Post-Trauma 10.4
A slightly longer Post-Trauma update.
Wilson’s just gotten House tucked up at his desk with some nice charts to review-none of his team are even there yet-and gotten to his office when the phone rings.
It’s Detective Whitley. “I wanted to let you and Doctor House know, we arrested Luerssen last night.”
He feels a spreading sense of relief. It’s not as good as having House back, but it means he’s safe, and that’s something.
“We’re holding off his arraignment until tomorrow afternoon, which is the latest we can possibly do it.”
“Are you going to need House to….”
“Ideally, we’d have him to testify, but Temas says that’s not likely to be possible.” There’s a slight question in her voice.
“He’s right. We found out last night that there was something in the injection Luerssen gave him to bind the drugs and release them gradually in his system. It’s going to be a few more days before they wear off, and even then….”
“I see. What we’re going to have to do, then, is get the department’s psychiatrist to interview him, and testify that the effects of the assault have rendered him temporarily unable to aid the prosecution. It’s…not ideal. The defense is going to want to haul him in to testify that Luerssen wasn’t in the clinic and didn’t touch him. Hopefully, this will work to prevent that, for now.”
Normally House would fight talking to a shrink-another shrink-like a wild animal. “He’ll cooperate,” Wilson says. “What time?”
“How’s eleven o’clock?”
Wilson checks his schedule. He knows House doesn’t have any appointments. “That’s fine.”
“The Prosecutor will need to talk with you both later on, but I figured for the moment, the fewer people Dr. House has to deal with, the better.”
Wilson is grateful to her for thinking of it. “I think you’re right. Thank you.”
“So she asked me to let you know, that she doubts very much that she’ll be able to prevent the Defense from calling him to testify in the trial, if he’s not recovered by then. Assuming, that is, that we get the indictment and it goes to trial. She’ll delay the trial itself as much as possible, to give him time to get well, but if he’s still saying Luerssen didn’t do it, the Defense has a right to have him say it on the stand.”
He pretty much expected that, but it’s still a blow. “How much time are we talking about?”
“I’d say the earliest the trial is likely to be is a week after the arraignment. Shepherd-that’s the Prosecutor-will push it back as much as she can. A month is probably the absolute outside. Luerssen does have a right to a speedy trial.”
He nods, realizes Whitley can’t see him, and says, “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
“It’s not unheard-of for suspects to be found guilty even when the victim says they didn’t do it, but it’s pretty rare. We’ve got a good amount of physical evidence, but juries tend to put more weight on personal testimony.”
He nods again. “I’m an oncologist. I know all about long odds.”
The police psychiatrist is a small man, about Wilson’s age. When he introduces himself--“Ben Dewalt, with the Princeton PD”--his handshake is firm and crisp.
“James Wilson,” he responds. “House is next door. I’ll bring him over here; there’s more privacy.”
House’s team are sitting around the conference table, sharing around a stack of files. “He in his office?”
Cameron looks up. “Yes. He’s been in there all day. I asked if we should try to find another case, or what, and he said, ‘that sounds like a terrific idea.’ So that’s what we’re doing.”
Wilson winces. “If he’s on Clinic any time over the next few days, one of you cover for him, okay?”
Chase nods. “Sure. We’ll take care of it.”
Wilson goes into House’s inner office. “How are you doing, buddy?”
House glances up at him. “Fine, thanks. And you?”
“Not bad. The police shrink’s here to see you.”
House closes the open file on his computer and follows Wilson over to his office, meek as a lamb.
There are introductions all around. House, eyes fixed on the floor, hesitates slightly before shaking Dewalt’s offered hand.
“Thank you for letting us use your office, James,” Dewalt says. It takes Wilson a moment to realize Dewalt’s expecting him to leave.
“You’re welcome,” he says, stalling. Given what happened the last time House was alone in a room with a psychiatrist, he’s not eager to leave him with another one.
“I understand your concern,” Dewalt says. “But I do have to talk with him privately.”
