by Walter Marks
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a rapport. But he does tolerate me — at least enough to let me give him his injections.”
“He’s on Haldol?”
“Yes, intramuscular.”
I could see where a guy might not mind being stuck in the butt by an attractive nurse like Kim, but I said nothing of the kind.
“Well,” I said. “Maybe when you have time you can tell me more about him.”
“I’d be glad to.”
I turned to go to my office when I heard a man’s voice. “Is Doctor Rothberg around?”
I saw an armed officer approaching. I recognized him as the Ad Seq security guard.
“He’s right here, Mike,” Kim said.
“Oh, Doctor,” Mike said. “There’s a package for you.”
He held up a thick manila envelope. It was marked "Official Business — City of New York" and had a stick-on label, "By Courier".
“That’s great, Mike. I’ve been waiting for it. Thanks.”
At my desk I opened the package. It contained a copy of the NYPD file on Victor Thomas Janko.
For the first time, I had the feeling maybe my dad wasn't such a bad guy. On the other hand, he was probably just showing off, trying to prove what a big cheese he was. Yeah, Dr. Zachary Rothberg still qualifies as a schmuck. Even a schmuck can do a good thing, only he always does it for a bad reason.
The file had crime scene photos of 23 Dyckman Oval, Apt. 1A, noting there were no lights on in the ground floor apartment when the police arrived. The body was found in front of the living room window. The window shade was up, indicating the crime was committed in the dark — otherwise the killer risked being seen from the outside. There was a picture of the murder weapon: a bloody eight-inch kitchen knife. There were no fingerprints anywhere except those belonging to Agnes and the child.
Victor was caught walking calmly away from the crime scene. The housing cops and various 34th Precinct detectives all described him as being either in shock or in a drugged state. But the toxicology report was negative.
The case against Victor seemed airtight. One intriguing piece of evidence made the case even stronger. Victor had a copy of the Dr. Seuss book The Cat in the Hat on him when he was arrested. Inside was a pasted-on label reading "This Book Belongs To", inscribed with the name of the victim's child, Margarita. The police figured he'd taken it from the apartment after he killed the mother.
Now, why would he have done that? And what’s the significance of "The Cat in the Hat"?...
I heard a woman's voice, screaming in terror. It was coming from the nurses' station.
I raced down the hallway, but when I got there I froze. Bobby Sanchez was standing behind Kim Cavanagh. He had her in a choke hold with his left arm. In his right hand was a large hypodermic syringe — probably 200 ml. He pushed the needle against the side of Kim's neck.
Mike the security guard had his gun pointing at Sanchez. "I told you to drop it," he shouted.
"Fuck off."
"I'm a good shot, Sanchez," Mike said. "I can put a bullet in your brain before you can blink."
"You can try it, motherfucker, but I'm tellin' ya — I'll smoke her ‘fore I go dead."
Kim was looking at me, her eyes desperate. I stepped forward. "Hey, Bobby. What's up?"
"Stay away from me, Doctor."
"Okay. Okay. Just tell me what’s the trouble."
"The trouble?" Sanchez said. "This place is the trouble."
"What do you mean?"
"I told you there was a situation. Well, the situation's turned real bad. There are people ‘round here tryin' to kill me. They've been plottin' it...plannin' it...and now they're gonna do it."
"What makes you think that?"
"I don't think that. I know that."
"Bobby, why don't you put down the needle, and we can talk about it?" I extended my hand, moved a step towards him.
"Stop," he said. "Stay where you are or I stick her."
"What’s in the needle?"
Sanchez gave a sinister laugh. "Air, man. Nothin' but air."
"Air isn't gonna hurt her," I said.
"You can't run no game on me, man. I know if you shoot air in somebody, they croak."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"Lieutenant Columbo. He gave me the plan. Grab the needle from the nurse when she comes to give you your shot. Then grab her, squirt out the medicine, and the two of you can walk right on out the door."
The guard shouted at the prisoner. "You're not goin’ anywhere, Sanchez. Now cut the crap and drop the needle."
"I'm goin' out that door right now. Me and nursie."
