The Madman's Tale

by John Katzenbach

  “I told you,” I said carefully, not raising my voice, but also not opening the door, “I’m fine. I’m just busy.”

  “Busy with what?” Megan asked.

  “Just busy with my own project,” I said. I bit down on my lip. That wouldn’t work, I thought to myself. Not for an instant. She would just become more insistent because I no doubt pricked her curiosity.

  “Project? What sort of project? Did your social worker tell you you could do a project? Francis, open up right now! We drove all the way over here because we’re worried about you, and if you don’t open up …”

  She didn’t need to finish her threat. I wasn’t sure what she would do, but I suspected that whatever it was, it would be worse than opening up. I cracked the door open approximately six inches, and positioned myself in the opening to block them from entering, keeping my hand on the door, ready to slam it shut.

  “See? Here I am, in the flesh. None the worse for wear. Just exactly like I was yesterday, the same as I’ll be tomorrow.”

  The two ladies inspected me carefully. I wished that I had cleaned myself up, made myself a little more presentable before heading to the door. My unshaved cheeks, scraggly, unwashed hair and nicotine-stained fingernails probably gave off the wrong impression. I tried to tuck in my shirt a little, but realized I was only bringing attention to how slovenly I must have appeared. Colleen gasped a bit when she saw me. A bad sign, that. Meanwhile, Megan tried to peer past me, and I guessed that she saw the writing on the living room walls. She started to open her mouth, then stopped, considered what she intended to say, then started again.

  “Are you taking your medications?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you taking all your medications?” She emphasized each word carefully, as if she was speaking with a particularly slow child.

  “Yes.” She was the sort of woman that it was easy to lie to. I didn’t even feel all that guilty.

  “I’m not sure I believe you, Francis.”

  “Believe what you like.”

  Bad answer. I kicked myself inwardly.

  “Are you hearing voices again?”

  “No. Not in the slightest. Whatever gave you that crazy idea?”

  “Are you getting anything to eat? Are you sleeping?” This was Colleen speaking. A little less intense, but, on the other hand, a little more probing.

  “Three squares per day and a good eight hours per night. In fact, Mrs. Santiago fixed me a nice plate of chicken and rice the other day.” I spoke briskly.

  “What are you doing in there?” Megan demanded to know.

  “Just taking inventory of my life. Nothing special.”

  She shook her head. She didn’t believe this, and kept craning her head forward.

  “Why won’t you let us in?” Colleen asked.

  “I have a need for my privacy.”

  “You’re hearing voices again,” Megan said decisively. “I can just tell.”

  I hesitated, then asked, “How? Can you hear them, as well?”

  This, of course, angered her even more.

  “You need to let us in immediately!”

  I shook my head. “I want to be left alone,” I replied. Colleen looked on the verge of tears. “I just want you to leave me alone. Why are you here, anyway?”

  “We told you. We’re worried about you,” Colleen said.

  “Why? Did someone tell you to worry about me?”

  The two sisters stole a look between them and then came back to me. “No,” Megan said, trying to modulate the insistence of her tone. “We just haven’t heard from you in so long …”

  I smiled at them. It was nice that now we were all lying.

  “I’ve been busy. If you’d like to make an appointment, well, have your people call my secretary, and I’ll try to work you in before Labor Day.”

  They didn’t even laugh at my joke. I started to close the door, but Megan stepped forward and placed her hand on it, halting its progress. “What are those words I see?” she demanded, pointing. “What are you writing?”

  “That would be my business, not yours,” I said.

  “Are you writing about mother and father? About us? That wouldn’t be fair!”

  I was a little astonished. My instant diagnosis was that she was more paranoid than I am. “What is it,” I said slowly, “that makes you think you are interesting enough to write about?”

  And then I closed the door, probably a little too hard, because the slamming sound resonated through the little apartment building like a gunshot.

  They knocked again, but I ignored it. When I stepped away, I could hear a widespread murmuring of familiar voices within me congratulating me on what I’d done. They always liked my small displays of defiance and independence. But they were swiftly followed by a distant, echoing sound of mocking laughter, that rose in pitch and erased the familiar sounds. It was a little like a crow’s cry, carried on a strong wind, passing invisibly over my head. I shuddered, and shrank down a little, almost as if I could duck beneath a sound.

  I knew who it was. “You can laugh!” I shouted out at the Angel. “But who else knows what happened?”

  Francis took a seat across from Lucy’s desk, while Peter paced around in the back of the small office. “So,” the Fireman said with a small amount of impatience, “Miss Prosecutor, what’s the drill?”

  Lucy gestured toward some case files. “I think it is time to start bringing in some patients to talk. Those who have some record of violence.”

  Peter nodded, but seemed a little dismayed. “Surely when you started reading case files you realized that covers just about everybody in here, except the senile and the retarded, and they just might have some violent entries, as well. We need to find some disqualifying characteristics, I think, Miss Jones …,” he started, but she held up her hand.

