I, Robot: To Protect

Chapter 17

Saranne handled unlocking the metal door and escorting Sharicka back to the ward, while Susan and Shaden remained with the Ansons. They looked different to Susan somehow: less morose, more animated and alive. Lucianne’s eyes had a faintly hopeful glimmer, and Elliot’s face bore just a hint of a smile. He stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “Good afternoon, Dr. Calvin.” He took her hand and shook it, nodding at the nurse as he did so. “Shaden.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Anson,” Shaden replied respectfully.

Susan addressed the mother, still sitting on the chair where Sharicka had recently perched in her lap. “Hello, Dr. Anson.”

Susan shut the door as the others took seats around the table; then she joined them. The couple sat together, doctor and nurse across from them. Lucianne spoke first, “Sharicka says you ‘fixed’ her. I hope she doesn’t mean . . .”

They all chuckled, though somewhat uneasily. The idea had to flash through more minds than just Susan’s that Sharicka should never bear children. It chilled her to even consider the cruelties someone like Sharicka could inflict on a helpless infant. “Sharicka will always be Sharicka,” Susan said. “I’m concerned we’re all prematurely optimistic, but I have to admit she does seem to have become honestly committed to improving her life and the lives of those around her.”

Shaden nodded vigorously. “She credits Dr. Calvin with inspiring her to do her best. She’s taking her medications like clockwork, and she hasn’t acted impulsively in days. She’s even made some real friends among the other patients.”

Though Susan could not deny the truth of those statements, she wished Shaden would tone down his rhetoric. The Ansons had seen the many cycles of Sharicka, and they knew better than to pin their hopes on a few days of cooperation — or so she hoped. She had read enough books, had studied enough couples and parents, to know human emotions lived in the moment. She had seen mothers in supermarkets ready to fricassee their young one moment and buying them ice cream the next. Nature had endowed children with the ability to bring out the best and worst in adults from moment to moment, and love tended to drive humans to illogical faith and actions.

Lucianne sucked in a deep breath, releasing it gradually through pursed lips. “You say she’s committed to improving her life. But, given her” — she glanced at Shaden, then back to Susan — “her diagnosis, is that even possible? Can she even understand morality? The difference between right and wrong?”

“All sociopaths understand the difference between right and wrong, especially ones as intelligent and well-raised as Sharicka,” Susan replied. “I’ll bet she could recite the rules of your household, and the reasons for them, in her sleep. What they lack is empathy, compassion, guilt, remorse.”

Susan took the discussion into the realm of Lucianne’s understanding, childhood special education. “You know how children with a nonverbal learning disability rely on spoken words and explanations? They can’t intuitively grasp nonverbal communication. They don’t ‘get’ tone of voice, figures of speech, gestures, personal space, facial expressions, humor, and so forth?”

Lucianne and Elliot both nodded, and the mother added, “If you catch it early, those things can be taught with repetition, verbal explanations, physical outlines, and behavioral rewards. It works for higher-functioning autistics, too.”

Susan appreciated that they had not only followed her example but improved upon it. “If you start young enough, you can internalize the lessons to the point where at least some of those skills can seem almost normal. Kids with NLD can eventually use idioms correctly. They may not tell jokes, but they know one when they hear it and laugh in the appropriate places. Their own faces may be expressionless, but they learn to recognize other people’s moods by rote.”

“Right.” Lucianne cocked her head in consideration. Color formed in her cheeks and gradually spread to light her entire face. “Are you suggesting we might be able to teach Sharicka . . . remorse and compassion?”

Susan did not know. Historically, the success rate for treating people with sociopathy was abysmal. However, that had changed in the last few years with the creation of the second-generation neurotransmitter stabilizers. Since antisocial personality disorder could not technically be diagnosed before age eighteen, the literature about treating children for it was nonexistent. She wondered if they had just stumbled upon a brand-new treatment for juvenile conduct disorders. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Until now, Sharicka hadn’t shown any insight into her problem. Now that she acknowledges it, and has expressed and acted upon the intention to change, I think we might have a chance.”

Elliot laced his fingers on the tabletop. “She does seem . . . different,” he admitted. “More like . . . our Sharicka. The one who used to fall asleep watching a movie in my lap. The one who loved ‘hangaburs’ and ‘pockasickles’ for dinner and begged for just one more story at night.”

