by Sandra Block
“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.”
Chapter Thirty
So I have some news,” the detective starts, “but it’s not necessarily good news.”
“Okay.” I’m on the phone, walking through Delaware Park by the zoo, and a pair of giraffes goggle at me over the fence. Like maybe I’m the one in the zoo and they’re in this nice, grassy place where people keep feeding them freshly killed prey and the one lion in there just paces behind a fence without trying to eat them once.
“We got the scoop on Raymond Donner. A little bit at least.”
“Did you find him yet?” A Rollerblader whizzes by me in a red fleece jacket.
“No, we’re looking. He left New Promises two months ago, and they haven’t updated the website.”
“Huh.”
“But the Canadians are finally on board, and we got some more info on this New Promises place.”
“Yeah?” I quicken my pace.
“So you know Raymond Donner was a social worker there. Turns out he’s got the best placement record out there, especially for girls. Ninety-nine percent of his girls and forty-three percent of his boys get adopted within a year. He’s a real outlier, so we looked into it.”
“And?” A golfer smacks the ball off the tee, and I jump.
“And all his kids seem to get lost.”
“Lost? What do you mean, lost?”
“They all get adopted, and that’s that. Then they just fall off the radar. Most of these kids didn’t have anyone looking for them anyway. Their parents were in jail or on drugs, et cetera.”
“Like Heaven.”
“Exactly, like Heaven. Janita and Candy were both in his caseload. So was Eliza Sapierski.”
“And no one can find the people that adopted them?”
“Every name listed is either wrong or disconnected.”
“Which means?”
“Which means, number one, they’re probably fake names. And number two, they’re probably not even getting adopted.”
“What’s happening to them then?”
“We don’t know for sure. But we think they’re being sold. They figure twenty-eight of his kids have gone missing in the last five years.”
“Sold? But why would he sell them?”
There is a pause. Up ahead, a brother and sister are laughing on the swings, their dirt-streaked sneakers reaching higher and higher into the sky. The swings croak out a rhythm as one swoops up and the other sails down.
“When kids get sold, Zoe, it’s not usually for a very happy reason.”
Bile rises in my throat. Of course. These white dudes trying to rape me and nobody believes me. “Human trafficking?”
“Yes, human trafficking. Pedophilia. Sick fucking stuff that nobody likes to believe is happening. Least of all in their own backyard.”
I stand there, watching the kids swing up and down, up and down.
“Easy trade route from Toronto to Buffalo and then to God knows where,” he adds.
“New York City,” I say.
He pauses. “What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know. It might not be. It’s just, that’s where Candy thought she was when she first woke up.”
“It’s plausible,” he says. “We can certainly look into it.”
The kids are laughing now. Up swing, down swing. Up swing, down swing. “Jesus Christ. We have to find Janita.” There is panic in my voice.
“We will, Zoe. I promise we will.”
I don’t know if I believe him. The parents by the swing are watching me watching their children, and I decide to move on. A woman jogs by me in black spandex, her cheeks ruddy, and I wish I were her. Running, not talking about men who sell children.
“There is a silver lining here, you know,” he says.
“Oh yeah? What could that possibly be?”
“She’s got a value to them. Pimps don’t usually like to kill their product.”
* * *
“How’s Candy doing?” Sam asks. “Any more appearances by Daneesha?”
“No, just Candy. She’s not doing great, actually.”
“Still catatonic?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest. But I don’t think so. She just sits there and moans. And she’s stiff as a board, sweating…”
“Doesn’t really sound like catatonia.” He clears his throat. “But I don’t know,” he adds, like he may have overstepped his bounds. “It’s hard to say when you’re not the one treating the patient.”
“Sounds like serotonin syndrome, though, doesn’t it?” I ply him.
He sits up archly in his chair. “Hard to say. Any more nightmares?” he asks, changing the subject.
“No. Thank God. Actually, work’s been so busy, I haven’t had time to worry about insomnia.”
“What’s your call?”
“Every fourth.”
He leans back with a smile and looks out the window. A dusting of snow lines the windowpane. “Back in my day…” he starts.
“When you walked ten miles uphill both ways?”
“That’s right.” He nods. “We were on call every other. Not sleeping was just part of the training.”
I finger the brass knobs on the chair. “You think that was better or worse?”
He ponders this one. “I don’t know. Better in some ways, worse in others. I learned a ton. Things became second nature just from sheer volume. But we made mistakes. We all did.” He takes off his glasses and starts cleaning them with his coat sleeve. “That’s how the Bell Commission came into being, you know.” He is referring to regulations that monitor resident work hours. “Some ER resident made a mistake, gave a girl Demerol when he shouldn’t have. And she died. Serotonin syndrome, probably.”
“Demerol?” I ask.
“Yeah. Do you know the case?”
“Sort of.” My head is whirling. Did any of you guys write a Demerol order yesterday? Someone took it from the Pyxis. “I guess I never knew all the details.”
He picks a white thread off his blazer. “I think she was on phenelzine back in the good ol’ days of psychiatry. I still use it, time to time,” he remarks, like he’s talking to himself. “And she was on cocaine, too, so it’s hard to know what did what, but the parents rightly sued and now we’ve got the Bell Commission, for better or worse.”
“Demerol,” I repeat.
“Yeah,” he says, looking at me oddly.
“Wait a second.” I start rummaging through my satchel.
“What? What are you looking for?”
“It’s this guy…this
priest…”
“A priest?”
I finally spot the tattered corner of the copy and yank it out. It’s a blurry, shadowy picture but it’s the same white beard, the same broad chest. I can’t say for sure, but the priest looks a hell of a lot like Raymond Donner.
“Is he giving her Demerol?” I ask, aloud.
* * *
The psych ward is moribund tonight. As I emerge from the elevator, the unit is dimly lit, muted, and gloomy. Nancy, the head nurse, spies me heading down the hall.
“Are you on call? I have Dr. Chang listed here.”
“Yeah. I switched with Jason.”
“Oh.” She looks puzzled. “I think he and Dr. B already rounded this morning.”
“Yeah, I guess he forgot some things, so I’m tying up some loose ends.” My face goes warm. I’ve never been a good liar.
“That’s how men are, right? Always forgetting something,” Nancy says.
I smile, grabbing some charts from the rack for show. They tremble in my arms, and I drop them down on the desk. “Hey, any more word on that missing Demerol?”
“Not really,” she answers. “They did tox screens on all the night staff, but I haven’t heard anyone turning up positive.”
I flip through a chart. “What about that priest guy?”
She laughs and pulls the med drawer open with a squeak. “No one’s seen hide nor hair of him again.” She steers her cart into the hallway. “Have a good one.”
I nod in response and start reading through the patient notes, deciding on the next step. Candy is still listed as catatonic. But Dr. Berringer’s wrong, no matter what he and his committee think. And if Raymond Donner’s been slipping her Demerol, she’s got serotonin syndrome. I could order a tox screen, but I would rather go under the radar in case Bad Santa is still out there somewhere. Who knows, he might even be going through her chart.
I fumble through a nurse’s cart for a blood draw kit and have no idea if I’m supposed to use a red top or purple top, so I grab both. Of course, I haven’t actually drawn blood since medical school, but I’m hoping it’s like riding a bicycle—just with needles. As I step into Candy’s room, the blinds throw stripes on the wall. Her IV pole whirs, the bag nearly bottomed out.