Do No Harm (2002)

by Gregg Hurwitz

  The best he could come up with to assess the contents of the tub was a weak parallel to Freud's anal stage, and to the fetishizing nature of recently toilet-trained two-year-olds. Flushing the toilet and becoming upset at where it all went. Fixation at an early stage of development. Maybe Clyde was holding on to some part of himself. Himself at an earlier age? David shook his head, irritated. Too facile an explanation.

  Stepping back into the main room, David approached the large wooden table. Several books were stacked to one side, and he noticed the Louise M. Darling Biomedical Library stamp on the fore edges--Clyde had stolen them from the hospital. David laid the books side by side. A Merck Manual, a DSM-IV, a Physician's Desk Reference, a dictionary, and several psych textbooks. One of the pages of the PDR was dog-eared, and David flipped to it.

  Not surprisingly, it was the section on lithium. Several bullet points detailed its possible uses: to control mood swings and explosive outbursts, and to help patients combat aggressiveness and self-mutilation. One phrase, "may also help control violent outbursts," had been circled in red. Clyde must have mistaken violent outbursts to mean outbursts of violence rather than intense, brief tantrums. Certain words were underlined, and David flipped through the dictionary and found them marked there correspondingly.

  Driven by senseless compulsions that he didn't understand, Clyde was--with some degree of sincerity--trying to prevent himself from committing acts of violence, and poisoning himself in the process. It was, above all else, a display of wish fulfillment, a desperate hope that magical pills could heal him and dissolve his violent urges. Clyde had managed to galvanize some of his few and pathetic resources to this misguided end.

  Beside the books, stubbed-out cigarettes lay clustered on a small plate, a few wayward butts scattered across the table like shriveled white worms. Most of them were mashed together in twos, as if they'd been smoked that way. Clyde had probably developed a heavy dependence on nicotine to reduce his anxiety and improve his concentration. Two cigarettes at a time would certainly maximize those effects.

  David leaned over a sheet of notes that Clyde had scrawled, most of it phrases he'd evidently culled from the med textbooks. Clearly, much of the reading was above his level; Clyde had drawn up lists of words he didn't understand. David studied his writing, considering whether Clyde was dyslexic. At the bottom of the page were several phrases. Nic wether toda. Helo ther. Hav a nice dae. Variant spellings of dae were written beneath--day, daye, da.

  Clyde's desperate attempt to wear a mask of sanity.

  Beneath the table was a large metal footlocker. David shook it, and it gave off a metallic jingle. There was a smudge of blue liquid near one of the built-in locks, which David took to be alkali. He hadn't sighted DrainEze in the kitchen or bathroom; Clyde probably kept it secured in the footlocker. Searching for the footlocker key in the messy apartment would be hopeless. Instead, David pulled a toothpick from one of the bread sculptures on the kitchen counter, jammed it in the footlocker keyhole, and snapped it off. That should be enough to keep Clyde away from the alkali until the police arrived.

  Near Clyde's bed, on an upended orange crate that served as a nightstand, David found a rusted numeral--the 1 he'd noticed missing from the Pearson Home's address. It served as a paperweight, pinning down a yellowed, damaged photograph of Happy Horizons. The house had not been significantly altered over the years. These fetishized objects from Clyde's childhood home--how did they fit into his psychopathology?

  Taped to the wall by the bed, a headline torn from the LA Times proclaimed fear courses through ucla medical center. Clyde's goal accomplished. Staring at the headline, David wondered how sincere Clyde's attempts to cure himself were.

  The longer David was in the apartment, the more acutely he sensed his own approaching panic. He was breathing hard, glancing at the door every few seconds, and feeling an immense urgency to leave, but the information he was uncovering was riveting and invaluable. He had no idea when Clyde was coming back; he shouldn't push his luck.

  He turned, regarding the rest of the room to see if there was anything else he might have missed. In the corner, a desiccated snapdragon leaned from an ice-cream carton, soil spilled around its base. Something seemed odd about it, and it took David a moment to figure out what. The stalks and leaves were angled toward the kitchen rather than the window. The plant should have been leaning in the direction of its sunlight source, not toward the dark apartment interior. It must have been recently moved.

