Part 11

Peter did not return to the precinct, opting for a drive instead. His heart was too heavy. He was not in the mood for all the *Poor Peter* looks that the staff had been giving him when they thought he wasn’t looking. He just needed to think, to clear his mind and straighten out the jumble that it had become.

The detective had not driven ten minutes when he heard a familiar trill of his cell phone. Debating whether or not he should answer it, curiosity got the best of him.

"Caine," he said curtly.

"Dostoevsky," a sultry voice whispered.

"Doi-what?" Peter asked, in no mood to play games with some phone freak.

"Detective Caine, you were due at my office five minutes ago. I do not like to be kept waiting." It was the no-nonsense voice of Dr. LaKaison sounded on the line.

"Dr. LaKaison, do you hassle all of your patients, or just me?" Peter questioned sharply. He was in no humor to be reprimanded for missing an appointment he had no intention of keeping.

"Not unless they need it, Peter. I have serious concerns about your condition. If I do not see you in my office in ten minutes, I will be forced to call your Captain. I will then tell her that you threatened to harm yourself. I will ask that you be taken to the hospital and placed in the psychiatric ward for a 24 hour psych evaluation," Dr. LaKaison’s anger seeped through the airwaves and out the cell phone in Peter’s hand.

"You can’t do that!" Peter was nearly yelling at her. *What is it about this woman that trips my trigger? I can’t talk to her for five minutes without losing my temper!* he thought, pulling the Stealth to the side of the road. He didn’t want his rage to cause an accident. That would be all she needed to get him thrown into the looney bin.

"I can and I will, Detective Caine. You had ten minutes sixty seconds ago. You now have nine."

"We will talk about this when I get there!" Peter’s voice was low and angry as he pushed the disconnect button on the cell phone. He did not like to be threatened. This shrink was way out of line. The tires of the Stealth squealed as he pulled out of his parking space into traffic.

***

Eight and a half minutes later, Peter stormed into Dr. LaKaison’s office to find her sitting at the receptionist’s desk. She did not look happy.

*Good,*Peter thought, *that makes two of us.*

"Just where the Hell do you get off threatening me?" he raged, not even looking around the office. If he had, he would have seen the tall black man standing behind the potted palm just inside the office door. He might have seen the syringe in the man’s hand and would not have been taken by surprise. As it was, his first awareness of the other occupant of the office was a sharp stinging sensation in his right shoulder. Whirling to see the source of the pain, the room spun in the opposite direction. His heart, pumping furiously from the anger he felt at Dr. LaKaison, pushed the syringe’s contents through his system at light speed. His confusion at seeing the attacker was short lived as the man’s dark skin and eyes blended in with the blackness that filled his mind. He didn’t feel himself falling to the floor.

***

The alarm was buzzing when Peter awoke, naked once more, in his own bed. His stomach sloshed and his mouth was dry as he arose. *Damn it,* Peter thought to himself. Dr. LaKaison had warned him about some of the undesirable side effects of the antidepressants. He was convinced, though, that he could live with a dry mouth and slight queasiness if it helped him get over this horrible sadness. He quickly tossed down a glass of water to help with the cotton mouth, but regretted the action as he found himself heaving into the toilet bowl seconds later. He flushed, then paused for a moment before he rose from his knees. Resting his head on his forearms which were braced across the seat, he took a long ragged breath. The fatigue that filled his body and overtook his spirit made him want to stay where he was forever. Moving was such hard work that he used every bit of his remaining energy just to stand.

Peter leaned against his hands on the vanity and looked into the mirror. It was a mistake of gigantic proportion. His sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones told him that Dr. LaKaison was right. He was in trouble.

The detective thought back to his last appointment with Dr. LaKaison. He had been furious with her when she used strong-arm tactics to get him into the office, but those feelings had dissipated once he had gotten to the office. He remembered seeing Katie, the receptionist, smile warmly as he walked in, and feeling better just to have that friendly face.

Dr. LaKaison and he had talked about. . . *Funny,* he thought. *I can’t remember what we talked about.* Splashing water on his face to help clear his head, Peter brushed his teeth, then shook a tiny blue pill from the amber bottle on the vanity. Taking small sips this time, he drank a glass of water to wash the it down. That accomplished, he began to make preparations for the day.

Strenlich would be pleased. He was going to be early for work for the third straight day.

[end part 11]

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Part 12

Kermit was not happy. He watched Peter enter the office, a walking dead man. His friend’s usual bounce was gone, his charming good looks were replaced by dark rimmed eyes and and unhealthy pallor. The murders were dragging on him, wearing him down. Kermit hated it when the people he cared for hurt.

Leaning back in his well-worn office chair, the computer expert analyzed what he saw. Something wasn’t right. He had seen Peter under stress before. He had seen his friend near breaking. This was worse. It was clear that he was not resting and judging from his phone conversation with Julie Taylor after their lunch, Peter wasn’t eating, either. The weight loss was beginning to show in his clothes as well as his face. It had only been two days, yet Peter had to have lost between 5 and 10 pounds from an already lean frame.

