Do No Harm (45 page)

The woman's muffled screams continued, rising in pitch and frequency. David felt an overwhelming sense of embarrassment as he crossed to the moaning mound of clothes and pulled away a crusted sweatshirt to reveal the amorphous, static-bathed shapes of a couple fornicating on an overturned television set. The riddle of the cries was solved. David closed his eyes, feeling himself flush. He could not help but picture Freud's somber, astute face.

He started for the open window, but then paused. He was inside now. Whatever laws he may have violated were already broken. He might as well look around and see what he could glean about Clyde Slade, aka Douglas DaVella, aka Slade Douglas, while he waited for Yale's call. He ran through a quick checklist in his mind of what he should look for. DrainEze. Lithium. Evidence.

He stepped farther into the apartment, surveying it. Clyde obviously had been removed from normal socialization for some time. Burnt and cracked pots and pans covered the small counter that served as the kitchen. Among them sat hardened clumps of bread that Clyde had molded into sculptures. They resembled decaying gingerbread men. Toothpicks protruded from the sculptures, decorative flags or voodoo pins.

David almost tripped over the cat bowl, overflowing with mush and teeming with flies. The odor was riper here, more fresh. He turned and saw, sprawled along the top of the kitchen pantry, a partially decayed cat. It had been dead for weeks, and the flies and maggots were at it.

With a nervous stare at the door, David quickly entered the bathroom. On the interior doorknob hung a child's hospital gown that looked to be the one Clyde had worn during Connolly's study. David stared at the filthy mirror, dotted with bits of pus from popped zits. The toilet was splattered with stains. Diarrhea--an early side effect of lithium toxicity. The medicine cabinet was empty, except for a massive bottle of generic aspirin. Aspirin meant more trouble; when taken with lithium, it raised the lithium blood level and thus the likelihood of toxicity. If Clyde did indeed suffer from migraines, that would explain why he kept so much aspirin on hand. David briskly searched around the sink, but was unable to find where Clyde stored his stolen lithium.

He pulled aside the frayed shower curtain. The entire bottom of the tub was lined with jam jars, lids screwed on tight, stacked five or six jars high. David raised one to the light and saw the yellow liquid inside. Urine. Clyde was saving his urine. The date and time was etched on a label on the side in black pen. David looked over the jars with increasing amazement. Clyde had been saving his urine, off and on, for months. A few jars were filled with clusters of hair, and others with fingernail and toenail clippings. One held a collection of scabs. David tried to swallow, but his throat clicked dryly.

The best he could come up with to assess the contents of the tub was a weak parallel to Freud's anal stage, and to the fetishizing nature of recently toilet-trained two-year-olds. Flushing the toilet and becoming upset at where it all went. Fixation at an early stage of development. Maybe Clyde was holding on to some part of himself. Himself at an earlier age? David shook his head, irritated. Too facile an explanation.

Stepping back into the main room, David approached the large wooden table. Several books were stacked to one side, and he noticed the Louise M. Darling Biomedical Library stamp on the fore edges--Clyde had stolen them from the hospital. David laid the books side by side. A Merck Manual, a DSM-IV, a Physician's Desk Reference, a dictionary, and several psych textbooks. One of the pages of the PDR was dog-eared, and David flipped to it.

Not surprisingly, it was the section on lithium. Several bullet points detailed its possible uses: to control mood swings and explosive outbursts, and to help patients combat aggressiveness and self-mutilation. One phrase, "may also help control violent outbursts," had been circled in red. Clyde must have mistaken violent outbursts to mean outbursts of violence rather than intense, brief tantrums. Certain words were underlined, and David flipped through the dictionary and found them marked there correspondingly.

Driven by senseless compulsions that he didn't understand, Clyde was--with some degree of sincerity--trying to prevent himself from committing acts of violence, and poisoning himself in the process. It was, above all else, a display of wish fulfillment, a desperate hope that magical pills could heal him and dissolve his violent urges. Clyde had managed to galvanize some of his few and pathetic resources to this misguided end.

