allows us to directly target individual therapy for psychopathology refractory to standard treatments.”
Susan could only stare. If this was true, science had taken a gigantic leap just since she had graduated medical school two months earlier. “Really?” She wished she had had a much closer look at the greenish liquid.
“Theoretically,” Ari said before Cody could reply. “It’s passed the preclinical trials, at least as much as we can test it given the current . . . political climate. And when I say ‘political,’ I mean ‘stupid.’”
Though she had never directly participated in a research study, Susan knew the preclinical phase involved laboratory testing on nonliving objects and animals, when possible.
Cody shrugged. “As you can see, Ari doesn’t have much patience for the animal rights crowd.”
Ari corrected him. “I don’t have much patience for radicals of any stripe, left or right. On the one hand, we have zealots committing murder under a pro-
“So let me guess,” Susan said. “The preclinical trials did not include much animal testing.”
Cody winced, clearly concerned Susan’s innocent question would trigger another tirade. He answered quickly, before Ari could. “Enough to get us to Phase One, which was all we needed.” He said it sternly, as if to remind his fellow researcher. “USR really didn’t want to risk losing ten million dollars in investments in the brains of pigs and chimps, so it worked out just fine for everyone.”
Susan longed to study the greenish liquid again. Logically, she knew she would not see the actual robots; anything on a nanometer level required a microscope. Yet, just knowing the substance contained swarms of mechanical beings programmed to assist humanity intrigued her.
“Fine,” Ari grumbled, “until the so-called Society for Humanity gets wind of it. They’ll ring this place so tightly, we’ll need helicopters just to get to work.”
Susan looked at Nate, who smiled back at her. He had remained so quiet, she had nearly forgotten he was there. “Are they really that organized?”
Ari only snorted. Cody gave her a wide-eyed look. “You, of all people, should know. If not for the SFH, we’d have eighty Nates in this place instead of old-fashioned candy stripers and nursing aides. Medical students and residents could focus solely on patients and studies, with robots to do their scut work. Medical mistakes would become so rare, we’d forget the words ‘iatrogenic’ . . .”
Cody cringed.
“. . . and ‘malpractice.’”
“Quit swearing!”
Susan laughed.
Ari grunted. “Don’t get too comfortable with the joking. When it comes to research, we’re both dead serious.”
Cody shrugged, bobbing his head from side to side.
It was a deliberately contradictory gesture, and Susan had to suppress a smile. “I’m just honored to work with such renowned . . . and serious researchers.” She added “serious” for Ari’s benefit. “I suppose I get the honor of writing down your observations?”
The researchers exchanged looks. Cody addressed the question. “Actually, Nate can do all that. We want you to review charts and help us select patients. Also, you’ll be doing the lumbar punctures. When it comes to penetrating the cerebrospinal fluid,” he confessed, “we’re a bit rusty.”
The idea enticed her. Some residents despised procedures, whereas others relished them and could not get enough. Susan fell somewhere in the middle. Psychiatry did not have a lot of hands-on opportunities, and Susan liked the thought of getting in some practice. Here, being fresh out of medical school helped. She had done her share of lumbar punctures, withdrawing the fluid to check for imbalances, disease markers, cells, and infections on medical rotations. “Understandable.” She hoped her tone made it clear she had no problem with the request. “Timewise, I’ll still be able to handle my ward duties, right?”
“Right,” Cody confirmed, though Susan doubted he had given it much thought. A common failing of doctors was to grossly overestimate residents’ time and the comparative importance of their own pet projects.
Susan found her gaze gliding back to the lockbox holding the precious liquid she would soon inject into a patient’s spinal fluid.
Chapter 11
Susan downplayed the Goldman and Peters study, not wishing to create more distance between herself and her envious colleagues. She used techniques well learned from her father to make the whole thing sound more like tedious busywork than the chance to become a part of research history. That her part was relatively small made it easier.
Susan found herself dreading the obligatory meeting with Sharicka Anson’s parents. She had nothing truly positive to report. In fact, nothing had changed. Susan had not even experimented with the little girl’s medications, as previous physicians already had her on a maximized regimen. Susan also doubted any of those drugs truly mattered. Sharicka had no interest in or intention of changing.
Keyed through one of the doors, Susan headed toward the conference rooms that branched off the hallway between the two sets of locked doors. Only one was occupied. A tall, slender man paced around the table, while a woman sat with her face buried in her hands. As she entered, the man took a seat directly beside the woman. His thinning hair had turned mostly gray, with only a sprinkling of his original jet-black locks. He had soft green-gray eyes that seemed older than his years and a face the same perfect oval as Remington’s. As Susan entered, the woman looked up. She had longish brown hair that would have seemed dyed if not for the smattering of white hairs in the very front. She had a long narrow face, pale eyes, and generous lips.
“Hello,” Susan said. “You must be the Ansons.”
The man nodded wearily. “Doctors Elliot and Lucianne Anson. And you must be Sharicka’s new resident.”
“Dr. Susan Calvin,” she said, taking a seat directly across from Sharicka’s parents.
“Let me guess,” the mother said, with just a hint of venom. “Sharicka is a sweet little girl, and you can’t imagine she’s capable of the heinous acts we accuse her of. You’d take her home, if you could.”
Susan swallowed hard. She wondered how many people had spoken those words. “To the contrary, Doctors Anson. I’ve witnessed more than enough of Sharicka’s deliberate cruelty to thank God she’s not my daughter.”
The parents’ faces brightened, and their full attention went to Susan.
It seemed the height of bad parenting for them to take pleasure in someone saying terrible things about their child, yet Susan understood their relief. Sharicka had probably terrorized them, and their family, until it shook their parental instincts to their core. Social workers, nurses, and even some physicians who ought to know better fell easy victims to Sharicka’s superficial charms. It was so much easier to blame the parents than to believe a child capable of such evil. Susan remembered what she had told Kendall about putting the cards on the table. Sharicka’s parents needed the truth.
“Sharicka has what we call juvenile conduct disorder.”
The parents nodded. They had heard the term applied before.
“Do you know what that means?”
Elliot cleared his throat. “We have a reasonable understanding. I have my PhD in social work. My wife’s is in childhood special education.”
Susan had not known those details. “So you have a professional understanding of the term?” She did not wish
