John Burley - The Absence of Mercy

“Yeah, any electric chair will do, right, doc?” he said. Let her chew that over for a while.

“I assure you that you’re in a safe place,” she replied. “Nothing in this room is designed to hurt you.”

He scoffed at the remark. Check the traps, baby. Check the traps.

“You don’t believe me?”

“It’s not what it’s designed to do—it’s what it can do. Isn’t that what they teach you in that military boot camp of yours? What if Mother Goose never came home? That’s the thick of it. Funny but it ain’t.” He glanced up at the microphone above him. It was capturin’ every flip-floppin’ word. Man, he had to be more careful with what he said. He couldn’t chance a slip-up. They’d be all over him. “You get those sektars off my back and maybe we can talk.”

“You’ve used that word before: sektars . I’m not familiar with that term.”

“Well, you should get familiar with it, tipsy-top. You and the goon squad, both.”

“Can you explain what it means?”

“Not if I wanna stay alive in this rat pit. Place is crawlin’ with ’em. Flip-floppin’ sektar parade last night. Couldn’t sleep a wink if I wanted to.”

“We can talk about strategies to improve your sleep, or I can ask the nurse to give you something in the evening to help you rest at night.”

“I’ll bet you could. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d like for you to feel better, yes. I think that the medications will help. Maybe we could start with just one.”

“And I’ll be up to eight H-bombs by the end of the week, with my brains oozin’ outta my ears. No thanks, Dr. Frankenstein.” He checked the corners again—thought he saw one. Just a glint of metal razor that was gone by the time the eyes focused completely.

“I respect your concerns, Martin. But I really am here to help you. Many of the thoughts you’re having are symptoms of a disease called bipolar disorder with psychotic features. The medications I’m recommending are designed to help improve those symptoms. That’s the goal.”

“Yeah? Well, you can kiss the bird with those word turds, you psychological nerd. This meeting’s over! ” Martin Vance leapt up from his chair, which toppled backward, striking the floor with a reverberating bang. Dr. Subina Edusei was on her feet almost as quickly, positioning her own chair between herself and the patient. Two of the psychiatric unit’s techs exited the nurses’ station in a hurry and were three-quarters of the way across the room before Subina held up her hand for them to stand by a moment.

“Settle down, Martin. This is a safe place for you.”

Martin frowned. “No-no-no-no-no-no-no.”

“I’d like you to walk over to the other side of the room now. We can talk more later if you want.”

“I don’t want none of your magic beans,” he advised her, shoving his fallen chair with his foot and storming off toward the far wall. The few patients who’d briefly turned their heads to watch the standoff quickly lost interest as Subina left the common area through the locked doors leading to the nurses’ station.

“You okay?” Tania Renkin—one of her favorite nurses—asked, meeting her at the door.

“I’m fine,” Subina said. She sat down at the desk and began entering a note in the chart. “Martin’s a little riled up this morning.”

“You want him to receive anything else?” Tania asked. “He got ten milligrams of Zyprexa IM early this morning. I don’t think it’s touched him.”

“See if you can get him to take a Zydis ODT.”

“If he refuses?”

Subina shrugged. “Show him the needle, and tell him that’s his next option. See if that changes his mind about taking the oral medication.”

“It often does,” Tania agreed. She looked out through the thick glass partition into the common area. Martin was pacing at the far end of the room, muttering to himself. “Martin doesn’t scare me. I’ve taken care of him before.”

“So have I,” Subina replied. “About four months ago, in fact.”

“When he’s taking his medication, he’s actually quite pleasant.”

“Yeah. He’d definitely pass the bus stop test.”

Tania smiled. “The bus stop test: If you encounter a person at a bus stop and don’t think to yourself, Hey, this guy’s crazy …”

“…then they pass,” Subina finished.

“It’s amazing how many mentally ill people can pass the bus stop test. I wonder,” she mused, “out of all the people we come in contact with in our daily lives, what percentage do you think are psychologically unstable?”

“If you knew the answer to that question,” Subina said, returning the patient’s file to the rack, “you’d probably never leave your house.”

“Right.” The two of them watched Martin as he continued to pace the room. “By the way”—Tania pointed a thumb toward the security monitor behind them—“have you had a chance to see the guy in Seclusion Room Two yet?”

“I looked in on him this morning when I got here. What’s his story?”

“Don’t know.” Tania shook her head. “He presented to the ER last night, ranting and raving, covered in scratches, obviously psychotic, unable to provide any useful information. The ER doc gave him five of Haldol and two of Ativan, and he got medicated with Geodon and Vistaril before we brought him over.”

“How did he respond?”

“Not well. It still took four security guards to get him into that room. He almost bit one of them.”

Subina studied the monitor. The man inside the seclusion room looked like a human wrecking ball: probably six foot four and pushing 250 pounds, most of it muscle. He’d removed his hospital clothing, revealing a crisscross of superficial scratches that covered the dark black skin of much of his torso and extremities. As she watched, he walked to the padded door and punched it hard. The muffled sound of the impact reached their ears a moment later.

“Do we have a name?”

“Not yet. He’s not someone we’ve seen here before.”

“Well, he’s going to need more medication—but right now I think the safest course of action is to just let him be.” Subina opened the door to the hallway leading back to her office. “I need to make a phone call before rounds. I’ll see you in the conference room in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” Tania replied as she entered her ID number into the automated medication delivery unit in the corner. “Let’s see if Martin will take his Zydis. We’ve got to get him looking good. In a couple of days, he might have a bus to catch.”

The usually vacant stretch of asphalt along Ross Ridge Road just north of Route 22 was presently flanked with vehicles positioned closely together along both shoulders of the roadway. Police cruisers composed the majority of parked cars, but an Action 7 News truck was also already on-site and two men were unloading camera equipment from the rear of the vehicle. Perfect, Sam thought, pulling over onto the soft shoulder. He killed the ignition, popped the trunk, and stepped out of the car. Down the street near the parked news van, he could see Diane Sellars making her way quickly toward him, camera crew in tow. Sam whistled to Tony Linwood, who stood nearby directing the occasional passing vehicle. “Tony,” he called over, “I do not wish to be interviewed by Ms. Sellars right now.”

“Okay, Chief,” the young deputy said with a nod, then headed off to intercept them.

Sam walked around to the back of his car. He retrieved a rain jacket from the trunk and donned it against the midday drizzle, which would steadily work its way to a respectable downpour before the afternoon was through. He crossed the street to join a small cluster of officers standing in a loose-knit circle in the wet grass. “Hey, Chief,” one of them said in greeting as he approached. The others turned.