The Madman's Tale

by John Katzenbach

  “And if they intended to go into battle? A special meal, perhaps?”

  “No. Not likely. They were usually hungry, and often, like in Russia, starving. Supplying the army was always a problem.”

  Peter held an unrecognizable morsel of what he’d been told was chicken up in front of his face and wondered whether he could go into battle with this particular casserole as his inspiration.

  “Tell me, Nappy, do you think you’re mad?” he asked abruptly.

  The round man paused, a significant portion of oozing noodles stopped in its path about six inches from his mouth, where it hovered, as he considered the question. After a moment, he set the fork down and sighed a response. “I suppose so, Peter,” he said a little sadly. “Some days more than others.”

  “Tell me a little bit about it,” Peter asked.

  Napoleon shook his head, and the remainder of his usual enthusiasm slipped away. “The medications control the delusion, pretty much. Like today, for example. I know I’m not the emperor. I merely know a lot about the man who was the emperor. And how to run an army. And what happened in 1812. Today, I’m just an ordinary bush-league historian. But tomorrow, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll fake it when they hand me my medication tonight. You know, tuck it under my tongue and spit it out later. There are some pretty effective sleight of hand tricks that just about everyone learns in here. Or maybe the dosage will be off just a little bit. That happens, too, because the nurses have so many pills to hand out, sometimes they don’t pay as much attention as to who gets what as maybe they should. And there you would have it: A really powerful delusion doesn’t need much ground to take root and flower.”

  Peter thought for a moment, then asked, “Do you miss it?”

  “Miss what?”

  “The delusions. When they’re gone. Do they make you feel special when you have them, and ordinary when they’re erased?”

  He smiled. “Yes. Sometimes. But they sometimes hurt, too, and not merely because you can see how terrifying they are for everyone around you. The fixation becomes so great, that it overwhelms you. It’s a little like a rubber band being pulled tighter and tighter within you. You know that eventually it has to break, but every moment that you think it will snap and everything inside you will come loose, it stretches out just a little farther. You should ask C-Bird about that, because I think he understands it better.”

  “I will.” Again, Peter hesitated. As he did, he saw Francis moving gingerly across the room to join them. The young man moved in much the same manner that Peter remembered from days on patrol in Vietnam, unsure whether the very ground he walked upon might be booby-trapped. Francis tacked between arguments and angers, blown a little to the right, and then the left by rage and hallucination, avoiding the shoals of senility or retardation, to finally arrive at the table, where he threw himself into a seat with a small grunt of satisfaction. The dining room was a dangerous passage of troubles, Peter thought.

  Francis poked at the fast-congealing mess on his plate.

  “They must not want us to get fat,” he said.

  “Someone told me that they sprinkle the food with Thorazine,” Napoleon said, leaning forward, whispering conspiratorially. “That way they know they can keep us all calm and under control.”

  Francis glanced over at the two Jell-O-deprived women still screeching at each other. “Well,” he said, “I wouldn’t believe it, because it doesn’t seem to be working all that fantastically.”

  “C-Bird,” Peter asked, gesturing modestly toward the two women, “why do you think they’re arguing?”

  Francis looked up, hesitated, lifted his shoulders, then replied: “Jell-O?”

  Peter smiled, because this was slightly funny. Then he shook his head. “No, I can see that. A bowl of lime green Jell-O. I didn’t realize it was something worth trading blows over. But why Jell-O? Why now?”

  In that second, Francis saw what Peter was really asking. Peter had a way of framing bigger questions within small ones, which was a quality Francis admired, because it displayed, if nothing else, the capacity to think beyond the walls of the Amherst Building. “It’s about having something, Peter,” he said slowly. “It’s about something tangible here where there is so little that we can actually possess. It’s not the Jell-O. It’s about having the Jell-O. A bowl of Jell-O isn’t worth having a fight over. But something that reminds you of who you are, and what you could be, and the world that awaits us, if only we can seize hold of enough little things that will turn us back into humans, well, that’s worth fighting for, isn’t it?”

  Peter paused, considering what Francis had said, and all three of them saw the two women abruptly burst into tears.

