Do No Harm (37 page)

He watched the bird slowly awaken, like a mechanical toy coming to life. "Where's Elisabeth?" it asked. "Where's Elisabeth?"

At six-thirty, a sudden and irresistible urge to do laundry seized him. He grabbed the hamper from his bedroom and sorted his laundry carefully by color, washing the dark blues with the blacks and browns, and leaving the light blue scrubs for the next load. As he awaited the washer's chime, he sat in the laundry room and watched the appliance vibrate and hum.

When he finished, he stood over the warm mound of clothes on his bed and began to separate the items. With the slow automatic movements of a robot, he lined the socks in pairs, stacked his boxers, folded his shirts in tight military rectangles.

His scrub bottoms were all folded identically, and he laid one pair on top of another until they rose like a smooth blue tower. One of the pant legs was a half inch out of line with the others and he pulled it out and refolded it, refolded it, refolded it, his hands working in short concise movements until they began to tremble and then the stack blurred before him and he turned to sit on the bed, using one hand to lower himself slowly, and the sobs seized him from the chest up, his breath coming in short choking gasps, and he covered his eyes with a cupped hand though there was no one there to see and wept for the first time in two years.

DAVID double-checked the address he'd jotted on a slip of paper as he pulled the car to the curb near the intersection of Butler and Iowa. It was 1663 Butler Ave. The West LA Division police station would have been another dull city building if the curved entranceway hadn't been tiled a fantastic reddish-orange.

David parked in the lot across the street beneath the red-and-white metal tower he'd sighted from Santa Monica Boulevard. He'd heard similar structures referred to on TV shows as repeaters; they were presumably used for radio contact between police vehicles. The sky, gray and heavy from last night's storm, looked as though it might not return to its summer blue without another downpour.

His head swimming drunkenly from his sleepless night, he crossed the street to the station. He had to push hard into the heavy glass doors to get them to swing. Probably bullet proof. The lobby smelled of dust. Two desk officers manned the sprawl of the wooden counter, one facing away from the entrance, typing hypnotically on a computer. A Dr Pepper machine hummed against the near wall, bookending a row of mustard-yellow chairs. A sign proclaiming investigators hung overhead, with an arrow pointing down a hall. The main desk officer, a black woman in her late thirties, stood with one hand on a cocked hip, arguing with someone on the telephone.

David realized he'd never been in a police station. Ever.

A bulletin board labeled west la predators hosted several crime-alert flyers, a composite sketch of Clyde staring vacantly from the one pinned dead center. A stack of extra flyers sat on the nearest yellow chair, and David took one of Clyde, folded it, and slid it into his pocket.

He headed for the men's room at the end of the lobby, wanting to take a moment to brace himself. The bathroom floor and walls were overlaid with yellow and avocado-green tiles. The fierce lighting made the whole room shine like a dentist's office, and he left before his incipient headache could gain momentum. He waited patiently at the front counter while the woman ignored him, directing her considerable energies toward the telephone handset.

"That is the way it works, sir. You are to come down here if you'd like to file a report. That is all we can do. . . . Listen to me. Listen to me. Listen to me. That. Is. All. We. Can. Do." She glared at the handset suddenly, as if it were to blame for the fact she'd been hung up on. It clanged loudly back into place beneath the counter. Then she looked up at David for the first time. "Yes?"

"I need to speak with Detective Yale."

"Was he expecting you?"

"Yes. Well, no, but I think--"

"Well, which is it? Yes or no?"

"Look, Officer, my name is David Spier. I'm a physician at the UCLA emergency room. I wanted to talk to him about the alkali throwings. He said to call anytime."

She glanced David up and down. "I don't see no phone."

"I thought it would be better to handle this matter in person."

She picked up the telephone and wedged it between her cheek and shoulder. Assuming she was making some sort of inquiry call, David strolled over and pretended to study the Dr Pepper machine. Her trademark hang-up nearly rattled the windows.

"Hey, you. Doctor-man. Go down this corridor. This one. You're going to go up to the second floor. No. No. Stop. That door. Okay." She hit a button beneath the counter and the door in front of him buzzed.

He pushed through and made his way upstairs to find another lobby with another counter. A gruff officer was waiting for him, reeking of coffee, the edge of his brown mustache darkened by a recent beverage. "Well, well, well," he said. "If it isn't Dr. Kevorkian." He looked behind him, presumably for someone to laugh at his joke.

