Do No Harm

Dash had to duck slightly to get through the doorway. At 6'8", 280 pounds, Dash's was an imposing presence. His face, so dark it diffusely reflected the lights of the room, was partly blocked by an overflow of thick-braided dreadlocks. Like most psychiatrists, he wore a dress shirt and tie, but during medical school he'd had to slit the already-wide sleeves of his scrub tops a good two inches to get his arms through.

Dash's appearance was so remarkable that several psychiatry programs had rejected him on that basis, claiming it would compromise his ability to interact with patients and put them at ease. After he failed to match in a fellowship program, Dash sued each of them in a widely publicized series of cases, winning admission to each department. The cases were decided in large part by his near-perfect grades through Columbia Medical School, and his excellent recommendations. The chair of UCLA's psych department had stepped in early in the proceedings and offered him a spot, and though he had not originally applied to UCLA, he'd elected to sign on. His performance through the four-year program had been so impressive that he'd been offered a teaching position immediately afterward, and he'd quickly become a prominent member of the department.

He was also a favored expert witness for the defense. He looked tough but spoke convincingly about mental illness-a good combination for winning the jury's trust. Most expert psych witnesses, thin-necked and bespectacled, were quickly painted as wimps soft on crime. Because of Dash's experience with violent patients and criminals, he'd been David's first choice to assess Clyde.

"What do we have here?" Dash's voice, so deep it found resonance in David's bones, was mitigated with a musical lilt-the faintest whisper of a Nigerian accent. He glanced over at the woman on the bed behind David and Carson, who continued to chat on the cell phone. "Suicide attempt?"

"How'd you guess?" Carson said.

"Carson, why don't you take over," David said. "Dash, our guy is in Fourteen."

As they moved toward the door, the woman's purse, just beyond her reach on a metal tray, began to vibrate.

"Is that your pager?" Carson asked, reaching into the purse. The woman froze, silent for the first time, her mouth a lipsticked O near the phone's receiver.

Carson withdrew an eight-inch vibrator and stared at it, mortified. Dash's laughter, even choked down, made the light casings rattle overhead.

As they reached the end of Hallway One, David shot a nervous glance at the two officers guarding the door to Clyde's room. He turned to Dash, lowering his voice. "It was all I could do to slide you past the cops. Everyone's on edge. Anyone asks, you're assessing his need for antipsychotic meds."

"Got it."

"And keep tight-lipped. Some tabloid schmuck faked a concussion this afternoon just to get in here and poke around."

David breathed evenly and deeply as he approached the room, gathering himself. His stomach churned, a morass of yet-unidentified emotions-fear, anxiety, duty of some ill-defined sort. Anger was in there as well, he realized, in no small amount.

He nodded to the officers and paused for a moment, hand on the doorknob, searching for compassion. He fought past Nancy's face, and Sandra's, past the blue liquid that burned and ate flesh, past the disgust that caked the edges of his perception-the disgust that sprang, innate and full-formed, when he pictured Clyde's acne-scarred face. When he turned the doorknob, he felt calmer, more detached.

He was ready to see his patient.

He swung the door open quietly, and he and Dash entered. Clyde lay on the gurney, bound, eyes closed, drawing deep breaths. David and Dash approached him and stood a few feet back from the gurney rail. "Hello, Clyde. It's Dr. Spier again."

"Spier," Clyde murmured. "Like the building."

"Yes, but spelled differently. I'm here with Dr. Nwankwa from the Neuropsychiatric Insti-"

Clyde's eyes opened, a ripple of terror transforming his features from placid to violently agitated. He screamed, straining with his limbs against the restraints, bucking and thrashing. Dash calmly took a step back and signaled David to do the same.

"You said!" Clyde bellowed. "You said you'd help me!"

"I'm trying to," David said.

Clyde's frantic eyes flickered to Dash. "Get him away."

"Dr. Nwankwa is here to help y-"

"Get him away!"

Dash took another calm step back and sat down in a chair against the far wall. Clyde stopped thrashing and lay flat on the gurney, his chest heaving.

"Don't let him near me," Clyde said. He tucked his chin to his chest, hunching his shoulders, his eyes turned to the wall.

"I won't come near you," Dash said softly. "I'm just going to sit right here."

Clyde flopped over, his eyes darting to David and then quickly away. "Where were you? You went away. You said you would help me, but you didn't. Why is he still here? Have him go away. You said he would-"

"Dr. Nwankwa is here to try to help you. There are just a few-"