Wilson pats House’s shoulder, knowing full well that House wouldn’t like it, normally, and won’t take any comfort from it, now. “I’ll be right outside.” That’s useless too- House probably wouldn’t make a peep if Dewalt skinned him alive.
“How are you feeling, Doctor House?”
“Good,” House says. “Normal.” Dewalt’s calling him by his title doesn’t fool him. He knows the psychiatrist is one of Them, here to see if Gregory is being a good boy.
“Glad to hear it.” The man sits in one of Wilson’s guest chairs, and motions House to the sofa. House tries not to limp too much as he walks toward it-his leg isn’t supposed to hurt.
Doesn’t hurt. He can’t pretend he’s being good-They’ll know. It has to be real.
“Let’s talk about what happened in the Clinic yesterday.”
“Nothing happened,” House says.
“Well, surely something did. You came in…what time did your shift start?”
“Eight,” House mumbles. He was late. Was that what started this? He knows better, he really does.
“So you got to the Clinic at eight, and-what do you do first? Sign in? Hang up your coat?”
He’s acting like he doesn’t know that House was late, but it’s probably a test. To see if he’ll lie, or own up to what he did. “I was late. I signed in at ten of nine.”
House catches himself tensing slightly, but Dewalt doesn’t hit him, or even yell, just says mildly, “I see. So you signed in, and then what?”
“I went into Exam room one, and saw my first patient.”
Dewalt takes him through the morning, leading him to talk about each of the patients he saw that morning. All he asks about is what happened-there’s no “how did you feel about that?” and not any pointing out what he did wrong, either. It’s oddly soothing.
Until he gets to eleven o’clock. “Patient’s name was John Smith.” Funny, that. He doesn’t remember any of the earlier ones’ names. “He had a sore throat, low-grade fever. I did a rapid culture for strep; it was negative. Gave him some lozenges and sent him home.”
“Had you ever seen John Smith before?”
It’s a new question; Dewalt didn’t ask that about any of the others. That clinches it-Smith is the one Dewalt wants to hear about, and he knows it. “No,” he says, not allowing himself to think otherwise. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
“Average. Brown hair, brown eyes. Average height, average build. Just…average.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
He doesn’t know what to say to that. “I…don’t know. Maybe.” He hopes that’s the right answer.
It seems to be. Dewalt goes on to ask about the rest of the morning’s patients; House tells him about them.
“What happened next, when you left the Clinic?”
“I came up to my office and did my work. Charting. I’d fallen behind on it.” They probably know that anyway, but in any case, it’s best to admit it.
“What happened next?”
“Doctor Wilson came in. He brought me lunch.”
“So you ate lunch with your friend?”
He doesn’t know what the right answer is for that, either. You’re supposed to eat when one of Them tells you to. But Wilson isn’t one of Them. He’s not supposed to be with Wilson anymore. No matter what he says, he’s going to make trouble for himself. “Not…right away.”
“What happened?”
“He started asking about…something he thought happened in the Clinic.”
“What did he think happened?”
“I…’m not sure.” That’s not quite true. He knows what Wilson thinks happened, but he’s not supposed to tell, and is saying Wilson thinks it telling? Dewalt’s trying to trap him. Will trap him, eventually. He doesn’t know what to do. Fighting against Them, or telling Them what they obviously want to hear--it doesn’t matter what he tries, he can’t win against Them.
“He found a mark on your arm,” Dewalt prompts him.
He’s almost glad Dewalt’s finally asked about that; he knows what the right answer to that is. “I injected myself with morphine,” he says promptly.
“When did you do that?”
“I…don’t know. I don’t remember doing it.” That’s Evading Responsibility, but he doesn’t remember.
“What makes you think you did do it, then?”
“I must’ve. It showed up on the tox screen, and the mark’s there.”
“Can I see it?”
He rolls up his sleeve. The bruise has gone yellow around the edges. “There’s a mark on my other arm, too, but that one’s from the blood draw.”
