The Girl Without a Name (18 page)

I
'm not good at reading EEGs but it looks slow to me. “What do you think?” I ask the tech.

“No seizures,” she says, her eyes wrinkled from years of smoking. “Kind of slow, not too exciting.” We sit a minute, watching Candy stare out, electrodes spouting out of her head like she's Frankenstein and we're experimenting.

“Lots of sweat artifact,” the tech comments, wiping Candy's forehead off with a paper towel. She does this clinically, not like a mother dabbing her child but like a tech who's annoyed with all the artifact. “Does she always sweat like this?”

“Yeah, lately.” Serotonin syndrome, but my attending doesn't agree. But then again, he's the “wunderkind” from New Orleans and I'm a lowly resident, on probation.

“Well, the doc will be reading it today. We'll let you know what we find,” she says by way of dismissal.

“I'll check in later.”

The tech doesn't respond, frowning and wiping at one of the electrodes. As I walk out, I nearly slam into Detective Adams.

“Hello there,” he says, peeking into the room. “What's going on in there?”

“EEG,” I answer. “She's still out of it. Catatonic. Encephalopathic. Whatever.”

He stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. And I guess I am. I remember wondering how on earth I would ever learn all the Latin, all the -opathies, the medications. And one day, without warning, I was fluent.

“So I guess it wouldn't help to show her some pictures,” he says.

“Pictures?”

He rattles the bulky manila envelope under his arm. “We have twenty cars with that partial in New York.”

“Any limos?”

“No. But a couple of black town cars.”

“Maybe it's worth a try.” She was just this side of coherent when she picked out the license plate numbers after all. We walk in, and he takes out a close-up black-and-white glossy of a skinny white guy in a tracksuit. Candy's eyes drift down, and she does her mechanical moaning sound.

“Maybe that means something?” he asks, his eyes brightening.

“I doubt it. She does that all day.”

“Been doing that for twenty minutes now,” the tech adds. “And sweating. Did I mention sweating?” She reaches up to give her another wipe.

“Try another one,” I say.

He picks a mid-twenties Asian woman, the picture an enlargement of her driver's license, with a soft smile and a bob haircut.

Same glance, same moan.

“Huh,” he says.

“Yeah. That's what I mean.”

His shoulders droop a bit as he stacks the photos up in a tight pile and fits them back in the envelope. “I don't like any of them for kidnapping anyway,” he says. “No one's got a decent prior to speak of.” We walk side by side out of the room, the detective's knees cracking.

“Did you find out if that was Eliza Sapierski?”

“No. The staff person I talked to last time supposedly up and quit, and the agency clammed up. Said it wasn't her place to talk to us anyway, and they won't release patient information without a warrant.”

“Can you get one?”

“I'm trying. But we have no jurisdiction in Canada, and so far the authorities have been less than helpful.” He pops a piece of gum into his mouth, filling the air with mint.

We walk toward the nurses' station. “But it looks like her, don't you think?”

He shrugs and throws the silver gum wrapper away. “I think so, but it's hard to know. I mean, that's a stark before-and-after photo. Smiling in one and a corpse in the other.”

I tap my pen on Candy's chart. “So what do we do then? We can't just do nothing. Maybe I should try calling New Promises.”

He puts up a hand to slow me down. “The Canadians are looking over all these photos right now, seeing if anyone matches up on their side. Frequent border crossers or whatever. That'll help us focus a bit more.”

I nod, staring at the brown floor.

“I want to find her, too. But it won't help to send ten agents out on a wild-goose chase and miss our perp, will it?”

Perp, vic. Cop talk. A language
he
woke up speaking one day. “I guess not.”

He looks me in the eye. “You get Candy better. Let me take care of Janita. Deal?”

“Deal,” I answer, hoping to hell I can live up to my end of the bargain. As the detective walks out, I get to the nurses' station and start writing my progress note, when my phone rings. Dr. Berringer's name pops up.

“Hi, Zoe?”

“Hi.”

“I'm down in the cafeteria. Do you have a few minutes to meet? Maybe discuss the case?”

I glance at my stack of waiting charts. “Um, sure. That's fine.”

“I mean, if you don't have time or something…”

“No, no. I have time. It's no problem.” Of course Probation Girl has time. “Be down in five.”

Dr. Berringer waves to me from one of the alcoves in the cafeteria. These are the rooms they dress up on the holidays—candles and wreaths on Christmas, hearts and chocolates on Valentine's Day—an effort to soften the blow of spending your holidays in the hospital. Though I've always found this fabricated cheer even more depressing. I pay for some coffee, grab some mini-creamers, and meet him at the table.