"I'm looking for Detective Yale."

"Detective Yale is in court this morning and won't be reachable." He pawed his hand down over his mustache and wiped it on his cheap slacks. "I can handle whatever matter you have."

"I'd really prefer to speak with him."

"Then come back tomorrow."

David inhaled deeply, drumming his fingers on the countertop. "How about Detective Dalton?"

"Detective Dalton took the afternoon off."

"Where is he?"

"I can't tell you that."

"I was told by both men to contact them immediately if I had anything important to tell them."

The officer looked unimpressed.

"You know what this is regarding," David added.

"If you have anything important to discuss, you should discuss it with me." The cop saw he was getting nowhere and heaved a coffee-stale sigh. "All right, Doctor. Dalton's up at the Academy. You'll find him behind the graduation field."

David got turned around three times trying to find his way, but finally drove up a hill and saw the metal sign stretched between two stone towers with Spanish tile domes, los angeles police academy spanning its width in gold letters. A series of stucco buildings and terraces reminiscent of a grandee's hacienda, the Academy worked its way up the slope of a hill. A sentry post stood near the base of one of the stone towers, and a blond guard manned the booth. David heard the crack of gunfire from a nearby shooting range.

Feeling a bit uneasy, unsure if access to the Academy was restricted, David approached the sentry. "Hello," he said. "I was hoping you could point me to the graduation field."

Her smile, fast and radiant, reminded him of Diane's. "Absolutely, sir. It's right up here." She raised a gloved hand and pointed.

He nodded his thanks and trudged up the hill, turning left onto the wide field. Down at the end, he noticed a picnic ground and recognized Dalton's slump near the immense barbecue pit. As David drew close, two girls came into view, sitting behind Dalton at a battered picnic table. They sat perfectly still, a few badly wrapped presents in a small pile before them. A breeze kicked up, and the younger one shivered.

David paused, knowing he shouldn't intrude.

Dalton pulled a two-liter bottle of Coke from a plastic bag, which promptly blew away in the wind. He chased it down and turned back to the barbecue, only to find the hot dogs on fire. He poured some Coke over them to put them out, and pulled them from the blackened grill onto a paper plate. David backed away, but Dalton spotted him before he could leave unnoticed.

Dalton wore a red flannel shirt and a pair of jeans, mended badly at one knee. The left leg of his jeans flared at the ankle, maybe from a gun. "Still want to help the sick fugitive, Doc?"

David did not respond.

"This is personal time for me," Dalton said, turning back to the soggy hot dogs. "My little girl's birthday party."

"I'm sorry," David said. "I wouldn't have come if I'd known. I was told you were at the Academy, so I figured it was work-related." He leaned over toward the girl, hands on his knees. "How old are you?" he asked.

Dalton nodded at his younger daughter. "Go ahead and answer." He glanced back at David self-consciously.

"Ten," the girl said. Her face, stained with food, was downturned and sad. Her older sister didn't look much happier.

A homemade cake sat lopsided on a sheet of cardboard at the end of the table. Dalton slid two burnt hot dogs, moist with Coke, into buns and set the plates in front of the girls. The older daughter pried at the hot dog with a glittery pink fingernail, and the burnt shell crumbled a bit.

"Go on," Dalton said. "It's not that bad." He fixed himself a hot dog, took a bite, and pretended to enjoy it.

The girls stared at their plates. The little one looked as if she might start crying. A volley of gunshots echoed in the background, and the children jerked in their seats.

"I'm going to talk to the man for a moment, girls," Dalton said. He nodded at his ten-year-old affectionately. "You can go ahead and open your presents."

He strode off toward the graduation field, and David followed. Arms crossed, Dalton faced him. "What?" he asked.

"I'd like to put our differences aside and offer whatever help I can," David said.

"After you've been questioning our judgment? Getting in our way?"

"I know you were doing what you thought was right--"

"Doc, I make thirty-two thousand dollars a year after taxes. What the fuck do you think I do things for? The money?"

"I don't care anymore," David said. "I just want to help."

"What, now that someone you like got hit?"

Dalton must have seen the pain in his face because he looked down at the ground. A recently discarded cigarette smoldered in the grass, and Dalton stubbed it with a savage twist of his foot. David could see on the side of his shoe where he'd colored the worn leather with a brown pen.

"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.