"Listen, everybody," I said calmly, "Let's take it easy. We can find a way to work this out."
I turned to Sanchez. "Bobby," I said. "I'm afraid Lieutenant Columbo gave you some incorrect info. Putting air into someone's vein doesn't kill them."
"Don't be jivin’ me, Doctor," Sanchez said. He pushed the needle harder against Kim's neck. It was almost breaking the skin. She whimpered.
"I'm glad you called me Doctor, Bobby. Because I am a doctor. And I can tell you that air injected into the bloodstream is just absorbed into the system. It doesn't cause an embolism, or an aneurysm...
"That’s bullshit. Lieutenant Columbo told me...
"Bobby," I said. "Columbo is a television character. Death by the injection of air is just something they put in television plots. It has no scientific basis.”
"You're tryin’ to trick me. I'm outta here."
"Don't move, Sanchez," the guard said.
I looked around the room and spotted a tray by the nurses' station. It had some empty syringes in it. "I can prove I'm telling the truth, Bobby. Just give me a chance."
I crossed slowly over to the tray and picked up a syringe.
"Don't try nothin’,” Sanchez warned me.
"No, no,” I said. “Just lemme show you something."
I withdrew the plunger on the hypodermic. My mind raced over the facts. I'd been lying to Sanchez; shooting an entire 200ml syringe of air into Kim's vein would definitely be lethal — unless Sanchez hit an artery instead of a vein, which would cause a life-threatening hemorrhage. I also knew the moment Sanchez stuck Kim, the guard would kill him. I didn't want any of that to happen.
I had to inject myself, but I’d have to be very, very careful. I prayed I could still visualize the pictures in Gray's Anatomy.
"Okay, Bobby," I said. I opened an alcohol packet and swabbed the needle and my skin. Then I pushed the plunger in and out, “See, it’s empty.” Next I placed the needle point on my neck, and felt around until I was in the right spot. Well, I hoped it was the right spot.
"Now watch, Bobby." I pushed the plunger firmly, and injected the air into my sternocleidomastoid, the ropy muscle running down behind the ear to the clavicle. It hurt like hell, but I tried to look casual. I withdrew the needle and waited. Then I smiled — as much for myself as for Sanchez. I knew injecting air into a muscle would cause no damage. But I had to hit muscle only, make sure I avoided my jugular vein and carotid artery. A mistake would have caused death or a blood bath.
"So what?" Sanchez growled in anger. "Fuck you, I'm leavin' anyway. I'll cut her goddamn neck."
"You can do that, Bobby, but she won't die. She'll get medical attention right away. Meanwhile Mike’ll blow your head off. Come on, put down the needle. Your threat's no good."
"Well...I don't know..." Sanchez said.
"I promise I'll help you, Bobby. I know those voices you hear are frightening. But I’ll work with you, and we’ll make them go away. Wouldn't you feel better if you didn't hear the voices?"
"I guess so," Sanchez said.
"Okay, put down the needle."
"The guard. He'll shoot me."
"No, he won't." I turned to Mike. "Take the bullets out of your gun."
"No way."
"It's the only way. The man's afraid and he has a right to be. He's willing to trust me, and now you have to show him he can trust you."
"I'm not fucking unloading my gun."
"Look,” I said, ”Haven't we put Kim through enough? Bobby's willing to let her go now, but he's scared. I'm in charge of this ward tonight, and I'm fully responsible for what goes on. Now empty your gun, and if anything goes wrong, you can blame me."
Mike hesitated, then reluctantly flipped open the chamber of his revolver. He dumped six bullets into his hand, and dropped them one by one into a wastebasket. He looked at me and nodded.
"Hand me the gun, Mike," I ordered.
He didn't move.
"I said give it to me."
"Why? It's empty."
"You can still re-load," I said.
"I'll get rid of my ammo.” He started to unbuckle his bullet belt.
Why doesn’t he just give me the gun?
Suddenly I understood. "Nice try, Mike. Now dump it."
"What?"
"The seventh bullet."
"Huh?"
"Don't mess with me, Mike."
The guard gave me an exasperated look.
