Kendall entered the fray. “Drowning her sister?”
Shaden gave him a disgusted look. “Admitting to the crime. He knew they wouldn’t jail a little girl, so he asked her to cop to it.”
Susan rolled her eyes. “You think a father deliberately tried to drown one of his daughters, then got the other committed to a long-term, locked psychiatry unit.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t make any sense.”
Shaden had a theory. “Let’s say the father was trying to force the first daughter to do something by submerging her. It got out of hand. When he realized he had almost killed her, he blamed Sharicka.”
Susan pretended to accept the premise for the purpose of demonstrating its ludicrous aspects. “So he chooses to ‘submerge’ her in a bucket in broad daylight in a neighbor’s yard? Then he calls 911. Within five minutes, he has an alternative story and has trained Sharicka to comply with it.”
“It’s not impossible.”
Susan added to the coincidences, hoping the theory would grow so unwieldy, it toppled for everyone in the room at once. “Another time, he beat their son with a bat at three a.m., got the boy to blame it on his little sister, and also got Sharicka to take the blame for that?”
Shaden shrugged. “It’s certainly more believable than a four-year-old dragging her older, bigger sister to a neighbor’s house to deliberately drown her. An abusive father might turn on any or all of his children. Perhaps they were so afraid of more beatings, they went along with his story.”
Susan did not get into the fact that no other injuries appeared on the Ansons’ other children or on Sharicka herself. Other than the young fosters, no reports of abuse had come from that household before or since that time. She had more than enough ammunition. “And the strangling of an autistic child in the therapeutic foster home?”
Shaden’s protests came slower and less vehemently. “We have only the foster mother’s word on that.”
“Mmm.” Susan accepted his explanation. “And the incident in the bathroom with one of our kids? And the staff member? And Kamaria?” Susan looked at each of the nurses in turn. “Poor Sharicka. She’s just a magnet for getting blamed for other people’s attempted murders. Six times by seven different accusers. What blind bad luck.”
Out of arguments, Shaden could only say, “She’s four years old, and a sweeter child you couldn’t find.”
Susan wanted to complete Shaden’s sentence with “In all the levels of hell,” but she doubted Bainbridge would appreciate the humor.
Dr. Bainbridge took over. “I realize this is a pediatrics unit, but we shouldn’t lose professionalism in our compassion. I’m giving everyone who works on this unit an assignment: Write a one-page paper on how a person with antisocial personality disorder uses ‘charm and wit’ to manipulate others. It’s a hallmark of the condition.”
Shaden had no choice but to step back, although he did add one piece. “You can’t diagnose antisocial in children.”
Dr. Bainbridge did not argue the point. “Which is odd, because the diagnosis requires that the symptoms start in childhood.” He looked around the nursing staff, most of whom appeared either chastened or ready to explode. No one liked being chided by a superior, especially about something that aroused such strong feelings. “Antisocials have an uncanny feel for social situations and an extraordinary ability to manipulate people’s emotions. Anyone in psychiatry who denies falling prey to one at some point has either never treated one or is a baldfaced liar.”
“With all due respect, Dr. Bainbridge.” This time, one of the female nurses took Sharicka’s side. “She’s four years old. How much can she even know about influencing adults?”
Another of the nurses laughed. “Clearly, Calida, you don’t have any children. When my daughter was four, she had her father and grandparents wrapped around her little finger. There is nothing in the world more capable of manipulation than a preschool child.”
Bainbridge made a gesture that implied he had proven his case.
Susan had heard enough about Sharicka Anson. For now, she appreciated that she had not managed to run into the girl on her first day. Had she not become focused on Starling’s A-V malformation and Diesel’s syndrome, she might have gotten snared by Sharicka’s superficial charm. Instead, she had had the opportunity to watch the child in secret, which had allowed her to see things she otherwise would have missed. To know Sharicka was to watch her actions without preconceived notions or personal interaction.
Susan returned the conversation to its long-lost starting point. “If no one objects, I’d like to try assigning only female nurses to Monterey Zdrazil for a while. Presumably because of some issue with her father, she seems to respond better to women.”
Several of the nurses nodded silently. No one seemed to take umbrage, and one even added, “I’d noticed that myself.”
Susan continued. “And I’d like permission to take her off the unit.” It was an odd request. Usually, taking a child from the PIPU was a prerogative reserved for parents and guardians.
Bainbridge rested his buttocks against a desk. “Where do you plan to take her?”
“I’d like to commandeer one of those car-gurneys they use on the peds unit and take Monterey to visit the resident robot.”
Whispers suffused the group, but they all waited for Bainbridge’s response. The attending’s face bunched in confusion. “The resident robot? I thought they dismantled that thing.”
The idea rankled. “No,
Susan’s vehement answer drew curious looks, but Bainbridge took it in stride.
“I’m not saying they should. Just that I hadn’t heard ‘boo’ about it for years. People objected, they took it out of commission, and it disappeared.”
“He’s still working,” Susan announced, unable to use the gender-neutral pronoun on someone as obviously male and sentient as Nate. “And, since Monterey lost her father, I thought it might help for her to get to know a man who’s not mortal.” There was more to her plan, but she did not want to elaborate on it yet. She did not want to raise hopes until she felt more confident it would work.
Monk added his piece. “Far be it from me to question a doctor with your history of success, but doesn’t it seem a bit ironic to take a virtual robot and bring it to visit . . . well, a literal robot?”
Several of the nurses bobbed their heads in agreement.
Susan had anticipated people clambering all over her to learn about the robot in their midst, so Monk’s line of questioning took her by surprise. She answered lamely, “Why not? Nothing else has worked.”
Bainbridge hopped up onto the desk. “Why not, indeed? Make it happen.” He glanced at his Vox. “And as we seem to have wasted a perfectly good fifteen minutes, you’re excused to upstairs. I promised you to Goldman and Peters.”
“Thank you.” Susan glanced around but had nothing to gather. The researchers would have their own palm- prosses upstairs. Without another word, she headed out of the staffing room.
The procedure room in the research towers was a cold, sterile white. Rarely used, it appeared brand-new, the countertops clean and flawless, the steel taps and cupboard handles gleaming. Payton Flowers swayed on the sheeted table, watching Susan’s every move, his manner definitively odd. His parents and sister sat in plastic chairs along the wall. A towel was wrapped around Susan’s equipment, its bright orange color signifying its successful passage through the purifier.
Susan knew from his chart that Payton was thirty-five years old. His short blond hair lay neatly combed, his nails properly clipped, and his face freshly shaven. He wore a standard hospital gown, which brought to mind one of Kendall’s quips:
Susan addressed Payton directly. “Good morning, Mr. Flowers. Do you know what brought you here today?”