Lucianne smiled at the memory. For the first time since Susan had met her, she looked like a typical mother misty-eyed over a child’s scribbled drawing of her. “Do you think . . . now that she’s really taking her medication . . . ?”

Susan felt torn. “I think . . . she is really trying, yes.”

“She loves your family,” Shaden cut in.

Susan did not like his phraseology. It made it sound as if Sharicka stood apart, that they had never really accepted her as a full-fledged member. “She loves her family,” Susan corrected. “I’m sure she always has, but she had more difficulty expressing it off her meds. Now, she talks about you . . . wistfully. She wants to go home.” Susan realized just how differently her conversation was going with the Ansons this time, and felt awkwardly balanced on a swaying tightrope. She wanted to encourage them to look at the situation more positively; success never came out of a defeatist attitude. However, she did not want to get their hopes so high that they dropped all caution. Sharicka was still a very sick little girl.

The father scratched his beardless chin. “Dr. Calvin, it sounds as though you’re saying you . . . fixed Sharicka.”

Susan shook her head. “I didn’t do anything but observe her. Sharicka heard I had helped some other patients, and it inspired her. She’s making changes all on her own, and I think that’s a good sign.”

The mother looked from her husband to Susan and back again. She glanced briefly at Shaden before returning her attention to Susan. “Some people don’t believe there’s anything wrong with Sharicka. She’s good at . . . making people think she’s” — she turned her gaze to her husband, as if seeking his assistance — “misunderstood. When, actually, she’s . . . sneaky. And frequently mean.”

Shaden frowned. Susan touched his leg warningly under the table, and he did not speak aloud.

“You know me better than that, Dr. Anson.” Susan tried to fully capture the mother’s attention. She had eyes so pale they seemed almost colorless, a steely gray with just a hint of blue. “Sharicka has a serious psychiatric condition. However, she is four years old, and we can’t keep her in the hospital indefinitely.”

“We talked about an institution,” Lucianne reminded her.

Susan knew the Ansons liked her because she had never downplayed the significance of Sharicka’s illness the way most providers did, and she had never questioned their integrity or intentions toward their daughter. Suddenly, Susan felt like a traitor. “I’ve looked into that. There’s not a single institution in the country that will take a child under the age of thirteen.” She tried to dodge Lucianne’s stare. “There’s no possible way we can keep her here for a year, let alone nine years. At some point, we have to release Sharicka to a family. She’s your daughter, first and foremost, but we would all understand if you decided yours was not the right home for her.”

Lucianne followed Susan’s gaze, refusing escape. “You can’t possibly be talking discharge.”

“Not in the next week or two,” Susan said quickly. “But it’s time to start thinking about it.” She felt confident the Ansons had already discussed the possibilities and had come to at least a superficial decision.

“What happens if we refuse to take her?”

Elliot replied before Susan could. “She becomes someone else’s problem.”

“Foster care,” Shaden said. “And, eventually, adoption.”

Lucianne’s jaw drooped until it all but touched her chest. She snorted suddenly, bringing her lips back together. “Downplaying all of her issues, no doubt. They’ll foist her on some unwitting, well-meaning family and tell them not to worry. Love will conquer all.”

Susan could not deny it. Sharicka knew how to win hearts, how to present her best side, how to manipulate even trained psychiatric nurses. Most social workers would be putty in her hands.

“She’s best off with us,” Elliot Anson said firmly. “We loved her, unconditionally, before we knew what she would become. We love her even now. We’ll always love her.” His eyes blurred as he clearly fought back tears. “I doubt anyone else will have the time to form a bond that strong before she does something hateful to them. Bouncing around foster and adoptive houses can’t possibly be in Sharicka’s best interests, let alone anyone else’s.” He put his arm around Lucianne, who also looked on the verge of tears. “She’s trying, Luci. We have to reward that effort.”

“How?” the mother asked, with clear suspicion.

Susan broached the subject cautiously. “We were thinking maybe . . . a home visit?”

“You mean an overnight?” The mother still did not sound convinced, but she also did not refuse outright.

Elliot was nodding. Clearly, he would prove easier to convince. “There’s a limit to the damage a four-year-old has the strength to do, especially under the watchful eye of two wary parents in a childproofed home.”

His wife turned on him. “She was under the watchful eye of two parents in a childproofed home when she almost drowned Misty.”