  “Peter, from now on just call me Lucy,” she said. “And that way I won’t have to call you by your last name—because I know from your file that your identity is supposed to be if not exactly hidden, at least, well, de-emphasized, correct? Because of your notoriety in some rather significant parts of the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts. And, I know, as well, that upon arrival here, you made a point of telling Gulptilil that you no longer had a name, an act of disassociation which he interpreted as having some wish to no longer bring some sort of unspecified shame on your large family.”

  Peter stopped pacing, and for an instant Francis thought he was going to get angry. One of his voices shouted out Pay attention! and he kept his own mouth shut and watched the two of them carefully. Lucy wore a grin, as if she knew she had discomfited Peter, and he had the look of someone trying to come up with the right riposte. After a moment or two, he leaned back against the wall, and smiled, a look that wasn’t wholly dissimilar to that worn by Lucy.

  “Okay, Lucy,” he said slowly. “First names are fine. But tell me this, if you will. Don’t you think interviewing any patient with a violent past, or even a violent act or two since he arrived here, will ultimately be fruitless? More critically, just how much time do you have, Lucy? How long do you think you can take, coming up with an answer here?”

  Lucy’s grin fled abruptly. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because I wonder if your boss back in Boston is fully aware of what you’re up to out here.”

  Silence filled the small room. Francis was alert to every movement from his companions: the look in the eyes, and behind them, the positioning of arms and shoulders that might indicate subtle differences from the words spoken.

  “Why wouldn’t you think that I have the full cooperation of my office?”

  Peter simply asked, “Do you?”

  Francis saw that Lucy was about to answer one way, then another, and finally a third, before she replied.

  “I do and I don’t,” she finally said slowly.

  “That sounds to me like two different explanations.”

  She nodded.

  “My presence here is not yet part of an off
icial case file. I believe one should be opened. Others are undecided. Or more accurately, unsure of our jurisdiction. So when I wanted to head out here, just as soon as I heard about Short Blond’s killing, there was some contentious debate in my office. The upshot was that I was permitted to go, but not on an official basis, exactly.”

  “I’m guessing that those circumstances weren’t precisely outlined to Gulptilil.”

  “You’d be right about that, Peter.”

  He moved about the back of the room again, as if by motion he could add momentum to his thoughts. “How much time do you need before the hospital administration gets fed up—or your office wants you back?”

  “Not long.”

  Again, Peter seemed to hesitate, sorting through his observations. Francis thought that Peter saw facts and details in much the same way that a mountain guide did: seeing obstacles as opportunities, measuring achievement sometimes in single steps. “So,” Peter said, as if he was suddenly speaking to himself, “Lucy is here, persuaded that a criminal is here, as well, and determined to find him. Because she has a … special interest. Right?”

  Lucy nodded. “Right.” Any amusement had fled her face. “Your days at Western State certainly haven’t affected your investigative abilities.”

  He shook his head. “Oh, I think they have,” he said. He didn’t say whether this was for the better or for the worse. “And what might that special interest be?”

  After a long pause, Lucy bent her head lower. “Peter, I don’t think we know each other quite well enough. But let me say this: The individual who committed the other three killings managed to get my personal attention by taunting my office.”

  “Taunting?”

  “Yes. In the you-can’t-catch-me vein.”

  “You don’t want to be more specific?”

  “Not right now. These are details that we would hope to use in an eventual prosecution. So—”

  Peter interrupted her. “You don’t want to share specifics with a couple of crazy guys.”

  She took a deep breath. “Not any more than you would like to be specific if I asked about how you spread gasoline through that church. And why.”

  Both were silent for a moment, again. Then Peter turned to Francis, and said, “C-Bird, what links all these crimes together? Why these killings?”

  Francis realized he was being given a test, and he answered quickly. “The victims’ appearance, for one thing. Age and isolation; they all were in the habit of traveling in a regular fashion by themselves. They were young and they had short hair and slender physiques. They were found in some location, exposed to elements, that was other than where they were killed, which complicates matters for the police. You told me that. And in different jurisdictions, as well, which is another problem. You told me that, too. And they were all mutilated in the same way, progressively. The missing fingers, just like Short Blond.”

  Francis took a deep breath. “Am I right?”

  Lucy Jones nodded, and Peter the Fireman smiled. “Dead-on,” he said. “We need to be alert, Lucy, because young C-Bird here has a far better memory for detail and observation than anyone gives him credit for.” Then he stopped, seeming to think for a moment. Once again, he started to say one thing, then appeared to change direction at the last moment. “All right, Lucy. You should keep some information that might help us to yourself. For the time being. What’s the drill, then?”

  “We have to find a way to find this man,” she said stiffly, but slightly relieved, as if she understood, in that second that Peter meant to ask another question or two that would have turned the conversation in a different direction. Francis couldn’t tell if there was gratitude in what she said, but he saw that his two companions were staring tightly at each other, speaking without saying words, as if they both understood something that had slid past Francis in that moment. Francis thought that might be true, but he did observe something else: Peter and Lucy had established some credentials that seemed to him to place both of them on the same plane of existence. Peter was a little less the mental patient, and Lucy a little less the prosecutor, and what they both suddenly were was something more akin to partners.

