by CJ Lyons
"Ulrich made her own choice. You can't allow her to manipulate you now that she's gone. It's just as bad as the way she manipulated Sterling while she was alive."
Cassie thought about that. Typical of Drake to cut straight to the heart of the matter–no philosophical or ethical tightrope for him.
"You saved her son's life not once, but twice," he continued. "You got involved and risked everything to help that boy when no one else cared. You tried to save her and her baby's life. You did the right thing. I'm proud of you."
He kissed her on the top of her head and gave her shoulders an encouraging squeeze before leaving.
Trading one life for three, counting Sheila Kaminsky. Could it have been the right thing?
Most frightening of all was the fact that she wasn't sorry Virginia was dead. Only that the baby and Sheila had died.
She wasn't the person that she'd thought she was, perhaps she never had been. But she knew the truth now–she could kill, she had killed, she might very well kill again.
She remembered Rachel Lloyd's accusations after she'd dealt with Morris. The nurse had been right, too right. Her oath to first do no harm, words she'd pledged her life to, now seemed distant and meaningless.
As usual the universe frustrated her attempts to understand it. It wasn't the first time. Cassie was certain that it wouldn't be the last. Life would go on and she would learn to live with the consequences of her actions. But it was difficult to accept that so many people had been harmed by her desire to help one little boy.
<><><>
Drake returned to where Ulrich's body lay in the operating room. He looked in through the windows. In the corner a large blue sheet shrouded the warmer where the baby's body lay. Johnson and another patrolman stood guard outside the door, waiting for the coroner's unit to arrive.
Virginia Ulrich appeared less peaceful in death than she had in life. Her body was surrounded by blood-splattered drapes, there was a tube down her throat and a mass of IV lines hanging from her arms. Her eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling.
Johnson stood with his back to the woman, hunched over his notebook. The patrol officer looked a little pale. Drake understood why. Even a veteran of street violence would have a difficult time accepting what Ulrich had done this evening. Or its aftermath. And he knew Johnson had a daughter almost Charlie's age.
"Need a minute?" Drake asked in a low voice.
The younger man shook his head, but there was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. He sighed and straightened up. "No thanks, I think I've got everything straight."
"Let's go somewhere and talk. You okay in here, Rankin?" Drake asked over his shoulder as he led Johnson from the room.
Thank God, the press hadn't arrived yet. He'd told security not to allow them access to either the pediatric or OB floor, but in a building this size that wouldn't last long before someone found a way in. Miller should be here soon, then it'd all be her headache.
He and Johnson returned downstairs to room 303. Another uniformed officer stood outside the closed door, but waved them through.
Drake shut the door behind them and surveyed the room. It wasn't very large, space enough for a single bed, a rocking chair and a fold out recliner. There was a large window opposite and a sink beside the door. A closet and the door into the bathroom lined the other wall.
No get well cards or balloons, no toys. A lonely place for a little kid. The bed was gone now, leaving a clear space amid the medical debris that cluttered the room. The crash cart stood to one side, its drawers open, syringes and vials of medicine littering its surface. Empty paper wrappings, boxes and EKG paper were strewn across the floor like remnants of a New Year's celebration.
Except this had been no party.
"Do you have the video?" Drake asked.
"Rankin has it," Johnson answered.
"Okay, walk me through it."
"I was patrolling the floor and received a call at," Johnson glanced at his notes, "1118. I arrived to find Ulrich at her son's bedside, holding a syringe containing an unknown substance at his IV. Dr. Hart was inside the room, attempting to calm Ulrich. Ulrich saw me and told me to stay outside the door, and given the imminent threat to her son, I remained where I was."
"You had a good view inside the room and could hear everything?"
"Yes sir. Ulrich was upset, saying Dr. Hart was trying to take her son away and that she would never let that happen. Then," he frowned, "she took the syringe from her son's arm and put it into her own."
Drake nodded, wished he could have just shot Ulrich, instead of letting her play head games with Hart.
"Then the monitor alarms started to go crazy and Dr. Hart realized that Ulrich had poisoned the boy. Ulrich screamed something about Dr. Hart killing her, but the doctor ignored her and went to help the boy. Then you–" The patrol officer stumbled.
"Go ahead," Drake told him, bracing himself for the worse. He wasn't sure–had Ulrich pushed the plunger herself? Or had he done it when he rushed her? Had he killed that little baby?
Johnson cleared his throat. "Then you moved toward Ulrich. But before you could grab the syringe, she injected herself."
Drake stared at the officer. "You certain about that? Absolutely certain?"
"Yes sir," Johnson asserted. "The camera caught it clear as day." He shook his head. "I'll never forget it to the day I die. Her son's dying, Hart goes to save him and she has this look of," he searched for a word, "triumph. That smile–I don't ever want to see nothing like it again."
"She injected the drug? Before I touched her?"
"Oh yeah. No doubt about it."
"I see." Drake blew out his breath and his fists relaxed.
"Believe me, if I had known she had poisoned the boy, I would have taken her down right away. The syringe looked almost full. I don't think Dr. Hart realized what had happened either, not until the monitors started to alarm."