“That was before we knew what she was capable of. They were outside alone, without us. We won’t let that happen again.”

Susan allowed the discussion to evolve, not daring to add anything to it. For the first time, she found herself secretly siding with Sharicka, hoping the Ansons decided to take her home, to give her this one small chance. However, Susan also realized they knew Sharicka better than she ever could. She tried to imagine something demonic taking over her kind and gentle father. If he had murdered her mother, could she have ever taken him back into her home? She supposed she could if the demons were vanquished. But are Sharicka’s demons vanquished? How could we ever know for sure?

“Can we stop her?” The mother sighed deeply. “I love my daughters, Dr. Calvin. Both of them.”

Shaden held inordinately still, but Susan nodded broadly. “It’s hard to do what’s best for both of them.”

“I’ll stay right with her,” the father promised. “She can’t do anything bad with me glued to her side.”

Susan could see Lucianne wavering. It soon became clear, however, that as Susan studied her, she studied Susan. Finally, she spoke. “Dr. Calvin, I trust you. What do you think we should do?”

It was exactly the question Susan did not want to field. She had been trained to avoid it, to firmly state that such a decision belonged solely to the family. “I . . . understand your hesitation. It’s completely logical and makes perfect sense.” Susan had little choice but to play both sides. “On the other hand, that you’ve decided not to terminate your parental rights to Sharicka means you still have hope for her. If we believe she’s trying, and I know I do, then home visits are the necessary first step toward working her back into the family. We could wait another week. Maybe even two.” Susan raised a hand, palm up, and finally deliberately braved Lucianne’s eyes, now blue-gray pools of water. “Much longer than that, we’re going to get serious resistance from your insurance company.”

Apparently, the parents’ honest angst was not lost on Shaden. His tone turned as gentle as Susan had ever heard it, especially when forced to defend Sharicka. “Doctors Anson, in my years of experience, I find that insurance companies are more open to time extensions if they see you trying. If you bring Sharicka for a home visit, they’ll be more likely to bargain. If it goes well, that’s wonderful. If not, it will give us ammunition to use against them if they try to deny your coverage.”

The mother bobbed her head ever so slightly. “So you think we should take her home . . . today?”

Susan did not feel wholly comfortable with that. “I’m saying I think either decision is reasonable and defensible.”

The mother made an irritated noise, still trying to pin down Susan. “If she were your daughter, would you take her home? Yes or no?”

Cornered at last, Susan could do nothing but speak the truth. “I like to think I would, Dr. Anson. But, as I’ve said several different ways, I don’t think a right decision and a wrong one exist here. There are only intuition and faith.”

Nothing remained to be said, and the father took over the conversation. “Give us a few minutes to talk about it, and we’ll give you our answer before we leave.”

Relieved, Susan rose. She preferred to let the parents make their own decision. Following her cue, Shaden also stood up, and the two left the room. Susan knocked on the locked door. Saranne’s face appeared in the window; then the door whisked open, and the two came through it. Saranne locked it behind them.

Sharicka was there, too. She jerked at Susan’s hem. “What’d they say? Am I going home?”

Susan took Sharicka’s sticky hand and led her back to her room. Once there, she released the girl, who hopped up onto her bed. Susan closed the door behind them. “Sharicka, home visits aren’t easy things to arrange. They have to work into everyone’s schedules: both parents’, yours, your brother’s, your sister’s, the nurses’, mine. Everyone’s.”

Sharicka tried to guess. “So, I’m not going home?” The look of sheer disappointment on her face twisted at Susan’s heartstrings.

Susan clung to professionalism to harden her stance. “I don’t know yet, Sharicka. We’ll know soon, but I want you to understand something.”

Sharicka did not allow Susan to finish. “I know. I know. I have to be good.”

“You have to be on your best behavior, or there might not be another home visit for a very long time. You have to take all your medicine and listen to what your parents tell you.”

The months that had passed without a step beyond the playground or the unit had to show Sharicka the seriousness of Susan’s words. “I will. I promise. I’m going to be good from now on. You’ll see.”

Susan did not want to build up false hopes. “No one is good all the time, Sharicka. We don’t expect perfection.” Susan did not want the child abandoning all principles after a minor slipup. “But you must treat others with kindness and respect. A bad word, a stolen cookie — those things can be overlooked, as long as you apologize and are truly sorry. But you cannot, under any circumstances, hurt a human being or an animal, Sharicka. Those are not mistakes; those are deliberately evil actions.”