  “The problem is,” Peter said carefully, “I believe he has already found us.”

  chapter 16

  If Lucy was surprised by what Peter said, she didn’t immediately display it.

  “What do you mean, exactly?” she asked.

  “I’m guessing that the Angel already knows that you are here and, presumably, the why of your presence, as well. I think there aren’t quite as many secrets around here as one might like. More accurately, there’s a different definition of what constitutes a secret. So I suspect he’s fully aware that you’re here hunting him, despite Gulptilil and Evans’s promises of confidentiality. How long do you suppose those promises lasted? A day? Maybe two? I would wager that just about everyone here who can know, does know. And I would suspect our friend the Angel is alert to the idea that somehow C-Bird and I are helping you.”

  “You reach these conclusions precisely how?” Lucy asked slowly. There was a dry and cautious suspiciousness in her voice that Francis noted, but that Peter seemed to ignore.

  “Well, it’s mostly supposition, of course,” Peter said. “But one thing leads to another …”

  “Well,” Lucy said, “What’s the first one thing?”

  Peter rapidly filled her in on the vision that he’d observed through the window the previous night. As he described what he’d seen, and how quickly he’d moved to the doorway in an effort to catch a better look, he seemed to watch Lucy equally closely, as if to assess her response with some precision. He finished by saying, “And so, if he knows about us, enough to want to see us, then he knows about you. Hard to tell, but … well, there you have it.” He shrugged slightly, but his eyes wore conviction that contradicted his body language.

  “What time last night did this happen?” Lucy asked.

  “Late. Well after midnight.”

  Peter observed her hesitation. “There’s some detail you would like to share?”

  Again, Lucy hesitated. Then she said, “I believe I, too, was visited last night.”

  Peter seemed to rock back, slightly alarmed. “How so?”

  Lucy took a breath, then described going back to the nurse-trainees’ dormitory and finding her door unlocked, then locked upon her return. Although she was unable to say who, or why, and while she remained convinced that something had been taken, she was unable to say what. Everything seemed to be in place and intact. She had taken the time to inventory her small collection of possessions and could not find anything missing.

  “So,” Lucy said briskly, “as far as I can tell it’s all there. Still, I can’t shake the sensation that something is gone.”

  Peter nodded. “Perhaps you should double-check. Something obvious would be an article of clothing. Something a little more subtle would be”—he seemed to think hard for a moment—“some hair from your brush. Or perhaps he took a swipe of your lipstick and ran it down his chest. Or sprayed some perfume on the back of his hand. Something like that.”

  Lucy seemed slightly taken aback by that suggestion, and she shifted about in her seat as if it was a little hot, but before she replied, Francis shook his head back and forth vigorously. Peter turned to him, and asked, “What is it, C-Bird?”

  Francis stuttered slightly, as he spoke. “I don’t think you’re quite right, Peter,” he said, speaking quietly. “He doesn’t need to take anything. Not clothes or a toothbrush or hair or underwear or perfume or anything that Lucy brought with her, because he’s already taken something far bigger, and much more important. She just hasn’t seen it quite yet. Maybe because she doesn’t want to see it.”

  Peter smiled. “And what would that be, Francis?” he asked slowly, his voice a little low, but filled with an odd pleasure.

  Francis’s voice quavered slightly as he responded. “He took her privacy.”

  The three of them were quiet for a momen
t, as Francis’s words filled each of them. “And then something else,” he added cautiously.

  “What’s that?” Lucy demanded. Her face had reddened slightly, and she’d started to tap the end of a pencil against the surface of the desk.

  “Maybe your safety, too,” Francis said.

  The weight of silence grew in the small room. Francis felt as if he’d overstepped some boundary with what he had said. Peter and Lucy were both professionals at the process of investigation, and he wasn’t, and he was surprised that he’d even had the bravery to say anything, especially something quite as provocative as what he’d suggested. One of his more insistent voices shouted from deep within him Be quiet! Keep your mouth shut! Don’t volunteer! Stay hidden! Stay safe! He was unsure whether to listen to this voice or not. After a moment, Francis shook his head and said, “Maybe I’m wrong about this. It just came into my head all of a sudden, and I didn’t really think it through …”

  Lucy held up her hand. “I think it’s a most pertinent observation, C-Bird,” Lucy said, in the slightly academic way that she sometimes adopted. “And one that I should keep in mind. But what about the second visit of the night, over to the window looking in on you and Peter? What do you make of that moment?”

  Francis stole a quick sideways glance at Peter, who nodded and made a small encouraging gesture. “He could see us anytime, Francis. In the dayroom or at a meal, or even coming and going to a group session. Hell, we’re always hanging out in the corridors. He could get a good look at us then. In fact, he probably has. We’re just not aware of it. Why risk moving about at night?”

  “He probably has watched us during the daytime, Peter, you’re right about that,” Francis said slowly. “But it doesn’t mean the same thing to him.”

  “How so?”

  “Because during the day, he’s just another patient.”

  “Yes? Sure. But …”

  “But at night, he can become himself.”

  Peter spoke first, his voice filled with a kind of admiration. “So,” he said with a little laugh, “it turns out that just as I suspected, C-Bird sees.”