  David walked over and crouched above the plant, pulling it away from the wall. It hid a heating vent set into the crumbling plaster. The vent cover tilted from the hole easily, revealing an orange bottle of pills. Falling to his knees, David reached inside and removed it. He lined the arrows and popped the white top. It was full of pale yellow pills. Eskalith. 450 mg.

  Clyde's self-consciousness about taking meds was so great, he hid them even within his own apartment. As if he couldn't bear to have them in plain view.

  David replaced the meds, set the vent cover back into its hole, slid the plant into place, and headed for the window. He heard a key hit the lock of the front door and felt his gut go slack. One bolt turned, followed by another slide of the key, and then the second. David was halfway to the window before it hit him that he didn't have nearly enough time to get out. There was nothing big enough to conceal him, so he flattened himself against the wall behind the bed, in the shadowed corner beside the window. Save the darkness, David was in clear view.

  The third dead bolt slid with a thunk and the door swung open. Clyde's outline filled the doorway, a few swirling locks of hair framing his head like a halo set afire. He swayed a moment on his feet, then stepped inside.

  David remained completely inert, afraid even to exhale.

  Clyde shuffled in, slamming the door behind him and throwing a dead bolt, and headed directly for David. If he turned on a light, David would be completely exposed. Clyde's pace quickened as he neared David, then he lunged forward. David fought the urge to draw his arms up protectively, but Clyde fell to the bed, face pressed to the mattress, and lay still. After a few moments, he began to draw ragged, uneven breaths.

  David remained in a panic freeze, head drawn back to the wall. A bit of light from the distant Healton's sign fell across Clyde's back, making the chain around his neck glint. David eased out a breath.

  With painstakingly slow movements, David took a step toward the window. Then another. He was just lowering his foot when his cell phone vibrated.

  Clyde rolled over, his head rising lazily from the mattress. David sprinted for the front door, rather than risk scrambling out the nearby window. Sensing Clyde's struggle to rise from the bed behind him, David turned the three dead bolts furiously, trying to find the correct combination to unlock the door. Several times, he twisted the bolts and yanked the door, but it wouldn't open. He heard pounding footsteps--Clyde charging him with a roar--and he ducked to the side, Clyde's weighty body smashing into the door and splintering several panels. Clyde collapsed on the floor, stunned. The door dangled lamely, jarred loose from the hinges, though the dead bolt remained buried in the frame on the other side. David grabbed the hinge side of the door and yanked it farther open. He leapt through the gap into the hall as Clyde stirred and snatched at his ankle, missing it.

  David flew down the hall, hearing Clyde crash through the wreck of the door, and took the stairs two at a time. He sprinted through the lobby, Clyde bellowing behind him. Though David knew he was faster, he sprinted with a blind, panicked speed. Through the gap in the fence, across the empty lot, tripping and fumbling for his car keys in his pocket. He did not hear Clyde pursuing him.

  David reached the light-bathed parking lot of Healton's, his Mercedes sitting out like a showcase vehicle, and unlocked the doors with his key's remote control. He slid into the car and squealed out onto the street, banking a hard left over the curb. He could not resist a look out the window as he passed the abandoned lot, and there, halfway across and
pulling to a halt near the scorched car, was the shadowy form of Clyde.

  Something glinted in his hand--maybe a gun, maybe not--and then Clyde stopped, standing frozen in the dark lot like a misplaced statue, watching the car speed away. David would be haunted by that image--Clyde's quiet form in the lot staring out at him with something calmer than anger, something like interest newly kindled.

  He did not let up on the accelerator until he was several blocks away, then he realized his cell phone was vibrating in his pocket. He fumbled for it and flipped it open. "Where the hell have you been?"

  Yale's voice was calm as always. "Take a deep breath. I was in an interrogation. What's going on?"

  "I tracked down Clyde . . . to his apartment . . . he came home . . . chased me . . . 1501 Brecken Street, Apartment 203." David knew he sounded frantic, but he couldn't get his breathing back in control.

