Do No Harm (2002)

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Clyde pulled to a stop right above her and watched, head cocked. Gasping, she kept her eyes squeezed shut, evidently unaware that the alkali had struck only the side of her head. Her arms and legs scrabbled on the ground. She found a knee, then her feet, and then she ran back toward the ER doors, arms flailing blindly in front of her.

  Clyde tossed the Pyrex beaker aside. It bounced twice but remained stubbornly intact. Walking briskly back to the ambulance, he removed his sweatshirt, revealing a worn scrub top. He threw the sweatshirt through the open ambulance window, aiming for the back, then pulled off his corduroy hat and tucked it in the band of his scrub bottoms so his top hung down over it. His pallid face tingled with a blend of horror and perverse gratification.

  The woman ran into the wall a few feet to the left of the ER entrance and toppled over. She rose again, mouth down-twisted, chin slick with drool, and felt her way along the wall toward the doors, sobbing louder now. She kept her lips pressed tightly together, so her crying sounded muffled and throaty. Oddly, she still did not scream.

  The doors swung open automatically before her hands could find them, and she stumbled through. Clyde followed her in silently as she navigated the small, deserted hall, so close behind her he could have stroked the soft fabric of her scrub top. She missed the turn and banged against one of the pay phones, knocking the receiver from its perch. She felt her way back to the open air as the dangling phone began to bleat.

  He tried the stairwell door to the side of the pay phones. It was locked and did not budge. He returned to his position behind her, a running back floating behind a blocker. She fumbled forward, her breathing harsh and rasping, that of a dying animal's. Her hand went to her face and came away with a clump of hair. Her shoulder struck the wall and she half turned, enough for him to see the white blisters rising in patches on the soft skin around her ear.

  She stumbled through both sets of glass doors and collapsed on the lobby floor, wheezing. He stepped past her quickly before anyone noticed her. Someone screamed, and all at once the room was a whirlwind of scrubs, ringing phones, running patients. Putting his head down, he turned through the swinging doors into the ER proper and strode purposefully through the hallway.

  Two nurses blew by, wheeling a gurney, then the security guard he'd observed outside ran past, shouting into his radio, "Call for all officers! Zones Two and Six! Call for all officers!"

  A doctor dashed from an exam room, barely clipping his shoulder. Clyde glanced down just in time to notice his ID badge: DR. DAVID SPIER. Without so much as a backward glance, the doctor ran toward triage.

  Keeping his eyes on the cheap tile, Clyde turned right at the radiology suite and threaded back into the huge maze of hospital corridors, leaving the commotion behind.

  Chapter 14

  DETECTIVE Yale signaled the ambulance to stop as it came down the ramp. The driver hit the brake, nonplussed. A criminologist snapped photographs by the curb and Dalton stepped around him and picked up the Pyrex beaker with his pen. It slid easily into the plastic bag another officer held open for him.

  The paramedics struggled to offload the patient but were having difficulty yanking the gurney out uphill. A security guard appeared at the top of the ramp and gave them a hand. Yale pulled his arm away when David grabbed it. "You should've learned by now not to handle a police officer like that," Yale said.

  David was impressed by the coolness of his eyes. "Sorry. I'm a little tense."

  Another cop approached David immediately and thrust a clipboard at him. It carried a Crime Scene Attendance Log, and David signed it as he continued to address Yale. "You can't shut down this ambulance bay. It's an emergency entrance--it's imperative that we get patients down here and through those doors in a hurry."

  The paramedics wheeled the gurney down the ramp, leaning back to slow it. An old woman wearing an oxygen mask sat up, gripping the metal rails, her eyes bulging almost comically. They passed Yale and David and were slowed by Dalton, who steered them wide of the scene, then through the doors, ensuring they didn't touch anything.

  "I haven't shut anything down," Yale said. "But I can't have people contaminating the area. We need to preserve the integrity of the scene. Surely I don't have to explain to you that this is a serious matter we're dealing with."

  "No more serious than having patients with acute conditions delayed en route to the ER."

  "We'll see that the patients make it inside in timely fashion." Yale snapped his fingers at Dalton and pointed to the side of the parked ambulance. "Logical hiding place. Have Latent check the side of the vehicle for prints." He glanced at David's ID tag. "You be sure to inform me of any potentially violent patients who come in."

  "I'll help as much as I can, but there are patient confidentiality issues," David said.

  "There are people getting their faces burnt off." Yale turned away, raising a knuckle to his nose. His Rolex slid out from beneath his cuff; the smooth rotation of the second hand showed that it was real. Family money, no doubt. He couldn't afford that watch on a police detective's salary.

  David stepped around Yale so he was facing him again. "Please get this ramp clear as soon as you can. We can't have patients going critical out here because you're putting a crime scene ahead of a medical emergency."

  Yale sighed, putting on a weary expression. "Dr. Spier, we're just doing our best to cut down the number of patients you do get."

  The morphine had mellowed Sandra out substantially, constricting her pupils and giving her limbs a lax, almost fluid flexibility when they moved. Diane clutched Sandra's soft unscarred hand as she poured water down over her blistering left forearm.

