Disclaimer: I don't own John Murdoch, Daniel Schreber, or Frank Bumstead, so please don't sue!

Part 2

It was several moments before John found his voice. He just stood there, staring at Bumstead's lifeless form. He was clothed, but the rags he had on were so filthy it was almost impossible to tell what their original colors had been.

"My God!" John murmured. He turned to Schreber and asked faintly, "Is he dead?"

"No. Just - unconscious." Schreber looked worriedly around him, then said, "We need to move him. If we leave him here he'll end up - in the hands of - the police." John swallowed hard.

"How did you find him?"

"I worked late at the office," Schreber admitted, feeling an unwelcome flush rise to his cheeks. John had long been bugging him about overworking and not getting out enough. "I usually pass through – the park on my way – home. I find it to be – a pleasant place after dark. I found him slumped – by the bench." Schreber gestured to the one they were standing by.

"And you hid him in the bushes?" Daniel nodded.

"I went straight – to fetch you."

"We need to get him out of here," John said, feeling reason return to him. "Probably to a doctor, by the looks of him."

"I will look after him. I have some knowledge in – problems of the body as well as – the mind. But -,"

"You need me to carry him," John finished for him. "I think I can manage. Do you think we should try to wake him up first?"

"No." Daniel was firm. "It will almost certainly – cause trouble."

"Okay then." John bent over and after a bit of a struggle, managed to prop the unconscious man against the bench. As he paused for breath, the clock chimed 4:00 am, causing both of them to jump. After the last stroke, the two men looked at each other.

"We'd better get going," Schreber said. John bent once more over Bumstead and started hauling him up by his arms. He looked like he'd lost about 15 pounds, but even in reduced form his lifeless body was a deadweight. When John managed to get him onto the bench he had to stop for breath again, while Schreber made sure Bumstead didn't get too roughed up in the process. It was he who noticed the wound.

"My – God!" He intoned in a whisper. John was quick to follow his gaze.

"What happened to him?" he questioned, his voice just as soft as his friend's. On the back of Bumstead's head were several long gashes, all in various stages of healing, all apparently made by the same instrument.

"Who could have done this?" John turned to Schreber, who shook his head in horror and bewilderment.
"I can't imagine."
"Will you be able to take care of them?" John didn't mean to sound skeptical, but he didn't see how a psychiatrist could be trained to handle head injuries. Schreber paused, examining the wounds, running over them with light fingers.
"Yes," he said at last. "It is difficult to know how much - damage has been done but - I believe I can help them - to heal." He straightened himself. "But now we must go." John bent over for a final time and, with Daniel's help, eased Bumstead onto his back, sack-of-potatoes style. He staggered a few moments under the weight, but after shifting his load a bit, he began to walk carefully out of the park and toward Daniel's apartment 5 blocks away. They were forced to detour a few blocks to avoid the police station, a decision that made John groan out loud, and gasp to Daniel,
"I think I'd kill for a police car right now!" Daniel smiled wryly.
"I doubt it. If the police caught you - like this you would find yourself - in handcuffs before you could - blink an eye."
"Oh, you don't think they'd like my Jack-the-ripper act?" John said, quirking an eyebrow. Schreber snorted, the irony not lost on him.
"Can you be arrested for the same crime twice?" John's mouth twisted in an expression of pure sarcasm.
"If no one else remembers - the first time, yes." Schreber said. John rolled his eyes.
"Then I guess it's a good thing Bumstead's in no position to talk." The attempted joke contained no mirth, and both men fell silent. By the time they arrived at Schreber's doorstep, John was spent. He barely managed to deposit Bumstead on a couch before collapsing on the floor next to him with a grunt.
"I'm going to need a doctor myself... for my back!" he said between groans.
"Thank you." Schreber looked John in the eyes, expressing his gratefulness without further words.
"What are you going to do now?"
"I'll let him rest. If he doesn't regain consciousness by - daylight I may have to - telephone a hospital."
"He looks like he should be on a drip," John commented, concern in his voice. "His face is like ash."
"He needs nourishment, that's - for sure." Schreber bent over and felt Bumstead's pulse. It was very fast - too fast. He grimaced, then pulled out his pocket watch.
"It's nearing 5:00. You should get some - sleep. I'll call you if there - are any developments." John nodded and got to his feet. At the doorway he stopped to shake his friend's hand.
"Take good care of him, Daniel. If he can live, I might have a chance at redemption after all."