  "You tracked him yourself?" The sounds of Yale moving on the other end of the line. "Is he at that location now?"

  "No. I don't know. He knows I know where he lives. He chased me, but stopped a few blocks from his house."

  "I've got the area Clyde's bedded down," Yale yelled to someone else. "Get me Pacific on the line. Let's move, let's move!" Mouth back to the receiver. "Where are you?"

  "I'm in my car. Driving."

  "Is he chasing you now?" The beat of Yale's shoes on the floor quickened.

  "No. He stopped."

  "All right. We're moving in. Clear out of the area immediately."

  David's heart was racing, and he felt a line of sweat working its way down the inside of his biceps. "Check the area around Clyde's apartment, including Healton's, the Pearson Home, and the empty lot beside it. I'll call the hospital, alert security, and have someone get upstairs with Diane and Nancy in case Clyde's heading over there. I'll go to the hospital now. I'll be in Diane's room."

  "Fine. I'll send a unit upstairs too. Don't leave there. Keep your phone on. And Spier? You're in deep shit if this goes sour. You broke our deal."

  "How can I break a deal you never accepted?"

  Yale hung up without responding.

  Chapter 56

  JENKINS had gotten the call and driven over immediately. He'd flown across town, sirens blaring, drawing a nasty look from Bronner when his cup full of tobacco spit sloshed over onto a knee.

  Bronner stood by the curb, scrubbing at the Kodiak stain with a thumbnail. Jenkins broke through the crowd of press, shoving roughly and dodging questions, and bolted up the stairs. A crime-scene technician tried to stop him in the hall, but Jenkins straight-armed him into the wall. Yale met him at the shattered door of Clyde's apartment and placed a splayed hand on his chest, walking backward as Jenkins continued to advance. "We're sweeping for evidence. Watch your step. SID doesn't want us all through here. We don't know if he's--back the fuck off, Jenkins."

  Five heads snapped to attention. Then, the Scientific Investigation Division went back to work, dusting and marking. One held a jar of urine to the light; another flipped the pages of the DSM-IV with gloved hands.

  Dalton shuffled over from his position at the window, stepping between Yale and Jenkins, resting his hand lightly on Jenkins's stomach and walking him a few steps back.

  "You listen," Yale said. "I'm keeping you in the loop on this as a favor. Calm the hell down or you're gonna blow leads. Is that what you want?" He took a step forward, glaring at Jenkins over Dalton's shoulder. "Is that what you want?"

  "No," Jenkins said.

  "All right. Me neither. But save your bull-in-a-china-shop routine for speeders and jaywalkers. This is my case. And I'm gonna bust the POS, for your sake and your sister's, but don't you fuck it up by being such a hard-on, or I'll make a few calls and you'll be shoveling out stables for the mounted unit."

  Jenkins's eyes narrowed. "Sorry," he managed.

  "We missed him. Dr. Spier tracked him here and called in the address. We came over with SWAT to serve the warrant, but by the time we got here . . . " He gestured to the broken door. "No sign of Clyde C. Slade. We have units out around the area, but nothing yet."

  One of the cops popped the locks on the footlocker and raised the lid, revealing a container of DrainEze nestled among syringes, Pyrex beakers, and other medical paraphernalia. When Jenkins caught sight of the alkali, his lips pressed together until the pink left them.

  "Place is a fucking monkey house," Dalton grumbled. "Jars of scabs and shit. That reek we're all relishing--it's from a rotting cat in the kitchen."

  A technician snapped a photo, and Jenkins tensed up at the flash.

  "Don't worry," Yale said. "By the time we're through with this place, we'll know at what grocery store he buys his TV dinners."

  A technician sifting through the contents of a vacuum-cleaner bag paused to sneeze. Yale grimaced at him. "Great. That's just great."

  "So what's the call?" Jenkins said. "What now?"

  Dalton flipped open his notepad. "DMV came back with expired registration to an old address. A '92 Crown Vic, bought at a sheriff's auction."

  "Irony," Yale said. "Rich." Hands on his hips, he turned and gazed at the half-open window. A shard of glass had been carefully balanced on the sill.

