Jury of Peers (9 page)

             
"I'm afraid."

             
"You're giving yourself permission to think that someone will to come kill you?  That everyone thinks that you've failed?  That
you
think you've failed?  About killing yourself?  Of how you'll get up the nerve to mangle your brain somehow?"

             
He just nodded.  Dizzy, he put his palm on the window to steady himself. 

             
"You know how I tried to do it?"

             
"Do what?  Oh.…" he said, choking down the nausea that rushed up in his throat.

             
"Promise not to laugh."

             
He said nothing, barely hearing her at all now.

             
"I stuffed about fifty of those little hotel soaps down my throat."

             
"Soap?"

             
"You promised not to laugh."

             
He blinked, "I'm not… you tried to kill yourself by eating
soap
?"

             
A nod.  A little smile reflected in the glass.  She sniffed.  "I never claimed to be smart.  You got the fucked up counselor didn't you?  It almost worked though, so give me a little credit."

             
"
Soap
did?"

             
"Stop saying soap."

             
Seth felt his mouth twitch, "Sorry… it's just…."

             
"Weird.  I know.  And then the hotel threatened to file charges against me because I stole them off of the cart.  Seriously."

             
"Why'd you do it that way?"

             
"I dunno, and stop looking at me like that," she shook her head at the memory, seeing it all play out in the window before them.  "I was a little crazy I think.  More than normal.  It seemed like a good idea at the time."

             
"Is soap even poisonous?"

             
She glanced sidelong at him, "Oh yeah.  I couldn't talk for weeks, I still can't eat right really, and it hurt so, so bad.  There wasn't a thing they could do about the pain.  I thought I was going to split open, just explode.  I learned my lesson.  No more damn soap for me.  How about you?"

             
"No, no soap."

             
"Gun?  Men like guns, statistically that is."

             
"I don't know.  Maybe."

             
"Guns are fast."

             
"I don't think I deserve fast," he said without thinking.

             
"I think you do."

             
Seth looked at her in the reflection.  "You really aren't a very good counselor."

             
"I'm way better than you even know.  You won't kill yourself."

             
"I think about it all of the time."

             
She sighed, "I know.  I
still
do sometimes.  But listen, you don't have an excuse to kill yourself."

             
The look on his face made it clear that he believed her to be entirely wrong.  "I let them die."

             
"No."

             
"Yes.  Yes, I fucking did," he flared.  "I was on my knees waiting, I didn't do anything."

             
"You
couldn't
.  It's different.  And I know that I can't convince you of that, you have to figure it all out on your own.  But you're
fortunate
Seth.  Most people can't direct their anger, or sorrow, loss, or hope or anything.  For most of us it's just a downward spiral.  Carbon Monoxide just is… but what happened to you is different.  Don't throw away that chance to
do
what you're supposed to do, whatever it is.  Maybe you're supposed talk someone through something terrible in the future.  What if you're their only chance?  I don't know what it is.  I do know that if you quit now, you'll never get a chance to turn the tables on life for what it did to you.  That’s why I do what I do.  That's why I'm here with you now.  I didn't quit, soap and all.  I'm
doing
something to make a difference.  That sounds selfless, like I'm doing it for the greater good or whatever, but it's not.  It's how I survive.  But I think it's how you'll survive too."

             
The light sunlight touched her face first, then, a few silent minutes later, his.

             
"I should go.  I stink," she said.  Next to his, she pushed her hand against the window for several seconds and then drifted from the room.

Seth said nothing as she left him alone, his palm still pressed into the cold glass as he watched her little frosty handprint fade.  Minutes after it had entirely disappeared, he remained transfixed on the spot.  Thinking.  Fragmented thoughts raced and competed for his attention but one by one he moved them into place – they clumped together, binding to like counterparts.  The framework began to form like the edge pieces of a jigsaw puzzle – and then suddenly it was there.  The fragments joined in an instant and he could see what it was that he would do.  What he
could
do.  He blinked, coming out of his thoughts and turning away from the window.  Suddenly there was pressure, a time crunch that was so palpable that he imagined everyone in the hospital could see it on his face.  He fought the urge to glance up at the security camera over his bed. 

