Say Unto Me This Proverb

It was heart-breaking to witness, the deconstruction of a man. Even one as bad as this man was, who had sinned more than most people would in a dozen lifetimes. Even though the jury had deemed it appropriate and even though, outside the facility, crowds were clamouring for his blood. It was still a terrible thing, to see a human being on that table, with his skull opened and his brain hanging out, as the doctor stimulated first this nerve centre and then that one. The drug was in full swing, making the man relive each crime with painful, hyper-real clarity. The scientist - for all he liked to be called doctor, she knew that his true profession was very different - activated the man's senses and nerves and pain centres. He saw each crime through his own eyes of course, but the sensations were mapped directly from his victim's brains.

Classical music floated around the room as the operation continued, because he fancied himself a conductor, or some kind of artist.
Art! It was torture. For the criminal on the table, yes, but also for the nurse who must watch it all, ready at any moment to assist. For the nurse who was carrying a secret beneath her dull eyes, a secret that was hot and heavy in her pocket.
"Have you no compassion?" She asked in a dead whisper. He glanced at her briefly, without comprehension.
"Of course."
"For the victims," she supplied, "What about your victims?"

"I am not a criminal," he replied with absolute conviction. "I'm only doing my job."
He still had not stopped working. The criminal's mouth gaped in a silent scream. His eyes writhed - it was all the movement he had left. They had disabled everything else so that he could not possibly escape.
"You are a sinner also," she said softly, dangerously. Her hand closed around the grip of the hypodermic needle as she walked over to his side. He still was not bothered, he did not even flinch as she put a hand on his arm, and as the needle sank into his neck he only blinked. He slid to the ground silently, staring up at her in mute surprise.

"He's down," she announced, speaking to the surveillance camera in the corner of the ceiling. Soft thuds from outside the room told her that her colleaques were there - they burst into the room, drawing in their wake the hiss of the airlock.
"Surgical containment?" The leader asked briskly, helping to haul the paralyzed scientist onto the spare table.
"Within acceptable limits," the nurse replied, checking the display by the door.

"Physician," he muttered, as the bone-saw buzzed, and the scientist's eyes screamed. "Heal thyself."