Do No Harm (39 page)

However, several of the results are worthy of note, perhaps for incorporation into future studies. We found that once the subjects reached a state of acute distress, they were not easily comforted. In social workshops following the trials, they were permitted to role-play with dolls, interact with nurses, and draw pictures. We noted an increase in hostile behavior following each trial, particularly hostile behavior directed toward the nurses, who carried out the logistics of the experiments and acted as attachment (mother) figures. The subjects seemed to hold the nurses at fault. Those subjects who did not act out their aggression harbored a tremendous amount of latent resentment.

Through each six-week trial period, the subjects tended to develop along one of two distinct routes, either becoming intensely clinging and anxious, or growing increasingly emotionally detached. Those who became detached expressed three central beliefs: (1) The attachment figure would not respond to calls for support and protection, (2) They did not judge themselves to be the sort of person toward whom an attachment figure would respond in caring fashion, and (3) Their actions had no consequences on the external environment.

All three beliefs are reinforced by classic conditioning. As the subjects were rewarded randomly and punished randomly, they came to view themselves as powerless within their environment.

Some intense bonding occurred between subjects during off-hours between trials. When one subject perceived that another could offer comfort or respite from fear, an intense, almost obsessive relationship developed, reminiscent of collective confabulation, the shared fantasy worlds that sometimes develop between castaways and POWs. Through these relationships, the subjects attempted to wrest back some means of control over their lives.

The next few pages had been ripped out. Feeling slightly light-headed, David pushed back in the chair, sending up a miniature cloud of dust, and returned to the filing cabinet. The subsequent alphabetically arranged files were bulky and labeled by name--all males: JOSH ADAMS, TIMOTHY DILLER, FRANK GRANT. David scanned them, his finger coming to rest on the tab reading CLYDE SLADE.

He pulled the file, returned to the desk, and sat staring at it, gathering his courage. Katydids shrilled in the darkness outside the window.

He flipped open the file to reveal a bad Polaroid atop a stack of papers. Clyde, age ten, squinting into a background light. His posture was uncomfortable and defensive--head lowered, shoulders hunched, skinny arms dangling awkwardly at his sides. The points of his shoulders were visible through his threadbare T-shirt. David recognized the dark flat eyes and wide nose, but little else.

The top papers contained Clyde's history, most of which Ed had already told David about. Moved from foster home to orphanage to foster home. Beneath the history were Clyde's clinical results. He had grown increasingly withdrawn throughout the study, the document reported, displaying a fair amount of latent aggression toward the nurses. The experiments had been conducted against Clyde's will; he had begged repeatedly to be left alone, to be permitted to return to his last foster home. His requests were recorded merely as data. He had no parents to lodge more persuasive complaints or to demand that his rights be protected.

The following pages consisted of self-reports, clinical observations, and the results of physiological exams, including a precocious series of skin conductance tests. A few wrinkled drawings remained at the bottom of the stack. Drawn with the fat, simple lines of a coloring book picture, they all featured the same guideline figure: that of a nurse. The nurse's outline was clearly defined, right down to her patronizing smile and white cap. Clyde had used mostly red crayons, turning the simple sketches into gruesome depictions. Vicious slashes colored the nurses' faces, markings pressed so firmly down into the pages they left indentations and even tore the paper in spots. Their heads were covered with layer upon layer of color, until they resembled bloody blurs. Many of the nurses' breasts and genital areas were likewise ravaged with red.

A note at the bottom read: Particularly fierce and impassioned. And below that: Film Reel #23.

Dread spreading inside him, David looked up and located the dusty old projector in the corner. The cupboard above the filing cabinets seemed to stare back at him. He opened it to find reel upon reel of sixteen millimeter film, labeled in black marker. He found Reel #23. A screen pulled down from the ceiling in front of the window, unleashing more billows of dust. The light switch clicked off loudly, filling the room with shadows.

David blew the top layer of dust from the projector, plugged it in, mounted the take-up reel, and threaded the film. He pulled a chair around beside the projector and, bracing himself, flipped the switch.

Ten-year-old Clyde Slade, brought into a seclusion room with a timer on the wall. He wears a child's hospital gown. A nurse sits in a chair centered in the small room, staring at the wall like a statue. He goes over to her and takes her hand, but she pulls it away, keeping her stoic stare leveled at the far wall. A loud wavering shriek sounds from hidden speakers, so sudden it startles David back in his chair. On the screen, Clyde begins to cry and attempts to pull himself into the nurse's lap. She moves only to repel him, shoving him off. Clyde sits on the floor, hands pushed over his ears, mouth bent wide, his cries not even audible beneath the shrieking. The noise ends. By the timer on the wall, it takes Clyde over three minutes to cease his frantic sobbing.

And then a loud mechanical voice intones, "Three, two, one. Step back from the door." The loud sound of the door's bolt being unlocked, and Clyde scrambles to freedom.

Clyde's ritualistic phrase, his private mantra, was actually the hard-conditioned cue given to him as a child that his fear was about to end. He used it still to alleviate anxiety.

The film cut out and David wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead. Seconds later, the seclusion room appeared again on the screen, this time with the lights off.

The outline of the nurse in the chair is barely visible. Clyde is led in, though he pounds at the door as soon as it is closed behind him. "Please! Please!" He runs to the nurse, who again moves only to push him firmly away. The door opens and another nurse enters with a large rectangular box. She opens it and dumps what appear to be harmless garden snakes on the floor. Clyde shrieks and tries to run away but the snakes quickly spread out through the small seclusion room. The second nurse pushes them toward Clyde.

