Chapter 9
It's all I can keep saying: Thanks for sticking with it and giving those great reviews that my sloppiness doesn't deserve. I'm on fall break now, so hopefully I can speed the story up a little. Thanks for being so understanding.
All disclaimers apply.
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As Mark waited at the reception desk in the heart of the ER, his sight fell onto a little orange pill container that stood right next to the computer and was labeled with an Aspirin tag. Almost automatically he looked around to see whether someone was around it might belong to and when he couldn't make any connection, he took it. He screwed off the lid and sniffed twice over the opening, then let it sink almost disappointedly. This was Aspirin, for sure.
"Dr Sloan, I seriously hope you know you're not supposed to inhale this..." Dr Higgins stood behind him, grinning mildly at the eccentric doctor, who was known for his unorthodox methods.
At first Mark was startled. He'd been so lost in thoughts that he hadn't seen or heard anything, but –he regarded wryly- that might as well have been due to the past forty-eight hours of no sleep. He smiled back at last. "Yeah, I'm sorry, Dr Higgins, I'd better not wonder what you think of me now. But actually I was looking for you..."
The look on Higgins's features twisted from gentle humor to blank horror. "Oh God, please don't tell me there is something wrong with Dr Travis...I was in the OR...I...I know someone paged me, but I was too busy..."
"Jesse is fine..." Mark interrupted him, but in the afterthought his choice of words sickened him. "Well..." he half-heartedly gestured into the nothing, "...you know."
Higgins nodded sorrowfully. "Yeah...God, that just makes me mad. You know, it's hard enough when I get people in here who are just about as old me, and then when I know the person..." he shook his head and looked at his colleague out of his clouded brown eyes, "And you still think it wasn't a accident?"
"I'm afraid we are more certain than ever..." Mark heard himself saying.
The young man cursed under his breath. "Oh damnit! I don't get that, the people here love him, it's not even normal. I bet every single person that is within a range of 10 feet around us right now has more enemies than him. That's just..." he paused, seeking fiercely for the right words, then continued with sudden weariness, "...it just makes me wanna stop believing in the good guys, you know?"
Mark nodded, knowing exactly what the other man meant.
Higgins ran a hand through his spiked up brown hair. "Well, if I can do anything..."
That reminded Mark why he'd come down here. "Actually, you can help me with a few questions."
"Okay", Higgins replied, obviously stunned by the prompt demand.
"Do you guys handle many addictives down here? People who come in, wanting painkillers, pills, anything...?"
Higgins chuckled sarcastically. "This is an ER, Mark. We wouldn't know we worked in one if it wasn't for the druggies coming in everyday..."
"What kind of stuff is one the junkies' list?"
"The junkies mostly want Demerol or Morphine. The others..."
"Others?" Mark asked, puzzled.
Higgins smiled earnestly, in slight awe for Mark's naivety. "This is Los Angeles, Mark, not everyone who takes drugs is out on the streets, wearing rags and eating from other people's garbage tons. In fact, most of them don't."
"So what is the majority?"
"Those who can afford a pool boy, but not a stay at Betty Ford's which is where they'd belong. Actors, starlets, aspiring and fallen stars. People who could have a fairly decent life with a proper job or the money they've already got, if their ego wasn't three times as huge as the Empire State Building, that is." He waited a second for his words to sink in, and then continued. "They come in here with all kinds of complaints about a hurting ankle or this or that and can name every drug they need."
"But what do they need painkillers for and why do they come here?" Mark felt the loose pieces of information rotating in his head.
"After seeing some their performances here, I understand why they need the stuff to get an audition. They come here because it's anonymous. The last thing those people need is bad press. Snatching some Valium in a drug store? Too risky. Getting professional help? To official. Then why not run into some ER, fake some pain and have some doctor write a prescription? You shouldn't underestimate the criminal energy that's behind it. They need the stuff to be interesting, to run their lives," he gestured towards the automatic doors that were between them and the street, "This is an unforgiving town..."
