Do No Harm (2002)

by Gregg Hurwitz

  If anything, she looked worse, her burns resolving into wounds even more horrifying for their permanence. In the six days since the attack, her hair had fallen out along the front of her crown, leaving her with a coarse fringe of ringlets around the sides and back of her head. The large bolster on her right cheek had dried and turned gray, and the skin around the edges had yellowed. David didn't have a plastic surgeon's eye, but he doubted that the graft would take. Between her other bolsters, her patchwork flesh shone red, slick with residual Silvadene. In the midst of it all, her two eyeballs perched inside their sockets, shrunken and sightless.

  "Who is it?" she said weakly, her voice a tiny rasp. "Who's there?"

  "It's David Spier."

  "Oh. I don't want to see you. I heard what you did . . . that you helped him . . . and now he got away." Her head drifted slightly on the pillow, a dying motion. "How could you?"

  "I didn't help him," David said. "I treated him."

  She drew breath raggedly. "I don't want to see you."

  "Okay," David said.

  "Ever again."

  "Okay."

  David backed up quietly and pulled the curtain shut.

  Diane was back from surgery by the time David got downstairs. She'd already changed into fresh scrubs when David entered the doctors' lounge.

  "This morning's incident with Jenkins gave me an idea," he said.

  She gathered her bloody scrubs from the floor. "If it's the handcuffs you're interested in, you'll have to buy me dinner first."

  "Sadly, nothing so titillating. That patient we helped out who the cops wanted--?"

  "Hell's Angel guy?"

  "No. The guy Jenkins was yelling about. The bullet in the ass. What was ostensibly his name again?"

  "Ed Pinkerton."

  "Right." David went to his locker and withdrew the odd bookmark that Ed had left behind in the ER. It read: AMOK BOOKSTORE. THE EXTREMES OF INFORMATION.

  David stopped at a bad taqueria and wolfed down a burrito he was certain would give him acute GI distress. Driving toward the Amok Bookstore, he glanced down at the bookmark, double-checking the address. Located in a downscale-trendy area of Los Feliz, the storefront was small and unassuming, and David drove right past it and had to backtrack when he hit Hollywood Boulevard.

  The book Ed had been reading, Wiretapping and Electronic Surveillance, implied that he'd be an asset in an effort to find someone. Plus, as an ex-con, he probably knew how to get done any number of things David could scarcely even name. He'd done Ed a favor, after all, and the man with the awkward flesh wound might be willing to point him in the right direction.

  Even if Ed hadn't stolen his file, David would have had no way to get ahold of him without going out and tracking him down. David had not been surprised to find that he was unlisted--the only Ed Pinkerton in the area had turned out to be a ninety-year-old veteran of the Second World War--so he only had the bookmark to go on.

  David parked at a broken meter in front of a shop that advertised inflatable sheep. He walked toward Amok, enjoying a small flare of pride at operating like a noir detective. Any notion of pride quickly vanished, however, when he entered and realized just how out of his league he was.

  A twanging East Asian tune played over the speakers, interspersed with pleading in a foreign tongue and screams that David, who had heard a fair variety of screams at work each day, could not dismiss as staged. Wraiths of incense smoke curled in the air, dispersing, disappearing. The narrow store was lined with bookcases that displayed books cover-out, and a sinewy man in a leather vest leered across an old cash register at the front, tufts of grayish hair escaping from the V above the vest's buttons. Massive spiderweb tattoos worked their way up both his arms and clutched the balls of his shoulders. A bar pierced his septum, protruding a few centimeters beyond each nostril.

  Several customers perused the shelves, indifferent to the ambient wailing. David pretended to do the same, though he could not shake the cashier's stare or the feeling that he'd been immediately recognized as an impostor. A book called Jugular Wine, positioned between Red Stains and the more respectable-looking Sodomy and the Pirate Tradition, caught his attention. He flipped through a few pages with a sort of horrified interest, then lowered the book and risked a look around.

