Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

"Why should I work with you?" Dalton continued. "You're the guy who tells the jury this guy needs to go to the nuthouse."

"Why don't we catch him first, then decide what to do with him?"

"Still we, huh? Seems to me you got a Jesus complex, Doc. And let me tell you something. It's stupid to think you can save anyone else. That's a lie reserved for films and shitty novels." Dalton studied the tip of his shoe. "There's no we about this. Yale and I have it under control. Don't get involved."

Dalton's eyes were hard and intractable. To make any progress, David knew he'd have to deal with Yale. The detective at the station had said Yale was in court-maybe he was back by now.

Dalton turned to check on his girls. The hot dogs sat on the plates before them, uneaten.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you," David said. He extended his hand and after a moment, Dalton took it.

"Jenkins isn't a bad guy, you know," Dalton said. "He thinks like you do. You gotta cut out disease."

He did not release David's hand, and David did not pull it away. "Cutting is always a last resort," David said.

"I'd say we've reached the last resort," Dalton said. "Wouldn't you?"

David was too spent to argue.

"Me and Jenkins," Dalton continued, "we just figure enough shit goes wrong in the world without someone planning it."

Dalton's younger daughter began to cry, drawing his attention. She lowered an unwrapped Barbie doll into her lap, as her older sister tried to console her. Dalton dropped David's hand and jogged over.

"What's wrong?" David heard him say.

The older girl glared at him. "She already has a Doctor Barbie. Mom would've known that. Mom used to keep track of stuff like that."

Dalton crouched in front of his younger daughter and squeezed her thin little ankles. She wiped her tears with a tiny fist. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's not that. I don't care about that." Another volley of gunshots echoed over from the range, startling her upright, then she continued crying. The clouds clustered dark and ominous overhead. Rain would soon ruin Dalton's little picnic.

Dalton looked up from his crouch, a bit shyly, and nodded. David returned the gesture and left him with his family.

The desk officer at West LA cocked her head and glared at David with annoyance. "No, Detective Yale hasn't come back in. Why don't you leave a message?"

"Please tell him-"

"I know, I know. Dr. Spier stopped by. Fine. Thanks."

David left and sat in his Mercedes in the parking lot across from the station, keeping an eye on the entrance. He listened to the radio for a while as he waited. Boredom began to set in after about a half hour, and he debated leaving and finding Yale later.

A knock on the driver's window startled him. He turned to see Yale crouched over, a barely perceptible smile on his face. David rolled down the window.

"Can I help you?" Yale said.

"I'd like to talk to you about some things."

"Specifics are helpful."

"The case," David said. "In private."

Yale took him upstairs and enclosed him in an interrogation room, complete with an observation mirror. He left him in there alone about fifteen minutes, probably enacting an intimidation strategy he'd learned in some noirish detective course. David studied the carving in the wood table beneath his hands. Tyrone's waiting for your sweet little punk ass. Inquire in LA County Jail, Cell 213. High school etchings with a street vernacular.

Into the back of one of the chairs, someone had etched the three wise monkeys wearing gangsta shades-see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. An apt trio of mascots for an interrogation room.

Finally, Yale entered. He pulled up a chair opposite David.

"I want to help you catch him," David said. "And don't tell me to talk to the Public Information Officer. I can help you. Let me help."

When Yale stood up and paced behind him, David resisted the urge to turn and keep him in sight. "And what do you want?" Yale asked.

"I want the guarantee you wouldn't give me earlier. That Clyde won't be taken into an alley and shot."

Yale let out his breath in a long rush. "I don't get you. This guy has attacked your colleagues and now your girlfriend, and you're still hell-bent on protecting him. When do you get mad?"

David felt his face color with intensity. "I'm mad already. But that's not relevant."

"When do you want revenge?"

"I'm not about revenge. I'm happy to leave that to Jenkins. And Clyde."

"He's escaped. No longer under your care. Why do you still give a shit?"

"I want to deliver him to the authorities safely, as he would have been had I not contributed to his being in this position." David leaned forward, hands resting on the table. "Listen. I'm going to have access to a lot of information. Would you rather I shared it with another law agency?"

Yale circled around and sat opposite David again. "I can't give you a guarantee-now or ever-but I can tell you this: This case has become too much of a media circus for Jenkins to be allowed latitude within it. The Mayor's been cracking the whip. We have pressure coming at us from all angles. Things will go by the book. And if you don't trust my interpretation of the political situation, trust my selfish nature. Shit is not coming down on my ass. Jenkins's sister took it from the wrong end, and that is certainly unfavorable, but I am not having my case fucked up. There was a time when Jenkins might have had an… outlet… but that time has long passed." He let his hands slap to the table.

He and David regarded each other for what seemed a very long time.

"If a cop shoots Clyde in self-defense, or in defense of some other victim, would that be okay with you?" Yale asked.

The harsh realities of the case hammered David even through his haze of exhaustion. Clyde had whipped the city into a hurricane frenzy. Considering all the forces at work felt like sifting through the aftermath of some natural disaster. Every new bit of information seemed only to increase the burden on David's shoulders.

David weighed Yale's question cautiously. "No. But it would be acceptable."

"What are you offering me?"

"I have access to Clyde's medical records. I'm the only one he's really spoken to, and I believe he's attached to me in some ways that might prove helpful down the line. I can assist you in navigating through the hospital bureaucracy should the necessity arise. Anything new I discover, I give to you."

"I don't want you interfering with our investigation."

"I'll stay out of your way."

Yale settled back in his chair with a sigh. "I'm still gonna treat you like the dirt dog you are in front of my colleagues because I don't want them to know we're dealing."

"Are we dealing?"

"Not yet." Yale slid a business card across the table. "This is my pager number. Only talk to me."

"My preference." Still no pact, but it seemed they were making headway. "How did he get into Dr. Trace's apartment?"

"She's listed. There are two Traces in the area, and the other one's not Doctor. The front door of her complex is a simple bar lock, can be picked with half a brain and a tilted credit card. Used a regular pick set on her apartment door. No prints, smudges consistent with latex gloves. SID couldn't even find a partial. We found he dropped a couple extra doctored capsules in her Tylenol bottle, in case she popped a few of those first." Yale chewed his lip, his features softening. "It seems we all underestimated this guy."

David stood at the counter in Medical Records, staring down at Clyde Slade's file. He'd spent about an hour at the station, filling in Yale but withholding the theories he wanted to flesh out more in his own mind. And of course, he'd made no mention of Ed. On the drive home, he'd received a page from Medical Records, informing him Clyde's file had arrived.