Chapter 3 - The Security Footage
The hospital’s security office was located in the basement, a windowless room smelling of ozone, stale coffee, and floor wax. A tired-looking security officer named Miller sat behind a bank of glowing monitors, chewing on a toothpick as Patrick, Dr. Brooks, and I crowded behind him.
Ten minutes later, Mason was brought in by one of the guards and seated in a metal chair near the door. He didn't look at us. He kept his chin tucked down, staring fixedly at the scuffed linoleum floor.
“Here is the NICU corridor feed leading up to the incident,” Officer Miller said, clicking a mouse. “Timestamp reads 14:42.”
The video window popped up on the large central monitor. The timestamp showed the quiet hallway of the neonatal unit. Through the glass of the consultation room, I could see Patrick and me talking to Dr. Brooks.
A moment later, the door to Room 4 opened, and Mason stepped out.
On screen, my son looked anxious. He wasn't walking with the casual slouch he usually had; his shoulders were hunched, his head darting back and forth. He walked rapidly down the corridor toward the nurses’ station.
“Look at that,” Patrick pointed at the screen. “He’s sneaking around. Checking if anyone is watching.”
“He’s going to the nurses’ station,” I corrected, leaning closer to the monitor. “Teresa was dealing with another patient down the hall, wasn't she?”
Miller fast-forwarded slightly. On the screen, Mason reached the nurses' desk. He leaned over the high counter, looking behind it. Empty. The station was completely unmanned at that exact second because of an emergency admission in another wing.
Mason stood there for three seconds—a eternity on camera. Then, he turned sharply and hurried back to Room 4.
“Watch this,” Patrick growled.
Mason pushed open the door to Ruby’s room. Because the camera angle captured a side profile through the window, we could see inside the room clearly.
Mason didn't walk toward the door stealthily with a malicious grin, as Patrick had implied. Instead, he rushed over to the incubator. His small hands flew up to the control panel.
“There! He’s tampering with it!” Patrick shouted.
“Wait—look at his hands, Patrick,” I whispered, my breath catching in my throat.
On the screen, Mason wasn't messing with the dials or switches. His hands were hovering frantically over the digital display panel of the incubator. More importantly, his head kept snapping back toward the bed inside the plastic enclosure, where Ruby lay.
Then, Mason dropped to his knees.
The angle shifted slightly as he ducked below the frame of the window, but we could see the heavy power cord running from the wall outlet to the base of the machine. Mason’s hand reached out.
He didn't yank it wildly in a fit of rage. He gripped the heavy rubber plug and pulled it straight out of the wall socket.
Instantly, the ambient lighting inside the incubator flickered and died. On the monitor overhead, the green physiological waveforms collapsed into erratic yellow blips.
On screen, Mason stood right back up. He didn't run away. He didn't smile. He stared down at the dark machine for a fraction of a second, turned on his heel, and sprinted out of the room toward the consultation door where Patrick and I were sitting.
The video continued. Mason knocked frantically on our door. Patrick opened it a crack. Mason spoke—we couldn't hear the audio on this feed, but his lips moved rapidly, his expression frantic, pleading.
Patrick closed the door in his face.
On the screen, Mason recoiled as the door shut. He stood frozen in the hallway for two seconds, his hands clenched into tight little fists at his sides. Then, defeated and desperate, he turned back toward Room 4, walked back inside, and pulled the plug completely out of the machine's base unit to force the hard reset—or perhaps, in his panic, to try and fix what had failed.
The heavy alarm klaxons began flashing red in the hallway seconds later.
The room fell dead silent.
Officer Miller took the toothpick out of his mouth, looking between Patrick and me. “Well... he definitely pulled the plug. But he didn't look like he was trying to hurt the baby. He looked... like he was trying to get help.”
Patrick stared at the paused screen, his face draining of color. But stubborn pride quickly replaced his doubt. “It’s a manipulation. He's smart. He knew how it would look on camera—like he was panicking after the fact to cover his tracks.”
“Patrick, that is absurd!” I cried out, turning away from the monitor and looking directly at my son.
Mason was still staring at the floor, silent, tears finally tracking slow tracks down his dusty cheeks.
I walked over to him, knelt down on the cold floor, and took his small, ice-cold hands in mine.
“Mason,” I said softly, my voice breaking. “Look at me, sweetheart. Tell Mom the truth. Why did you pull that plug?”
Mason raised his heavy eyes. They were red-rimmed and filled with a profound, crushing terror that broke my heart into a thousand pieces.
“Mom,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Ruby wasn't making any noise. The green line on her screen was flat. I went to find Nurse Teresa, but nobody was at the desk. I came back to tell you, but Dad wouldn't let me talk.”
He swallowed hard, his lower lip trembling.
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“The machine was making a weird clicking sound, Mom. And... and when I touched the screen, it was completely frozen. The nurse said... the nurse said last week that if the monitor freezes and makes that clicking noise, the machine is broken and it stops giving air. I just wanted the alarm to go off so somebody would come save her. I didn't know it would turn everything off completely.”
The entire security office went dead silent.