“Let me see that one, too.”
He rolls up his other sleeve. There’s a pinprick there, covered by a bandaid. He peels it off and throws it away. There’s no bruise on that one.
“Are you left-handed?”
“Hm? No. I’m right-handed.”
“Most people, when they give themselves injections, use their dominant hand.”
“A lot of junkies alternate sides when they do injections. It saves wear-and-tear on the veins.”
“Are you a junkie?”
He hesitates. Sometimes They use “junkie” as a synonym for “addict.” But a junkie is really someone who’s addicted to junk, heroin. “I’m an addict,” he temporizes. “My drug of choice is Vicodin. I’ve used needle drugs occasionally.”
“Your veins looks good,” Dewalt says. “In both arms. I don’t see any reason you’d have to use your right one.”
“I don’t remember why I did it that way.”
“Where did you get the morphine? From the Clinic?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“You must have some idea,” Dewalt says.
“I used to have some at home, but I threw it away when I got back from rehab. I don’t know where I got it. I couldn’t have gotten it from the Clinic. They don’t keep it sitting out; you have to write out a prescription in triplicate and go to the pharmacy.”
“Did you get anything from the pharmacy yesterday morning?”
“No.” He’s sure the pharmacy records will bear that out.
“This John Smith. You were in the exam room with him for forty-two minutes.”
“Was I?” House is glad to be off the subject of the morphine, but he knows it’s only a temporary reprieve.
“What were you doing for all that time? You were with your other patients for an average of twelve minutes each.”
What was he doing all that time? “Waiting for the rapid culture to come back.”
“Most of the time, you send the patient back out into the waiting room and see someone else, while you’re waiting for tests to come back. Don’t you?”
Of course they do. It would be dumb just to sit there for a half-hour every time he sent a test out. “Yes.”
“But you stayed in the exam room with John Smith. What did you do, while you were waiting for the test to come back?”
“I don’t know,” he repeats, knowing it sounds stupid. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t.
“You remember everything else that happened that morning. Everything except how you got the morphine, and what happened when you were in that room with John Smith.”
“I couldn’t have gotten the morphine from the Clinic. It’s just not possible.”
“It is possible that John Smith brought it with him?”
“I don’t know him. I’d never met him before yesterday morning.”
“Okay. Let’s talk about your old psychiatrist, Erich Luerssen.”
“Okay.”
“What did think of him?”
“He helped me get better.”
Wilson paces up and down the hallway. He can just barely hear the rise and fall of House and Dewalt’s voices inside his office, and can’t make out any of the words.
House ought to be all right, with a police psychiatrist. But it was a police officer who started this whole train of events, and a psychiatrist who drugged and brainwashed House. He’d be crazy not to worry.
He ought to have brought some work out here, but he’s sure he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate, anyway. This way he can focus fully on worrying about House.
Seeing him in his nerdy pyjamas, hearing him talk earnestly about the importance of Clinic duty, would have been funny if it wasn’t all so horrible. If he knew the real House was coming back.
He thinks about that moment in the elevator, when House had looked at him and said, “Baraku.” He’d thought, at the time, that House was thinking about the same thing that he’d been-Wilson touching him-and he meant that he considered himself, literally, untouchable. Not that he didn’t like to be touched, that he somehow didn’t deserve it, or would defile anyone who touched him. It sounded like something they’d have instilled in him at rehab.
And House probably had meant that. But when does House mean only one thing at a time? He’d heard the Baraku story for the first time on their trip to New Jersey. A story that was almost too good to be true-or, perhaps it would be better to say, too good to be factual. Whether House had ever even gone rock-climbing in Japan, it revealed something essential about the way he saw himself.
But what did it mean in this context? That all Luerssen had managed to do was reinforce something House had always believed about himself-that he was different from other people, and mostly worse?
That House-the House who had gone to New Jersey with him and Persistent Vegetative State Guy-was still in there somewhere, trying to make contact?
