The Secret of Dr. Maria

 In a security control room, I served as a security guard. Over the past years, I've guarded various establishments among them opulent hotels, universities, big companies, corporations, and banks. Each assignment forged me, shaping my once fear-filled heart into one of unwavering steel.

Beyond mere duty, the screens of surveillance provided a window into intimate vignettes of human life, scandals, and hidden relationships. To many, this would be a breach of trust, but to me, it was an irresistible theater of humanity, where every individual played a unique role. I never once thought of using this knowledge maliciously; the allure lay purely in silent observation, understanding the depth and dynamics of every individual. I became the phantom guardian, the one who knew all yet remained unknown.

In the face of danger or distress, when a soul reveals vulnerability or anguish, I step out of the shadows to lend a hand. There was one particular instance that remains etched in my memory—a young accountant lady at a pharmaceutical factory located on the city's outskirts. Nestled behind this facility was a vast park, and teeming with trees. She would often find herself working at night, especially during the annual inventory, as the storage was on the ground floor, a floor that whispered tales of times long past.

One night, in the dim light of my surveillance room, I saw her—sitting alone at a table, engrossed in her work, after her colleagues had departed. As the surrounding silence pressed in on her, I saw her suddenly look up at the ceiling and toward the wall beside her. Panic flashed across her face. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and her eyes widened with terror. Although I could see her clear expression of fear, I could not hear her, as the audio feed wasn't active on the main surveillance display. I surmised that she might have seen a phantom or heard some eerie sound.

Frozen in fear, she seemed unable to move. Luckily, there was another guard posted at the gate. Quickly, I called him, urging him to check the storage and ensure the lady was alright. Moments later, I saw him rush into the storage. Bolstered by his presence, the lady gathered her courage, left the room, and thereafter refused to work at night. The guard, upon hearing the same unexplained noises, returned promptly to his post, not wishing to further his encounter with the unknown.

Come morning, the mystery was unveiled. The rodents from the neighboring park had burrowed into the warehouse wall, creating the strange noises that haunted the night. The revelation brought forth a blend of relief and amusement, especially to the young lady who had laughed at the triviality of her earlier panic.

Another incident, however, was far more harrowing and remains a somber memory—not because it resulted in my dismissal, but because it forced me to confront my own fears and failures. While I was stationed at a financial company, the screens displayed an alarming scene: armed assailants on motorcycles approaching the front gate. Shots were fired, the front guard taken down, and the building breached. Within, two guards protected the company's treasury and archives, the prime target of these invaders.

Unknown to the thieves, the vault was a fortress. Protected by steel gates, infrared alarms, auditory alerts, and a two-step authentication involving a manual key and fingerprint scanner Unprepared, chaos ensued. A violent scuffle broke out between the two guards and the thieves. Although the guards knew the thieves would leave empty-handed, they were soon taken hostage.

My failing? Inaction. I could have intervened, maybe fired a shot from afar to scatter the invaders, perhaps saved a friend. Instead, I chose to watch the ordeal unfold on the screen. Fear gripped me; the trepidation that leaving my room might escalate the situation. I did call the police, but they arrived only after the thieves, frustrated and furious, set fire to the floor containing the archives and fled, leaving behind no traceable identities. The archive was charred, and my tenure with the security company was terminated. The weight of my inaction and the consequences it bore became lessons I vowed never to forget.

After joining a new company, I found myself in a familiar role: monitoring screens. Before we got started, we underwent a week-long training. It was emphasized that we would be guarding facilities of particular importance, inhabited by key figures. Any oversight on our part would have severe consequences.

I was assigned to a residence meant for doctors affiliated with a prestigious hospital. This dwelling housed some renowned doctors, alongside nursing staff and others who needed to be close to the hospital. Located at the hospital's perimeter, the housing was directly behind a tall protective wall. However, between the wall and the building, there was an expanse of tall trees, interspersed with smaller ones, and discarded, broken-down vehicles left to rust. Ever since our company took over security responsibilities, we recognized the need to clear this junk. The area behind the residences could become an eerie environment, potentially harboring wildlife or other dangers. We submitted a report suggesting a cleanup.

Surveillance cameras covered the entire area, including the hospital's backyard garden, corridors, and entrance. However, after a horrifying incident where a doctor was murdered, extra cameras were installed in the building's underground parking lot. The tragic event shocked the medical community and the management. Consequently, several employees were let go, and I was hired as a replacement for the previous surveillance officer who lost his job due to this incident.

The murderer, taking advantage of the widespread COVID pandemic, wore a mask and cleverly hid behind a water drainage pillar next to the doctor's parking spot. As the doctor's car pulled up, he was ambushed and killed inside his vehicle. The surveillance officer only noticed the attack after it was too late. During the subsequent investigation, the killer confessed that his motive was revenge. The doctor had made a medical mistake leading to the death of one of the killer's relatives.

