His knife, big silver cross, and even beard were blood-stained.

What to do? Where are the damn police?!

The office door swung open with a bang. Three police officers from the hospital security burst in.

“Don’t move! Everyone stay where you are!”

They knocked Francis to the ground instantaneously. One of the cops sat on top of him, putting his hands behind his back and putting on handcuffs. The other cop grabbed his hair and roughly pressed his face to the floor. Francis’ black T-shirt quickly became covered in blood. The cop’s arms and the handcuffs also had bloody stains.

“Doctor, are you alright?” the third cop asked me. He picked up the knife from the floor and took out a small plastic bag from his pocket, opening it to place the knife inside.

“Yes, everything is ok,” I answered, meanwhile attentively inspecting the perfectly round, red indentation from the button on my index finger.

The cops caught Francis under his armpits and raised him onto his feet.

“Doctor, can we take him?”


“Where should we get him? To the ‘Psych ER’?”


“Let`s go, kid.”

Francis jerked a few times; he was obviously uncomfortable in this position, hands behind his back and in handcuffs on top of it, and two cops on both sides squeezing his frail, almost muscle-free, arms.

“Relax, kid! Walk calmly,” commanded one cop, grabbing Francis’s neck from behind and pressing his head forward.