“No hurting people or animals,” Sharicka repeated, legs swinging. “I won’t do that.”

Before Susan could say another word, Shaden burst into the room. “Guess what, Sharicka?”

Sharicka sprang to the floor and clutched her hands to her little chest. “I’m going home?”

“You’re going home,” Shaden confirmed, not bothering to contain his excitement. “It’s just a home visit, but it’s a start.”

“I’m going home!” Sharicka danced around the room with the unself-consciousness only children can muster. “I’m going home!” She rushed past Susan and Shaden. “I have to tell Monty! I’m going home!”

“Monty?” Shaden said, then laughed. “She must mean Monterey.”

Susan had assumed that. She had heard Monterey’s mother call her Rey-rey and Monny, but she had never heard Monty before. Since Monterey still seemed to enjoy playing with Sharicka, she must not entirely despise the nickname. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

Susan did not expect an answer, but Shaden gave her one. “I’m sure of it, Dr. Calvin.” He put a friendly arm across her shoulder. “At some point, you have to trust that even a mentally ill child is a child, and love really will make the difference.”

Love. Susan bit her bottom lip. Is Sharicka even capable of it? She tried not to think too hard about it. If Sharicka was not, there was no hope at all for the girl or her family.

The day finished smoothly, without new admissions or emergencies, and Susan even managed to get a reasonable amount of sleep that night in the on-call room she shared with three other psychiatry residents serving other units. Their snuffles, snores, and Vox calls proved a nuisance, but she did not begrudge them. At least she did not have to go traipsing off to the Emergency Room or to a unit as each of them did at least once during the night.

Susan’s turn came at a little after six a.m. Her Vox buzzed to life, startling her from a vivid dream involving a million-dollar bet and a billiards table. Only after she had confidently laid down the bet did she remember she had no particular skill at the game or the money to gamble on it. Susan sat up and tapped the Vox before it could start making noises that might awaken her fellow residents. She looked at the display. Unsurprisingly, the call had originated from the PIPU.

Susan clambered off her cot, straightened her white overnight scrubs, and ran a hand through her hair. Quietly, she threaded her way through the darkened room, turned the knob, and stepped out into the hallway. She pulled the door shut behind her before making the return call across Vox.

It was picked up immediately. “Dr. Calvin?” Usually, the unit clerk answered with the fictitious unit number of the PIPU they used to hide its purpose and location for confidentiality reasons. This time, someone had clearly stood by the phone, waiting for her call.

“This is Susan Calvin, R-1. How can I help you?”

“It’s Justin, Dr. Calvin.” It was one of the night nurses, an older man with white hair and a complexion still scarred by adolescent acne. “Sharicka’s back. The police brought her. It’s . . . not good.”

Susan saw no reason to discuss the situation over Vox. Her heart rate shot up, and she could feel an uncomfortable tingling in her chest. “I’ll be right there.” She ended the call, running toward the PIPU without worrying about her morning toilet. She dashed through the mostly empty hallways, taking a corner too fast and nearly slamming into an empty gurney. In less than four minutes, she was ringing the entry button and pounding on the locked PIPU door.

It was opened almost immediately. Susan found herself in the usually empty hallway between the locked doors, now filled with people. Two uniformed police officers stood with four of the night nurses. There was no sign of Sharicka, or any other patient.

Susan did not care that she interrupted at least two separate discussions. “I’m Dr. Calvin. What happened?” Dread crept up her spine, and a sudden wash of ice overcame every part of her. She had to focus to remain in control.

Both policemen turned to look at Susan. “Are you the guardian of one Sharicka Anson?”

Susan saw no reason to launch into technicalities. The Ansons remained Sharicka’s parents and guardians, but the hospital currently had physical jurisdiction over the child. In crisis situations, only judges and physicians could take over instant custody of a minor. Susan had learned that during her pediatrics rotation, when an abusive parent had insisted on taking his daughter home and the clinic had had to call for law enforcement backup. “I am. What has she done?”

The other cop said, “She killed someone, Dr. Calvin.”