Then there was the matter of the pills. As long as Kermit had known Peter, the doctors had almost had to tie Peter down to get him to take meds. In fact, at one point Annie had called Kermit over to the house to hold Peter down while she force fed him antibiotics. Peter had been injured in a drug bust, developing an infection in his wound. Paul had been out of town. Now, Peter had told Kermit that he was voluntarily downing the tiny blue pills that Dr. LaKaison had prescribed. Kermit had seen him at his desk several times the previous day toying with the prescription vial as one would play with a sharp knife. He seemed fascinated by it.

There was something about the good doctor that set Kermit’s teeth on edge. He had met her only once, during an investigation of a man who beat his wife and two small children to death. The man had been under her care--court-ordered--for spousal abuse. Kermit had hoped to gain her cooperation. She refused. It wasn’t so much her attitude that bothered him because he knew about patient-doctor confidentiality, as her lack of emotion. She had not even blinked when he described the scene and then shown her pictures of the crime her patient committed. He knew men *in the trade* that would have thrown up at the bloody visages.

When Karen had suggested that Peter see the doctor, he had been supportive. Hell,

Peter could use all the help he could get at the time. Kermit began to wonder if he had gone along with the suggestion too hastily. There was only one way to know.

Leaving his office to greet Peter, he was surprised to see that the young detective bore a bruise on his neck. It almost looked like a hand print.

"Practice a little rough last night?" Kermit asked nonchalantly.

"What?" Peter seemed confused.

"The bruise. How did that happen?"

Peter blanched, then suddenly found something very interesting on the floor to look at.

"Uhhhh. . . I won’t be. . ." his voice broke. He crossed his arms across his chest, a sheild to protect himself, then took a deep breath and blurted out, "The parents think it would be better if I were to stay clear of the kids for a while. They are worried that if someone is gunning for me, that someone else’s kid will get hurt."

Kermit looked away so that Peter would not see the chagrin on his face. *Damn,* he

thought. *I should have seen that one coming.*

"So, where did you go, then, Peter? You didn’t come back to the precinct. I called at

your place around nine and got your machine." Kermit asked gently. Peter was standing near his desk, shuffling through files, trying to appear busy.

"You checking up on me, too?" Peter’s hostile reaction is not what Kermit had expected.

"No, I just called to see if you wanted to grab a pizza. Thought you could use the

company," Kermit retorted, trying to avoid a confrontation. This was not the place for that.

"Sorry, Kermit, I guess I’m a little on edge. I went to Dr. LaKaison’s last night. She

has me on nightly visits for the next couple of days," the troubled cop told his friend, sipping the too-bitter coffee in his hand. The acid of the brown brew began to burn a hole in his stomach. He fought the urge to grimace against the pain. "I guess I must have been asleep when you called. I was beat."

"Glad to see you getting some rest," Kermit remarked, watching his friend through

green-tinted glasses. Peter’s skin had taken on a faint green tint of its own.

"Look, could we not talk about me. What is new on the Johnson case?" Peter changed the subject.

"The note was still there, tacked to the counter. Nothing had been moved. Mrs. Johnson’s family opens up the shop for people getting their clothes, but otherwise the place has been closed since then. We lucked out."

"Yeah, that’s me, real lucky," Peter commented bitterly. Kermit glanced over his

glasses at the younger cop, but ignored the remark.

"There was something really interesting written on the back of it. . . printed actually," the green-glassed computer guru continued. "Does the phase ‘The lambs shall suffer for the sins of the shepherd.’ mean anything to you?"

Peter’s eyebrow knitted as he pondered the quote. It didn’t sound familiar at all.

"Sounds sort of biblical, that’s not my strong area," he said off the top of his head.

"That’s what Jody said. I ran it through my Biblical Quotes search program and came up with nada. Maybe it’s some sort of Confucius saying."

"I’ll ask. . ." Peter started, then broke off without finishing. He was going to say that

he would ask his father. . . but that wasn’t possible. Kwai Chang Caine was away on

another of his *journeys*.

"I’ll see what the Ancient has to say about it," he finished, hoping that Kermit had not picked up on his faux pas. He continued almost casually. "He sent word this morning by his neighbor, Mrs. Kun, that he had to leave for San Francisco this week. Seems he’s needed to attend the birth of his three times great grand niece’s baby. He will be back by next Friday, though. Maybe he can shed some light on it then."

"In the meantime, I will do a little *surfing* to see what I can find," Kermit assured

Peter. He turned to leave, casually bumping into the detective as he did so. Peter did not notice.

Once inside his office, Kermit looked at the amber bottle in his hand to read the label. *Elevil--10 mg --one tablet per day.* Kermit shook one of the blue pills out then replaced the lid. Putting the single tablet in an envelope, he prepared to go "bump" into Detective Caine again and replace the bottle in Peter’s coat pocket.

[end part 12]

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