"Okay. You head back to the House and write it up." Drake looked around the room once more, then turned to leave.
Johnson remained in the center of the room, where Charlie's bed would have been. "I never would have dreamed–what would make a mother do that to her own son?" he asked, his voice filled with a mixture of wonder and disgust. "I mean, I've never seen anything like that."
Drake shook his head. "Me neither. Let's just hope that there's not many more like her out there."
CHAPTER 35
Drake knocked on the open door to White's office. The psychiatrist glanced up from the file he was dictating, waved Drake inside. He couldn't help but notice the latest addition to White's decor: a framed Nate Trevasian original. Much nicer than the one Nate had drawn of Mendelsohn's hand over his face, stealing his words, his will.
This one was done with pastels–maybe from the set Drake had given Nate?–and depicted White as a roly-poly Santa Claus watching a boy play with his new puppy.
"Miller told me to report to you, even though you already cleared me," Drake said, lounging against the wall of windows beside the desk. He eyed the patient chair warily.
"That was before you killed a man," White reminded him. But his smile was warm as he swiveled his chair to face Drake, pulling back from his desk and forsaking his notepad and pen. "So, how've you been?"
"Great," Drake said. Then remembered the reason he was here and wiped the grin from his face. It was hard, though.
The last three days with Hart had been the best three days he could remember. Waking in her bed, working side by side with her in her garden, sketching–he'd even begun to paint again–making love to her, it was as if they'd been granted a vacation from the real world and its problems. For the first time since February, he and Hart had talked, really, truly talked. About things he'd never expected to ever voice to another living soul.
"Hate to tell you, doc," he said, "but I think I've found another therapist. And she's a whole lot prettier than you."
White nodded thoughtfully, his shrink face back on. "No aftereffects from shooting Mendelsoh
n? Sleepless nights? Panic attacks?"
"Not about him. Face it, some creeps deserve what they get." Drake didn't mention the few bad dreams about what could have happened to Hart if he'd missed that shot, dreams that were quickly erased by her warm caress and soothing words.
White seemed to follow his thoughts effortlessly. "Dr. Hart is good for you. But I have one observation, Detective."
Drake resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He could afford to humor the man–after all, this was only a formality. IAD and the Officer Involved team had already cleared him, he had his gun and was scheduled to return to active duty tomorrow. "What's that?"
"I've been through your records and noted a pattern of behavior. Although you test very high, you were always a mediocre student. Never went out for competitive sports, only intramurals. And as a police officer, despite an excellent closure record and some fine work undercover, you've shown no interest in promotion and seem to almost invite a reputation as a screw-up."
Drake winced at that. "Don't sugar coat it, doc. Tell me what you really think, why don't you?"
"I am," White said in a serious tone.
Like he was Drake's father or something. Forget that, his dad would never be talking to him like this. "Go on."
"You barely even qualify on your weapons re-certification. Yet, the shot you made when you killed Mendelsohn was spectacular. I asked one of the Emergency Response snipers, he said he would have thought twice about it."
"I guess even screw-ups get lucky sometimes." Drake tried hard not to imagine what could have happened if he'd missed Mendelsohn, given the killer time to shoot Hart–or worse yet, what if he'd hit Hart by accident?
"How many times did your father win the Zone Seven marksman trophy?" White asked.
Drake jerked his head up, surprised by the question. "I dunno, why?"
"He won it every time he re-certified," White answered. "Set a new record."
Drake looked out the window, focused on the cerulean sky outside White's windows. No ball game today to distract him from the shrink's mumbojumbo.
"I think, in order to not compete with your father or his memory, you've learned to take the easy way out. You coast by, doing only what needs to be done, until something grabs your attention, attracts your passion. Like the Trevasian family and their problems. Or Dr. Hart."
"Maybe I do," Drake replied, still staring out the window. "If that's what works for me–"
"Has it?" White interrupted. "Has it really worked for you, Detective?"
Drake whirled around, tired of the psychobabble. "What are you trying to say, doc? You're not going to let me go back to work? You gonna put a bad review in my jacket?"
White sighed and shook his head. "You need this job, just as you need Hart. I think you have the makings of an excellent police officer."
"But?"
To Drake's surprise, the shrink laughed. "No buts. That's the whole point. Stop holding back, Detective, waiting for your father's approval or judgment. Start living for you–use that passion Hart stirs in you. Don't run from it or try to control it." White stood, emerging from behind his desk to stand before Drake. "You've been granted a terrific gift, Detective. Don't let it go to waste."
White held out his hand. Drake took it.
"Go on, now," the shrink said in dismissal. "I've got real patients to treat." Drake started for the door. "But," White called after him, "don't let me hear about any more screw-ups or I'll call Hart, tell her to kick your butt!"
Drake grinned at the older man, thinking of the sparring session he'd had with Hart the day before. She had kicked his butt. Of course, then she'd eased the pain of defeat in a most pleasurable way. "Don't worry, doc. That's her specialty. No one slacks off around Hart."
<><><>
Cassie was busy packing up her office when a knock came at her door. Before she could answer it, the door opened and Ed Castro filled the doorway.