  "He had citations and parking violations up the yin-yang, but the car was never impounded. I assume he still has it, but we've found no sign of car keys." Dalton surveyed the wreck of the apartment. One of the technicians, on his hands and knees picking through dirty clothes, stopped to fan himself. "Though you could lose a refrigerator in this joint. But I think he bolted, took his car. We already called it in."

  "The good doctor sticking his nose in again," Jenkins said. "Fucking things up."

  "His ass is covered, though," Dalton said. He sighed, irritated. "It's within his rights to walk around, ask questions."

  "Unless he broke in here," Jenkins said.

  "He knows better," Dalton said.

  Yale walked over and lifted the shard of glass from the windowsill. He slid the pane down, revealing the hole the displaced shard had left, just above the latch. "Does he?" he asked.

  Chapter 57

  PETER was sitting at the edge of Diane's bed, his legs straight-braced out in front of him, when David entered the room. An ortho cane leaned against the base of the bed, but David knew better than to ask about vacillations in Peter's condition. Peter moved to rise. "Please," David said. "Sit."

  "Nonsense," Peter said. He turned around, gripping the bar at the foot of the bed and backing himself slowly onto his feet, then he pivoted, faced David, and shook his hand gravely. "Good God, what happened to you?"

  Diane craned to see around Peter. "Your lip, David. Did he attack you?"

  David walked over to Diane, hesitated for a moment, then pushed back her bangs and kissed her on the forehead. She looked surprised by this show of tenderness. Peter did not.

  "Don't get affectionate on me," Diane said. "I might not recognize you."

  David turned to Peter. "I'm so glad you were in the ER when I called."

  "Motorcycle versus streetlight," Peter said. "Crotch rockets indeed."

  "What took you so long?" Diane asked.

  "I've spent the last hour buttoning down the ER and dealing with security."

  "Why?" Diane asked.

  "I've just come from Clyde's apartment. I tracked him there and we had a confrontation. I escaped and gave Yale his address, but he probably fled before the cops got there. I thought he might come here."

  "You went alone?" Peter sank slowly back onto the bed. "Are you mad?"

  The question hung heavily in the silence. A loud rapping startled them, and David tensed as the door swung open. Yale, Dalton, and Jenkins entered the room, looking extremely displeased. Jenkins closed the door behind him firmly.

  "What are you doing barging in here?" Peter said. "This is a patient's room." He struggled to stand, and Jenkins took note of his efforts with a calm disdain.

  "We'd like to talk to you alone," Yale said to David. David noted genuine anger in his vo
ice--it seemed more than a front for Jenkins's and Dalton's benefit.

  David crossed his arms. "You can talk to me here. I don't mind if they're here."

  "We do."

  "Then you can talk to me in the presence of my attorney."

  "Listen to me, you motherfucker," Jenkins growled. "How about we jack your ass on the burg you committed at Clyde's pad, stick you in the general population at County, and have a big bad jig try you on as a condom. How about that?"

  Yale turned neatly on his soft leather shoes, facing Jenkins. "Out," he said softly. Jenkins did not move, and Yale walked over and opened the door. "Out," he said again.

  With a glare at David, Jenkins straightened his shoulders and walked from the room. Yale closed the door and nodded at Diane. "I apologize for that."

  "I should hope so," Diane said. "That's the first time I've ever been exposed to that kind of fucking language."

  "I take it you didn't find him," David said.

  "You stepped in it proper this time, Spier," Dalton said.

  David studied Yale; he seemed to be struggling between the competing needs to vent his anger or arrive at a more constructive state of affairs. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, you fucked up," Dalton said. "Our best bet for catching him would've been you finding the address, getting the fuck out of Dodge, and calling the police so we could sitting-duck his alkali-throwing ass."

  "That's what I was planning to do," David said. "But I thought there was a woman trapped in there."

  Yale looked puzzled. "Well, you thought wrong," he said. "And even if you were correct, you should have left her in there rather than risking your civilian rear end."

  Dalton ticked off the counts on his fingers. "Obstruction of justice, interfering with a police officer, burglary, contaminating a crime scene."