"So what do you guys do with them?" Mark inquired, all of sudden thanking God for not having to lead a life in the fear of becoming too boring or too 'out of the series concept'.
"We usually ask them to go or give them some milder stuff just so they will shut up..."
"Do you prescribe Codeine?"
At that question Higgins looked as though he'd just been punched into the belly. His eyes grew bigger and bigger, displaying the absurdity of Mark's question to him. "I hope you're joking. I would never ever prescribe Codeine to someone I'm suspecting to fake pain. God knows what else these people are throwing in, they could kill themselves..." The young man thought for a moment, before he added in dismay, "Not that over a longer time span they wouldn't anyway..."
Mark scanned the other doctor and saw whose regretful eyes with distress on his own. It was a remark that Higgins had made at the very beginning of their talk. About how hard it was to see people in here who were just as old as him and who were still totally out of reach for him to help them Mark could read in the young man's gaze. Tyler Higgins and Jesse Travis were both in the beginning of the thirties, both extremely skilled doctors, at their fairly inexperienced age already handled as experts in their medical field, being allowed to carry a responsibility under the peers of some older colleagues who were just waiting in vain for them to trip. They were probably alpha examples of what people called success stories
And still every day in their job they looked at people who at exactly their age were almost finished with their lives mentally or physically or both.
A cry from the waiting area tore Mark away from his philosophical musings. He knew what he got to witness now was more like the everyday ER life than the untypical quietness they had been surrounded by before. A young woman tried to wrestle her way past a few security guards and interns who were blocking her way. Despite of her gaunt shape and skinny body she was putting up quite an impressing resistance to the strong men who tried to get a grip on her. "Get your dirty hands off me, you bastards!" she yelled at them, her pronunciation blurred. "I gotta see some freakin' doctor..." she babbled, losing strength with every move she made to free herself.
Cued by the demand, Higgins let out a small sign and turned around to face the scene, then looked back at Mark. "Here we go again..."
Mark frowned. "Aren't you going to treat her?"
"No, not yet. Give them a few more seconds and she will be as quiet as a mouse. We know her. She drops by every week, makes one hell of a circus and then breaks down..." Under Mark's stern look, he offered a kindred explanation, "I know it sounds cold, but as long she is doing this no one can help her anyway. It's sad, we see her every week and we don't even know her name...the interns call her Marilyn...for obvious reasons."
Dr Sloan focused once more on the young woman, who only whimpered as she was hovered on a stretcher, and indeed understood. Though her body was far from well taken care of and draped by cheap clothing, you could guess that it had once been very feminine. The remaining outlines of sexy curves were still weakly visible. The thin face showed traces of former impulsivity and fullness, her hair, albeit greasy, was still platinic blonde and wavy. That girl really had something of the young and avid Marilyn Monroe.
In the meantime, Higgins had longed for the telephone receiver, punched in a few numbers and, when he got an answer, he said: "Tell Dr Dorsey we've got one of his patients down here...well, she can't come up to his office 'cause we tied her to a stretcher...I don't care whether he is busy or not, he freaking is to come down here and take care of his patient...yeah, you can tell him that exactly!" He smashed the receiver back into the cradle and snorted.
Mark tried to catch up. "She is Dorsey's patient?!" It wasn't so much the fact that Dorsey was a plastic surgeon that threw the older man off track, but more likely that he didn't know how to imagine Dr Will Dorsey actually taking care of anyone.
Higgins nodded, his face a landscape of understanding for Mark's blurting. "Yeah, it kinda knocked me off my chair, too, but, mind me, maybe under that entire smooth-smug-smeary, cut-throat competition attitude there might still be lurking a sparkle of humanity and misguided goodwill in Dorsey."