  A man too predictably clad in an overcoat shuffled through the front door to the counter, his nose glowing the broken-vessel red of a confirmed alcoholic. The tattooed cashier hunched over the counter, speaking in a lowered voice that David had to strain to make out. "Got something up your alley."

  The alcoholic made some gesture that rippled his overcoat, and the worker pulled an unlabeled VHS videocassette from beneath the counter and slid it toward him.

  David only heard bits and pieces of the cashier's next comment. "Buddy of mine . . . crime-scene guy in Tokyo . . . "

  The alcoholic withdrew a hand from his overcoat pocket and tossed three balled twenties on the counter. The VHS tape disappeared with his hand into the same pocket and then he was shuffling back toward the door, never having uttered a word.

  Setting down Jugular Wine, David couldn't help but register his amazement; he felt as though he'd just wandered into a particularly unsavory episode of The Twilight Zone. The books on the shelves, the background "music," the customers--they represented a seemingly vast undercurrent of society, people with alternative deviant needs and desires, not only buyers of such materials but creators, publishers, distributors.

  Gathering his courage, David approached the cash register. "Hello," he said. "I'm looking for . . . well, I have this friend who--who shops here, and I've been--"

  "Book records are confidential," the man snapped. "Kennie Starr found that out when he tried to subpoena records of Ms. Lewinski's purchases at Kramerbooks in '98. So if you're going to, go ahead and serve me and get the fuck out."

  David held up his hands and took a step back. "I'm not serving you anything. I'm not even making any inquiries about his reading habits. I was just wondering if you knew this guy. He's quite striking-looking. Very pale skin, bright red hair that he just shaved."

  "Confidentiality is of the utmost importance to our customers," the man said. He sneered, revealing a set of perfect, glistening teeth. "Good friend, huh?"

  "Look," David said. "He's not a friend." He knew he was losing ground, but he couldn't exactly reveal that he'd treated Ed without violating his patient confidentiality. "He's someone I met last week. I helped him out of a jam. I know he frequents this store, and I thought if you saw him, you could mention--"

  "I don't involve myself in my customers' lives," the man said.

  "There's nothing involving about it. I'll pay you to give him a message for me."

  "I don't take bribes."

  "Think of it as a delivery fee."

  When the man leaned over the counter, the spiderwebs bulged. "I don't know who you're talking about. We have a lot of customers. I suggest you buy something or get the fuck out."

  David elected to get the fuck out.

  Chapter 35

  REALIZING he was running late for the resident meet-and-greet, David raced back across town. His annoyance that The Eagles now qualified for the Oldies radio station was quickly replaced with dismay when the news cut in. "The Westwood Acid Thrower is still on the loose after a daring escape from the UCLA Medical Center last night. Sources indicate that ER Division Chief Dr. David Spier was in a standoff with the LAPD after he refused to release the suspect due to--"

  An abrupt disquietude seized David. He clicked off the radio and drove in silence. His untainted career had not prepared him for being the center of controversy. Now every decision he made would be before the glaring spotlight of the media.

  Before going to the Sunset Recreation Center, he stopped at home and changed into a suit. Dinner was over by the time he parked and arrived at the banquet hall on the third floor. People were milling on the back terrace, enjoying the summer evening. An immense semicircle of a balcony, the terrace overlooked th
e UCLA track, its view broken only by the occasional tree. David was amused to find he'd coiled his stethoscope inside his jacket pocket from force of habit.

  He nodded to his colleagues as he made his way through the crowd outside, taking care to seek out the new faculty members. Carson wore Birkenstocks beneath his slacks, and a wide grin. Near the bar, Don spoke in hushed tones to a busty blonde in a sequined dress, drawing close to whisper so their cheeks touched. Other colleagues seemed to huddle together after David walked by, probably discussing his treating "The Westwood Acid Thrower."

  David ordered a cranberry juice and soda, and stood at the concrete balustrade alone, sipping his drink from a too-small red straw. Large overheads lit the track, a few remaining athletes toiling below through the tail end of a practice. The crack of a starting gun carried to David on the breeze, and he thought of days when he too ran and lifted and sweated and woke up unsore to do it all over again.

