"The Benevolent Doctor"
20. Diagnostic
Sometime in New New York
Never had Martha seen the Doctor be more fitting to the name as he was on that day. One by one they had gone through the assembled former subjects of Doctor Benedict, and they were examined, while they recounted their own experiences, what they remembered from being in the great big house across the gates. As they went, Martha took diligent notes, separating the medical elements from the rest of the information.
In doing this, they did learn a fair amount. For one thing, they discovered that some of them had been kept there anywhere from days to weeks, sometimes months. Some of them just never returned, now that they thought about it.
"That one there," one old woman pointed a bony finger to the tall man who'd brought Alfred in. "His wife went in, never did return, did she? And I think his daughter, too," she nodded. Looking at her, Martha couldn't help but think how her hands looked much older, frailer, than her face seemed to indicate it should. It was as though her hands were older than her head.
Martha had thought to build a timeline of when they'd gone in for these treatments, to get a better idea, and it was in doing so that she started to see it. There was definitely a pattern, she was seeing it now. Even as she rearranged her sheets, one to each patient, it made more and more sense. She debated pointing it out to the Doctor, but he was already on a roll, and if she even tried to cut in and break his momentum, he'd probably argue at her and keep going. So she waited, further building up her case, the better to present it to him after they had seen the last few people.
When the last of them had gone, the Doctor had plopped down on the Brannigans' couch with a pronounced sigh, stretching out his arms for a moment before he looked up to Martha.
"So do you see it yet?" he asked her, and she closed her eyes for a moment, then moved forward.
"Yes," she stacked the papers in three neat piles on a table. The Doctor sprang back to his feet and went to take a look, browsing through the sheets much more rapidly than she might have liked. "They fit together, they do. Different symptoms, in many of them, but nonetheless symptoms which appear to collect into three distinct groups… There is never any sort of overlap. Separating them by time effectively separates them into their groups. The first group… Something's affected their memories."
"Some have more than they should, some have less than they had," the Doctor nodded.
"Second group, he's gone and messed with their brains, like he's trying to increase their power, but all he's done so far is mutilate them. Some have lost senses, others have become deformed. And the third group…" she thought about the lady with the old hands. "It's like he's split their bodies and messed with the clock. But Alfred…" she looked around now, as though she expected to see one cat or another listening in. "Alfred's new, haven't seen any like him, and he's the most recent."
"And what does that tell you?" the Doctor asked, leaning his chin against palm, as his elbow was planted against the table.
"Whatever they think he's doing, it's wrong. It's not for the greater good, for the city of New New York… He's playing with things he shouldn't be playing with, because he can, because they'll let him, and they have no idea."
"And what we have here," he looked at the stacks of paper.
"Three test groups, four with Alfred. Each one of them with a different goal, each with its own set of side effects. Only he hasn't let them all go, has he? Some of them never returned, and no one even bats an eye."
"Why would they? Benedict's their hero," the Doctor nodded along.
"He's abused their trust, we can't allow it."
"So what do you plan on doing about it?" he went on. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped.
"I don't know yet," she admitted.
"But there's more to it than that, isn't there? You haven't seen that part yet, have you?"
"I… No, I suppose I haven't. Why, have you?"
"Oh yeah," he stood back up. "Well, starting to," he leafed through the pages in one pile and then the next. "Do me a favor, will you? Look in on the others? Brannigan, especially, I'd say he's just about due for doing something impulsive." She frowned at him. "Please, go on?"
"Alright," she frowned, heading out of the room.
"Thank you!" he called after her before sitting at the table again, staring at the neat piles she'd made.
He could see in the margins of some of those piles, how she'd taken notes of some of these people who'd gone and never returned, as this patient or that one mentioned them in passing.
Trean, delivery man. Wife and daughter. Groups?
"Trean, who's T…" he mumbled to himself, then he turned. Even alone in the room now, he remembered when it was packed, and he remembered the muscular man in the corner. After he'd brought Alfred he'd just sort of stuck around, even through the interviews. The Doctor had a feeling if he walked out of the room he would still find him there, so he poked his head out the door. With a whistle, he caught the man's attention, signalled for him to come into the room. Minding the fact that he knew why the man was still there, the Doctor respectfully asked him why he was still there, so he explained.
It was over a year ago now, nearly two, that his wife had volunteered. She said it had been their duty, and that they should do the same. Only his Erlin had never returned. Weeks after she'd gone, they'd been told she'd died. He had done his best to keep the house together, just him and his daughter. Only seven and a half months ago, poor Risha had gone missing, went to work one morning and then never made it back. He never knew what happened, though part of him thought it might have to do with Benedict. He'd never said anything, because who would believe him?
TO BE CONTINUED (TUESDAY)