“Thanks for coming,” he says as if this is his living room. “Just wanted to get some updates on Candy and stuff.” He lifts his coffee mug to his mouth with two hands, like a kid drinking hot chocolate on a cold day.

“Oh yeah, sure.” I dump in one creamer and take a test sip. Needs more creamer.

“Did Detective Adams have any more to say?”

“Yes, actually. I was going to tell you at rounds. I showed Candy's scar to Dr. Koneru, when she first was admitted. You know, the one on her ankle?”

He nods.

“And she looked into it and ended up finding the same scar on another girl from one of her old cases. And,” I continue, “it turns out they were both from the same adoption agency. In Toronto, called New Promises.”

He sits upright as if the revelation troubles him. “Maybe they were abusing them over there.”

“Maybe. She could have run away or something. Though it wouldn't be so easy to cross the border like that.” I take another sip of my coffee, which is now too creamy. “Did you think any more about the serotonin syndrome?”

“Yeah, it's not a bad thought. But everyone I talk to still thinks catatonia.” He clears his throat. “We'll see what the EEG says.”

“Right, that makes sense.”

He taps his long fingers on the table. “This case is a bitch. Hardest one I've ever covered. I'm not afraid to admit it.”

“For sure.” We pause then as a group of residents sits down at the back table by the window, running through their patient list. It's a favored spot for this; visitors and patients don't usually venture into the alcove rooms. For a few minutes, we sip at our coffees, having seemingly run out of things to say about Candy.

“Zoe, I wanted to talk to you about something.” He fidgets in his seat. “You probably figured out that I didn't just want to talk about work.”

The residents at the back table start laughing. “I was kind of wondering.”

“Yes, I needed to tell you something.” He takes a deep breath, staring down at his coffee, and lowers his voice. “I lied to you before, that night on the twelfth floor. When I said I wasn't cheating. I was.”

I lean back in the chair. “Okay.”

“That was the main reason for the divorce.”

I nod, crinkling the empty creamer.

“It's over now. It was stupid. She was a lot younger than me, and I guess I was just, I don't know, flattered.”

Perhaps this explains the tense silence at the coffeehouse when he and his wife came that one time. “It happens,” I say.

“Yeah, but not to me. Well, not before this time anyway. We had our problems even before all that, but this was the last straw.”

I take off my glasses and start cleaning them, not sure what I'm supposed to say. “I don't mean to be rude, Dr. Berringer, but why are you telling me all this?”

He pauses, flicking his mug with his index finger in a tinny rhythm.

“You know, Zoe, I don't have many friends,” he says. “Good friends, I mean.”

“Okay?”

“And I feel like we connect. You're going to be an attending soon, a colleague, not just a resident.”

“This is true.”

“I guess what I mean to say is, I think”—he looks in my eyes—“we could be friends, you know. You and me. I hope we can, anyway.” He looks in his coffee again. “And I don't want to be lying to you. I want you to hear it from me before you hear it from someone else. I'm not a bad guy, Zoe. I did something stupid, but I'm trying. With everything, I'm trying.”

The residents at the back table get up to leave, carrying their trays. “I don't think you're a bad guy. We all make mistakes.”

“Well”—Dr. Berringer takes another sip of coffee—“thanks for saying that, anyway.” He puts the mug down. “And how are you doing with everything? With the ADHD and all that.”

“Good, I guess. Better anyway. I can focus for more than, like, three consecutive seconds.”

He throws his head back with a laugh, and the overhead light shows a smattering of blond-gray stubble on his cheeks. A nascent fall beard? A three o'clock shadow? His eyes glitter gray blue in the light. “You're damn smart, Zoe. One of the smartest residents I've ever taught.”

“Oh, you don't have to say that.” I feel myself blushing.

“I know I don't. I mean it, though. You keep me on my toes.” He touches my wool sleeve, delivering a static shock. “Sorry.” He retracts his hand.

“That's okay. I'm not easily shocked,” I say, a lame attempt at humor, and he gives me a sheepish smile and stands up. “Be right back.”

As he walks off to the bathroom, I fight the buoyant smile about to take over my face. The telltale, stupid, budding-crush smile. Which is ridiculous, considering Dr. Berringer may be wunderkind smart and, yes, somewhat attractive even. But he's also married, for now anyway. And an alcoholic. And my attending.