"Hi."
She reached for the clock the residents had given her. Best teacher, yeah, right.
Ed handed it to her, held it for both of them to look at for a moment. "I was so proud when they gave you this award," he said, relinquishing the crystal clock. She began to wrap it in newspaper. "I kept thinking how happy your father would be, if he could have been there."
She sucked her breath in. This was hard enough without him bringing up dreams that could never be. How many times over the years had she wished her parents were there to witness her accomplishments? How many times had she prayed for their guidance, tried to live up to their expectations?
"Maybe it's a good thing he's not around to see what's happening now," she muttered. She gestured to a stack of mail on her desk. "Get a load of what was waiting for me when I got in today. Not to mention the websites memorializing Virginia as a fallen martyr. Or the news segment Sterling did today, claiming she suffered from pregnancy induced psychosis and that none of this would have happened if I hadn't accused her of Munchausen's."
Ed took the top letter from the stack and quickly read its message of hate. "This is awful. Did you ask Drake for protection?"
She shrugged. "I don't think any of them will actually do anything. Besides," she said with a scoffing laugh, "some of the things they suggest aren't even anatomically possible."
"Still, that's a lot of venom. Are they all like this?"
"Actually, no. Read this one." She reached for another letter. "This one is anonymous. She says her mother subjected her to numerous hospital admissions and procedures, even smearing feces in her wounds to cause infections. She survived because her mother turned her attention to her younger sister after she started kindergarten. Her sister died, and she's certain it was because of what her mother did."
"God, what a way for a child to grow up." Ed returned the letter. "At least she's grateful that you brought this Virginia Ulrich business into the public light. Maybe there are others out there that it will help, too."
"Maybe. Sure hasn't done your clinic any good. I heard The Senator is blocking any government funding for it. I'm sorry. I know how much the Liberty Center meant to you and Drake."
He moved a stack of books from where it threatened to topple from her desk and leaned against it. "Actually, that's what I came to talk to you about. The Liberty Center has been given a grant from an anonymous benefactor. Enough to get it opened by September."
"Really? That's fantastic. Any idea who the donor is?"
"No. It goes through a non-profit called The Riverstar Foundation. But, I need your help."
"Of course, anything. I've got nothing but time on my hands. Not since the Executive Committee accepted my resignation. At least the Medical Board found me innocent, so my medical record will be clear, even if no one around here will hire me."
"I want to hire you. Two jobs, actually. One as Special Projects Director of the clinic–hands on involvement with project development as well as clinical shifts, maybe even making house calls if you're up to that."
She nodded, already envisioning the work that the Liberty Center could accomplish. Every time Drake and Ed discussed it, they came up with new ideas to help the people of East Liberty and the surrounding neighborhoods. "Sounds great."
"It won't pay much, but with the addition of the second job, I think you'll make by."
"Second job?"
"You know how much I hate flying, doing any kind of transport."
Ed's fear of flying and tendency to get sick in the back of ambulances were legendary. She didn't enjoy flying either, but she still loved transports–the thrill of being on-scene, improvising, using only her hands and skills to make a diagnosis and save a life. "You'd like me to take over as Transport Director?"
"I won't have time, not with my job in the ER and being Medical Director of the Liberty Center. And, that way, you could also cover some shifts here in the ER, keep your skills up."
She was speechless. He'd just described her perfect job. She dropped the clock she was wrapping into the box and threw her arms around him. "
Thanks, Ed. You're my favorite fairy godfather!"
He returned her embrace. "Promised Rosa I'd look after you," he reminded her. "Wouldn't want the old witch to curse me from beyond the grave."
"There's just one catch," he continued.
Cassie broke away. Wasn't there always? "What?"
"Adeena is going to be heading social services for the Center. You'd be working closely together. Is that going to be a problem?"
She hesitated. Adeena had left several messages of apology on her answering machine, but Cassie hadn't found the time to return her calls. Who was she fooling? She didn't want to talk to Adeena, was still too angry to face her.
"C'mon," Ed said. "You two have been friends for too long. Don't let Virginia Ulrich take that from you as well. You have to forgive her, Cassie. She made a mistake–but she was trying to do what was best for you and the Ulrich family."
"I know." She looked away, finished piling photos of the ER staff, medics she'd worked with, residents and students into her box. This was her home, her family. And she was being forced to leave it, to start over. She couldn't afford to lose another friend. Especially not one as important as Adeena. "I'll talk to her," she promised Ed. "It'll be all right."
"Good. Then, as your new boss, here's your first assignment."
She looked up at the tone of merriment in his voice. What was he up to now? Ed hated confrontation, any disruption in the emotional equanimity of those he was close to–loved playing matchmaker, peacemaker, Santa Claus. Whatever it took to restore the balance.
"What?"
"You're going to let me finish in here while you go upstairs to Drake's mother's room. He's waiting for you."
"Ed, what's going on?"
"No questions, that's an order. Now, go!"
<><><>
Muriel had been moved from the ICU and to a bed on the Neurology ward. Park said she'd be ready for discharge in another day or so. Cassie found Drake huddled over his mother's bed, his tall form blocking her view.