Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

"Oh, you know. I'm moving my procedure suite from across the street to upstairs from my office. Getting the damn thing up and running again has been something of a hassle, but aside from that- " Peter misstepped and grimaced, setting down his tray on a nearby picnic table. An empty wrapper blew from his tray, but he pretended not to notice. "Would you mind resting a moment?"

"No," David said. "Not at all."

Peter released his leg braces and they sat at the table, watching the men leap and pivot and shoot. One of the nurses took a low pass, biceps flexing beneath the cut sleeves of his scrub top, and shot a turn-around jumper from ten feet out. The ball missed wide and a flurry of legs and arms fought for it beneath the basket.

Peter watched the athletic melee. "Magnificent," he said. "So magnificent."

David cleared his throat uncomfortably. Peter waited patiently for David to find the words he was looking for. "You know how much I dislike being told what to do… "

"I do."

"With this business with Clyde and the escape… Was that a classic example of my going too far over an ethical point?"

"You Spiers are prone to inflation," Peter replied. "But I think I know you well enough to say that wasn't the case here. From what I've pieced together, you perceived there were some real risks."

David rubbed his eyes hard and it felt divine.

"When your back is really to the wall, you rely on instinct," Peter said. "It's all you have left. I've had to do it countless times. Hour eight of a procedure. Combat surgery in Vietnam. You let go and you trust that your instincts are good." He reached out with an oversized hand and hooked the back of David's head. He shook it once, roughly, an avuncular gesture. "You have good instincts," he said. "You know that as well as I. Don't pick yourself to death."

David exhaled deeply, the tightness in his chest dissipating by degrees. "I just wish I'd handled him better. Clyde. Kept him secured and gotten him the treatment he needs."

A hard foul at the hoop led to shouting among the nurses.

"There's not always something helpful to be done for people," Peter said.

"I'm a scientist," David said. "I believe people can be fixed."

"People can't always be fixed, David. They're not machines."

"No, but they can be analyzed like machines. Their posture and affect, blood work, and vitals. A good eye draws it together, finds what's broken, comes up with a protocol."

Peter laughed, a touch derisively. "You're so much like your mother in certain regards. Your instinct is there, your ethic, your proficiency. But not always empathy."

David recoiled. "What's that mean?"

"It means you're extraordinarily skilled and talented-God knows, more so than I-but occasionally you lose yourself in ethics and science. Sometimes it's better to feel your patients' pain and fear. Get dirty."

"You know," David said, "in this case, that's precisely what I did."

The nurses scrambled after a loose ball.

"People are wonderfully complicated, flawed creatures, David. Don't oversimplify them-for good or for bad."

A tall black nurse knocked the ball out of bounds, and it bounced over to Peter. He caught it easily and held it a moment too long before throwing it back.

He turned a wistful smile to David. "We're more than the sum of our parts."

David headed over to the Neuropsychiatric Institute, exiting the elevator on the sixth floor. He hit the buzzer to the side of the locked white door. A moment later, the door swung open, Dash all but filling the frame, arms folded across his massive chest. "There's been some whispering on the wards about the way you've been acting. Then you call me with this?"

"Did the cops come through here yet?"

"Yes. Filled me in on this DaVella business. Of course, they were pissed off when I didn't let them in. As you know, we don't disclose most patients' names." Dash eyed David, as if to make sure he'd caught the implication.

"I need your help, Dash."

"My shift is over. I'm on my way to my workout."

"This isn't trivial."

Dash sighed, a deep rumble. "You're looking for a patient with polydactyly, huh? On both hands?"

"Do you have a person fitting that description?"

Dash's head tilted in a half nod, half shake. "We might."

"I need to speak with him," David said.

"How do you know it's a him?"

David sighed. "You know what they say, Dash."

Dash's lips twitched, but did not form a full smile. "What's that?"

"Internists know everything and do nothing. Surgeons know nothing and do everything. And psychiatrists know nothing and do nothing."

Dash's booming laugh echoed a ways up the cold corridor.

"I'm asking you to do something here," David said. "If there was anyone who would ever respect patient confidentiality, it's I."

"You looked like an asshole, David. After the escape."

"I know," David said softly. "I know." He waited patiently for a verdict.

"Don't make me regret this," Dash finally said. He turned and entered the ward, gesturing for David to follow. They walked down the long corridor toward the reception desk encased in reinforced glass. Behind windows to their left, patients congregated in a recreation area.

A cluster of patients sat together, following a low-impact stretching workout on TV. The busty woman on-screen leaned forward in a hamstring stretch, grabbing both feet. Most of the patients could barely get their hands to their ankles. An attractive woman in her twenties shuffled aimlessly through the room, her paper slippers shushing on the tile. An older man with tardive dyskinesia sat alone at a table, his lips popping out in a rapid series of puckers, his fingers making choreic movements, as if playing the piano.

A nurse sat down across from him and engaged him in a game of cards. His straining lips loosened into a momentary smile.

Dash steered David past the reception desk down another locked corridor lined with seclusion rooms. The seclusion rooms were always kept lit, so staff members could observe the enclosed patients through the small sliding windows in the doors.

Dash paused outside a door and tapped it gently with a knuckle. "Give a holler if you need me," he said. "I'll wait out here." He walked a short distance up the corridor and leaned against the wall.

David gripped the knob and slid open the tiny window. The room, no larger than eight by ten, was entirely white. A wiry man paced along the far wall. He paused, his head snapping up at the sound of the window sliding open, his tight, close-set features quivering. He swept his hands through his hair with deft, quick gestures.

David stepped inside and eased the door almost shut behind him. The white walls reflected the overhead light harshly. David folded his hands out before him, keeping them clearly in the man's view. "Hello, I'm Dr. Spier. I work over in the emergency room."

"I'm Dean Lograine," the man said. He offered a six-fingered hand, which David shook cautiously. "My friends call me Mouse. My enemies too."

His gown was patterned with snowflakes, as had been the one Elisabeth had worn on her final day. David found the similarity unsettling. Over each of Mouse's nipples, a stain had spread through the fabric, the size of a quarter-breast discharge, a side effect of some psychiatric meds.

"I came by to follow up on a complaint you made a few months ago, against a Douglas DaVella."

"So you believe me that guy came in here was harassing me something awful and I told him to go stuff it. Stuff it I said but he kept on and kept on about my meds like he was asking everyone and he seemed scared really scared and angry just to be there."

"Where did this take place?"

"Out in the rec room. Arts 'n' crafts. We were doing arts 'n' crafts. Popsicle-stick men. Ever make those?"