Susan found herself unable to breathe. Light-headedness swam down on her before she forced her chest to expand and the air to flow inside. For the first time in her life, she had to focus on the act, had to remind herself to inhale and exhale. “Who?” she finally managed, her voice a squeak.

“A girl named Misty, ma’am.” A blatter of noise over the policeman’s radio made Susan jump. “Her sister, apparently. Stabbed her multiple times with a butter knife.”

Susan wished she did not have to concentrate so hard on breathing. She found herself unable to speak, unable to harbor coherent thought. She could only stand there, speechless, and attempt to process the words spoken in her general direction.

“Then she went after her brother. Stabbed him a few times before her father wrestled her to the ground.”

Susan knew she had to say something. “Where . . . is the family?”

“They’re in the ER,” the officer explained. “The boy’s being admitted, and the father’s getting patched up. They said to bring her here.” He added firmly, “If you plan to send her anywhere else, you need to contact us first.”

Susan nodded. She had no idea what would happen next. Clearly, they had caught Sharicka in the act, but the police had brought her back to Manhattan Hasbro rather than to a jail or a juvenile facility. She supposed the law would not allow a minor to remain in adult detention, and she had never heard of a serious crime committed by anyone under the age of twelve. A locked psychiatry unit familiar with Sharicka’s history, in a tertiary hospital setting, might well prove the safest place to keep her for all involved.

Susan addressed the nurses. “Get Sharicka out of anything with blood on it.”

A small woman named Rietta said, “They’re doing that right now. Bagging up the bloody clothes for the police.” She tipped her head toward the officers.

Susan continued. “Make sure she gets and swallows her morning meds immediately. Keep her in the Self-awareness Room until I’ve had a chance to talk to her.”

Susan looked at the officers. “We’ll have those clothes out to you in a moment. If you need anything else, let us know.”

The policeman who had done most of the talking addressed Susan once more. “We may need to question her again. Obviously, she can’t leave town.”

Susan raised and lowered her head once, firmly. “She may not even get to leave her room.” Her vision grew blurry, and she rubbed her eyes, surprised to find them moist. The moment she realized she had started crying, a rush of emotions assaulted her. Agony clawed at her guts. Guilt rushed down on her. I told them to take her home; I wanted them to do it. Rage accompanied it. She tricked me, too. Seized by the sudden urge to tear Sharicka’s head off, she bit down on her lip until she tasted blood.

The officers thanked everyone in the room, then walked to the outer door, where Rietta let them out with a key.

Susan waited for Rietta to return and let her onto the unit. She did not want to meet with Sharicka. Not ever. The idea of looking into those demonic eyes, of facing that childish smirk, made her crazy. She realized how lucky Sharicka was that the Ansons had adopted her. Her biological parents had a history of impulsive, negative behaviors. By now, they would have chopped her into pieces small enough to fit through a sieve.

Susan tried not to dwell on that thought too long. Sharicka just might be the youngest conduct-disordered child in history, but she was certainly not the only one. The Ansons were highly intelligent and educated people with a well-above-average understanding of normal and abnormal child behavior. What happened to the children with conduct disorder raised by parents who had little or no education, who probably had psychopathology of their own? Might that explain the inexplicable: parents who murdered or abandoned their children? It all seemed just too terrible to contemplate.

Yet Susan had no choice but to contemplate one thing. The Ansons had suffered a trauma so horrible, most people could not imagine such a thing. It must have happened in the wee hours of the morning. The father had promised to glue himself to her, but even he had to sleep. Likely, Sharicka had chosen the only weapon she could find. Anything obviously lethal would have been well hidden. The Ansons had worked so hard for their family, had suffered the long anguish of infertility, had been put through the wringer to adopt, had raised their three beloved children through crisis after crisis. Now, one was dead, another would need permanent psychiatric care, and the last was hospitalized with potentially life-threatening injuries. And the cause of all the recent trauma awaited Susan in the so-called Self-awareness Room.

For one horribly selfish moment, Susan wished the whole thing had happened just two hours later. Rounds would have finished, and she would have gone home for the entire day. She could have dined and skated with Remington, none the wiser, and taken up the cause on Tuesday. Despising herself for the bare thought, she abandoned it instantly. She knew the Ansons did not have that luxury. The incident had happened on Susan’s watch, had occurred because the family had faith, not in Sharicka, but in Susan’s ability to evaluate Sharicka. Now, Susan realized, she was not the hero the nurses had once heralded with balloons. She had made the worst mistake of all, and it had cost at least one child her life.

