepared to tell me to watch the camera footage for the front cage when we get back there. Tell yourself to do that. I ain't your damn secretary. I'm saying you're going to have to tell me, because I'll forget. Russ smiled, then pointed the shotgun at me. Right, kid? You ain't normal, are you, kid? Says the fattest man on earth. Motherfucker! Richie, just open the cage and bring him to the back. Richie calmed down enough to unlock the cage and yank me free. You ain't got a piece on you, do you, kid? Nope. A knife? Box cutter? Taser? Nope. I don't believe you. So get in front. Don't stop walking unless I say so, or I swear to God, I'll bring you right here in the shop. I'm within my rights, you fucking little thieving bitch. Russ finally turned and walked toward the back. Richie gave me a shove and we followed. When we ran around the counter, Russ unlocked the door and stepped inside. We were right behind him the whole way. When I stepped into the back room, Russ stared at me like he'd never seen me before. Then he smiled. What were you going to tell me? Russ was asking his brother, but his eyes stayed on me. I've been repeating it in my head over and over. Richie has something to tell you. Richie has something to tell you. That you're supposed to watch the security tapes. Richie shoved me all the way into the room. He turned and closed the door. When he turned back, he shouted, Who the fuck is this little shit? That's what we're going to find out. Russ plopped down into a rolling chair that looked like it wanted to commit suicide. Those were crazy times, almost as crazy as now. The elevator doors open onto the lobby and I watch four more large assholes with automatic weapons turn and stare at me. Well, they may be staring. I can't tell since these dipshits are wearing sunglasses too. That's him! And up come the weapons. I dive out of the elevator, my pistol firing round after round after round. One asshole falls, a hole in his forehead, and another cries out, spinning around. His weapon discharging into the asshole standing next to him as blood sprays from the wound in his neck. Three down before I'm able to scramble for cover behind a tall planter with a barely alive palm tree stuffed into it. Not a bad ratio, taking out three of the four. But that still leaves the fourth asshole and he's not taking his finger off the trigger. So I wait for his magazine to go dry before standing up and putting one in his right eye. His head rocks back, brain and blood and blown, splattering the hotel lobby and his sunglasses fly into the air. I watch them tumble end over end over end. When they hit the floor, a small spark flies up from the broken lens. Well, huh, what we got here? I walk over to them, making sure to keep one eye on the rest of the lobby, the door to the stairwell and the bank of elevators. I kneel and pick up the broken glasses. These aren't Ray-Bans, they're a circuitry in them. Not that it makes any difference, this pair is destroyed. I stand and walk to one of the other dead assholes and yank off an intact pair. Putting them on, I understand immediately. They're smart glasses and a picture of me is front and center or sorta. Smart glasses are weird and it takes me a second to get oriented and be able to concentrate on the data being displayed. Target, kiddo, threat level, extreme. Orders, kill immediately. Special instructions, always have image displayed, never turn image off. There are other commands and prompts, streaming in a column in my peripheral vision. So I turn my head and all that info moves into my direct line of sight, while still keeping the image of my face front and center. There's a prompt for my full bio, a prompt for known associates, a prompt for current and past jobs, a prompt for current location. I have no idea how to work the glasses so I toss them to the ground. Looking around the lobby, I clock all of the surveillance cameras. If these guys have tech like this, then I'm probably not being paranoid in thinking someone has hacked the hotel security and is watching me right now. I give the cameras a middle finger and head straight for the front doors. I could go out the back, but I bet there are just as many assholes watching that door as the front. By going this way, I might catch them off guard because what idiot goes out the front door? The sliding doors open and I step out into the cool night air, pistol up, eyes searching the parking lot for the next threat. Except there isn't one. No assholes gunning for me, no wounded woman with a grudge waiting to put two in my chest and one in my head. There are sirens from far off though. So I book ass to my rented ride, hop in and floor it out of the lot. I drive for miles and miles, leaving the small city in my rear view mirror. Once I'm on the interstate, I look for the first truck stop and pull off there. I park the car at the back of the lot behind a row of tractor trailers, grab my backpack and toss the keys into the bushes. Then I head inside, pay for a shower and strip myself clean, checking myself over for any unnoticed wounds. You'd be surprised what adrenaline can hide. I once performed an entire job with a bullet lodged in my ass and never noticed until I got back to the boat I was using and sat down in the captain's chair, which makes me think of those early years with the brother's pawn. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one. Immerse yourself in herbal essences new Moroccan argan oil elixir, infused with pure argan oil, just one drop. Deliver us up to 100 hours of hair nourishment with the indulgent scent of a Moroccan garden. Herbal essences new Moroccan argan oil elixir, spa quality hair repair without the price tag. Try it now. Herbal essences. Surfers repair to smoothness nourishment with regimen use versus non-conditioning shampoo.