Albeit being stunned, Mark had to smile at Tyler's mockery. However, he couldn't help but throwing a curious eye at the figure of Will Dorsey who hurried out of the elevator this very moment and strode towards the curtain area on his long muscular legs. "Lurking sparkle of humanity...", he repeated to himself, tasting the oddness of the words on his tongue.
The other doctor caught his line of thoughts and raised his eyebrows. "You never know, Mark. But Jesse didn't seem too convinced either..."
The bubble around Dr Sloan's disconnected thoughts burst as though pierced with a needle and from one second to the next Mark was back on what felt like a sinking ship. "What do you mean?"
Higgins seemed confused. "He didn't tell you? He almost went up the walls when he discovered Dorsey was 'recruiting' patients from here...I must admit I also thought there was something kind of foul about it, but then again I haven't been here long enough to judge it...Doc? Everything 'kay? "
Mark found that his eyes were fixed on the curtain behind which Will Dorsey had vanished just minutes ago and gulped. "No", he muttered bitterly, "I don't think anything's okay..."
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"Hey, Steve, what are you still doing here? I thought you and your dad were long gone home?"
"Yeah, well, I made the mistake of thinking the same. There must be some kind of black hole between the sign-out desk and this room that swallowed him, or he is going the whole way on his hands and backwards..."
"Knowing your father, I wouldn't be too surprised to find out that he is. Anyway, you have fun waiting, I'm out of here."
"Out as in back to the ER?"
"Out as in off duty...why are you looking at me like that?"
"Jesse Travis is going home. H-O-M-E. Next thing I know is gonna be that Ms. Piggy is running for presidency."
"I had an epiphany last week when my next door neighbor of three years asked me if I had just moved in 'cause he was pretty sure he'd never seen me before."
"Do you think Kermit is gonna be her vice?"
"Steve, seriously, have you ever considered seeing a doctor about this?"
"Jesse, I've been here for two hours, I'm bored, terribly bored. B-O-R-E-D. And..."
"What's the thing with you spelling everything out to me?"
"I was getting there: I'm bored and the only thing that's on TV is the National Cheerleading Championships."
"So read some magazines."
"I already did. I even read an article named 'The Diary of a Plastic Surgery Patient'. I know more about people with silicon implants who think in bold-print than I ever wanted to know."
"See ya tomorrow."
"According to the guy who wrote the article about polar ice melting in 'Scientific America' there most likely is no tomorrow."
"A shame. Bye Steve."
"Yeah. Bye."
As the dream faded away and he became aware of the thin noise of beeping and whizzing around him, Steve realized that he had actually managed to doze off. Under the curtain of his closed eyelids, he tried to recapture some of the up-lifting feeling the merciful sleep had given him until he noticed in silent shock that the dream he was clinging on to hadn't been one in the first place. That scene, that whole dialogue had really happened less than 24 hours ago when Jesse had still been just as vivid and funny and full of life and Steve's biggest concern had still been the polar ice melting.
Only now the memory of it seemed even crueler and more pain-causing than the recollection of their findings in the parking lot some time later.
It wasn't the first time Steve's subconscious was playing that kind of trick on him. It had occurred before, while he had been in Vietnam, or after his mother had died, or when his dad had been imprisoned for a murder he hadn't committed, that the days before the incident would rewind in Steve's dreams.
So it was now, and as Steve struggled to wake up and gather his thoughts, he felt himself having the same notion he always had after having that kind of dream. Panicking in the odd fear that this might be some kind of Groundhog Day which he would be forced to live through again and again until the end of time and still hoping there might be a chance to alter his fate with the help of providence.
However, when he returned into the world lingering in front of his burning eyes, Steve discovered he would have to cope with the reality as it had changed during the last day. Reluctantly he accepted that he sooner or later he would have to deal not only with the present but on top of it with the undecided future, too. Not enough that he couldn't rewind time, he couldn't even hold it long enough for his mind to catch up with him. God, how much he hated not being in control of things.