"You're a smart guy, Doc," he said, pushing open the gun's chamber. He popped out the seventh cartridge and let it fall into the basket.
"You're pretty smart, Doc,” Mike said.” But you're also stupid. Sanchez still has the needle."
"Just gimme the gun."
Mike grudgingly handed it to me. I turned to Sanchez. "I'll hold it. Unless you want to."
"That's okay," Sanchez said.
"You can let her go now, Bobby."
He released Kim, and dropped the syringe to the floor. The nurse broke down in tears of relief. She crossed to me and buried her face in my chest. My arms closed awkwardly around her, and for a moment I was aware of the yielding softness of her body. I held her for a few seconds, then signaled Mike to come over and look after her.
I walked Bobby Sanchez back to his room, and he lay down. I sedated him with triazolam, then talked reassuringly to him for a while. Soon he drifted off.
I checked his chart — Ben had him on 50mg. Haldol, an anti-psychotic. Kim must’ve been trying to inject him when Sanchez grabbed her. I know from experience that determining the right dosage of Haldol is tricky. Sanchez was probably getting too little, so his hallucinations had really taken over. I got a syringe, increased the dosage by half, and shot it into his glute.
When I returned to the nurses' station, Kim was back at her post. "Dr. Rothberg," she said, "You were wonderful. You saved my life, and...and I don't know how to thank you."
"Aw, shucks," I said, doing a bad John Wayne. "Just doin' my job, ma'am."
Kim laughed.
"Listen,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve had enough for one night. Why don’t you go on home? I can handle things here.”
"That’s all right,” she replied. “This is my job. A gal's got-ta do what a gal's got-ta do."
This lady’s got guts. And her John Wayne is better than mine.
"Okay,” I said. “Sanchez is locked down. He should sleep through the night. I'll be in at ten tomorrow."
"No problem, Doctor. I'll keep my eye on him."
I said goodnight, and walked down to the security door. Mike was sitting on a chair. He got up and opened the door for me.
"Gotta hand it to ya, Doc. You're a cool dude." He held out his hand.
I shook it firmly, and smiled without feigned humility.
CHAPTER 14
The next morning was a beautiful summer day, and I was eager to get out on the running track.
I’d been wired after the showdown with Sanchez so I hadn't slept much. And I kept worrying about Victor Janko. I woke up feeling groggy, but after a shower, a jolt of espresso, and some leftover Ben & Jerry's, I was ready to hit the ground running.
When I fed some Masori Tortoise Diet to Ninja, she was uninterested and looked sluggish. I can usually cure that by serving her an earthworm. Maybe I’ll find one near the track.
I parked in front of the high school. I'd planned to change into my Reeboks and shorts in the car, but when I reached into the back seat I found...I'd forgotten to bring my gym bag. Damn.
Let’s see...it’ll take twenty minutes to go back and get it, twenty minutes to return. I can’t possibly run and still be at work by 10:00.
Okay, I'm not gonna bust my chops. Maybe I am subconsciously avoiding exercise, but on the other hand, maybe I'm just distracted by really important stuff. It’s probably the latter, no, I mean the former, no, I mean... Fuck it, I'll run tomorrow.
I decided to see if I could get a copy of "The Cat in the Hat". I drove down to Main Street looking for a bookstore, hoping one still survived in this small town, despite the onslaught of e-books. Happily I found one; it was called "All Booked Up".
The clerk handed me the thin, blue-green volume with a picture of a cat on the cover. I was overwhelmed with a bittersweet remembrance of childhood. The funny feline with the tall, porkpie hat and the floppy red bow tie was smiling that goofy smile at me. What a puss, my mother used to say, making a pun I now understood for the first time. I don’t think much about my mom these days, but every so often a memory floods back and I get a little weepy.
I turned away from the clerk, and looked again at the book cover. There was a little logo on it — I Can Read It All By Myself. It was too much. I paid for the book with a ten-dollar bill, and left while the bookseller was ringing it up.
I sat in the car, thinking about my mother.