Or maybe just that House didn’t want to be touched.
Wilson’s just gotten House tucked up at his desk with some nice charts to review-none of his team are even there yet-and gotten to his office when the phone rings.
It’s Detective Whitley. “I wanted to let you and Doctor House know, we arrested Luerssen last night.”
He feels a spreading sense of relief. It’s not as good as having House back, but it means he’s safe, and that’s something.
“We’re holding off his arraignment until tomorrow afternoon, which is the latest we can possibly do it.”
“Are you going to need House to….”
“Ideally, we’d have him to testify, but Temas says that’s not likely to be possible.” There’s a slight question in her voice.
“He’s right. We found out last night that there was something in the injection Luerssen gave him to bind the drugs and release them gradually in his system. It’s going to be a few more days before they wear off, and even then….”
“I see. What we’re going to have to do, then, is get the department’s psychiatrist to interview him, and testify that the effects of the assault have rendered him temporarily unable to aid the prosecution. It’s…not ideal. The defense is going to want to haul him in to testify that Luerssen wasn’t in the clinic and didn’t touch him. Hopefully, this will work to prevent that, for now.”
Normally House would fight talking to a shrink-another shrink-like a wild animal. “He’ll cooperate,” Wilson says. “What time?”
“How’s eleven o’clock?”
Wilson checks his schedule. He knows House doesn’t have any appointments. “That’s fine.”
“The Prosecutor will need to talk with you both later on, but I figured for the moment, the fewer people Dr. House has to deal with, the better.”
Wilson is grateful to her for thinking of it. “I think you’re right. Thank you.”
“So she asked me to let you know, that she doubts very much that she’ll be able to prevent the Defense from calling him to testify in the trial, if he’s not recovered by then. Assuming, that is, that we get the indictment and it goes to trial. She’ll delay the trial itself as much as possible, to give him time to get well, but if he’s still saying Luerssen didn’t do it, the Defense has a right to have him say it on the stand.”
He pretty much expected that, but it’s still a blow. “How much time are we talking about?”
“I’d say the earliest the trial is likely to be is a week after the arraignment. Shepherd-that’s the Prosecutor-will push it back as much as she can. A month is probably the absolute outside. Luerssen does have a right to a speedy trial.”
He nods, realizes Whitley can’t see him, and says, “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
“It’s not unheard-of for suspects to be found guilty even when the victim says they didn’t do it, but it’s pretty rare. We’ve got a good amount of physical evidence, but juries tend to put more weight on personal testimony.”
He nods again. “I’m an oncologist. I know all about long odds.”
The police psychiatrist is a small man, about Wilson’s age. When he introduces himself--“Ben Dewalt, with the Princeton PD”--his handshake is firm and crisp.
“James Wilson,” he responds. “House is next door. I’ll bring him over here; there’s more privacy.”
House’s team are sitting around the conference table, sharing around a stack of files. “He in his office?”
Cameron looks up. “Yes. He’s been in there all day. I asked if we should try to find another case, or what, and he said, ‘that sounds like a terrific idea.’ So that’s what we’re doing.”
Wilson winces. “If he’s on Clinic any time over the next few days, one of you cover for him, okay?”
Chase nods. “Sure. We’ll take care of it.”
Wilson goes into House’s inner office. “How are you doing, buddy?”
House glances up at him. “Fine, thanks. And you?”
“Not bad. The police shrink’s here to see you.”
House closes the open file on his computer and follows Wilson over to his office, meek as a lamb.
There are introductions all around. House, eyes fixed on the floor, hesitates slightly before shaking Dewalt’s offered hand.
“Thank you for letting us use your office, James,” Dewalt says. It takes Wilson a moment to realize Dewalt’s expecting him to leave.
“You’re welcome,” he says, stalling. Given what happened the last time House was alone in a room with a psychiatrist, he’s not eager to leave him with another one.
“I understand your concern,” Dewalt says. “But I do have to talk with him privately.”
