Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

"I'm giving you a fix-it ticket," Jenkins said. "You have a broken taillight."

"No I don't," David said. "I just had-"

"I don't think you want to harass a police officer. Do you, sir?" Jenkins ripped off the ticket and handed it over the glass.

David realized that Bronner was now waiting back in the car, and he grew even more tense.

Jenkins clicked on his flashlight and shined it into David's face from two feet away. David squinted into the light. "He knows right from wrong well enough to hide from the authorities," Jenkins said. "He's not compelled to commit these acts if he can plot and wait. This is a mind that is purposeful. This is a mind that is in control." Jenkins's shadow loomed amorphous and large behind the powerful beam. When he spoke again, his voice was little more than a cold murmur. "This is a mind that you elected to defend." He clicked off the flashlight, and his eyes reflected back a glint from the dashboard lights.

David remembered his mother's hard-learned lesson from the young nephrologist who beat her-don't push a man on the edge-so he remained silent, but he readied himself to block a fist or flashlight butt coming at his temple. Instead, Jenkins pushed off the door frame. "You see about getting that taillight fixed," he said.

He headed back to the police car. As he passed the rear of the Mercedes, he swung the stock of the flashlight, smashing the taillight lens without breaking his stride.

David tossed his keys on the marble counter, closed the door to the garage behind him, let out an exasperated sigh, and hit the light switch. Nothing happened. He stepped forward into the living room, his hand scrabbling along the dark wall for another switch.

The voice came at him out of the darkness. "Don't bother."

David dropped his briefcase, the metal corner striking the hardwood floor, and he felt the flutter of papers settling around his feet. His eyes picked through the dark living room, coming to rest on the dark mass on the shadow of the leather chair.

"Why don't you sit down, Spier?" The voice was civilized and exceedingly calm. It wasn't Clyde, that much was certain. David wasn't sure whether he should be relieved by that, or more frightened.

"Do you want money?" David asked.

"Why don't you sit down?" the voice repeated. An arm rose from the formless shadow, indicating the couch across from the chair. David found himself obeying. He sat rigidly forward on the couch, trying to discern a face in the darkness. "It's come to my attention that you've been making… inquiries about me," the voice continued.

"Look, I don't know what- " David stopped. "Ed? Pinkerton?"

"That'll do."

David took a moment to gather his thoughts. "How's your wound? Is it healing?"

"Don't try to manipulate me," Ed said. "You're wondering: Am I going to hurt you? The answer: No."

"And why should I believe you?"

"You came looking for me, Spier. I didn't come looking for you." A moment of silence. "Why don't you have an alarm?"

"It's a safe neighborhood. Plus, we have Edison Armed Patrol."

"Yeah, they're doing a bang-up job."

"How's your kid?" David asked. "Your little boy?"

"Clever, Spier. We both know I told you I had a little girl. I always use the same lies. They're easier to keep track of." His affect was different from that he'd displayed in the ER. More shrewd.

"You used me," David said.

"I use a lot of people."

"But I went out on a limb for you. So you owe me."

"A phrase I wouldn't expect from you, Spier. What have you gotten yourself into? A dead hooker in the trunk of your Mercedes?"

"You've heard of the Westwood Acid Thrower? He came in and-"

"So now you feel responsible," Ed interrupted.

Coverage of the case must have been even more detailed than David thought. "Yes," David admitted. "I do. This guy's out there disfiguring women."

"You want revenge." Halfway between a statement and a question.

"No, no. God, no. I want him located and locked up."

"Why do you think I can help you?" Ed's questions came out of the darkness at him, one after another, baseballs from a pitching machine. David was struggling to keep up, to pull concise answers from the muddle of his emotions and motives.

"You'd said you were on parole, and that book you were reading.. you seemed accustomed to dealing with things outside the law. I don't know many people like that."

"Why don't you trust the police?"

"The first victim is a cop's sister. They're out to eviscerate the guy."

"And you don't think he needs eviscerating?"

"I think he's fucked up. Dysfunctional, possibly schizophrenic. I think he needs to be put under lock and key, and provided with psychiatric care."

"Lye thrown in women's faces. That's pretty evil."

David sat forward, shoulders hunched. "Evil comes in many guises. It can be banal. Why not pathetic?"

"And you want to… what?"

"I want to find him and get him into the hands of the right authorities."

"How?"

"I haven't figured that out yet," David admitted. "But if I can get in touch with him, I think I can talk him in. Safely. He seems to trust me."

"A renowned physician like yourself taking a walk on the wild side." Ed's hands went to his shadowy head, arms bent to the sides. "Sometimes people have to pay consequences whether they make the right decision or not. You learn that in my line of work."

"What is your line of work? What exactly do you do?"

"Extreme shit." A rustling sound as Ed ran his hand along the fine leather arm of the chair. "Expensive shit."

"Why did you steal your chart from the hospital? It didn't contain your real name."

"Our bodies are full of clues, Spier. X rays and written records can be damning. You'd be amazed at what the FBI can use to ID a body-dental fillings, stomach staples."

"I'm not certain, but I don't recall any dental fillings in your ass."

Ed laughed, a loud, sharp laugh, and David felt a sudden relief. "Will you help me?" David asked. "Or point me to someone who can?"

Ed's shadow rustled, and David made out several shapes on the table beside Ed. Small and rounded. David wondered briefly if they were grenades. He found his surprising lack of fear to be empowering.

"I'll talk to you. Some. While I decide whether or not I trust you. If I decide I trust you, I might be willing to point you in a few directions. But first, some rules. I don't do violence. You saw my build-I'm not a fighter."

"Fine," David said. "I don't want violence."

"I have no involvement with the police. Ever. Is that understood? This thing gets out of hand, it's coming down on you. Believe me, I'll vanish." Ed waited for David to agree. "Now tell me about this guy."

"Overweight, disheveled, about 6' 1"."

"You'll have to do better than that. You want to play detective, Spier? Get observant. There are thousands of things you could've noticed. Was he clean-shaven? Did he have soft hands, rough hands, clean hands, dirty hands? Did he chew gum? Any scarring? Unusual facial features? Piercing? Tattoos? Length of hair? Type of shoes? Work shoes, cheap shoes, dress shoes, Velcro shoes? Did they match his outfit? Did he wear designer clothes? Did they have any paint on them? Plaster? Mud? Was he laid-back or intense? Were his clothes tight or loose? Did he have a watch? Did he wear it on the left wrist or right? Did he wear a belt? Pager? Cell phone? Rings? Necklaces? Did you undress him? Did you put anything in the property locker? Dumb as it sounds, cops sometimes forget to check it. What was he talking about? Any unusual remarks?"

David sat in silence for a moment, processing. Ed did not rush him. Finally, David said, "His speech was rambling and disorganized. He seemed extremely agitated, especially in the presence of a psychiatrist. He wore no rings or jewelry. A tattoo was reported by his first victim, but he didn't have one when he came in. He has bad acne and pitted fingernails. I don't know if he's right- or left-handed, and I don't remember his shoes. He wore hospital scrubs, loose, with no belt. They smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. The scrubs may indicate that he feels identified with the hospital somehow. My guess is, he works there. I don't know if he chewed gum, but his breath smelled of orange candy-very strong. His hair was thinning and greasy. His hygiene was terrible."