I wonder why she ever married the Schmuck? The Schmuck was so selfish and unfeeling, and mom was so giving and caring. But maybe that’s just the way she was with me. Maybe with her husband those traits came out as passive and dependent. I don’t know. I’ll never know.
One thing I do know — Mom would be proud of me, proud of the profession I’ve chosen, and where my work has taken me. She would’ve loved what I did last night, saving a damsel in distress — like Don Quixote.
I used to love it when she read Don Quixote to me. I was too young then to understand the irony and cynicism, but I did get the general idea that it’s good to lead an honorable life, and help people if you can.
These days I don’t know if my life’s all that honorable, but at least I’m trying to help people.
I started the car, and set off on another day searching for answers. It was a quest, I knew, that might be hopelessly quixotic.
When I sat down in my office, Ben Caldwell came in and said “Hey, nice goin’ with Sanchez.” Then he changed the subject.
He sounded like he was on speed. He kept touching his mustache with his index finger, combing the hairs with his fingernail. He was definitely not himself.
In rapid phrases, he said he wanted me to run the afternoon group session — he had a meeting with the warden. And I should check on a new patient — Kennealy, a body-builder who’d been having outbursts of violence.
“Dude says he’s not on anabolics, but his freak-outs are pure 'roid rage. Oh, yeah, and somebody’s gotta buy balloons for Penrose's birthday party tomorrow, or if you want you can do it yourself.”
I said I'd take care of everything. But it bugged me that Ben hadn't said more about last night. And why was he acting so weird? Had I done something to upset him? Then I was upset with myself for needing his approval. Oh well, at least Kim Cavanagh thinks I'm hot stuff.
After work I went to my office and read "The Cat In The Hat". Then I took out my laptop, opened the Janko file, and began to type my notes.
If Doctor Seuss contains a clue to the mystery of Victor Janko, I sure can't see it. There's a phrase that keeps jumping out at me... "He should not be here when your mother is out.” Am I just reading something sinister into a nice children's story? There’s got to be something in this book that...
There was a knock on my door. It was Father Emile Toussenel.
"Well, David," he said, in his flat French-Canadian accent. "I wanted to tell you that was quite a display of brains and courage last night. Ben told me about it.”
"Thanks."
“You
’re a very brave man. Grâce a Dieu."
I smiled.
"Not to change the subject," the priest said, "But I notice you've got a copy of "The Cat In The Hat" on your desk."
I nodded.
"Forgive me," the priest went on, "I seem to be cursed with the Sin of Nosiness."
"So am I," I said, trying to make nice. "Guess it's endemic to both our professions."
The priest laughed.
"Well," I explained, "The book may have something to do with Victor Janko."
"How curious."
"Tell me something, Father," I said. "Have you ever seen Victor reading it? Or has he ever mentioned it?"
"Not that I remember. What's the connection to him?"
"I'm not sure."
I could tell he was hoping I'd say more. I didn’t.
"So," he said, colleague-to-colleague. "How are things going with you and Victor?"
"I'm getting to know him."
"He's an odd bird, isn't he, David?"
"That's a fair description."
"Are you going to recommend him for parole?"
"Too early to say."
"Which way are you leaning?"
I shrugged.
"Dr. Rothberg," the priest said with intensity, "Y'know, I spend a lot of time with inmates, so I've got a darn good sense about ‘em. Now, I'm going to use a word to characterize Victor Janko that’s definitely not part of the psychiatric vocabulary. And that word is...Evil. My gut feeling is there’s a demon inside him. You may label that demon Neurosis, Psychosis...Obsessive-Compulsive disorder, or whatever, but in my opinion, Victor is evil incarnate...he’s dangerous and cunning as the Devil himself. You must be extremely careful about..."
"Excuse me, Father," I cut in, “I can handle Victor Janko. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a shit-load of work."
"Of course," the priest said pleasantly. He stopped at the door. "Well, if you need me for anything...I'm always around. "
After he left, I leaned back in my desk chair. I imagined Victor's face, staring blankly at me with glazed eyes, shutting me out with his silence, challenging me to break through to him.
I’ll never get to the truth unless I find a way to tear down Victor’s defenses. When I visit him today, I better damn well bring my A-game.