Wilson pats House’s shoulder, knowing full well that House wouldn’t like it, normally, and won’t take any comfort from it, now. “I’ll be right outside.” That’s useless too- House probably wouldn’t make a peep if Dewalt skinned him alive.
“How are you feeling, Doctor House?”
“Good,” House says. “Normal.” Dewalt’s calling him by his title doesn’t fool him. He knows the psychiatrist is one of Them, here to see if Gregory is being a good boy.
“Glad to hear it.” The man sits in one of Wilson’s guest chairs, and motions House to the sofa. House tries not to limp too much as he walks toward it-his leg isn’t supposed to hurt.
Doesn’t hurt. He can’t pretend he’s being good-They’ll know. It has to be real.
“Let’s talk about what happened in the Clinic yesterday.”
“Nothing happened,” House says.
“Well, surely something did. You came in…what time did your shift start?”
“Eight,” House mumbles. He was late. Was that what started this? He knows better, he really does.
“So you got to the Clinic at eight, and-what do you do first? Sign in? Hang up your coat?”
He’s acting like he doesn’t know that House was late, but it’s probably a test. To see if he’ll lie, or own up to what he did. “I was late. I signed in at ten of nine.”
House catches himself tensing slightly, but Dewalt doesn’t hit him, or even yell, just says mildly, “I see. So you signed in, and then what?”
“I went into Exam room one, and saw my first patient.”
Dewalt takes him through the morning, leading him to talk about each of the patients he saw that morning. All he asks about is what happened-there’s no “how did you feel about that?” and not any pointing out what he did wrong, either. It’s oddly soothing.
Until he gets to eleven o’clock. “Patient’s name was John Smith.” Funny, that. He doesn’t remember any of the earlier ones’ names. “He had a sore throat, low-grade fever. I did a rapid culture for strep; it was negative. Gave him some lozenges and sent him home.”
“Had you ever seen John Smith before?”
It’s a new question; Dewalt didn’t ask that about any of the others. That clinches it-Smith is the one Dewalt wants to hear about, and he knows it. “No,” he says, not allowing himself to think otherwise. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
“Average. Brown hair, brown eyes. Average height, average build. Just…average.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
He doesn’t know what to say to that. “I…don’t know. Maybe.” He hopes that’s the right answer.
It seems to be. Dewalt goes on to ask about the rest of the morning’s patients; House tells him about them.
“What happened next, when you left the Clinic?”
“I came up to my office and did my work. Charting. I’d fallen behind on it.” They probably know that anyway, but in any case, it’s best to admit it.
“What happened next?”
“Doctor Wilson came in. He brought me lunch.”
“So you ate lunch with your friend?”
He doesn’t know what the right answer is for that, either. You’re supposed to eat when one of Them tells you to. But Wilson isn’t one of Them. He’s not supposed to be with Wilson anymore. No matter what he says, he’s going to make trouble for himself. “Not…right away.”
“What happened?”
“He started asking about…something he thought happened in the Clinic.”
“What did he think happened?”
“I…’m not sure.” That’s not quite true. He knows what Wilson thinks happened, but he’s not supposed to tell, and is saying Wilson thinks it telling? Dewalt’s trying to trap him. Will trap him, eventually. He doesn’t know what to do. Fighting against Them, or telling Them what they obviously want to hear--it doesn’t matter what he tries, he can’t win against Them.
“He found a mark on your arm,” Dewalt prompts him.
He’s almost glad Dewalt’s finally asked about that; he knows what the right answer to that is. “I injected myself with morphine,” he says promptly.
“When did you do that?”
“I…don’t know. I don’t remember doing it.” That’s Evading Responsibility, but he doesn’t remember.
“What makes you think you did do it, then?”
“I must’ve. It showed up on the tox screen, and the mark’s there.”
“Can I see it?”
He rolls up his sleeve. The bruise has gone yellow around the edges. “There’s a mark on my other arm, too, but that one’s from the blood draw.”
“Let me see that one, too.”