David closed his eyes for a moment, but Clyde's wails still came. "Please! I'll be good." And then: a final terrified strategy-- "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

When David viewed the screen again, his mouth was dry and sour. Clyde turns to the wall, burying his face in the corner as the snakes curl around his feet. He murmurs to himself, something inaudible, though David knew he was counting down from three over and over, anticipating. Finally, the second nurse collects the snakes and the mechanical voice sounds, "Three, two, one. Step back from the door." Clyde sprints for freedom.

At the beginning of the next trial, Clyde crosses immediately to the seated nurse and bites her leg. She rises and administers him a quick but vicious spanking before returning to her stonelike perch on the chair. When a series of blinding lights begin to flash in the white room, a wet spot spreads down the leg of Clyde's trousers.

Trial after trial followed on the reel of film. Experiments with animals, with people in threatening poses, with motorized contraptions that sprang open like jack-in-the-boxes, but with no warning. By the final trial, Clyde had resorted to sitting against the far wall, face blank and dazed. He made no attempt to approach the seated nurse. They brought in a snarling German shepherd on a chain and held it inches from Clyde's face. Clyde seemed hardly to notice it. The scene cut out and the end of the film flapped in the reel.

As the reel continued its mindless rotation, David sat in the darkness of the study, breathing dust. A long vacant block of time passed as the film slapped the reel and the katydids chirped. Finally, David peeled himself from the leather chair and clicked the lamp on the desk. With the quiet, precise movements of a priest, he put away the projector and the screen. He jotted down the names of the subjects and their dates of birth. Clyde's file, the general files, and a few reels of film he took with him.

The rest of the house was dark and smelled of mothballs and fragranced powder. Mrs. Connolly had fallen asleep in the living room, a quilted blanket at her side. Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman flickered across the TV screen, muted. David crossed silently and pulled the blanket up around her. She stirred as he reached the door.

Her voice was gentle, and it warbled slightly. "David?"

"Yes, Mrs. Connolly?"

"Did you find what you needed?"

"I did."

She smiled, though sadness found its way even into that. "We always appreciated what your mother did for us."

A quick flare of unease. "What do you mean by that?"

Her eyes gathered an acuity he had not before noticed. It quickly faded. David wondered for the first time if her usual demeanor was an affectation.

"He was a good man, wasn't he? My J.P.?"

David felt a slight tingling in his face at her avoidance of the question. "Yes, he was."

He closed the front door gently, leaving her to fall back into sleep.

THE nameplate on Sandy's door, like Sandy, was bold and straightforward. It read simply: EVANS. CHIEF OF STAFF. No first name, no appended M.D.

Though it was late and the halls had fallen quiet, light shone from beneath Sandy's door. An informal pool among members of the Board rode on how many consecutive nights she'd work past 10 P.M.

David knocked, and she called out for him to enter. She was sitting at the end of the long conference table at which she liked to work; her desk sat empty and untouched at the other end of the office. Her face lit with the glow of a green-shaded banker's lamp, she pored over papers. She looked up at David and smiled. He was one of the few people at whose entrance she smiled. He was aware of this and made uneasy by how much it flattered him.

"David, what's this I hear about you nosing around the hospital?"

"I've been following the trail a bit."

"Make sure you don't follow it too far away from the ER. There is a division to be run. You could also stand not to ruffle any more feathers."

He ignored her remark and his resultant irritation, not wanting to be sidetracked. "Dr. J. P. Connolly did a fear study in 1973 at the NPI. Are you familiar with it?"

Sandy pulled off her glasses and set them neatly on a stack of files. "Yes. I am."

"The NPI has no records of it. None at all. I tracked it down at Dr. Connolly's house. Pretty grim."

"It wasn't unusual for the time, David. You'd be surprised."

"Then why did my mother terminate it?"

Sandy averted her eyes, just for a moment, but it was such an uncharacteristic motion that David noticed it. "If memory serves, the science was sloppy from the get-go."

"Your memory serves well. Particularly for a study that took place thirty years ago."

Her green eyes gleamed cold and marblelike. She tapped her forehead. "Like a steel trap."

"It had some interesting methodology too, wouldn't you say?"

"Just because you and I now look at a study like that with disdain, you'd better remember it was not such a marked departure from the standard of the day. It may be hard to believe, but that's how many experiments were back then. I'm not kidding. Go back. Take a look at fear and separation studies from the late '60s, early '70s."

"Are you aware that Clyde Slade was a participant in that study?"

Sandy flushed, shocked. It was astounding how quickly she regained her composure. "I was not."

"I think something else happened. Something to do with the study. There were pages ripped out of Connolly's files. I think the hospital removed the copies from the NPI and expurgated the files I found at Connolly's. I think if you wanted to, you could talk to some people and figure out a way for me to see what's missing."

Sandy's lips pursed--they were just beginning to texture with wrinkles. "Seems you're out of your bailiwick here, Doctor."

"There are lives at stake."

"How do you know that whatever information is or isn't missing from those files is at all relevant?"

"I don't. But if it is, and you withhold it, think about what that means."

"Ah. A directive." Sandy's cheeks drew up in a half squint. "Don't pry too deep, David. You might not like what you find."

"In light of what we're dealing with here, I'll handle it." He paused by the door, tapping it with his fist once in a soft knock. "I'll check in with you tomorrow."

Sandy had already gone back to her papers. "I know where to find you, David," she said. "Should I want to."

For the tail end of her recovery, Diane had been moved to the VIP section of the prestigious ninth floor. She'd be ready to be released the day after tomorrow; her doctors thought it wise for her to remain on site so her eyedrops could be applied regularly and Silvadene spread over her wounds.

The elevator doors clanged open, and David stepped into the clean tiled hall. The door to Diane's room was ajar. David entered and closed it gently behind him.