Beside the books, stubbed-out cigarettes lay clustered on a small plate, a few wayward butts scattered across the table like shriveled white worms. Most of them were mashed together in twos, as if they'd been smoked that way. Clyde had probably developed a heavy dependence on nicotine to reduce his anxiety and improve his concentration. Two cigarettes at a time would certainly maximize those effects.

David leaned over a sheet of notes that Clyde had scrawled, most of it phrases he'd evidently culled from the med textbooks. Clearly, much of the reading was above his level; Clyde had drawn up lists of words he didn't understand. David studied his writing, considering whether Clyde was dyslexic. At the bottom of the page were several phrases. Nic wether toda. Helo ther. Hav a nice dae. Variant spellings of dae were written beneath--day, daye, da.

Clyde's desperate attempt to wear a mask of sanity.

Beneath the table was a large metal footlocker. David shook it, and it gave off a metallic jingle. There was a smudge of blue liquid near one of the built-in locks, which David took to be alkali. He hadn't sighted DrainEze in the kitchen or bathroom; Clyde probably kept it secured in the footlocker. Searching for the footlocker key in the messy apartment would be hopeless. Instead, David pulled a toothpick from one of the bread sculptures on the kitchen counter, jammed it in the footlocker keyhole, and snapped it off. That should be enough to keep Clyde away from the alkali until the police arrived.

Near Clyde's bed, on an upended orange crate that served as a nightstand, David found a rusted numeral--the 1 he'd noticed missing from the Pearson Home's address. It served as a paperweight, pinning down a yellowed, damaged photograph of Happy Horizons. The house had not been significantly altered over the years. These fetishized objects from Clyde's childhood home--how did they fit into his psychopathology?

Taped to the wall by the bed, a headline torn from the LA Times proclaimed fear courses through ucla medical center. Clyde's goal accomplished. Staring at the headline, David wondered how sincere Clyde's attempts to cure himself were.

The longer David was in the apartment, the more acutely he sensed his own approaching panic. He was breathing hard, glancing at the door every few seconds, and feeling an immense urgency to leave, but the information he was uncovering was riveting and invaluable. He had no idea when Clyde was coming back; he shouldn't push his luck.

He turned, regarding the rest of the room to see if there was anything else he might have missed. In the corner, a desiccated snapdragon leaned from an ice-cream carton, soil spilled around its base. Something seemed odd about it, and it took David a moment to figure out what. The stalks and leaves were angled toward the kitchen rather than the window. The plant should have been leaning in the direction of its sunlight source, not toward the dark apartment interior. It must have been recently moved.

David walked over and crouched above the plant, pulling it away from the wall. It hid a heating vent set into the crumbling plaster. The vent cover tilted from the hole easily, revealing an orange bottle of pills. Falling to his knees, David reached inside and removed it. He lined the arrows and popped the white top. It was full of pale yellow pills. Eskalith. 450 mg.

Clyde's self-consciousness about taking meds was so great, he hid them even within his own apartment. As if he couldn't bear to have them in plain view.

David replaced the meds, set the vent cover back into its hole, slid the plant into place, and headed for the window. He heard a key hit the lock of the front door and felt his gut go slack. One bolt turned, followed by another slide of the key, and then the second. David was halfway to the window before it hit him that he didn't have nearly enough time to get out. There was nothing big enough to conceal him, so he flattened himself against the wall behind the bed, in the shadowed corner beside the window. Save the darkness, David was in clear view.

The third dead bolt slid with a thunk and the door swung open. Clyde's outline filled the doorway, a few swirling locks of hair framing his head like a halo set afire. He swayed a moment on his feet, then stepped inside.

David remained completely inert, afraid even to exhale.

Clyde shuffled in, slamming the door behind him and throwing a dead bolt, and headed directly for David. If he turned on a light, David would be completely exposed. Clyde's pace quickened as he neared David, then he lunged forward. David fought the urge to draw his arms up protectively, but Clyde fell to the bed, face pressed to the mattress, and lay still. After a few moments, he began to draw ragged, uneven breaths.

David remained in a panic freeze, head drawn back to the wall. A bit of light from the distant Healton's sign fell across Clyde's back, making the chain around his neck glint. David eased out a breath.