  A soft hand on his shoulder broke him from his thoughts, and he turned to see Diane at his side, wearing a black wraparound dress. A single chain of pearls rested across her upper chest, kinking slightly over the lines of her clavicles.

  "I know," Diane said. "You're not used to seeing me dressed. Any luck tracking down our friend at the seedy bookstore?"

  "No. But I got to leaf through a coffee-table book featuring clitoral pierces, so the outing wasn't a total loss."

  Diane grimaced.

  Two attendings at the bar looked away quickly when David caught their eye. Being scrutinized by his own goddamn colleagues on top of everything else. His anger departed quickly, though; he'd made his bed. Turning back to the track, he saw that dark clouds had gathered by the mountains, threatening a shower. "I see Don's no longer with his wife."

  "You didn't hear? He got one of those photo traffic tickets, the kind like in Beverly Hills where a camera snaps your picture at an intersection when you run the red light."

  "Don't you mean if you run the red light?"

  "Anyway, the picture showed up at home, and his wife opened it, and there was Don in the car with some nurse from peds."

  "How'd you hear that?"

  "From Dr. Jenner. They play golf together."

  "Do doctors really play golf together? How wonderfully stereotypical."

  Diane reached for the front of his shirt, then stopped herself. "You missed a button."

  Everyone began moving inside for the post-dinner address. Having raced around for the past few days, David had neglected to prepare a speech. He was too tired to worry about it; he'd spoken at so many events, he'd be able to regurgitate something suitable.

  A man in a red caterer's jacket shuffled along the edge of the terrace, plucking empty cups and bottles from the balustrade. David had noticed earlier, when the man had smiled, that his teeth were stained gray, probably from taking tetracycline at too early an age. He limped slightly, favoring his left leg. David glanced down--sure enough, a special shoe. Probably a childhood brush with polio. The vaccine was developed in the mid-'50s; the man looked to be in his late fifties--that seemed about right. If he was twelve when he contracted--

  "David."

  When he turned to face Diane, he was surprised to find the balcony mostly empty.

  "You're zoning out on me. What were you thinking about?"

  He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "How our bodies are marked. How physicians are like detectives, reading scars and limps and intonations, seeing what we can glean about a person's past and present."

  Diane looked disappointed. "Relevant to the past days' events, I suppose."

  "Why? What were you thinking about?"

  "Our conversation in the cafeteria." She folded her arms, a fluid, graceful motion. "I decided we'd both be stupid to walk away from this after a few half-assed dates."

  He smiled as if she were joking, though he knew she was not.

  "Come on. Your ageism aside, you think I don't notice how you look at me? How we interact? We both know it's more than professionalism, David."

  "Well, it shouldn't be." He realized he was speaking loudly, and he lowered his voice. "I'm the division chief and you're a resident."

  "I thought we were colleagues."

  "We . . . we are."

  "Besides, it's not like anyone can accuse you of sexual harassment. I'm the one who'd get hauled off on that count."

  "Diane, I'm still your superior." He did not meet Diane's stare when she looked over at him. His tone became more assertive. "There are certain boundaries that shouldn't be crossed in the workplace." He felt his face flush and realized he was growing anxious. He wiped a line of sweat from his forehead with two neat strokes of his index fingers. "And besides, I just lost my wife."

  She didn't look as though she wanted to touch that one. She let it sit with him, and it didn't sit well. It was a cheap excuse; he wondered how long ago it had lost its legitimacy. Was two years long enough to mourn? To let go?

  "That's three excuses in thirty seconds," Diane said, "and I still haven't heard you say you don't feel the same way."

  "Well, I don't think I really need to--"

  "When's the last time you had a friend over for dinner?"

  "What?"

  "A friend. Just a friend."

  "I don't know. I guess it's been awhile."

  "David, you are the most heavily sublimated person I know. You work constantly, you're in a field that doesn't involve long-term care so you have no long-standing relationships with patients, you have very little personal time, and with the exception of our few nights out, you don't date. It's like you've pulled yourself into a protective little shell. Maybe you don't want to recognize the fact that you still have feelings."

