“But that can’t be fair,” Francis said.
“Didn’t say something was fair, C-Bird. Didn’t say nothing about things being fair, the one way or the other. Only said that’s maybe some part of that little bit of trouble that’s heading bad, isn’t it?”
Big Black removed his hand and stuck it in his pocket. As he did so, the chain of keys on his belt jangled.
“Mister Moses, those keys—can you go anywhere in here with them?”
He nodded. “In here. And in all the other dormitories, too. Unlock doors to Security. Unlock dormitory doors. Even get into the isolation cells, too. Want to go out the front gate, Francis? These will help show you the way.”
“Who has keys like that?”
“Nursing supervisors. Security. Attendants like me and my brother. Main staff.”
“Do they know where all the sets are, at all times?”
“Supposed to. But like everything around here, what they are supposed to do and what really happens might be different things.”
He laughed. “Now, C-Bird, you starting to ask questions like Miss Jones and Peter, too. He knows how to ask questions. You’re learning.”
Francis smiled in reply to the compliment. “I wonder,” he said, “if all those sets of keys are accounted for at all times.”
Big Black shook his head. “Ain’t quite asking that question right, C-Bird. Try again.”
“Are any keys missing?”
“Yes. That’s the question, isn’t it? Yes. Some keys are missing.”
“Has anyone searched for them?”
“Yes. But maybe search ain’t the right word. People looked in all the real likely places, and then gave up when they didn’t find them.”
“Who lost them?”
“Why” Big Black said with a grin, “that person would be our very good friend, Mister Evans.”
The huge attendant burst out with another laugh, and as he threw his head back, he spotted his smaller brother heading toward them. “Hey,” he called out, “C-Bird is starting to figure things out.”
Francis saw the nurses stationed behind the wire mesh of the station in the middle of the corridor look up, and smile, as if this was something of a joke. Little Black also grinned, as he sauntered up to the two of them. “You know what, Francis?” he said.
“What’s that, Mister Moses?”
“You get the handle on the way this world works,” he spoke, gesturing wildly with his arm to indicate the hospital ward. “You get a good solid grip on all this, and I’ll tell you the truth, figuring out the world outdoors there, right out there past the walls—well, that won’t be so hard for you. If you get the chance.”
“How do I get that chance, Mister Moses?”
“Now, ain’t that the great question, little brother? That’s the great big question gets asked every minute of every day in here. How does a gentleman get that chance. There’s ways, C-Bird. There’s more than one way, at least. But ain’t no simple yes and no rules. Do this. Do that. Get a chance. Nope, don’t work precisely that way. You’ve got to find your own path. You’ll get there, C-Bird. Just got to see it when it shows itself. That’s the problem, ain’t it?”
Francis did not know how to respond, but he thought the older brother undoubtedly wrong. And he didn’t think he had any ability to understand any world whatsoever. A few of his voices rumbled deep within him, and he tried to listen to what they were saying, because he suspected they had an opinion or two. But as he concentrated, he saw that both attendants were watching him, taking note of the way his own face wore whatever was inside of him and for a moment, he felt naked, as if his clothing had been ripped from him. So, instead, he smiled as pleasantly as he could, and walked off down the corridor, his footsteps keeping quick pace with all the doubts drumming about within him.
Lucy sat behind the desk in Mister Evans’s office as he rummaged through one of four file cabinets lined up against one wall. Her eyes were drawn to a photograph on the corner, which was a wedding picture. She saw Evans, his hair a little more closely cropped and combed, wearing a blue pin-striped business suit that still seemed to merely underscore his skinny physique, standing next to a young woman wearing a white gown which only barely concealed a significant pregnancy, and who was wearing a garland of flowers in frizzy brown hair. They were in the middle of a group that ranged in age from very old to very young, and all wore similar smiles, that, on balance, Lucy thought she could accurately describe as forced. In the midst of the wedding party, was a man wearing a priest’s flowing robes, which caught the photographer’s light in their golden brocade. He had his hand on Evans’s shoulder, and, after a slight double take, Lucy recognized a nearly complete resemblance to the psychologist.
“You have a twin?” she asked.
Evans looked up, saw where her eyes were fixed on the photograph, and turned toward her, his arms filled with yellow file folders. “Runs in the family,” he said. “My daughters are twins as well.”
Lucy looked around, but failed to see a photograph. He saw the inquisitive survey and added, “They live with their mother. Suffice it to say we’re going through a bit of a rough spot.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she said, although she didn’t say that that was no explanation for not having their photo on the wall.
He shrugged. He dumped the files on the desk in front of her. They made a thudding sound.
“When you grow up as a twin, you get accustomed to all the jokes. They are always the same, you know. Two peas in a pod. How do ya tell ‘em apart? You guys share the same thoughts and ideas? When one spends all their years knowing that there is a mirror image of oneself asleep in the bunk bed above, it changes one’s understanding of the world. Both for the better, and for the worse, as well, Miss Jones.”
“You were identical twins?” she asked, mostly just for conversation, though a single glance at the picture told her the answer to her question.