Susan wondered if she could ever sleep again, could ever trust her own judgment. Her own words cycled through her mind until she could no longer stand to hear them: “If we believe she’s trying, and I know I do, then home visits are the necessary first step toward working her back into the family.” What have I done? A picture of Lucianne Anson filled her mind’s eye, her face open in uncertainty and hope. “Dr. Calvin, I trust you.” Why? Why did she have to put her faith in me?

As she stepped onto the unit, Susan’s feet felt like lead. She heard the door clang shut behind her, so loud, so final, and the noise echoed through the subdued confines of the PIPU. Most of the nurses were in the charting area, nearly all of the patients asleep. That accounted for the quiet hush that seemed so out of place on a unit where children regularly shrieked and threw tantrums. She dragged herself to the Self-awareness Room. A nurse named Hanniah stood outside of it, looking through the window.

“What’s she doing?” Susan asked.

“Nothing.” Hanniah did not look away. “Just sitting there, picking her nose.”

Susan peeked through the window. As if sensing the new presence, Sharicka slowly raised her head. A slight smile played across her lips, and she met her resident doctor gaze for gaze. Susan felt like a hunted animal beneath that killer stare. The idea of going into the room with Sharicka seemed madness. She’s a four-year-old child, Susan reminded herself. She’s barely half my size and currently without a weapon. Susan knew, logically, Sharicka could not harm her. She took a deep breath, then loosed it slowly before announcing, “I’m going in.”

Unlike when she had decided to confront Diesel Moore, the nurse made no protest. She stepped aside and allowed Susan to open the door.

Susan tried to look nonchalant as she did so, strode into the padded room, and allowed the door to close and latch behind her. Seated on the floor, Sharicka glanced up at the doctor, looking for all the world like an innocent four-year-old child. “Hi, Dr. Susan.”

It seemed ludicrous to simply return the greeting, but Susan could think of nothing better to do. “Hi.”

Sharicka wiped her fingers on the clean clothes she had changed into on the ward. She wore a pair of black sweatpants and a Craft-a-Critter T-shirt. “How’s Rylan doing?” She posed the question with the casualness of a sister asking after the health of a brother with the flu. The query seemed strangely genuine.

Susan found it difficult to look at the girl. “I don’t know.”

“How’s Misty?”

“She’s dead, Sharicka. You know that.”

“Can I see her?”

Susan looked away. Was it actually possible Sharicka did not understand the finality of death? “Never again. She’s dead.”

“Can I see her in her coffin?”

The question seemed so odd, so unutterably antisocial and wrong. Susan looked sharply at Sharicka.

The girl’s expression did not compute. Susan read curiosity and a faint hint of pleasure.

“You can’t see her, Sharicka. Not ever. You killed her.”

“I’m a murderer.” Sharicka rolled the word in her mouth, as if testing it.

Susan did not indulge the recognition. She did not want Sharicka to identify herself with evil, to view the act as an accomplishment. “Why, Sharicka? Why did you do it?”

Sharicka could no longer hold back the smile. It slipped past her guard to light her entire face. The dark eyes went cold, and even the sockets seemed to shift right before Susan’s eyes. “We all have to die sometime.”

Susan could not stand to look at Sharicka for another second. Rising silently, she left the room and told the waiting nurse, “She can go to her room now.” She wanted to put the child into a straitjacket right out of an early-twentieth-century movie. The death penalty had existed for people like Sharicka, the homicidally incurable, those most despicable and desperate. Desperate. The word clung to Susan’s memory. Activating her Vox, she zipped off a bitter text to Doctors Goldman and Peters: “Found stdy pt.”

Susan managed a quick shower and change before rounds, discovering two messages on her Vox when she finished. The first came from Ari Goldman, requesting the details of the study patient. She typed in some basic information about Sharicka in reply, then moved on to the second. This one came from Remington: “B L8. E! Boy stb/ chke by 4yo? Dad?”

Susan groaned. The E! meant an emergency. If Rylan Anson needed the on-call neurosurgeon, he had sustained serious spinal or head wounds. Susan would need to explain Sharicka and clear poor Dr. Anson. The last thing he needed was to fall under a cloud of suspicion while he rushed to save the last of his children.