Not to mention that I'm already dating someone.

Taking a sip of my cooling, syrupy coffee, I wonder about this. Is this why I haven't made a decision about next year with Mike? Just to keep my options open? The notion does not paint a pretty picture of me, and offers yet another reason for Mike to flee to North Carolina. The sound of a text interrupts my unhappy musings, and I search in my pocket. But then I realize it's Tad's phone, which he left faceup on the table. I shouldn't look, I know that, but I do anyway.

Sign the papers or I will tell them everything.

It's from his wife.

I
can make…” I say, mentally perusing my minuscule catalog of recipes, “cheese and crackers?”

Scotty openly guffaws. “You mean, you know how to open up cheese and crackers and put them on a plate?”

“Yes,” I say. “I'm very talented at that.”

“Congratulations. Bring cheese and crackers. We're thinking, like, four p.m.”

“Four p.m.? What is this, the early bird special?”

“No,” he says. “But Kristy has to work that night, so we're starting early.”

Kristy again. They've been going out over a month now, which is like four dog years for Scotty. “Right. Red or white?”

“Both. Oh, and tell Mike to bring that crostini thing.”

“Oh, Mike's not coming.”

“He's not?”

“No. Last-minute decision. He's going to North Carolina to be with his mom.”

“Oh, okay, fine. Four p.m. Don't forget the wine.”

Just as we're hanging up, Dr. Berringer dashes in the room waving an EEG report. “Hot off the press.”

I grab it from him. The fax is blurry, but the bottom line is clear:
Normal. No slowing or epileptiform activity noted.

“So we should be thinking ECT. Maybe as soon as next week.” He raps his fingers on the counter in a staccato rhythm, thinking. “Yeah, next week. That'll give me time to line up anesthesia.”

I scan the EEG report. “No mention of sweat artifact, huh?”

Dr. Berringer peers over my shoulder, and I catch the scent of lime shaving cream. Stealing a glance at the smooth skin of his jawline, I am struck with the sudden, bizarre urge to kiss him. I lower my head away from his, pretending to scrutinize the EEG report more closely. Jesus, I really must be missing Mike.

“You're right. No sweat artifact,” Dr. Berringer says, stepping back again. “Hey, Jason, I've got a couple things to wrap up in the office. Let's round in an hour?”

Jason looks up from a journal article. “Sounds good.”

When he leaves, I start putting the EEG report in the chart. “So what do you think?”

“About what?” Jason asks.

“ECT. It just seems so…I don't know.”

Jason keeps reading, moving his index finger across the page. “She isn't getting better. What other options are there?”

“I guess.”

He looks up from his book. “So how did your hospital cafeteria date go?”

“I told you it wasn't a date. We just went over the case.”

“Right,” Jason says, smirking.

“He did mention a couple things.” I debate how much to reveal. “And he said he wants us to be friends.”

He laughs. “Oh my God, that is the oldest line in the book.”

“I think he meant it.” I pause. “Like he's just lonely or something. Going through some stuff.”

“Whatever. I just hope we're done on time today.”

“Why? And please tell me it doesn't start with a
D
.”

He flips another page. “In more ways than one.”

I file Candy's EEG in her chart. “Again, too much information.”

“Dominic wants to meet for coffee,” he clarifies.

“How civilized.”

“Apparently he wants to do a debrief of his entire family before Thanksgiving. He's got something like a million cousins. You know these Catholic families.” Jason stands up with a yawn. “Going to hit the library. See you later.”

“Later.” A whole hour of dead time looms before me. So I call Detective Adams. “It's your daily phone call.”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “I wish I had some news for you. A bunch of damn dead ends. Anybody stand out in the photos I sent you?”

“Not really.” After much pleading, he'd finally e-mailed me the driver's license photos. “The guy you pointed out looked kind of familiar for some reason, but no one really stood out.”

“The guy from Ontario? With the black sedan?”

“Right,” I answer. “How'd you get those, anyway? I thought Canada wasn't playing.”

“Yeah, well, let's just say I have a buddy from border patrol who owed me a favor.” He yawns into the phone. “Anyway, he was the only one with any kind of prior. Taking a piss in his Santa costume.”

I pause. A Santa costume? “Wait a second, let me take a look at him again.” I pull up his picture on the computer. A pudgy guy with a white beard and a childish smile. His nose laced with the finest rosacea. “What the hell was his name again?” I ask myself out loud.