Mister Evans hesitated before replying, his gaze narrowing, and a distinct ice slipping into his words. “We were once. No longer.”
She looked at him quizzically.
Evans coughed once, then added: “Why don’t you ask your new friend and detective partner to explain that statement? Because he has that answer a whole lot better than I do. Ask Peter the Fireman, the sort of guy who starts out extinguishing fires, but ends up setting them.”
She did not know how to respond, so instead, she drew the files toward her. Mister Evans took up a seat across from her, leaning back, crossing his legs in a relaxed fashion and watching what she was doing. Lucy did not like the way his glance penetrated the air around her, bulletlike, and she felt uncomfortable with the intensity of his scrutiny. “Would you like to help?” she asked abruptly. “What I have in mind is not all that difficult. Initially, I’d simply like to eliminate those men who were here in the hospital when one or another of these three additional killings took place. In other words, if they were here—”
He interrupted her. “Then they couldn’t be out there. That should be an easy matter of comparing dates.”
“Right,” she said.
“Except there are some elements that make it a little harder.”
She paused, then asked, “What sort of elements?”
Evans rubbed his chin, before answering. “There are a percentage of patients who have been voluntarily committed to the hospital. They can be signed in and out, on a weekend, for example, by responsible family members. In fact, it is encouraged. So, it is conceivable that someone whose records seem to show that they are a full-time resident here, actually has spent some time outside the walls. Under supervision, of course. Or, at least, allegedly under supervision. Now, that would not be the case for people ordered here by a court. Nor would it be the case for patients that after they arrived, the staff has deemed to be a danger to themselves, or perhaps someone else. If an act of violence got you here, then you wouldn’t be released, even for a visit home. Unless, of course, a staff member felt it was an accepta
ble part of one’s therapeutic approach. But this would also depend upon what medications the patient was currently prescribed. Someone can be sent home for overnight with a pill. But not needing an injection. See?”
“I think so.”
“And,” Evans continued, picking up some steam as he spoke, “we have hearings. We are required to periodically present cases in a quasijudicial proceeding, in effect to justify why someone should be kept here, or, in some cases, released. A public defender comes up from Springfield, and we have a patient advocate, who sits on a panel with Doctor Gulptilil and a guy from the state division of Mental Health Services. A little like a parole board type hearing. Those happen from time to time, as well, and they have an erratic track record.”
“How do you mean erratic?”
“People get released because they’ve been stabilized, and then they’re back here in a couple of months after they decompensate. There is an element to treating mental illness which makes it seem very much like a revolving door. Or a treadmill.”
“But the patients you have here in the Amherst Building …”
“I don’t know whether we have any current patients who have the capacity—both social and mental—to be granted a furlough. Maybe a couple, at best. I don’t know that we have any scheduled for hearings. I’d have to check. Furthermore, I don’t have a clue about the other buildings. You will have to find my counterparts in each one and check with them.”
“I think we can eliminate the other buildings,” Lucy said briskly. “After all, the killing of Short Blond took place here, and I suspect the killer is likely here.”
Mister Evans smiled unpleasantly, as if he saw a joke in what she said that wasn’t obvious to her. “Why would you assume that?”
She started to respond, but stopped. “I merely thought—,” she started, but he cut her off.
“If this mythical fellow is as clever as you think, then I shouldn’t imagine that traveling between buildings late at night was a problem he couldn’t overcome.”
“But there is Security patrolling the grounds. Wouldn’t they spot anyone moving between buildings?”
“We are, alas, like so many state agencies, understaffed. And Security travels set patterns at regular times, which wouldn’t be all that difficult to elude, if one had that inclination. And there are other ways of traveling about unseen.”
Lucy hesitated again, realizing there was a question there that she should ask, and into the momentary pause, Mr. Evans added his opinion: “Lanky,” he said, with a small, almost nonchalant wave. “Lanky had motive and opportunity and desire and ended up with the nurse’s blood all over him. I fail to see why it is that you want to look so much harder for someone else. I agree that Lanky is, in many regards, a likable fellow. But he was also a paranoid schizophrenic and had a history of violent acts. Especially toward women, whom he often saw as minions of Satan. And, in the days leading up to the crime, his medications had been shown to be inadequate. If you were to review his medical records, which the police took with him, you would see an entry from me suggesting that he might have found a way to conceal that he wasn’t getting the proper dosages at the daily distribution. In fact, I had ordered that he be started on intravenous injections in upcoming days, because I felt that oral dosages weren’t doing the job.”
Again, Lucy did not reply. She wanted to tell Mr. Evans that the mutilation of the nurse’s hand alone, in her mind at least, cleared Lanky. But she did not share that observation.
Evans pushed the files toward her. “Still,” he said, “if you examine these—and the thousand others in the other buildings—you can eliminate some people. I think I would deemphasize times and dates and concentrate more time on diagnosis. I’d rule out the mentally retarded. And the catatonics who don’t respond to either medication or electric shock treatments, because they just don’t seem to have the physical capacity to do what you think they did. And the other personality disorders that contraindicate what you’re looking for. I’m happy to help by answering any questions you might have. But the hard part—well, that’s for you.”