Susan went to the staffing room, hoping to find at least one of the other psychiatry residents. To her relief, Kendall sat in a chair, leaning so far back, its headrest was braced against the table. She walked over to him, and he sat up quickly. “Good morning, Calvin. How was your night?”

Susan shook her head. “Quiet until about two hours ago when I had to deal with the police.”

“I heard.” Kendall leaned forward. When the nursing shift started, it was the sole topic of conversation. “So, Sharicka murdered her siblings on a home visit.”

“The brother’s still alive. I need to go down and see him. Can you cover for me at rounds?”

Kendall stared. “I just got here. I’m supposed to sum up what happened all day yesterday?”

Susan did not want to waste time bandying words. “Nothing happened all day yesterday, except little things documented on the charts. As far as my patients, Monterey is talking more, and you know about Sharicka.”

“I only know what the nurses are saying,” Kendall reminded Susan. “I have no idea why or what you plan to do about it.” He gave her a smile that, somehow, did not seem patronizing. “Besides, I think the great Susan Calvin should own up to her first mistake.”

Susan realized Kendall made a good point. “It’s hardly my first mistake, but it’s definitely my most horrific.” Guilt clamped down on her again, and she closed her eyes to keep from succumbing fully to it. “I should never have asked them for a home visit.”

She heard the scrape of Kendall’s chair, then felt his arms wrap around her and the warmth of his body against hers. “I was just kidding. I’m always kidding. It’s not your fault.”

Susan fully lost her composure, bursting into tears and clamping her arms tightly around Kendall. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The force of the crying jag prevented more words, and she collapsed against him.

Kendall held Susan, saying nothing, lightly stroking her hair with the patience of a father. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know. No one could have known.”

Kendall had to say it; but, to Susan’s conscience, it was all lies. They had had more than enough warnings. It was not even the first time Sharicka had assaulted Misty. She had tried to kill her sister before. She had done so many terrible things and had proven herself manipulative and deadly dangerous. Somehow, Susan had allowed herself to believe a four-year-old would not have the wherewithal to kill, not under the watchful eye of educated, professional, and wary parents.

But even educated, professional, wary parents have to sleep. And the beast within Sharicka, apparently, never did, a charming four-year-old genius with a penchant for murder. Susan sobbed out, “I shouldn’t have suggested it. I shouldn’t have approved it. I shouldn’t have allowed it.”

Kendall cradled Susan’s head. “Hindsight is telescopic.”

“But I knew what she was. What she could do. I knew she was manipulating the nursing staff. Why did I let her manipulate me, too?”

“Because you’re human?” Kendall’s grip never wavered. “And she’s four years old. She’s a cute little bundle of baby fat. . . .”

“And homicidal fury, Kendall. What does a four-year-old have to be that angry about?”

“Angry?” Kendall’s voice revealed confusion. “I’ve never seen Sharicka angry, and I don’t think she’s lashing out in some kind of seething fury. She’s colder. Calculating. It’s as if she’s . . .”

“Possessed?” Susan tried.

“Do you believe in that?”

“No.” Susan found her faith in science wavering for the first time ever. “Do you?”

“No,” Kendall said without hesitation. “Just because we can’t explain everything yet doesn’t mean everything doesn’t have a logical explanation. I mean, so far, everything in history that people once attributed to supernatural phenomenon has been thoroughly and utterly disproven or explained.”

Susan did not argue. She was absolutely grounded in science. “Four years old, Kendall.”

“Almost five,” he reminded her. “And not the youngest killer in the world.”

That caught Susan off her guard. She finally pulled away far enough to look into his face. “Who’s the youngest?”

“Who knows? In every state in the union, probably in every country in the world, kids under the age of seven are automatically presumed not responsible for their criminal acts, including murder. We just throw a few meds at them, send them home, and wait until they kill someone else, when they’re old enough to prosecute.”

Susan wondered why Kendall knew that. And she did not. Likely, he had done some research since learning about Sharicka’s night. “What’s the youngest you’ve heard of?”

Kendall obliged. “Well, we have the Kelby Cross gun containment law because a two-year-old shot his sister.”

Susan knew that well-publicized case. “That was accidental. I’m talking about a deliberate act.”