“Donner,” he answers. “Raymond Donner.”

“Holy shit!”

“What?”

“He's the guy!” I yell out.

“What guy?”

“Are you near a computer?” I ask. “Pull up the New Promises website.”

I hear keyboard tapping. “Okay, yes, I'm on it.”

“Go to the staff page.”

It takes him a click. “Wow.”

“The Santa guy. That's the same Donner, isn't it?”

“Yeah, that's him.” He lets out a long breath. “Okay, we've got to get the Canadians working with us,” he says. “I don't like where this is going.”

Arthur gives Jason's knee an investigatory sniff, then decides to go full monty. Jason evaluates the humping form attached to his leg. “Your dog has issues.”

“Don't we all.”

“No, really. I think he's questioning his sexuality.”

“Oh no, he's fully aware of his sexuality. I've caught him humping stuffed animals. He might have Klüver-Bucy syndrome.”

“Klüver-Bucy syndrome,” he snorts. “You're a total nerd, you know that?” He pushes Arthur off, and the dog dry-humps the air a few times, then skitters off to the kitchen to cause who knows what kind of chaos. Last week, he shredded an entire bag of frozen bagels, and I'm still finding remnants. Jason sits next to me on the couch, leafing through my
Us
magazine. “This magazine sucks.”

“It's not high literature,” I agree. Arthur trots back into the family room and noses me with his faceless monkey. A regular Hannibal Lecter, my dog. I toss the monkey as far as I can, and he is back in a second, thrusting the soggy monkey at me again. He could play Fetch until my arm falls off. I turn to another page in my review book.

“Any other magazines?”

“I think I have an
O
magazine in the bathroom.”

Jason wrinkles his nose. “I'm not
that
gay.”

“Listen, I'm trying to study. Why don't you pick up Kaplan and Sadock?” I ask, pointing over to the tome of a textbook on my desk.

“Somehow that doesn't sound appealing.”

“Well, amuse yourself. Play with Arthur. I told you I was going to study. There's a beer in the fridge.” I take a cold sip of mine.

Jason heaves a sigh and stands up. He comes back from the kitchen uncapping his beer, takes a swig, then pulls out his phone to check his e-mail. He showed up tonight on my doorstep. It turns out the coffee date was not a briefing session after all, but a hundredth dumping. Jason didn't want to talk about it, so I'm cheering him up in the best way possible, studying while he sulks. And I needed a distraction from ruminating over Raymond Donner anyway. Detective Adams promised me he'd work on a warrant for him.
This might just break the case
, he said.

“So what's up with Berringer?” he says. “You think he's an alkie or what?”

My antennae elevate. “Probably.” I flip another page, trying for nonchalance.

“I think the guy's kind of weird,” he says, scrolling through his phone.

“Weird how? All psychiatrists are weird.”

“Yeah, but he's, like, more weird. I don't know. I can't put my finger on it.” He takes another sip. “Probably just because he's hungover all the time.”

I hold the corner of my page. “Do you think it's impairing his judgment?” It's a question, I realize just then, that's been hovering in the back of my mind.

“Who knows?” He lets out a belch.

“I mean with ECT, for instance. That's a huge deal, and I just feel like we're rushing into it.”

“Maybe,” Jason says. “Maybe not. All his decisions are vetted at this point anyway.”

I stare at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“He's on probation. The guy can't wipe his ass without conferring with a committee first.”

“Explain further.”

Jason leans back in the couch. “You know how he got transferred from Tulane for drinking.”

“Yeah.”

“So, as part of the agreement, he's got to report all his cases to a committee.” He flicks off the fireplace with the remote.

“How do you know that?”

“He told me.”

“He did?”

“Yes. I'm chief. He tells me everything. He reports on all his cases. It's part of the probation agreement.” He takes another sip of beer. “Maybe the committee is the one pushing for ECT. Who the fuck knows?” Arthur has wandered over, and Jason pets his head. “Anyway, he said it's driving him nuts.”

I nod, thinking. “It would drive me nuts, too.” We sit in silence a moment, staring at the unlit logs. “Do you think I should call the Chair? About his drinking?”

He sets his beer on a Sabres coaster (a leftover from when Scotty lived here) and looks at the ceiling, thinking. “I'm not sure about ECT. It's probably the right move at this point. And would I call the Chair? No, I wouldn't call the Chair. She's a total witch.” He puts his feet on the coffee table, and Arthur starts sniffing his socks. “Probation Girl might get booted.”