Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

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 first 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."

"I believe they already have, Dr. Spier."

"In our professions, it doesn't do us any good to give in to hatred."

"You don't know anything about my job. I'd suggest you refrain from proffering advice about it." Yale's upper lip curled slightly. The first sign of anger. Fair enough-David hadn't realized how condescending his words were until they were out of his mouth.

He tried to proceed more cautiously. "I know this is the kind of liberal bullshit you hate to hear, but the man we're dealing with may even be aware of the fact he needs help. Have you considered that? You could use that information somehow to catch him. He's targeting people right outside the ER, feet away from the treatment and care they need. Subconsciously, maybe he doesn't want them to get hurt."

Yale tossed the unopened In-N-Out bag at a trash can a good five yards away and hit it dead center. "If he didn't want people to get hurt," he said, "he wouldn't throw Drano in their faces."

Peter Alexander's balance was not aided by the aquarium walkway that ran from the reservation desk to the restaurant proper, but David knew better than to offer his assistance. The hostess watched as Peter lurched and waddled, arms spread wide as though he were anticipating a hug. A fat-eyed parrotfish darted quickly underfoot and Peter swayed, one of his leg braces clinking against the back of a chair. The hostess slowed her pace and caught David's eye, but David kept his hands in his pockets and shook his head.

The crowd at Crustacean evinced Beverly Hills's notion of upscale-cell phones and silk shirts, movie moguls, and the occasional high-priced call girl. Peter's unusual gait caught a few glances, but most people had directed their attention elsewhere by the time he passed.

They reached the base of the stairs and the hostess turned, flustered. "I'm sorry, but the table is upstairs. I can see how long the wait is down here. I didn't know… when you made the reservation no one told us that… "

"Actually," Peter said, with a smile and an aristocratic tip of his head, "I prefer upstairs."

He gripped the banister, but seemed displeased with its height. He beckoned David with a hand and David turned around, making his shoulder available. Peter's oversized hands were unnaturally strong, and David was grateful for his blazer's shoulder padding. Leaning over, Peter readjusted his loafer around the curved base of his leg brace. The metal had stretched and distorted the mouth of the shoe, lining the oxblood leather with tan wrinkles.

Turning sideways, both hands on the curved banister, he swung one stiff leg out behind him, hooked it on the first step, then pivoted his hips so his other leg followed. He slid his hands about a foot up and repeated the motion. Step number two.

The hostess glanced nervously up the curved length of the staircase. There were over thirty steps to the top. David took the menus from her with a smile.

"It's the table for two in the back corner," she said.

David kept a few steps behind Peter as he worked his way up. Peter was winded when he reached the top, and he mopped his brow with a floppy white handkerchief.