The Devil in Silver

He sat behind his desk, in his office, heaving. His brown face had gone red. (Which made it look sort of chestnut, really.) He’d risen from his chair as he ranted. Now he plopped back down and the cushion of his chair let out a sigh, as if even the furniture was fed up.

It was late morning, April 16. Dorry had killed herself the night before.

Dr. Anand’s “office” was another repurposed room on Northwest 1. The trio sat there, listening to the clock on the wall. The second hand clucked as it spun, and now it was the loudest thing in the room.

Doris Walczak’s body had finally been wheeled out of Northwest only hours ago. Off to the Rose Cottage. Dr. Anand had been called after she was pronounced dead. He’d come to the unit at four a.m. He’d been in this office for the last seven hours, interviewing patients.

The man wore a different pair of glasses than usual. These frames were metal and old and lopsided. The rubber guards on the ends of both arms (called temple tips) were worn down. Dr. Anand had a habit of using the ends to dig into his ears when they itched. Over the years they’d gone white-ish. These were not Dr. Anand’s professional pair, but he’d been so tired when he was called that he put on the wrong ones. It was as if he’d forgotten to put on his professional face. So he’d shown up as Samuel Anand, husband and father, who owned a two-family house in Rego Park. That’s the man who sat down with Pepper and Loochie in his office. And because he was tired he’d said way too much.

Dr. Anand leaned forward in his knockoff Aeron office chair, until his head touched the desktop. It looked like the man had fallen asleep. Pepper and Loochie looked at each other. Loochie still wore that damn towel on her head, which had been the last straw for Dr. Anand when he saw them walk in.

Pepper raised one hand to jostle the doctor, but then Dr. Anand’s shoulders trembled. They watched him a moment longer and that’s when they realized the man was crying.

Weeping.

Well, now what?

Pepper brought his raised hand back down to his lap and looked behind him at the room door, wishing some other staff member—a trained therapist perhaps—would come in here and take over. But that didn’t happen.

So Loochie reached across the desk. She patted the top of the man’s bushy head.

“Don’t cry, Dr. Sam.”

Pepper was surprised to hear Loochie’s charitable tone. But Loochie’s touch, Loochie’s tenor, only wrecked the man even more.

“Don’t cry, Dr. Sam.”

This time, Loochie mushed the doctor’s scalp. And her voice lost some of its kindness. The first time, it was like Loochie wanted to make him feel a little better but by the second, it was like she couldn’t believe that he, of all people in this building, was the one most in need of support. Dorry and Coffee (and Sam) were dead. Glenn’s larynx had been crushed. Loochie’s hair had been torn out. Pepper had spent weeks in manacles, with Dr. Anand’s tacit approval. So who ought to be in tears right then? Dr. Sam? Really?

While Loochie might’ve had a reason for her righteous indignation, Pepper’s perspective differed. He was forty-two to Loochie’s nineteen. At nineteen, the world seems so simple. This is because nineteen-year-olds have it almost completely wrong. Pepper knew differently. Who had a right to a few tears just then? How about every single one of them? Dr. Sam, too.

Dr. Anand pulled his head up. His eyes were wide and wild.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I can’t believe I just said all that.”

Dr. Anand took off his glasses, almost slipped one temple tip into his itchy ear. But he stopped and laughed at himself when he realized which glasses he’d worn to work. He spoke to Pepper and Loochie more evenly now.

“You know how many of us started out together at New Hyde?” he asked. “I’m a forensic psychiatrist. There were three of us when I first arrived. I’m the only one left. I had friends who worked in other departments, not just the psychiatric unit, and do you know where ninety-five percent of them are now? They’re in private practice, or they work for a private hospital, or they went into research. They’re almost all gone, and I stayed. I don’t want to be applauded for that, but I don’t want to be punished, either.”

Pepper cleared his throat. “We’re not …”

Dr. Anand had regained his professional authority. He raised his hand to quiet Pepper.

“I’ve spent years lobbying my superiors for more funds. More staff. Better oversight. I’ve spoken with politicians. I’ve tried the press. I’ve gone to the community-board meetings. No one could ever tell me why the funding never materialized. I mean never. Do you know what Govenor Pataki did to our services when he was governor? The man butchered us.”

Dr. Anand sat back in his chair. He looked at the ceiling.

“One day the truth came to me. A wise man once said that every system is designed to give you the results you actually get. If you understand that, you’ll see that this system is working.”

“For some people,” Pepper said.