Live To Tell Part 31

"That would make sense," Lightfoot said.

D.D. narrowed her eyes. Interesting answer, she thought, and she was beginning to realize that for all his woo-woo, Lightfoot was very careful with his replies.

She got it, suddenly: "You mean Gym Coach Greg. You're worried about his and Danielle's relationship."

"He asks. She refuses. He needs. She rejects. He still searches for love. She still chooses hate. And they spin and they spin and they spin."

"Greg seems like a nice guy," D.D. countered mildly.

"They spin and they spin and they spin," Lightfoot repeated, sounding both tired and sorrowful.

D.D. regarded him for a bit. The healer made no attempt to break the silence, and after several minutes, she declared defeat.

"You ever miss it?" she asked finally.

"What?"

"The money, the fast car, the trappings of your former life?"

"Never."

"Had to have been an adrenaline rush, picking up pretty women, making fistfuls of cash, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g over your rivals. From all that, to this?"

"Wall Street is nothing but a playground. There are no meaningful rewards, there are no significant consequences. Whereas in there ..." Lightfoot pointed toward Lucy's open doorway. "In there is where I fight to win."

As if to prove his point, the healer marched back down the hall.

He paused outside Lucy's room. D.D. saw the man shiver before he headed in.

With Lightfoot back to the business of spiritual cleansing, D.D. wandered the unit until she found the nurse manager, Karen Rober, sitting in the common area with a little boy who was resiliently mashing fruit in a bowl. The boy looked up when D.D. approached and she recognized him from the first day. One of the three amigos into Matchbox cars and running laps. D.D. searched her mental files for a name but came up blank; she'd never been great with kids.

"Do you want a fruit smoothie?" the boy asked her, feet swinging, shoulders rocking. He stated in one breathless rush: "I can do banana strawberry raspberry blueberry maybe grape but not oranges they're too hard to mash."

He went back to pounding fruit with his plastic spoon, rocking, rocking, rocking. D.D. started to cue in on a few things. First, while the boy remained seated at the table, he was agitated. Very agitated. A hand grenade, just waiting for someone to pull the pin.

Second, he wasn't the only one. Two kids were rollerblading down the hallway, pushing and shoving at each other as they went, while another kid sat under a table, banging his head against the wall.

What was it they called the environment of the unit-the "milieu"? D.D. was no expert, but even to her, the milieu was wiggy today.

Karen had spotted the head-banger. "Jamal," she said sharply. "Enough of that. Why don't you join Benny and me? Come on, Jamal. Benny will make you a fruit smoothie. What flavor would you like?"

"Eat eat eat eat eat," Benny singsonged, holding out his first concoction for Karen.

The head nurse took it from him, smiling her thanks.

"Eat eat eat eat eat."

D.D. watched in fascination as Karen swallowed an honest-to-G.o.d spoonful, smile never slipping from the nurse manager's face. Benny clapped his hands in glee. Jamal finally crawled out from beneath the other table to join the party.

In no time, Karen had him set up with his own fruit-smashing project. Then the nurse manager summoned another staff member to take over the table, freeing herself to join D.D. in the hallway.

"Whatever they're paying you, it's not enough," D.D. told Karen.

The nurse smiled faintly. "Trust me, I've been fed worse."

"But you ate it. Can't you fake your way out of something like that?"

"Do you have kids, Sergeant?"

"No."

"Well, someday, if you do, you'll understand."

Dismissive and curt. D.D. warmed to the challenge. "Your place or mine?" D.D. asked, gesturing to either the Admin area or down the hall, where D.D.'s team had set up shop. Karen arched a brow, no doubt tempted to remind D.D. that, technically, it was all Karen's. But finally, the administrator sighed, and pointed to her own office area. She located the key on the lanyard around her neck and opened the door. D.D. followed.

"How long have you known Lightfoot?" D.D. asked as they entered the cramped warren of rooms. Karen led her back to a tiny staff room, where they could both have a seat at a table.

"Two years."

Consistent. "How'd you meet him?"

"Parents of a child who came to stay. Their son liked to capture bullfrogs, stick firecrackers in their mouths, and light the fuses. He also enjoyed covering the walls of their home with pictures of his mother being killed in various manners. It was amazing the level of detail he could capture using only red crayons."

Also consistent. "How old was the child?" D.D. asked, curious.

"Ten."

"Scary."

Karen shrugged. "I've seen worse. The boy, however, was not responding to medication and the parents were frantic. So they brought in Andrew. I was initially skeptical, but Andrew was calm and courteous, respectful of our staff and the other kids. And I have to say, within three weeks we noticed a marked improvement in the boy's behavior. Incidents that previously would've thrown him into a rage were greeted with more tolerance. We'd see the child tense up, but then he'd mumble, 'Find the light, seven hugs from seven angels.' He'd relax, a remarkable feat for a child with his level of psychosis. Naturally, I started to ask Andrew about his work. As did many of our doctors."

"What do they think?" D.D. asked.

"Most of them have no issues with it. Medicine is already starting to note the role of love and laughter in the recovery process. It's not so much of a stretch to acknowledge that faith and spirituality can also make a difference."

"Angels healed a troubled kid?"

Karen smiled. "Do you know everything there is to know about the cosmos? Because if you do, you're a smarter woman than I, Sergeant."