This state of total dependence seemed to have him in a constant emotional headlock, preventing him from thinking and acting rationally, and thus in any way helpfully.
He looked at Jesse, partly because he didn't know where else to look, focusing on the rigid face, the chalk white cheeks, and the hollowly closed eyes. He almost couldn't bear to keep staring, but he knew looking away he would just feel as horrible, and even more like a bad friend. As he just sat there and kept watching, Steve noticed something was happening within him. The triggered rage, the uncontrollable madness at himself, at Jesse, at the whole world just emerged from his body.
The more his eyes maintained that look, the more Steve saw there was something about his friend that had stayed right where it belonged, that this was still Jesse he was looking at, no matter how tempting the thought might have been that it wasn't. It all of sudden occurred to Steve that ever since he had known Jesse there hadn't been a second he hadn't fully trusted him. Very much like Mark this man might have been messy, curious and well, weird, but in everything he was and did one heck of reliable.
There were probably worse people to cast your hopes upon, Steve thought.
After sitting for another few seconds, studying his friend's expressions, the Lieutenant got up slowly, grabbing Jesse's hand, squeezing it and releasing it again within the same motion. His dad had been right, there was nothing he could do about this.
No matter if he got those bastards and put them behind bars, it wouldn't change the outcome. But while he had been sitting in this room, haunted by nervous dreams, all he had done was wishing he could turn back the time, asking himself to be able to control something that was long out of reach.
There were people out there who were responsible for this and it was his job, his duty – as a policeman and as a friend likewise- to make them be held responsible. It was his part, he would do what had to be done. The rest was, indeed, up to Jesse. And this man would do that part just as well, Steve felt with shrinking doubts.
Today wasn't Groundhog Day. Today was Payday.
As he passed the chips eating guard outside the door, the Lieutenant only glanced at him firmly and then proceeded towards the elevator. Despite of his higher spirits, he still felt a shudder down his spine when he walked through the hallway, but this time he managed to convince himself that it was just due to the better air-conditioned main halls of the unit.
Just out of cop-mode he threw a quick look over his shoulder as he felt his back being vulnerable without the shielding Kevlar vest covering it.
He didn't notice anything uncommon; however, when he faced the front again, for some reason the image of a pair of creepily intense gray eyes was carved into his mind.
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Though they hadn't arranged any meeting, the three of them arrived at the doctor's lounge at almost the same time. Mark was the first one to get there and shortly after his son was in, too. While he shyly explained that he had done some investigations, the doctor was almost afraid of looking at the Lieutenant, fearing at least an outbreak of bad temper.
Like a theatre visitor, who would close his eyes at some point in expectation of a bloody massacre and opened them some time later to find the moment of suspense had passed without exacted violence, Mark was as much surprised as relieved to notice that nothing of his story was causing a reaction apart from a few mild nods.
The next thing both father and son knew was that the air seemed to stiffen and they were choking in the scent of pure fat and plastic-wrapped cheese, the smell from old memories of times when men had no time or talent to cook and the idea for decent-tasting take-outs was still written in the stars sparkling in the night sky over the pacific.
Inwardly shaken by disgust both men tried to keep a straight face in front of Amanda, who was thoughtful enough to keep a good three yards distance to them. Still their eyes must have filled with pity at her lamentably pale sight, as she asked sullenly: "Is it that bad? I know I'm feeling like a cheeseburger, but I was kinda hoping it was just me..."
"So Hartman's still living on Happy Meals...", Mark mused, but promptly changed the subject as he realized how little it did for Amanda's comfort. "Did you find anything useful?"
She held up a list and took a small step towards them, just enough to be able to hand the papers over. "That's a list of all the people who signed out Codeine at the stock within the past three weeks. I haven't had a chance to look at it. As soon as I had it, I was on my way running. Other than that he just told me that Dr. Dorsey is the only medical head who gets his supplies from another pharmaceutical company than the rest of us."
