Do No Harm

Chapter 18

The scream reverberated through the ER. Adrenaline pumping, images of flying alkali and blistering faces racing through his mind, David sprinted through the CWA to Hallway Two.

A disheveled man was shaking Pat against the wall, banging her head while two nurses and a lab tech looked on, stunned. "You stole my fucking tote bag," he yelled. "Where is it?" He wore a baseball cap, though the back of his head was sticky with blood.

Ralph was running down the hall, his full set of security keys jingling against his thigh, but David reached the attacker first and dug a thumb into the spinal accessory nerve at the base of his neck. The man yelped and dropped away from the pressure, as David hoped he would. As he fell, he swung his elbow and caught David in the temple. David reeled back, his free hand striking a stray crash cart, but he didn't release his grip. He caught the man's loose hand and found a pressure point, digging his nail into the fat part of his thumb. The man cried out and his body went slack again, this time long enough for David to get him on the ground. Ralph dove on top of him, then another security officer slid into the mix. The man spread himself flat and stopped resisting. He reeked of booze.

David emerged from the pile, a hand pressed to his temple. A flap of skin had lifted on the back of his knuckle where it had struck the cabinet. The white of his UCLA security shirt stained with blood from the back of the guy's head, Ralph hauled him to his feet.

"I didn't mean no trouble, man," the guy whined. "I just wanted my tote bag back."

Pat was bent over, hands on her knees, gasping. "He came in with a head lac. I was trying to get him into an exam room."

"Someone call LAPD, West LA station," David said. "Ask for Detective Yale."

As Ralph and another guard moved the man briskly toward the lobby, David turned to the staff who'd gathered around. "All right. Everyone who's not with a critical patient, into the CWA. Where's Dr. Lambert?"

A radiology resident breezed by. "MIA as usual."

David headed back first and waited patiently for the others to congregate, pressing some gauze to the back of his knuckle. "A few new considerations," he said. "Until the assailant is apprehended, we're going to have to be on heightened alert. The easiest way for the assailant to escalate his ER attacks would be to come in here posing as a patient. So grab a partner before going into a room alone with a male patient. And if you find yourself with someone who appears to be aggressive, get out of the room and find security. These are shitty conditions to work under, I understand, but for now they're a necessity."

An intern piped up from the back. "That guy they just hauled off. You think he's the guy?"

David raised the gauze from his hand and saw it was spotted with blood. "We can always hope."

David sat on the examination table, suturing his own knuckle. His first quiet five minutes of the day. Diane stood near enough that her thigh brushed his knee. She kept it there.

Yale had informed David within a few hours that they'd been unable to establish a connection between the man who'd attacked Pat and the alkali thrower. David had been surprised at the sharpness of his disappointment. The cops had found the tote bag that the man had been so desperate to protect in the waiting room under a chair. It hadn't contained lye after all. The cops were holding the man for assault, but Yale said he didn't fit the profile they'd been working up for the alkali thrower; he was too socially integrated.

David pulled the suture high, using his teeth to keep one side taut, and guided the needle through the loop with his thumb. "One-handed sutures. Reminds me of internship." He yanked the top of the string so the knot slid down and nestled near his flesh. "You should see Peter tie these. He's like a magician with his hands."

Diane rolled her eyes. "Maybe you should have been a surgeon."

"Cut this." She leaned over with the scissors, and he felt the softness of her hair on his forehead. He hoped his triceps didn't look too soft beneath the cut sleeves of his scrub top, and he laughed silently at himself for having such juvenile thoughts.

He rose briskly and opened the door. A group had gathered outside. Carson stood in the front. "Uh, Dr. Spier, we decided in light of your courageous escapades today, and your fighting spirit, we should present you with this prize." Pat handed him a box with a ribbon on it, and several lab techs giggled.

David opened it to reveal a pair of bright red boxing gloves. The group exploded in laughter. At Carson's prompting, David slid the gloves on, careful not to lift the suture, and raised his fists as Pat snapped a Polaroid.

They laughed and joked for a few minutes, and then David headed to the doctors' lounge to put away the gloves. When he opened the door, he recognized Sandra's mother sitting on one of the chairs, facing an open locker. A diminutive Asian woman with a sad, thoughtful countenance, she'd evidently come to retrieve her daughter's things. She held Sandra's white coat in her hands, her shoulders trembling. David realized she was crying.

Feeling foolish, he lowered his hands, red puffy globes in the boxing gloves. Lost in grief, Sandra's mother did not take note of his presence. He wanted to move forward to comfort her, to rest an arm across her shoulders, but found he was paralyzed.

After a moment, he pulled off his gloves, walked back to the CWA, and located Diane. "Sandra's mother is in the lounge," he said. "I think you might want to… "

Diane nodded and handed off the chart she'd been scribbling on. He watched her head back to the doctors' lounge without hesitation.

He felt suddenly ineffective.