Then he leaned back and watched her, as she drew forward the first dossier, flipped open the jacket, and began to inspect it.
Francis leaned up against the wall outside Mister Evil’s office, unsure what else to do. It wasn’t long before he saw Peter the Fireman sauntering down the corridor, heading to join him. Peter slumped himself up against the wall, and stared toward the door blocking them from where Lucy was poring over patient records. He exhaled slowly, making a whistling sound.
“Did you speak with Napoleon?”
“He wanted to play chess. So I did play a game and he kicked my butt. Still, it’s a good game for an investigator to learn.”
“Why is that?”
“Because there are infinite variations on a winning strategy, yet one is still restricted in the moves one can make by the highly specific limitations of each piece on the board. A knight can do this …” He made a forward and sideways gesture with his hand. “While a bishop can go like so …” He changed to a diagonal slashing motion. “Do you play, C-Bird?”
Francis shook his head.
“You should learn.”
As they spoke, a heavyset, thickly built man who lived in the third floor dormitory lurched to a halt across from them. He wore a look that Francis had come to recognize among many of the retarded people in the hospital. It combined a blankness and an inquisitiveness at the same time, as if the man wanted an answer to something, but knew he could not understand it, which created a state of near constant frustration. There were a number of men in Amherst, and throughout Western State Hospital, like this man, and day in, day out, they frightened Francis as much as any one, because they were on balance, so benign, and yet, capable of sudden, inexplicable aggressiveness. Francis had learned quickly to steer clear of the retarded men. When Francis looked over at him, he opened his eyes wide, and seemed to snarl, as if angry that so much in the world was so far beyond his reach. He made a small gurgling sound, and continued to stare at Peter and Francis intently.
Peter returned the gaze, with an equal ferocity. “What are you looking at?” he asked.
The man simply gurgled a little louder.
“What do you want?” Peter demanded. He peeled himself from the wall, tensing.
The retarded man emitted a long, grunting sound, like a wild animal squaring off against a rival. He took a step forward, hunching his shoulders. His face contorted, and it seemed to Francis that the limits of the man’s imagination made him more terrifying, because all that he possessed, within his meager resources, was rage. And there was no way of determining where it came from. It just erupted, at that moment, in that spot. The retarded man flexed his hands into fists and then swung wildly in the air between them, as if he was punching a vision.
Peter took another step forward, then stopped. “Don’t do it, buddy,” he said.
The man seemed to gather himself for a charge.
Peter repeated, “It’s not worth it.” But as he spoke, he braced himself.
The retarded man took a single additional step toward them, then halted. Still grunting with an internal fury that seemed massive, he suddenly took his fist and slammed it against the side of his own head. The punch resounded down the corridor. Then he followed this, with a second blow, and a third, each one echoing loudly. A small trickle of blood appeared by his ear.
Neither Peter nor Francis moved.
The man let out a cry. It had some of the pitch of victory, some of the tone of anguish. It was hard for Francis to tell whether it was a challenge or a signal.
And, as it resounded down the hall, the man seemed to stop. He let out a sigh, and straightened up. He looked over at Francis and Peter and shook his head, as if clearing something from his vision. His eyebrows knit together abruptly, quizzically, as if some great question had penetrated within him, and in the same revelation, he’d seen the answer. Then he half snarled, half smiled, and abruptly lurc
hed off down the hallway, mumbling to himself.
Francis and Peter watched him move unsteadily away.
“What was that about?” Francis asked, a little shakily.
Peter shook his head. “That’s just it,” he replied softly. “In here, you just don’t know, do you? You just can’t tell what has made someone burst like that. Or not. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, C-Bird. This is the strangest damn place I hope either of us ever has the misfortune to land.”
The two men leaned back up against the wall. Peter seemed stricken by the attack that hadn’t happened, as if it had said something to him. “You know, C-Bird, when I was in Vietnam, I thought that was pretty weird. Strange things were likely to happen all the damn time. Strange and deadly things. But, at least, they had some rhyme and reason to them. I mean, after all, we were there to kill them, and they were there to kill us. Made some perverse logic. And after I came home, and joined the department, sometimes, in a fire, you know things can get pretty dicey. Walls tumbling. Floors giving way. Heat and smoke everywhere. But still, there’s some cosmic sense of order to it all. Fire burns in defined patterns, accelerated by certain stuffs, and, when you know what you’re doing, you can usually take the right precautions. But this place is something else. It’s like everything is on fire all the time. It’s like everything is hidden. And booby-trapped.”
“Would you have fought him?”
“Would I have had a choice?”
He looked around at the flow of patients moving throughout the building.
“How does anyone survive in here?” he asked.
Francis didn’t have an answer. “I don’t know that we’re really supposed to,” he whispered.
Peter nodded, his wry smile suddenly back in place. “That, my young and crazy friend, might be the most dead-on accurate thing you’ve ever said.”
chapter 13
The Madman's Tale Page 21