Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

Wailing, hands scrabbling over his sweatshirt, he curled and writhed on the dirt at the base of a pine tree, and then they were there, tall discordant figures blocking out the sun and pointing guns-men in suits, a parking attendant, police officers, a homeless man. The sweatshirt pulled tight across his fat stomach, and every time it shifted, shards of Pyrex dug into his flesh, the alkali eating into healthy skin and open wounds alike.

Hands reached out at him, but he fought them, clawing, and then a policeman's boot came hard in his side and he was screaming and jerking on the ground, yanking in vain at the sweatshirt.

Loud, stabbing voices.

"Don't touch him!"

"He's got lye all over himself!"

"Gloves! Gloves!"

"Frisk him."

"Grab that arm. Somebody grab that arm!"

"I don't want to get the shit on me."

"Call HazMat. Call Animal Control."

He was flipped over onto his stomach and he bellowed, his mouth bent wide, dry lips cracking. A thread of saliva connected the corner of his mouth to a pine cone near his cheek. Cuffs clamped down hard around his wrists. A knee pinned his shoulder to the ground on either side and hands fluttered all around him-up the lengths of his legs, under his arms, in his crotch. Glass crunched beneath him, against his gut and chest.

A cluster of onlookers gathered on the sidewalk at Le Conte.

"Check the scrub top-there's a hidden pocket inside the breast."

A hand scrabbling over his breast, darting into his inside pocket. Empty. "Ow, shit!" The man jumped back, wiping blue liquid off his hand.

"Stand back! Stand back! Grab his arms. Stay clear of the sweatshirt. It's doused."

One of the uniformed cops pressed a pistol to the back of Clyde's head and Clyde closed his eyes, but someone grabbed the barrel, pulling it away. "Are you fucking crazy? You can't do that."

"Watch me."

A scuffle. Someone fell. Searing pain.

"You can't do it. It's too obvious."

"There's press around."

Hurwitz, Gregg

Do No Harm (2002)

"Do we haul him in?"

"There are civilians watching."

The air smelled of rankled flesh. Clyde screamed as loud as he could, a high-pitched, girllike warble, his open mouth pressing into dirt and pine needles. The spasms in his throat distorted his words. "It hurts oh God it hurts."

"I hope so, you motherfucker."

"Now you know. Now you know."

They stood back, framing his writhing body like trees fringing a pond. Faces smug with satisfaction. One of them crossed his arms.

Clyde rocked and lurched like a trussed calf, his entire body shuddering, his arms pinned behind him. His sobs came as pained wet grunts. "Oh God it hurts. It hurts so bad. Three, two, one, stand back from back from oh my God no."

"Should we bring him into the ER? We're gonna have to bring him in."

"Fuck that." A wad of spit landed on his cheek. "Let him burn."

David heard them coming before he saw them-the loud bellow of a wounded animal and a crescendo of shuffling boots. The doors slammed open as the officers shoved the man through, and David lowered his chart and closed the door to the exam room he'd just left.

Jenkins held an animal control come-along pole, the wire noose at the end of the shaft cinched around the wailing man's neck.

"Oh God. Help me. Make it stop help me make it- " Another loud, wavering cry.

Jenkins released the spring catch and pulled the noose free. The man instantly collapsed. He lay facedown on the floor, his arms bent back behind him, wrists cuffed. Still gloved in white latex, his hands stuck up like some sort of plume.

The officers stood in a half circle behind him.

Jenkins flashed a cold grin at David. David looked from the gardeners to the homeless man to Yale and Dalton, realization dawning.

David ran forward and crouched over the man. "What happened? What happened to him?"

"Alkali," Yale said. "During our pursuit, he tripped and spilled on himself."

"His sweatshirt is soaked. Bring me trauma shears. Someone bring trauma shears! How long ago did this happen?" David pulled a pair of gloves from a box on a nearby cart and pulled them on. "Get a stretcher!"

Patients and staff had spilled out of the exam rooms and the Central Work Area into Hallway One, gawking. Leaving her post at the triage desk, Pat strode through the swinging doors behind the officers. Don stood in the middle of the hall behind David, hands stuffed into his physician's coat.

"Clear the hall of patients," Dalton barked. "Now!" Doors slammed shut and patients scurried.

The man's cheek pressed flat against the floor. Saliva sprayed the tile when he whimpered. David checked his pulse, which was racing. At first, he thought the man's face had been burnt, but then he realized the redness was severe acne. Wisps of hair wreathed his scalp, which was shiny with sweat.

David would need to get the patient out of the cuffs to treat him. Right now, the man seemed more scared than dangerous. Posture limp and slumped. In case he became agitated, someone should be standing by with a high-potency neuroleptic for IM rapid tranquilization. However, the sight of someone waiting with a needle might alarm and anger him. If it came down to it, David would try to talk the patient into taking sedatives orally-it would be less violating and would make the man feel as though he were an active participant in his treatment. For now, he needed to be calmed and reassured.

"You're in a safe place," David told him. "I'm here to take care of you. I need to ask you some questions. Are you taking any drugs?"

A long drawn-out groan. Could mean yes, no, or nothing.

"Is this alkali? I need to know if this is alkali."

The man's head rocked up and down against the floor in a nod.

David looked up at the officers. "How long ago did this happen?"

"I don't know," Yale said. "Five minutes maybe."

"Uncuff him. We have to get him out of this sweatshirt."

Dalton shook his head. "No way, Doc. Ain't gonna happen."

"Saline bottles!" David tried tearing the moist sweatshirt with his hands, but it didn't give. His gloves came away blue and he shot them off onto the floor and pulled on another pair. "Trauma shears-where are the trauma shears? And someone call psych-preferably Dr. Nwankwa. Give him a heads-up."

The staff members stood still. Their stares, hardened with hatred for Clyde, were nearly tangible. The hall took on an eerie dream silence.

David turned the man on his side; he rolled willingly. The entire front of his sweatshirt was doused in alkali. A few jagged edges of Pyrex protruded. The fabric smelled heavily of cigarette smoke. "They walked so slow," the man sputtered.

"We'll give you something for the pain," David said. "Some morphine."

The man shrieked and bucked. "No shots," he cried. "No needles."

"Okay, okay. How about pills?"

"I don't take pills," the man moaned. "Pills are for faggots."

Leaning in the doorway of Exam Fourteen, Jill slid her pen into her scrub top. The material above the front pocket was lined with ink from near-misses. "I hope it hurts," she muttered.

"Jill," David snapped. "The patient can hear you."

"I hope so."

David found himself looking for Diane, though he knew it wasn't her shift. He'd have to find support elsewhere.

The man was sobbing. "They made me walk slow and burn."

David tried to quell his rising anger at his staff. Still, no one was moving to help him. "Where the hell are those trauma shears!"

Pat stood behind Jenkins, the overhead lights catching the black hairs peppered through her gray buzz cut. The skin around her eyes was drawn taut, sending a network of wrinkles through her cheeks. Her expression was one David had never seen.

The man flopped and screeched.