Do No Harm (10 page)

"Yeah." Yale nodded. "Yeah."

Dalton pushed a hand through his hair, leaving his bangs sticking up on one side. "Maybe he's got a vendetta against the hospital."

"Or nurses, or doctors. Or professionals, for all we know. Like you said, he's not picky with who he's hit so far. Tall Caucasian nurse and a short Asian doctor. Sounds like a porn." Yale popped a smile, then lost it at Dalton's glare. "Gallows humor. The one saving grace of the job. Lighten up. I want to bust the piece of shit as much as you do."

"You may want to bust the POS," Dalton said, "but I got three years in uniform with her brother, and I've eaten food off her table after more than one graveyard shift. I'm looking forward to losing a few bullets in this guy's skull."

"I understand," Yale said. "But that's of little utility."

Dalton glanced down at the ground, his neck wrinkling into another chin, and scratched his forehead. Then he nodded.

"Both assaults occurred during conventional work hours," Yale said. "Maybe our boy's unemployed."

"That would fit the low sophistication level of the crimes."

"The fact that we're dealing with an insecure, disorganized offender tells us something about the victims he chooses. And the locale. They'd both be within his comfort zone. This isn't the kind of guy to stray to new territory to hit his marks." Yale took in the breadth of the plaza. "I think he knows his way around here, maybe even works nearby, and he's familiar with doctors and nurses." He tapped his chin with a knuckle, a rare inexpedient gesture. "We should check records for plaintiffs in malpractice suits against the hospital."

"Though pursuing legal avenues would imply resources and wherewithal not necessarily in keeping with our profile," Dalton added.

"True." Yale snapped his gum. "I'm thinking he's too old to be a student at UCLA, but we probably can't rule it out given we're right on campus. You talk to CAD?"

"They're running a PACMIS and a CCAB, seeing if anything rings the cherries," Dalton said. "Should hear back tomorrow." When the Crime Analysis Detail officer put the alkali assaults through the Police Arrest Crime Management Information System and the Consolidated Crime Analysis Database, similar crimes in the area would show up immediately. The list would include anything in Westwood, on campus or off.

Dalton sat on the bench beside Yale, and they watched the burly patient near the hospital steps try to embroil a passing woman in conversation. She smiled curtly and kept walking. "Could be anyone," Dalton said. "Could be that fucker right there."

Yale shook his head. "No sir. Our guy fears women. That guy . . . " He stabbed a finger in the man's direction. "That guy's got confidence." A note of admiration found its way into his voice. "He'd be a keeper and a player, not a hit-and-runner. He'd be a Bundy. Our guy's a welfare Berkowitz."

Dalton stared hungrily at Yale's unopened In-N-Out bag. "The alkali came back from lab. Danny said they're all pretty much sodium hydroxide and sodium hypo-something, but the surfactants are different. Our boy's using DrainEze. Ever hear of it?"

"No."

"Exactly. Aside from being sold in a few drugstores, it's mostly used institutionally. Schools, factories, warehouses . . . "

"And hospitals."

"Bingo. They don't use it here, though. I'm giving a look at other places in the area, see who stocks it. It's a long shot."

"They're all long shots," Yale said. "But we do have one thing going for us."

"Two cases, same MO."

"That's right. We have the victims tied through the hospital, and we know where he likes to commit his assaults."

Dalton's smile was crooked. "That means we know where to wait."

Yale tapped his temple with a finger.

David and Jenkins appeared at opposite sides of the plaza at about the same time. They both made their way toward Yale and Dalton, neither noticing the other. Yale watched the impending collision with dismay. Dalton picked up on his tense posture and followed his gaze. "Oh. Shit."

David reached them first and squatted before the bench, white coat spreading behind him like a cape. "I was told you were up here. I was wondering if you had any strong leads I could bring back to the ER."

"Well," Jenkins called out as he approached. "If it isn't the good doctor. What brings you off your turf?"

David rose quickly, so as to face Jenkins on his feet. "I just wanted an update. To see when you think you'll have this guy safely in custody."

Jenkins laughed a hard laugh. David waited patiently through the performance. "Safely in custody," Jenkins repeated. "That's a good one."

"Why," David asked, "is that a good one?"

Dalton stood. "Jenkins," he said, his voice low and soothing.

"No," David said. "I want to know."

A pulse was beating in Jenkins's temple when he looked back over at David, and David realized for the first time just how dangerous a man he was.

Yale remained sitting through the ensuing silence, arms spread across the top of the bench. "There are certain rules, Dr. Spier," he said, speaking as if to a child. "One does not attack schools, hospitals, police stations, or the people who work there. These are direct attacks on the institutions and people that keep our cities functioning. The breaking of such rules does not--cannot--go unpunished."

It took David a moment to find his voice. "I agree."

"Such attacks are unacceptable."

"I agree," David said again, in a measured tone. "But punishment doesn't really fall under either of our job descriptions, does it?"

"I'll tell you what falls under--"

"Jenkins!" Yale snapped, sharply but without anger. Jenkins closed his mouth. It seemed to take considerable effort. Dalton put his arm around Jenkins's shoulders and walked him a few paces away. Jenkins shrugged off the arm but followed.

Yale adjusted the knot of his tie, though it was already perfectly straight. He exuded a calmness lacking in the other two officers. The only thing unreasonable about him was his Joseph Abboud four-button bird's-eye suit. "No, Dr. Spier," he answered. "It doesn't."

David lowered his voice so Dalton and Jenkins couldn't overhear. "These are my staff members getting hurt. I just want to assure them they're being protected. I'd like to bring something back to settle them. Whatever you can disclose."

"I'll be happy to direct you to our PIO."

"PIO?"

"Public Information Officer."