Seth licked his lips and took out his phone as again the racing thoughts grappled about in his mind.  He logged in to the WiFi connection and opened his terminal application, allowing him to take a peek at the hospital's operating system.  His eyes rushed down the screen.  It was modern certainly, but not complicated.  He began to type, working his way through the initial security at a feverish pace.  Once beyond the first layer, he accessed the administrative side of the server and found the long list of staff emails.  He paused, eyes flicking to the door again.  He walked to his bed, sat and pushed the call button on the remote.  He then tucked it under his thigh and returned attention to the phone's screen.  Less than a minute later the nurse of the hour came through the door, followed by the uniformed cop outside, "Need something?" 

Seth looked up, seemingly caught off guard, "I'm sorry, what?"

"You pushed your call button?"

"No, I was just… oh, sorry," he lifted the remote.  "I think I did, sorry."

"No problem honey.  Since I'm here can I get you anything?"

Seth glanced at her nametag as she deactivated the button, "I'm okay, thanks though." 
Dorthy Mullens.

She slid from the room, followed a few lingering moments later by the cop.

  He did a quick search for the hospital's current administrators, and while this spun up, he entered the system's service code in the command line.  He wondered if he could just spoof it into believing that he was another tech taking time to do a bit of maintenance.  The system balked at the intrusion, but he countered by trying the exact same thing with a smaller subsystem and this time, there were no red flags thrown.  He didn't need into the entire system, and it was pure hubris to try, but this was his nature–to inquire and test, but also to start with the most difficult possible approach just to see if it were possible.  It was a habit that, until a few minutes ago, he would have thought to be wholly obsolete.

Once inside the hierarchy, he introduced himself to the subsystem as a guest user–in this case a technician whom had worked on the email systems last month–and then flipped back to check his Internet search. 
Who does everyone listen to at a hospital? Who makes the nurses jumpy?  Probably the guy who took care of the budget…. There
, "Emmerson, Dale."  His thumbs flew over the little touch keypad, copying the associated email and then retrieving the password.  Seth opened a new terminal line and accessed the email system as Mr. Dale Emmerson, and then jotted a quick note from his account to Nurse Dorthy, admonishing her to make certain that she and the floor nurses attended the emergency staff budgetary meeting later that hour.  That sounded sufficiently ominous he thought.

Seth looked at the words on the screen.  He'd crossed a line.  A subtle one to be sure, but in the rush of these last minutes he hadn't even considered that he had broken the law, and not just the laws on the books, but the ones in his head.  He was cracking into a system for his own gain.  And he'd done it without thinking.

He hit send.

And with that, the world began to change. 

Chapter Thirteen

Imposition

              Detectives Tonic and Finn arrived at the hospital at 10:15. 

             
Father Kevin Brown knocked on Seth’s door at 10:25 with two cups of coffee and a bag of bagels.  He’d skipped ahead a few rooms in his rounds.  Actually he didn’t usually start until ten, and he’d skipped
all
of the other rooms that he might have visited on the way to this one.  “Am I interrupting son?”  His belly preceded him into the room. “I thought you might like to talk.”

             
“Not really.”  Seth sat cross–legged in the middle of his tightly made bed.  He was in his clothes, shoes and socks arranged neatly beside him.  His shirt had been laundered, even pressed.  There was no more blood, his or anyone else’s on the thing….It smelled like bleach.  He'd decided that it wouldn't stay that way for long.

             
“Not really interrupting or not really wanting to talk?  I brought you some food.” Brown set the bag down and handed over the coffee, which Seth accepted and cradled in his lap.

             
No words came.

             
“I wonder.  I wonder if I could ask you one question then before I get on my way then?” Brown said.

             
“Sure.”

             
“What’ll you do from here?  What’s your plan, son?  Sometimes it helps to have a plan, even if it’s for the next minute or hour or day, you know.”

             
“I don’t know,” he lied.  Seth examined the man, and decided that he was probably real too.  That he was probably a good guy who had done this kind of thing before. 
              Brown went on reasonably, first taking a bite of, and then gesturing with his bagel, “I find that it helps me deal with anger.”  The young man’s face was blank, but Brown had seen enough rage to understand.  “Even if that anger is toward myself.”

