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Sunday, Dec. 30, 2007

Brain injury makes doctor a long-term patient

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SACRAMENTO -- In the thin light of early morning, her running shoes pound a familiar route.

Suddenly, a sickening thump. The smashing of glass. The screeching of brakes.

She lies silent and bleeding, crumpled near a dark Saturn with a shattered windshield.

She is in her 20s, slightly built, her long, dark hair tied in a ponytail. An orange and white Sony Walkman is attached to her left arm. Her shiny right shoe is marked with a scuff and a small hole.

The driver of the Saturn leaps from his car, and other people spill into the street. The owner of Taylor's Market, who has just arrived to take fish and vegetable deliveries, rushes inside and calls 911. Someone from a neighborhood dry cleaner runs out with a blanket and covers the injured jogger.

She opens her eyes for a moment, struggles to stand, but slumps down again. Strangers crouch beside her, talking softly.

Minutes pass and sirens slice through the din of traffic. Paramedics swarm.

It is Friday, July 6, 6:34 a.m.

In the back of an ambulance, an "unidentified Asian female" is on her way to the UC Davis Medical Center.

Surely, someone will be looking for her soon.

---

Where is she?

Brian Gallucci is texting Cathy -- again. And getting no answer -- again.

They are planning to celebrate his birthday tonight with dinner at a downtown restaurant, and she is supposed to get off work early.

But it's past 5, and he's been trying to reach her for more than two hours. She's not responding.

She has a new job. Maybe her schedule changed, he thinks. Maybe she got busy or distracted. But still ...

Brian, a soft-spoken civil engineer, knows Cathy better than perhaps anyone other than her relatives. They went to high school in Chico together, started dating their senior year and have stayed close beyond college and into their middle 20s.

About 8:30, Brian decides to go to dinner with a friend and wait for Cathy to call.

I'm getting worried, he says, talking into her cell phone. Are you all right?

By 10, he and his friend decide to head over to her apartment on 21st Street.

The building, painted white with green trim, is quiet. Cathy's gold Toyota is parked outside. Brian knocks on her front door, then uses his key to unlock it.

Her car keys are on the table, along with her cell phone. Her pager and identification badge are lying on a chair. Her wallet is in the kitchen.

Brian notices only one thing missing: her running shoes.

His first thought is that someone has snatched her while she was out on her daily jog. He picks up the phone and, with all the calmness he can muster, talks into an answering machine at the home of Cathy's parents in Chico.

It is about midnight when Jen Liu hears the message. He and his wife, Pam, phone Brian back, and Brian calls the Sacramento police.

Within 20 minutes, a patrol car pulls up to Cathy's apartment. The officer scribbles down information about her and tells Brian he will check the local jail and hospitals. In the meantime, Brian starts calling Cathy's friends, but reaches only voice mail greetings.

At just past 1 in the morning, a second officer arrives at the apartment.

A young Asian woman was hit by a car while jogging the previous morning, he tells Brian.

The officer asks Brian if his girlfriend has a mole on her forehead. She does. Brian reaches for the phone again.

"It's got to be Cathy," he tells her parents back in Chico.

Within minutes, all three of them are on their way to UC Davis Medical Center, where a young woman known only as Jane Doe lies in the intensive care unit.