With painstakingly slow movements, David took a step toward the window. Then another. He was just lowering his foot when his cell phone vibrated.

Clyde rolled over, his head rising lazily from the mattress. David sprinted for the front door, rather than risk scrambling out the nearby window. Sensing Clyde's struggle to rise from the bed behind him, David turned the three dead bolts furiously, trying to find the correct combination to unlock the door. Several times, he twisted the bolts and yanked the door, but it wouldn't open. He heard pounding footsteps--Clyde charging him with a roar--and he ducked to the side, Clyde's weighty body smashing into the door and splintering several panels. Clyde collapsed on the floor, stunned. The door dangled lamely, jarred loose from the hinges, though the dead bolt remained buried in the frame on the other side. David grabbed the hinge side of the door and yanked it farther open. He leapt through the gap into the hall as Clyde stirred and snatched at his ankle, missing it.

David flew down the hall, hearing Clyde crash through the wreck of the door, and took the stairs two at a time. He sprinted through the lobby, Clyde bellowing behind him. Though David knew he was faster, he sprinted with a blind, panicked speed. Through the gap in the fence, across the empty lot, tripping and fumbling for his car keys in his pocket. He did not hear Clyde pursuing him.

David reached the light-bathed parking lot of Healton's, his Mercedes sitting out like a showcase vehicle, and unlocked the doors with his key's remote control. He slid into the car and squealed out onto the street, banking a hard left over the curb. He could not resist a look out the window as he passed the abandoned lot, and there, halfway across and pulling to a halt near the scorched car, was the shadowy form of Clyde.

Something glinted in his hand--maybe a gun, maybe not--and then Clyde stopped, standing frozen in the dark lot like a misplaced statue, watching the car speed away. David would be haunted by that image--Clyde's quiet form in the lot staring out at him with something calmer than anger, something like interest newly kindled.

He did not let up on the accelerator until he was several blocks away, then he realized his cell phone was vibrating in his pocket. He fumbled for it and flipped it open. "Where the hell have you been?"

Yale's voice was calm as always. "Take a deep breath. I was in an interrogation. What's going on?"

"I tracked down Clyde . . . to his apartment . . . he came home . . . chased me . . . 1501 Brecken Street, Apartment 203." David knew he sounded frantic, but he couldn't get his breathing back in control.

"You tracked him yourself?" The sounds of Yale moving on the other end of the line. "Is he at that location now?"

"No. I don't know. He knows I know where he lives. He chased me, but stopped a few blocks from his house."

"I've got the area Clyde's bedded down," Yale yelled to someone else. "Get me Pacific on the line. Let's move, let's move!" Mouth back to the receiver. "Where are you?"

"I'm in my car. Driving."

"Is he chasing you now?" The beat of Yale's shoes on the floor quickened.

"No. He stopped."

"All right. We're moving in. Clear out of the area immediately."

David's heart was racing, and he felt a line of sweat working its way down the inside of his biceps. "Check the area around Clyde's apartment, including Healton's, the Pearson Home, and the empty lot beside it. I'll call the hospital, alert security, and have someone get upstairs with Diane and Nancy in case Clyde's heading over there. I'll go to the hospital now. I'll be in Diane's room."

"Fine. I'll send a unit upstairs too. Don't leave there. Keep your phone on. And Spier? You're in deep shit if this goes sour. You broke our deal."

"How can I break a deal you never accepted?"

Yale hung up without responding.

JENKINS had gotten the call and driven over immediately. He'd flown across town, sirens blaring, drawing a nasty look from Bronner when his cup full of tobacco spit sloshed over onto a knee.

Bronner stood by the curb, scrubbing at the Kodiak stain with a thumbnail. Jenkins broke through the crowd of press, shoving roughly and dodging questions, and bolted up the stairs. A crime-scene technician tried to stop him in the hall, but Jenkins straight-armed him into the wall. Yale met him at the shattered door of Clyde's apartment and placed a splayed hand on his chest, walking backward as Jenkins continued to advance. "We're sweeping for evidence. Watch your step. SID doesn't want us all through here. We don't know if he's--back the fuck off, Jenkins."