             
Seth looked away.  The early sun, warm on his hands, was gone.  It was going to be overcast grey once again.  There was more snow coming.  He watched the flag in the lot stand out against the clouds.  “When all of this is over I think I'll go to Africa.”

             
A placating smile through coffee stained teeth.  “I’m always here to talk son.  I can’t claim to understand what you’re going through, but I can tell you that I’ll always be here to listen.”

             
Seth worked his socks over his toes and then set to lacing his shoes.  "Thank you.  For the offer and the coffee.  I’m going to go back to where I met my wife.  I just need the time.”

             
“I understand.  You really
do
mean Africa?”

             
Seth rose and extended his hand to shake, “How much do you make a year Father?”

             
This caught the man off guard as planned. "Make?”

             
“Like a salary, I don’t know how they pay you.  What do you make a year?”

             
“Son, I don’t….”

             
“Just round it up.”

             
Brown studied the younger man, his purple and yellow bruises, the ugly black sutures, the blobs of blood in the whites of his eyes.  “About thirty thousand.”

             
Seth nodded, considered it, and didn’t let go of the man’s hand.  “If you’ll take care of my family’s burial and service, you’ll make fifty
today
.”

             
“Mr. Meek, I’d be honored to… to perform the services, but there’s no need.…”

             
“Yes, there is.  I won't go.  You’ll treat them right.  And if you have any questions you can ask Emily’s folks.”  He shook the man’s hand once more and let it fall.  Then he wrote a check.

                            *              *              *

              “What’d he say Kev?” Finn asked from the Chaplin’s couch.

             
Brown entered his office, closed the door and handed Tonic the check.  “I’m not sure.”

             
“Uh oh,” Finn said. "He didn’t set himself on fire did he?”

             
“No, he's still up there under guard.  He's just fine.  He talked about going to Africa when this was over.”

             
“What?” Tonic asked.  The man explained, reciting the conversation as quickly as he could.  "He said he was going back to where he met his wife.”

             
Finn rubbed his eyes with his palms as he thought it through, then fished out his cell phone.  One eye stayed covered as he dialed. 

             
“Hey, Sir Ramsalot, where’d our boy meet his wife?”

             
“Huh?”

             
“It’s Finn.  Where’d Meek meet his wife Ray?”

             
“Hell if I know."

             
“Find out right quick.  I thought you knew weird shit.”

             
“I'll find out for sure.”

             
“Call me back here, you see the number right?”

             
“Soon as I can,” Ray said.

             
“Google the fuck out of it, okay?” he closed the telephone.  “Let’s go talk to him, pick his brain a little, eh?  We don't want him dancing off quite yet."

             
The two left their longtime friend and advocate staring at the check.  It was his after all, but ominous all the same.  They walked up the corridor, hit the elevator, and were waiting when the phone rang.

             
“Finn.”

             
“Durban.”

             
“Where the
fuck
is that?”'

             
“South Africa,” Ray said.

             
“You’re shitting me. 
Really
?”

             
“I just called his office.  Talked to a gal named Brenda.  She was all broken up, but said that he talked about it all of the time.  Scuba diving in South Africa.  Hey listen, Meek isn’t answering his phone.  I’ve pretty much been calling since you left."

             
“Working on that," Finn hung up.  He looked at Tonic.  “Is he gonna off himself or does he seriously have the balls to just up and vanish to South Africa?”

             
“South where?”

             
“Africa.”

             
“I ‘spose.  He’s got lots of cash, fifty grand less, but still, damn.”

             
Finn rolled his shoulders and relaxed as the elevator doors closed.  “Africa’d still be better than gagging on a shotgun.”

             
“Fo' shore.”

*
              *              *

              Seth remained on his bed, hunched over his phone.  It was casual and innocuous, and just about what the nurses and security types had seen of him up to this point.  On the phone's screen, the count–down timer dwindled toward zero.  He showed no emotion.  No movement.  Nothing at all outwardly.  He just sat. 