Kendall reached across her to consult his palm-pross. He tapped a few buttons, then studied the screen. “In 2001, an Illinois three-year-old bashed in the skull of a two-year-old and injured a three-week-old left in his care.”

“Who would leave babies in the care of another baby?”

Kendall shrugged. “That’s not the point, is it?”

Susan supposed not. She had asked about children with a penchant for murder, not about irresponsible parents.

Kendall continued to consult the palm-pross. “In 2021, a three-year-old in Detroit fatally shot his drunk father while the father was beating the boy’s mother. A four-year-old girl in India snatched and killed three infants in separate incidents just last year. In 1986, a five-year-old shoved a three-year-old off a Miami Beach balcony and, when the younger boy grabbed onto a ledge, the older boy pried his fingers loose and dropped him five stories to his death. There have been at least three recent cases where kids, usually in groups of two or three, between the ages of three and six, brutally murdered infants or toddlers.”

It seemed insane to take solace in ghastly crimes, but it did help Susan to bring reality back to the fore. Sharicka was not possessed by some demonic entity; she was betrayed by some terrible defect in her brain. With any luck, the nanorobots could find it because, clearly, current treatments held out no hope for her at all.

By the time Susan fully regained her composure and Kendall returned to his work, the other residents had arrived. Soon afterward, Dr. Bainbridge came for rounds. They all looked so alert, clean, and well rested to Susan, who felt like she had aged a decade in the last few hours. She joined them reluctantly. The nurses may have talked to some of the residents, but they would leave Susan to break the news to the attending doctor.

Dr. Bainbridge swept in with all the authority in the universe. “Good morning, Doctors.” He looked around the assembled group, surely noticing the somber faces. “Judging by looks alone, I’d say Dr. Calvin took call yesterday.”

Stony Lipschitz stepped in to rescue Susan. “She’s had rather a bad morning, sir.”

The grin wilted from Bainbridge’s face. “Why wasn’t I called?”

The R-3 continued to take the heat. “I just found out about it myself an hour ago. It didn’t seem worth bothering you for that little bit of time.”

Susan had delayed calling her superiors until she had a reasonable grasp of the situation. She had also been taught not to bother sleeping people unless there was something they could do. Seeing no reason to prolong the agony, she explained, “Sharicka Anson went on a home visit yesterday. In the wee morning hours, she attacked her siblings, killing one and badly wounding the other. The police escorted her back here.”

Bainbridge listened intently without interrupting as Susan described the situation. When she finished, he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So, I guess we can all see now why Susan came down so hard on a four-year-old when others mentioned discharge.” He looked around at the nurses intently. “Now does everyone understand the manipulativeness that characterizes the antisocial mind?”

Susan would not let her detractors take all the heat, though she did wish Shaden’s shift had not ended hours earlier. “I’m afraid she manipulated me, too, Dr. Bainbridge. I’m the one who okayed the home visit and suggested it to her parents.”

Dr. Bainbridge nodded thoughtfully. “Master manipulators, antisocials. As I have said before, the psychiatric worker does not exist who has not fallen prey to one at some point.” He shook his head, now staring directly at Susan. In an uncharacteristic action, he walked to her and put a fatherly arm across her shoulders. “It’s not your fault, Susan. She’s four years old, and the rules say we have to give children second and third and fourth and fifth chances. Had you asked my opinion, I would have done nothing different. We knew she was dangerous, and her parents knew it, too; yet we all believed that even if she did something bad, an adult could stop her.

“It’s not your fault,” Dr. Bainbridge repeated, “but for a long time it’s going to feel as if it is. If you find it taking over your life, let me know immediately and we’ll arrange some counseling. Sometimes big mistakes have small consequences. And sometimes small mistakes have big ones. You can’t let chance rule your life.”

Susan glanced around at her peers. All of them wore solemn and sympathetic looks. They might harbor other grudges against her; but, at this time, they stood unanimous in support of her. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “But I’d like permission to leave rounds early to talk to the Ansons. I’m not sure Neurosurgery has much of a clue about juvenile conduct disorder, and I’m already getting the sense they blame the father. This family doesn’t need any more trauma.”

Bainbridge nodded agreement. “Go,” he said. “We’ll call you if we need anything more from you.”

“Thank you,” Susan said with all the gratitude in the world. She raced toward the operating room waiting area, where she knew she would find the Ansons. She only hoped they would still be willing to see her.