We were sternly reminded of the significance and importance of the doctors' lives. The chilling realization that such an incident could happen again, in one form or another, hung heavily in the air.

 I hadn't been here long, so many faces on the surveillance screens were still unfamiliar to me. However, I'd started to discern some familial ties and relationships among the residents. On Sunday evening at the end of the last weekend, a car pulled into the parking lot. Out stepped a man I'd never seen before. While I hadn't yet gotten to know everyone, what made this man stand out was his ensemble—a mask, sunglasses, and a cap, making it impossible to discern his features. Immediately, memories of the previous murder incident I'd been informed of sprang to mind.

The man opened the trunk of his car, retrieved a bag, and headed straight for the elevator. I watched as he ascended to the second floor, where Dr. Maria and her husband resided, both renowned open-heart surgeons. In the elevator, I noticed his jacket bore the logo of a plumbing company. However, his pants were obscured, and they didn’t seem to fit the typical attire of a plumber He rang Maria's doorbell. When Dr. Maria opened the door, they exchanged a few words. I couldn't hear the conversation as I was monitoring multiple screens. However, after a brief moment, I focused on the feed I mentally labeled "Dr. Maria's Door Cam." I wished I'd tuned into their conversation earlier. From her hand gestures and facial expressions, it seemed Dr. Maria was hesitant to let him in. Yet, he entered, and she closed the door behind him.

As I listened intently to the feed, trying to catch any distinct sounds from within the apartment, my mind raced. How could this be happening as I idly sat, munching on my potato chips? This wasn’t a plumber, especially not at this hour. Plumbers typically worked during the day.

My heart pounded— not so much for fear of losing my job, but realizing that someone's life might hinge upon the decision I made in that moment.  Desperately straining to hear anything, a wild thought crossed my mind: Should I leave my chair and go there to explore? No, I reasoned, I had to stay put; leaving might make things worse. Should I call the police? Yet, what if this was a mere misunderstanding, and I'd be reprimanded for causing unnecessary panic?

Despite the camera's decent audio quality, it could only pick up sounds from the corridors right outside the doors. Running out of time, I decided to check if Dr. Maria's husband (Tom)was inside the apartment. Recalling someone from the cardiology department I had gotten acquainted with, I sent him a WhatsApp message, inquiring about Tom, who he'd mentioned was working that night.

Dr. Maria was undeniably beautiful, gentle, and kind to everyone. Her husband was noticeably older than her, while she was in her late thirties. I had observed this since she was the first one that caught my attention when I started on surveillance. Many doctors would accompany her to the residence building, and some would converse with her at length before entering their residence building. Especially noticeable was a stranger who often spoke to her, sometimes even accompanying her outside the hospital during breaks. All these recollections whirled through my mind when I suddenly heard a scream from within.

Yes, it was unmistakably Dr. Maria's voice, followed by a thud and the sound of something breaking, then an eerie silence. As I heard what sounded like muffled conversations, the door suddenly swung open. The masked man stepped out, now wearing gloves. He quickly descended via the elevator, went to his car, and returned with a large electric wood saw Panic shot through me. After re-entering the apartment, the sound of the saw resonating, I desperately thought to call her. I reached out to my nightshift friend in cardiology and got her home number. Upon calling, no one answered. On the second attempt, all I heard was the unsettling hum of a saw in the background before someone muttered, "Wait a moment," and abruptly disconnected the call.

 Adrenaline surging, I resolved to alert the police. Just then, the door creaked open and the enigmatic man emerged, clutching a large, ominous black plastic bag. He tossed it into his car and sped away, leaving the door ajar.

I slammed my fist onto the table. 'I'm such an idiot!' I shouted, my voice tinged with the agony of despair. 'He's gone! It was a crime, and I'm complicit by my inaction. What now?' 

I thought he'd come back for the saw and tool bag. I didn't expect him to just leave!

I was about to dial the police when the elevator door across from Dr. Maria's apartment burst open, interrupting my attempt to call. I had neglected that elevator camera feed, so I had no idea who could be there Surprisingly, it was Dr. Maria's husband. His reactions would reveal all. He paused at the door, looking puzzled, his gaze falling on something on the ground that my camera couldn't capture—something unsettling.

Desperate to spare him any further trauma, my heart pounded as his trembling hand reached for the half-open door, his eyes filled with trepidation. Then, mustering a sudden courage, he stepped inside.

A heavy minute ticked by before the door finally shut. I sat there, glued to the camera feeds. It was now 3 a.m. and the rest of my night was consumed by vigilance and conjecture, delving deeper into this unsolved enigma. What could possibly be in that large, black plastic bag?

As the end of my shift approached the next morning, the door finally opened. To my profound shock, it was Dr. Maria who walked out, heading straight for her work.