  David crouched on the far side of Sandra's bed as Pat worked the left half of her face with a saline bottle. From his vantage, her profile was lovely. The smooth brown skin of her cheek, the soft line of her sternocleidomastoid, the arch of a penciled eyebrow. The contrast between the halves of her face was brutal. He did not want to rise from his crouch.

  ". . . couldn't see anything," Sandra continued, her voice a drone. "When I looked up, I just saw the stuff coming at me." She seemed oblivious to the people working industriously to repair her face. "But I knew it was him. I fell down, and I knew to make sure I kept my eyes squeezed shut."

  Pat ducked her face behind a hand as a sniffle escaped her. Diane looked over, resting a hand on Pat's wrist. "We got it from here," she said softly. "Don't worry."

  Pat turned, averting her face, and headed out of the exam room. She hurled the saline bottle as she exited, and it popped open when it struck the floor.

  It was the first time David had seen her lose her temper.

  ". . . didn't want to scream," Sandra said. "Didn't want to open my mouth so he could throw the stuff down my throat." A halting breath. "I don't want to be like Nancy." Her voice went high, and broke, so her next words were almost soundless. "Oh God. Oh God."

  "You're all right." David wanted to stroke the unmarred side of her face, feel it soft beneath his fingers, but he did not. "Nothing went in your eyes or down your throat. You just sustained burns on one side of your face, which we have under control."

  "It stung," Sandra said. "It stung so bad but I couldn't scream. I couldn't open my eyes." A single tear beaded at the pointed corner of her eye and streaked down her perfect cheek. David wiped its trail away with his thumb, wanting to keep the cheek pristine.

  "Why did someone do this to me?" Her head rolled loosely to the right so she was facing him. The blistering had blown her cheek out of shape--a weeping, pitted bulge of ruby and white. Much of the hair had fallen from the side of her head. The flesh at the base of her ear had been eaten away, the divots pooling with serous fluid and saline. Her tragus was burnt down to a small nub.

  David felt himself shot through with a burst of anger so sudden and intense it left him nauseous. He shook his head and laid the backs of his fingers across the unscathed skin of her forehead. "I don't know."

  His legs were shaking when he rose from his crouch
.

  Dalton tossed the In-N-Out bag in Yale's lap. Yale quickly picked it up, trying to work a spot of grease out of his pants with a fingernail.

  "Sorry," Dalton mumbled. He raised the remaining crescent of double cheeseburger to his mouth and angled it in.

  Yale glanced inside the bag, closed it, and set it aside on the bench. He stretched his legs, running his eyes around the grassy quad of the Medical Plaza.

  A burly male patient in a hospital gown flirted with a nurse near the wide steps of the hospital entrance. He leaned in to whisper something to her, and she drew back slightly.

  Dalton wiped his nose with his sleeve. "I took another look at the construction guys on Le Conte. Two of them have arm tattoos, but neither one resembles a skull. One of the guys is a parolee, got popped for a B and E in '96, but he's alibied three times over. Other guy's tat looked like jailhouse ink. I'm gonna run him, but he's also got a solid alibi."

  "We're looking for a disorganized offender," Yale said. "He's smart enough to wear latex gloves, but discards evidence at the scene. I think he gets close to the victims by necessity--he's not sophisticated enough to figure out how to do dirty work from afar."

  "I don't know about that. There's a hundred easier ways to fuck someone up." Dalton sighed. "It's just too bad neither vic got a good look."

  Yale signaled to Dalton that he had a crumb on his cheek. "That could be something psychological, not just strategic." He pressed his fists together, lining up the knuckles. "Maybe there's another motivation to his not wanting to be seen. Maybe he's got some physical impairment he's ashamed of."

  "Limp or something?"

  Yale shook his head. "Probably not. Too memorable. Someone would've noticed--and remember, he's vanished into thin air twice. I'm thinking something less immediately visual. Something you only notice if you talk or interact with him. Glass eye. A lisp. Bad acne. Something. I think he doesn't want to be seen. I think he's afraid to be seen. Self-conscious. Avoids eye contact. As soon as the victims are aware of him, they have Drano flying in their eyes."

  "Not a single fucking eyewitness. The goddamn ER doesn't post guards at the doors. Everyone comes in in their vehicles, so the guys in the parking kiosks are the gatekeepers. No one walks to the ER."

  "God bless LA," Yale said.

  Dalton scratched his head. "Well, now that we have two vics, at least we can rule out a personal attack on Nance."

  "I don't know," Yale said. "We gotta cross-check records, see if there's any patients both Nancy and Sandra Yee treated. Could make sense. Nurse and doctor. Maybe they fucked someone up, pissed him off."

  "They're reading like crimes of opportunity to me. We've found no evidence to show he stalked either of the victims. And believe me, me and Jenkins dug hard for any unusual shit in Nance's life." Dalton picked a loose string off his shirt. "I think anyone who stepped through the ER doors into the ambulance bay at that moment was gonna catch the faceful of lye. Yee just got unlucky."

  "Smoking kills," Yale said.

  "I think he would've hit anyone."

  "Male or female?"

  "Crimes like this, I'd guess he's at least sex-specific."

  "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 f
irst 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."