D.D. scowled at her. "How many of your kids has Andrew worked with?"

"You'd have to ask him. I rarely refer his services; mostly, other parents do."

"Sounds like he worked with the Harringtons."

Karen didn't say anything.

"Danielle implied that he interfered with your care of their son, recommending that Ozzie be discharged before the docs thought he was ready."

Karen shrugged. "It was a gray area. Ozzie was definitely improved. I would've liked more time to ensure his recent changes in behavior stuck, but they felt it was more important to get him back to a home environment. There was logic to both sides of the argument. Now, for the record, Ozzie never bounced back here. So I have to believe that the Harringtons' approach worked for their son. Andrew worked for their son."

"The Harringtons were murdered."

"By the father, I thought."

"We're not sure of that."

Karen faltered for the first time, hands dropping to the table, blinking behind her wire-rimmed gla.s.ses. "Are you saying ... Ozzie?"

"It's possible."

The head nurse didn't defend Ozzie. She sighed instead. "It's hard to know with these kids. They're not out of control because they're weak or lazy. They suffer from physiological differences, issues with brain chemistry, hormones, DNA. And there's so little we can do for them. So few tools available to us."

"Hence Lightfoot, a handsome white knight, promising to save lost children while reducing your pharmaceutical bill. Gotta like that."

The nurse manager didn't say anything, so D.D. took it one step further. "Are you sleeping with him?"

"My husband would object."

"Maybe he doesn't know."

"My conscience would object." Karen shook her head. "I understand you're skeptical of Andrew. In many ways, I also held his looks and background against him. But if you watch him with the kids ... He is genuinely tender, exceedingly patient. He doesn't just soothe them, he teaches them to soothe themselves. I never thought I'd be advocating energy cleansings in a clinical environment. And yet I'm respectful of the results."

D.D. scowled, refusing to be convinced. "What about other members of your staff. Say, Danielle? Andrew's good-looking. She's young and pretty."

"You would have to ask Danielle."

"She's a bit of a mess," D.D. commented.

Karen didn't take the bait.

"I mean," D.D. continued conversationally, "her father slaughters her whole family except her. There's some baggage to carry. And now she works with a whole ward of violent kids. It's like she needs the drama."

For a moment, Karen was silent. Then: "In policing, don't you see officers who come from a long tradition of policing? Sons, daughters, nieces, nephews of other cops?"

"True."

"Our line of work is like that, too. You want to dig, most of our staff has stories that will break your heart. They didn't grow up happy, driving them to preserve for others the childhood they never had. By that logic, Danielle isn't the exception in our unit. More like the norm."

"Really? What's Greg's story?"

"Greg?" The nurse manager seemed surprised by that name, of all names. "I'm not sure Greg has a story. He's not one to talk about his personal life."

"How long has he worked here?"

"Five years."

"Any complaints? Issues?"

"Not one," Karen answered firmly. "He's quiet, conscientious, brilliant with the children. Both adults and kids like him, which is not something I can say for all of our staff."

"Adults?" D.D. asked.

"The parents. Some of our people ..." Karen hesitated. "Some of our staff are in this line of work because they have an immediate rapport with children. Unfortunately, that rapport doesn't always extend to adults."

D.D. thought about it. Gym Coach Greg was a good-looking guy. Strong, fit. She'd bet some female adults did have an immediate rapport with him.

"What are the requirements for an MC?" she asked now, pulling out her spiral pad to make a note. "Does he have a special license, or have to pa.s.s board certification?" What could D.D. have Phil look up as part of Greg's background report?

But the nurse manager was shaking her head. "Our nurses have degrees and board certification, of course. The MCs are only required to have a high school education, and a lot of energy and creativity with kids."

"You're kidding me. The majority of your staff are MCs, and you're telling me they have no special training?"

Karen looked at her. "Sergeant, what cla.s.sroom module could ever prepare someone for the kids we see here?"

Good point. "Greg have a family?" D.D. asked with a frown.

"He doesn't talk about one."

"Girlfriend?"

"I don't know."

"So he has eyes only for Danielle," D.D. supplied.

"I don't get involved in my staff's personal lives," Karen answered coolly.

"Really? Because everyone's talking about it. Greg says yes. Danielle says no. Around and around they go. Sounds like a lot of flirtation on company time. You can't be happy about that."

"I've never seen either one act anything other than professional."

"Maybe you ought to get out of Admin more."

The head nurse glared at her.

D.D. waited a moment, then decided she'd had enough of all the tap dancing. She cut to the heart of the matter: "Don't you think it's odd that two families affiliated with this unit have been murdered, right around the anniversary date of one of your staff member's own family being killed?"

"It's odd-" Karen started.

"Then," D.D. cut in, "a girl was hanged last night, who also happens to be working with the same staff member whose family was murdered almost exactly twenty-five years ago. Another coincidence?"

"These things happen."

"Really? How many kids have you found hanging in the hospital? How many patients have you discharged who've wound up murdered?"

Karen didn't reply anymore. She looked as tired as Lightfoot. The head nurse sighed, then reached for a stack of paperwork on her desk. She pulled out a report, then looked back up at D.D.

"When were the Harringtons killed?" Karen asked. "Wednesday? Thursday?"