Free Addiction by G. H. Ephron Page A

crewcut might actually have acquired a fleck or two of gray in it since our last encounter—one in which we’d developed a grudging respect for each other. Our head-butting in the Sylvia Jackson case had convinced him that the memories of a victim with traumatic brain injury may not be what they appear to be. And he’d convinced me that not every cop is as clueless as he seems. He was the kind of guy I’d much rather have with me than against me.
    MacRae gave me a surprised look of recognition. Our eyes locked briefly, and he gave a quarter-inch nod before he charged
the door. Daphne stood, blocking the way. She drew herself up, stiffened her face. “There’s been a suicide,” she said firmly, clipping her words. It was the old Dr. Smythe-Gooding, scourge of hospital residents and senior administrators. “Dr. Temple has shot herself. Please, before all hell breaks loose, promise me that you’ll handle this case without unnecessary grandstanding to the press. Her family and the institute will appreciate your discretion.”
    She dropped MacRae in his tracks. He flashed his silver badge. “Detective Sergeant Joseph MacRae. Of course, we’ll follow standard police procedures.”
    â€œDis-cre-tion.” Daphne enunciated each syllable. “Right?”
    â€œRight,” MacRae muttered, gritting his teeth.
    Just then, there was a crash. Olivia was no longer with us in the corridor. MacRae pushed Daphne aside, and I followed him inside. The room had turned cool, and the acrid smell was gone. Through the broken window, blue lights from the police cruiser pulsed against the tree branches. Olivia was sitting on the floor, covered in blood. She breathed heavily; her face was flushed. She held a shard of glass and drew it along her inner arm, creating another long, bright red line.
    â€œOlivia, no!” I cried out. I took hold of her wrist and held firm. She dropped the glass. It wasn’t until Olivia screamed in pain that I realized how hard I was holding her, much harder than was necessary to keep her from hurting herself. I picked her up in my arms. She was trembling.
    She stared at me, terror in her eyes. “We’re going to get you somewhere safe,” I told her. “No one’s going to hurt you. Please, don’t struggle. We need to stop the bleeding.”
    â€œTake her to Admissions, Peter,” Daphne said. I started off. “I’ll telephone and have someone meet you in the foyer downstairs,” she called after me.
    â€œHold on …” MacRae bellowed.
    I hurried to the elevator and stood there, listening to the sound of my own breath heaving, like the bass line to Olivia’s shallow, rapid panting. MacRae caught up with us.

    â€œThis is Dr. Temple’s daughter,” I said before he could ask. Olivia had gone limp in my arms. “She was here when I got here. Dr. Temple was already dead.” It was, strictly speaking, the truth.
    â€œI’ll need to talk to her,” he said. “And I’ll need to talk to you, too.”
    â€œIt can’t be right now,” I told him. “You can see that for yourself.” The elevator door opened. I stepped in and turned to face him. He had his mouth open and his arm half raised, but he let the doors slide shut.
    A pair of burly mental-health workers were waiting for me in the lobby with a gurney. I set Olivia down, and they strapped her in place. As we went out onto the walk, a police officer emerged from the shrubbery carrying Channing’s laptop computer. I realized then how the window in Channing’s office had broken—Olivia had thrown the computer through it.
    The police officer shouted. MacRae appeared at the open window. The officer held up the laptop. Now Olivia screamed and strained to sit up. She was staring, wild-eyed, at the police officer. One of the straps came loose. One of the men held her down, and the other one snapped the buckle and