He rolls up his other sleeve. There’s a pinprick there, covered by a bandaid. He peels it off and throws it away. There’s no bruise on that one.
“Are you left-handed?”
“Hm? No. I’m right-handed.”
“Most people, when they give themselves injections, use their dominant hand.”
“A lot of junkies alternate sides when they do injections. It saves wear-and-tear on the veins.”
“Are you a junkie?”
He hesitates. Sometimes They use “junkie” as a synonym for “addict.” But a junkie is really someone who’s addicted to junk, heroin. “I’m an addict,” he temporizes. “My drug of choice is Vicodin. I’ve used needle drugs occasionally.”
“Your veins looks good,” Dewalt says. “In both arms. I don’t see any reason you’d have to use your right one.”
“I don’t remember why I did it that way.”
“Where did you get the morphine? From the Clinic?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“You must have some idea,” Dewalt says.
“I used to have some at home, but I threw it away when I got back from rehab. I don’t know where I got it. I couldn’t have gotten it from the Clinic. They don’t keep it sitting out; you have to write out a prescription in triplicate and go to the pharmacy.”
“Did you get anything from the pharmacy yesterday morning?”
“No.” He’s sure the pharmacy records will bear that out.
“This John Smith. You were in the exam room with him for forty-two minutes.”
“Was I?” House is glad to be off the subject of the morphine, but he knows it’s only a temporary reprieve.
“What were you doing for all that time? You were with your other patients for an average of twelve minutes each.”
What was he doing all that time? “Waiting for the rapid culture to come back.”
“Most of the time, you send the patient back out into the waiting room and see someone else, while you’re waiting for tests to come back. Don’t you?”
Of course they do. It would be dumb just to sit there for a half-hour every time he sent a test out. “Yes.”
“But you stayed in the exam room with John Smith. What did you do, while you were waiting for the test to come back?”
“I don’t know,” he repeats, knowing it sounds stupid. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t.
“You remember everything else that happened that morning. Everything except how you got the morphine, and what happened when you were in that room with John Smith.”
“I couldn’t have gotten the morphine from the Clinic. It’s just not possible.”
“It is possible that John Smith brought it with him?”
“I don’t know him. I’d never met him before yesterday morning.”
“Okay. Let’s talk about your old psychiatrist, Erich Luerssen.”
“Okay.”
“What did think of him?”
“He helped me get better.”
Wilson paces up and down the hallway. He can just barely hear the rise and fall of House and Dewalt’s voices inside his office, and can’t make out any of the words.
House ought to be all right, with a police psychiatrist. But it was a police officer who started this whole train of events, and a psychiatrist who drugged and brainwashed House. He’d be crazy not to worry.
He ought to have brought some work out here, but he’s sure he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate, anyway. This way he can focus fully on worrying about House.
Seeing him in his nerdy pyjamas, hearing him talk earnestly about the importance of Clinic duty, would have been funny if it wasn’t all so horrible. If he knew the real House was coming back.
He thinks about that moment in the elevator, when House had looked at him and said, “Baraku.” He’d thought, at the time, that House was thinking about the same thing that he’d been-Wilson touching him-and he meant that he considered himself, literally, untouchable. Not that he didn’t like to be touched, that he somehow didn’t deserve it, or would defile anyone who touched him. It sounded like something they’d have instilled in him at rehab.
And House probably had meant that. But when does House mean only one thing at a time? He’d heard the Baraku story for the first time on their trip to New Jersey. A story that was almost too good to be true-or, perhaps it would be better to say, too good to be factual. Whether House had ever even gone rock-climbing in Japan, it revealed something essential about the way he saw himself.
But what did it mean in this context? That all Luerssen had managed to do was reinforce something House had always believed about himself-that he was different from other people, and mostly worse?
That House-the House who had gone to New Jersey with him and Persistent Vegetative State Guy-was still in there somewhere, trying to make contact?
Or maybe just that House didn’t want to be touched.