"Oh," David said. "I see." He heard the hard fricatives of Jenkins cursing behind him. Dalton had a hand hooked around his neck in a half hold, half embrace. "I think it's important that we all keep our heads in the middle of this," David added.

The evenness of Yale's stare was unsettling. "Jenkins is just a patrolman," he said. "Dalton and I are detectives. It's under control."

"I'd just . . . the mood in the ER . . . " David drew a deep breath, trying to figure out what he wanted to say. "I don't think any of us want things to turn ugly."

"I believe they already have, Dr. Spier."

"In our professions, it doesn't do us any good to give in to hatred."

"You don't know anything about my job. I'd suggest you refrain from proffering advice about it." Yale's upper lip curled slightly. The first sign of anger. Fair enough--David hadn't realized how condescending his words were until they were out of his mouth.

He tried to proceed more cautiously. "I know this is the kind of liberal bullshit you hate to hear, but the man we're dealing with may even be aware of the fact he needs help. Have you considered that? You could use that information somehow to catch him. He's targeting people right outside the ER, feet away from the treatment and care they need. Subconsciously, maybe he doesn't want them to get hurt."

Yale tossed the unopened In-N-Out bag at a trash can a good five yards away and hit it dead center. "If he didn't want people to get hurt," he said, "he wouldn't throw Drano in their faces."

PETER Alexander's balance was not aided by the aquarium walkway that ran from the reservation desk to the restaurant proper, but David knew better than to offer his assistance. The hostess watched as Peter lurched and waddled, arms spread wide as though he were anticipating a hug. A fat-eyed parrotfish darted quickly underfoot and Peter swayed, one of his leg braces clinking against the back of a chair. The hostess slowed her pace and caught David's eye, but David kept his hands in his pockets and shook his head.

The crowd at Crustacean evinced Beverly Hills's notion of upscale--cell phones and silk shirts, movie moguls, and the occasional high-priced call girl. Peter's unusual gait caught a few glances, but most people had directed their attention elsewhere by the time he passed.

They reached the base of the stairs and the hostess turned, flustered. "I'm sorry, but the table is upstairs. I can see how long the wait is down here. I didn't know . . . when you made the reservation no one told us that . . . "

"Actually," Peter said, with a smile and an aristocratic tip of his head, "I prefer upstairs."

He gripped the banister, but seemed displeased with its height. He beckoned David with a hand and David turned around, making his shoulder available. Peter's oversized hands were unnaturally strong, and David was grateful for his blazer's shoulder padding. Leaning over, Peter readjusted his loafer around the curved base of his leg brace. The metal had stretched and distorted the mouth of the shoe, lining the oxblood leather with tan wrinkles.

Turning sideways, both hands on the curved banister, he swung one stiff leg out behind him, hooked it on the first step, then pivoted his hips so his other leg followed. He slid his hands about a foot up and repeated the motion. Step number two.

The hostess glanced nervously up the curved length of the staircase. There were over thirty steps to the top. David took the menus from her with a smile.

"It's the table for two in the back corner," she said.

David kept a few steps behind Peter as he worked his way up. Peter was winded when he reached the top, and he mopped his brow with a floppy white handkerchief.

A paddle fan turned slowly above their table. An effeminate waiter took their order with his hands clasped together, leaning forward as if into a strong gust of wind.

Peter pulled off his coat and hung it over the back of his chair. His black hair, shot through with gray, was unruly and animated--the hair of a composer. David knew Peter was at least twenty years his senior, though they'd never arrived at his age conversationally. Along with Peter's disability, which he never expounded upon, his age was simply off-limits.

"Your mother would have captured the bastard herself," Peter said. "Bound him with her stethoscope and dragged him kicking and screaming to a seclusion room in the NPI."

The Neuropsychiatric Institute's nascence had occurred under David's mother's tenure. She'd been actively broadening psychiatry's horizons, back when most practitioners of the field were busy merely scrubbing off the stains of witchcraft and mysticism. Peter had known her since his young days as a fledgling urologist.

"Dr. Evans called me this morning," David said.

"How is our vibrant chief of staff?"

"Charming but hard-assed, as usual. Wanted to ensure I was keeping on top of the ER, leaving no loose ends for the press to grab hold of."

"Our alkali thrower has captured LA's imagination. The media loves gory details."

"Fuel for a city characterized by ADD. But I suppose it beats hearing about Jennifer Aniston's hair." David set down his menu and aligned it neatly with the edge of the table. "We just can't let all this slow the hospital down."

"It's a nightmare," Peter said. "Last night, I had a nine-hour standing surgery that got out after one in the morning. They made me wait nearly forty minutes so a security guard could walk me to my car. Forty minutes."

The smell of garlic heralded dinner's arrival. Two steaming plates of king prawns resting on beds of swirled linguini. Peter reached to center his plate before him but withdrew his hand quickly, a flash of panic lighting his eyes. He spilled some ice water on his hand where it had touched the plate, though there was clearly no sign of redness or swelling.

David continued the conversation as the waiter served--a rudeness in which he did not usually indulge, but the waiter had annoyed him earlier by asking twice if he was sure he didn't want wine.

"It has been wretched," David said, realizing with some amusement that he'd inadvertently mirrored Peter's tone of faux-English prissiness. "Now that it's confirmed that the attack on Nancy wasn't an isolated incident, I've been assured that the hospital's security level will go through the roof." He shook his head. "One of my medical students almost maced a homeless man in the ambulance bay. She was wearing scrubs--he was approaching her for help."

"One can hardly blame her," Peter said. He manipulated his knife and fork gracefully, hands turning in deft, fluid motions. It was a pleasure to watch him dine.

"The last thing we need is a war mentality on the floor," David said. "Especially with the demographic moving through there. And people are angry." Absentmindedly, he tapped the tines of his fork against the plate. "God, are they angry."