             
Inside, he was much the same.  In the absence of a specific riddle, his mind became quietly efficient, mulling over potential issues in the background as the timer ticked.  He could see the little staff cubicle just outside of his room reflected in the convex safety mirror hung in the hallway.  The nurse had finally gone off to her meeting twenty seconds ago with several other quietly speculating coworkers in tow.  It was close, but effective enough.  On the opposite side of the door stood the cop, irritatingly diligent about standing like one of the Queen's Guard at his station.  Occasionally, he too glanced at the convenient mirror in order to keep track of his charge.

             
When the counter closed on three minutes, he rose, stretched and pocketed his phone.  The toilet was utilitarian at best, and missing the lock that he suspected so many of the previous tenants on suicide watch might have craved, but it wouldn't matter now.  He washed, combed his hair straight back instead of to the side, and flushed the toilet–opening the door so that the sound could be heard.  It was five steps to his bed, moving right through, and then effectively out of the cop's easy view.  He glanced at his phone.  Sixty–two seconds, and took a deep breath. 

             
The heavy IV stand would either act as a ram, going right through the window, or a comic javelin if it rebounded into his guts, but one way or the other, it was time to find out. 

             
He hefted the thing without a sound, steeled himself, and waited.

Inside of his pocket, the counter hit zero and the phone pulsed twice.

He hurled the stand with all of his might.

*              *              *             

Finn pushed past a couple kids with food carts when the elevator doors opened.  “Christ, a guy starts dropping money here and there and you start to wonder,” he said.

"Yeah, but…."

The crash seemed to come from both left and right and the cops froze in place, each looking past the other. 

Tonic moved first, and Finn trusted his instinct, matching his partner's rapid pace.  At the T intersection ahead, a doctor meandered past glancing at a chart, evidently unfazed by the commotion.  The cops slowed a step at this nonchalance, their worst fears tucked away for the moment… until they turned the corner.  The cop was nowhere to be seen… nor were the nurses.

              “Fuuuck,” Tonic said.   They sprinted to the door, sliding to a stop.  Finn had to grab for the door's frame to keep from simply sliding past.

             
The officer stood at the room's shattered window, peering out into the abyss.  The cold wind flooded the room and made his shirt sleeves flap at his arms.

             
"What the fuck?" Finn said as he too approached the window.  Carefully this time.

             
"Guy jumped right through it.  There… in the snow, is that him?  Fuck me, man…" the cop yelled into the wind.  "Just wham.  He was in the toilet.  He must have just taken a run at it… is that him?" he repeated.

             
Tonic joined the fray, peering down at the shadowed snowdrift three stories below.  He squinted and then looked past the cop at Finn.

Without a pause the detectives turned back to the door. 

Two men in suits stood in their path, peering inside as if they were afraid of catching city cop germs.  "We were told that Mr. Meek might be here.”

             
“Who?” Tonic asked.

             
The other man asked, “Who are you?”

             
“I’m Spencer, how ya doin’?”

             
“Has Mr. Meek been discharged from the facility?” one of them asked the approaching nurse, bypassing the detectives as if they were figments of a bad dream.  This earned an incredulous snort and shake of the head from Finn.

             
“We would very much like to speak with Mr. Meek.  Do you know where he is?”

             
“No idea, do you?” Tonic asked.  In Arabic.

             
Suit number two replied in kind, his accent more refined than Spencer's.  Battlefield versus textbook.  “We would very much like to speak with him.”

             
“Well if you see the guy let him know that we would, too."

             
They walked down the hall, turned the corner and then broke into a run.  Spencer punched the elevator down as Finny bounced on the balls of his feet.  “Those guys were creepy,” he said.

“Na'am,” Tonic agreed. “That was him wasn't it?  The white coat doctor type."

"I guess.  You're the one with the good eyeballs." The doors opened and they slid inside.  "Unless you think that he's buried in that snow bank."

"Nope.  He chucked somethin' through the window, sucked that cop in, and while he had his head out the window, he just walked out."

"Slowest elevator ever.  Christ.  Well, we know two things," Finn said.  "One, he's not going out the front, right?  Reporters abound."

"What's two?" Tonic asked as the elevator settled.

"He's looking more and more guilty."