W Is for Wasted

can’t pick up every warning sign, especially if a patient is hiding something.”
    “Earlier you talked about suggestibility. Are you saying that if Terrence was convinced he was on daily doses of Glucotace, the symptoms he experienced might have been, what . . . psychosomatic?”
    “That’s not a term much in use these days. We’ve come to recognize that the effort to identify disorders as purely physical or purely mental is increasingly obsolete. Many physical illnesses have mental components that determine their onset, presentation, and susceptibility to treatment. Terrence Dace’s symptoms were real. The question under consideration has to do with their origin. That’s something I can’t help you with.”
    “Understood,” I said. I realized I was fresh out of places to take the conversation and I was kicking myself for not bringing in a list.
    “What else can I tell you?”
    “I guess that’s about it.” I hadn’t pressed him on anything and it was clear I’d never make it as a hard-hitting investigative reporter. We’d covered the subjects superficially, but without anything specific in mind, I was reluctant to take up any more of his time. “Is there anything you want me to tell his daughter?”
    “Convey my condolences. I can understand how devastating this must be.” He leaned back in his chair. “As long as I have you here, I hope you don’t mind if I ask you something.”
    “Sure.”
    “When Terrence left the program, he was asked to turn in any medications in his possession.”
    “So I heard,” I said. At that very moment, I had the self-same vial of pills in my bag. My impulse was to avert my eyes, but I held his gaze, filling my head with innocent thoughts instead of the kind that were actually floating around in there.
    “He’d just refilled a prescription. That’s one way we ensure conformity, insofar as we can do that with patients who aren’t under observation twenty-four hours day. According to the clinic pharmacist, he’d just picked up a week’s worth—fourteen pills. If you have any idea what he might have done with them, we’d love to know.”
    My little lying self kicked in without missing a beat, an impulse predicated on the notion that it’s foolish to give up information that might prove useful at a later date. “No clue,” I said. “Do you know what the medication was?”
    “I made a point of finding out. From a community-health perspective, it’s dangerous—worse than dangerous—it’s potentially fatal to have unidentified chemical compounds circulating among the homeless when so many are drug and alcohol addicted.”
    I said, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but the morning he was found, someone walked off with everything he owned. Some of the items have turned up, but most of his personal belongings are gone. Maybe the pill bottle was in his cart.”
    “I hope somebody had the presence of mind to toss it in the trash,” he said. “Addicts will knock back just about anything if there’s a chance of getting high, and most don’t worry about the hazards. If his medication turns up, would you let me know?”
    “Of course,” I said. I glanced down at my shoulder bag and spotted the parking ticket from the lot outside. I pulled it out. “Could I ask you to validate this?”
    “Certainly. Hang on a second.” He opened his pencil drawer and rooted around for a moment, finally coming up with a small booklet of stamps about the size of those the post office issues. I passed the ticket across the desk. He checked his watch and then tore out three small stamps that he pasted on the back. “These are fifteen minutes each, so you should be amply covered.”
    “Thanks.”
    He handed me the ticket. As I slid it back into my bag, I felt a quick jolt. I’d seen one just like it when I was pulling the crap out of Pete’s glove compartment. I looked sharply at Reed, but the phone rang just then.
    He picked up. “This is Dr. Reed.” He listened for a moment and looked up at me. “Can I call you back on this? I have someone in my office.”
    He listened. “Five minutes,” he said. As he hung up, he shot me an apologetic smile as though embarrassed to have to hurry me out the door.
    I lifted a finger. “You’re the one who called me.”
    “Come again?”
    “June or July. Somebody called me looking for R. T. Dace. I don’t know how my number came to light, but I had a brief conversation with a doctor somebody. I didn’t catch the