herself to believe a four-year-old would not have the wherewithal to kill, not under the watchful eye of educated, professional, and wary parents.
But even educated, professional, wary parents have to sleep. And the beast within Sharicka, apparently, never did, a charming four-year-old genius with a penchant for murder. Susan sobbed out, “I shouldn’t have suggested it. I shouldn’t have approved it. I shouldn’t have allowed it.”
Kendall cradled Susan’s head. “Hindsight is telescopic.”
“But I knew what she was. What she could do. I knew she was manipulating the nursing staff. Why did I let her manipulate me, too?”
“Because you’re human?” Kendall’s grip never wavered. “And she’s four years old. She’s a cute little bundle of baby fat. . . .”
“And homicidal fury, Kendall. What does a four-year-old have to be that angry about?”
“Angry?” Kendall’s voice revealed confusion. “I’ve never seen Sharicka angry, and I don’t think she’s lashing out in some kind of seething fury. She’s colder. Calculating. It’s as if she’s . . .”
“Possessed?” Susan tried.
“Do you believe in that?”
“No.” Susan found her faith in science wavering for the first time ever. “Do you?”
“No,” Kendall said without hesitation. “Just because we can’t explain everything yet doesn’t mean everything doesn’t have a logical explanation. I mean, so far, everything in history that people once attributed to supernatural phenomenon has been thoroughly and utterly disproven or explained.”
Susan did not argue. She was absolutely grounded in science. “Four years old, Kendall.”
“Almost five,” he reminded her. “And not the youngest killer in the world.”
That caught Susan off her guard. She finally pulled away far enough to look into his face. “Who’s the youngest?”
“Who knows? In every state in the union, probably in every country in the world, kids under the age of seven are automatically presumed not responsible for their criminal acts, including murder. We just throw a few meds at them, send them home, and wait until they kill someone else, when they’re old enough to prosecute.”
Susan wondered why Kendall knew that. And she did not. Likely, he had done some research since learning about Sharicka’s night. “What’s the youngest you’ve heard of?”
Kendall obliged. “Well, we have the Kelby Cross gun containment law because a two-year-old shot his sister.”
Susan knew that well-publicized case. “That was accidental. I’m talking about a deliberate act.”
Kendall reached across her to consult his palm-pross. He tapped a few buttons, then studied the screen. “In 2001, an Illinois three-year-old bashed in the skull of a two-year-old and injured a three-week-old left in his care.”
“Who would leave babies in the care of another baby?”
Kendall shrugged. “That’s not the point, is it?”
Susan supposed not. She had asked about children with a penchant for murder, not about irresponsible parents.
Kendall continued to consult the palm-pross. “In 2021, a three-year-old in Detroit fatally shot his drunk father while the father was beating the boy’s mother. A four-year-old girl in India snatched and killed three infants in separate incidents just last year. In 1986, a five-year-old shoved a three-year-old off a Miami Beach balcony and, when the younger boy grabbed onto a ledge, the older boy pried his fingers loose and dropped him five stories to his death. There have been at least three recent cases where kids, usually in groups of two or three, between the ages of three and six, brutally murdered infants or toddlers.”
It seemed insane to take solace in ghastly crimes, but it did help Susan to bring reality back to the fore. Sharicka was not possessed by some demonic entity; she was betrayed by some terrible defect in her brain. With any luck, the nanorobots could find it because, clearly, current treatments held out no hope for her at all.
By the time Susan fully regained her composure and Kendall returned to his work, the other residents had arrived. Soon afterward, Dr. Bainbridge came for rounds. They all looked so alert, clean, and well rested to Susan, who felt like she had aged a decade in the last few hours. She joined them reluctantly. The nurses may have talked to some of the residents, but they would leave Susan to break the news to the attending doctor.
Dr. Bainbridge swept in with all the authority in the universe. “Good morning, Doctors.” He looked around the assembled group, surely noticing the somber faces. “Judging by looks alone, I’d say Dr. Calvin took call yesterday.”
Stony Lipschitz stepped in to rescue Susan. “She’s had rather a bad morning, sir.”
The grin wilted from Bainbridge’s face. “Why wasn’t I called?”
The R-3 continued to take the heat. “I just found out about it myself an hour ago. It didn’t seem worth bothering you for that little bit of time.”
Susan had delayed calling her superiors until she had a reasonable grasp of the situation. She had also been taught not to bother sleeping people unless there was something they could do. Seeing no reason to prolong the agony, she explained, “Sharicka Anson went on a home visit yesterday. In the wee morning hours, she attacked her siblings, killing one and badly wounding the other. The police escorted her back here.”
Bainbridge listened intently without interrupting as Susan described the situation. When she finished, he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So, I guess we can all see now why Susan came down so hard on a four-year-old when others mentioned discharge.” He looked around at the nurses intently. “Now does everyone understand the manipulativeness that characterizes the antisocial mind?”
Susan would not let her detractors take all the heat, though she did wish Shaden’s shift had not ended hours earlier. “I’m afraid she manipulated me, too, Dr. Bainbridge. I’m the one who okayed the home visit and suggested it to her parents.”
Dr. Bainbridge nodded thoughtfully. “Master manipulators, antisocials. As I have said before, the psychiatric worker does not exist who has not fallen prey to one at some point.” He shook his head, now staring directly at Susan. In an uncharacteristic action, he walked to her and put a fatherly arm across her shoulders. “It’s not your fault, Susan. She’s four years old, and the rules say we have to give children second and third and fourth and fifth chances. Had you asked my opinion, I would have done nothing different. We knew she was dangerous, and her parents knew it, too; yet we all believed that even if she did something bad, an adult could stop her.
“It’s not your fault,” Dr. Bainbridge repeated, “but for a long time it’s going to feel as if it is. If you find it taking over your life, let me know immediately and we’ll arrange some counseling. Sometimes big mistakes have small consequences. And sometimes small mistakes have big ones. You can’t let chance rule your life.”
Susan glanced around at her peers. All of them wore solemn and sympathetic looks. They might harbor other grudges against her; but, at this time, they stood unanimous in support of her. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “But I’d like permission to leave rounds early to talk to the Ansons. I’m not sure Neurosurgery has much of a clue about juvenile conduct disorder, and I’m already getting the sense they blame the father. This family doesn’t need any more trauma.”
Bainbridge nodded agreement. “Go,” he said. “We’ll call you if we need anything more from you.”
“Thank you,” Susan said with all the gratitude in the world. She raced toward the operating room waiting area, where she knew she would find the Ansons. She only hoped they would still be willing to see her.
Chapter 18
The surgical waiting room had brilliant aqua walls, a multicolored rug, comfortable chairs, and surrealistic paintings teeming with colored swirls and odd-ball shapes. The Ansons were alone, the mother sobbing in her seat and the father pacing wildly, his left hand and right wrist covered in fresh bandages.
The father stopped moving the instant he spotted Susan. “Dr. Calvin.” His voice emerged in a neutral tone. It was less a greeting than an acknowledgment.
Lucianne Anson’s head jerked up. She stood and faced Susan.
Susan did not wait for her to speak or make her feelings or intentions clear. Tossing her palm-pross gently on a chair, she caught Sharicka’s mother into an embrace. The woman stiffened, then collapsed against her. Warm