  His anger flared, instinctual and protective. "It's been a few years since your psych rotation, Dr. Trace. Why don't you back off the armchair analysis?"

  Diane's face hardened, and he felt a sharp stab of regret. Frustration, sadness, and intensity were all part of her weekly routine, but this was the first time he'd seen her really pissed. He started to say something to mitigate the harshness of his remark, but a woman stepped through the French doors to the back terrace. "Dr. Spier, we're ready for you!"

  "I'll be right there."

  Diane refused to look down or turn away; she faced him, angry and vulnerable. He tried desperately to figure out what he wanted to say but could not, and finally it was he who turned away as he headed inside to deliver his address.

  He moved through his remarks on autopilot. At one point, the room filled with laughter, and he was momentarily nervous before realizing he'd delivered a stock joke. Diane came in about halfway through and sat in the back.

  As soon as he finished, she headed out with one of the new residents, a tall, striking brunette. David had to walk at a fast clip to catch her in the parking structure nearby. Diane was climbing into the passenger side of a red VW, the other resident at the wheel. A soft rain was falling, more like a wet breeze.

  "Excuse me, Dr. Trace."

  Diane paused, half in the car. "Yes, Dr. Spier?"

  "I wanted to talk to you more about . . . about the case this afternoon. Would you mind terribly if I gave you a ride home?"

  She thought for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. "I guess that's fine." She leaned back down. "I'll see you tomorrow, Marcy."

  The friend nodded and pulled out, and David returned her wave. "Where are you parked?" Diane asked.

  He looked around the wide lot. "To be honest, I'm not sure."

  She shook her head but did not comment. She waited patiently as he walked around the lot with the alarm button depressed on his key chain, pointing it in all directions. Finally he heard a blip somewhere behind him and followed the noise back to his Mercedes. He debated opening the door for her, but decided that would be inappropriate.

  Aside from her occasional directions, they drove in complete silence to her apartment building on Chenault. He pulled over to the curb and they sat silently in the car, studying the faux walnut dash. />
  Diane said, "Let me get a word in edgewise, would you?"

  "Look," David said. "It's been a very difficult past few days and, for me, past couple of years. Lately, I've been trying to figure out how it all fits together, where I am in all this. As foolish as it sounds, I don't think I've really known where I am for a good long time, and I've only recently started piecing that together. And then this whole shitstorm hit with the escape. . . . " His voice trailed off and he realized he wasn't sure what he was saying. "You're right--I won't deny that I have certain feelings for you. But I'm not sure that those feelings are entirely appropriate."

  "Feelings can't be inappropriate," Diane said.

  "It's not that simple for me right now." He studied the steering wheel. "I'm afraid I'm a little lost."

  She nodded once, slowly. "That's the first honest answer you've given me, so I'm gonna let you get away with it." Amusement flickered through her eyes. "For now."

  "And I'm sorry I spoke to you so sharply."

  "I'm sorry I was pushing you. That's not my place." She laughed. "Wow. Our first fight and we haven't even had sex. You really know how to cut right to the good stuff." Smiling, she put her hand on the door handle.

  "So after all that, would it be entirely rude for me to tell you I think you're quite stunning?"

  She considered. "Yes," she said.

  "Okay," David said. "You're not stunning."

  "You're not either."

  David swerved out of his lane when he answered his ringing cell phone. He straightened the car and gave an embarrassed look around, but the road was empty.

  Blake's raspy voice. "You paged me again?"

  "Yes."

  "Don't turn it into a habit."

  "I'm looking into a few angles and if I . . . if I happened to locate the suspect and could bring him in or alert you, would you handle the arrest?"

  Blake's laugh gave off a deep rattle. "Your planning didn't work out so hot last time."

  "Would you?"

  "Shit, yeah. I'll take the collar. And the book deal. TV movie. Talk-show circuit. This cop thing's only temporary. I really want to direct, you know."