Mark quickly scanned the lists, and then gave them to Steve, as he looked back to Amanda. "Dorsey, you say? That's funny..." He explained what Higgins had told him and summarized the scene he had got to witness down in the ER.
When he was done, Steve was done with the lists and raised his eyebrows slightly. "You know what? Look at this, Dorsey is the only one of the doctors who fetches his supplies from the stock himself. See..." His index finger pointed at the list of signatures and among the names of nurses, Dorsey was the only one on them who really was a certified doctor.
"You're right...", Mark mumbled, his look deepening on the papers. He glanced up, again his face was alight for a second or two, his worries being out-weighed by his natural curiosity before they settled back in a frown of sublime consternation. "So what does that tell us?"
"That Will Dorsey is either so dear friends with a nasty, super sized stock administrator that he needs to visit him three times a week minimum, or that his drugs mean important business to him", Amanda answered, a nauseous cough following as she smelled on her coat.
"Well, before I go and get a warrant, how likely is it to be the first mentioned?" Steve questioned earnestly, albeit knowing the reply.
Amanda pulled a face and eyed him with life-tired weariness. "I'd say it equals zero. Dorsey and Hartman are both far from winning the 'Mr. Lovely' award, but there are both so different in their unloveliness that it's hard to imagine they like each other. That's like Dr. No and Darth Vader getting into the same boat to conquer the world...God, listen to me, the fast food junk smoked my brains out!", she added hysterically, when she saw Steve biting his lip in an attempt not to find it funny.
"Alright, I get your point" the younger Sloan appeased and turned to his father whose mental presence had left them once more and only returned as he was addressed directly. "So what do you say, dad, should we have chat with him? Is Dorsey our man?"
Mark shrugged. "He might, he mightn't. It's no crime to take care of drug addicts or get your drug supplies from the stock yourself. Talking to him right now is lethal to the investigation, this way or the other. If he's our man, he would be warned and out of the country before we get our hands on something specific. If he isn't..."
"...we've made fools of ourselves, the real attacker will be off into the blue yonder and it's no good to Jess or anyone", Steve finished bluntly. He sighed deeply, ran a big hand through his uncombed hair and his icy-blue eyes stared at Mark and Amanda. "So...any ideas?"
A moment of undetermined silence was followed by Mark pulling out the container of pills once again, staring at it again as though he expected it to start talking. Then he looked up and held the bottle up like he was an actor in a cheap commercial. "We will just follow the evidence as we did before..."
It was then that a coat was tossed over one of the armchairs and Amanda was on the retreat. Before she went out, she gave both men a thin hopeful smile. "You guys go ahead and do that. I will have a shower and then go to Jesse. He surely can need someone around. Good luck!"
"Hey, your coat!", Steve yelled after her, hardly hiding his gleefulness.
Through the pane in the door the Sloans saw her walking away, then as she reacted to the sound quickly turning on her heels and just a few seconds later she stuck her head into the room and gestured at her left-behind lab-coat with a hateful glare. "You owe me. Burn it", she ordered and was out.
"Wow...", Steve's eyes had wandered into their corners as he watched her marching out. Slightly grinning, he looked back at his father. "Poor Jesse, she'll be up in his face with that forever."
Marveling at how much his son's attitude had changed within the short time he'd left him alone, Mark tried to produce a chuckle, yet it came out more politely than actually optimistically.
"Don't worry, dad", the older man heard a quiet voice next to him, "He's gonna be okay, you know him."
Mark looked up to his son and suddenly found that now he was the one seeking for acknowledgement, asking for what was going to happen. Maybe, he mused, sticking to Steve's mantra was just the best he could do right now. His mouth was dry as his whispered "Thank you."
"Thank you." Steve whispered, then straightened again, ready to get going. "So what's the next step as we follow the evidence?"
The Lieutenant watched his father getting his cell phone out of his pocket and dialing a number. Thereby the older man smiled auspiciously: "I might have an idea. You'll see..."