  Peter’s eyes lingered on the pair, and Francis thought that every incident like that must hurt the Fireman deep within his core, because he didn’t belong. Francis stole a look over at Napoleon, who shrugged and smiled and happily returned to his mound of food. He belongs, Francis thought. I belong. We all belong, except for Peter, and he must be very afraid, deep inside, that the longer he stays here, the closer he will get to becoming like us. Francis could hear a murmuring of assent deep within him.

  Gulptilil looked askance at the list of names Lucy had thrust across the desk at him. “This seems like a substantial cross section of the population here, Miss Jones. Might I ask what your determining criteria were in selecting these patients from the overall clientele?” He sounded stiff and unhelpful with his question, and, when uttered in his warbling, singsong voice, made all the pretentiousness sound a little ridiculous.

  “Of course,” Lucy replied. “Because I couldn’t think of a determining factor that was psychological in nature, like a defining disease, I used instead prior incidents of violence toward women. All seventy-five names here have done something which can be construed as hostile to the opposite sex. Some more than others, surely, but they all have that one factor in common.” Lucy spoke just as pompously as the medical director did, an acting quality that she had honed in the prosecutor’s office, which often helped her in official situations. There are very few bureaucrats who are not cowed by someone capable of speaking their own language, only better.

  Gulptilil looked back at the list, surveying the rows of names, and Lucy wondered whether the doctor was able to assign a face and a file to each. He behaved that way, but she doubted he had that much interest in the actual intimacies of the hospital population. After a moment or two, he sighed.

  “Of course, your statement can equally be applied to the gentleman already in custody for the murder,” he said. “Nevertheless, Miss Jones, I shall do as you request,” he said. “But I must suggest that this appears to be something of a wild-goose chase.”

  “It’s a place to start, Doctor.”

  “It is also a place to stop,” he replied. “Which, I fear, is what will happen to your inquiries when you seek information from these men. I imagine that you will find these interviews to be frustrating.”

  He smiled, not in a particularly friendly fashion, and added, “Ah, well, Miss Jones. You would like, I imagine, to get these interviews under way promptly? I will speak with Mister Evans, and perhaps the Moses brothers, who can begin transporting the patients to your office. That way, at least, you can begin to fully encounter the obstacles that you are up against here.”

  She knew that Doctor Gulptilil was speaking about the vagaries of mental illness, but what he said could be construed in different ways. She smiled at the medical director and nodded in agreement.

  By the time she returned to Amherst, Big Black and Little Black were waiting for her in the corridor by the first-floor nursing station. Peter and Francis were with them, leaning against the wall like a pair of bored teenagers hanging out on a street corner waiting for trouble, although the manner in which Peter’s eyes swept back and forth down the corridor, watching every movement and assessing each patient that rambled past, contradicted his languid appearance. She did not immediately see Mister Evans, which, she thought, might be a goo
d thing, given what she was about to ask of them. But that was her first question for the two attendants.

  “Where is Evans?”

  Big Black grunted. “He’s on his way over from one of the other buildings. Support staff meeting. Should be here any second. The big doc called over and tells us that we’re supposed to start escorting people in to see you. You got a list.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Suppose,” Little Black said, “they aren’t quite as eager to come see you. What’re we supposed to do then?”

  “Don’t give them that option. But if they get frantic, or start to lose control—well, I can come to them.”

  “And if they still don’t want to talk?”

  “Let’s not anticipate a problem before we know we have one, okay?”

  Big Black rolled his eyes a little, but didn’t say anything, although it was clear to Francis that much of Big Black’s existence at the hospital was about precisely that: anticipating a problem before it arose. His brother let out a slow sigh, and said, “We’ll give it a try. Can’t promise exactly how people will react. Never done anything like this in here before. Maybe there won’t be any trouble.”

  “If they refuse, then they refuse, and we’ll figure something else out,” she said. Then she bent forward slightly and lowered her voice a little. “I have an idea. I wonder if you guys can help me out, and keep it confidential.” She waited as the two brothers immediately eyed each other. Little Black spoke for the two of them.

  “Sounds to me like you’re about to ask a favor that might get us into trouble.”

  Again, Lucy nodded her head. “Not all that much trouble, I hope.”

  Little Black grinned widely, as if he saw a joke in what she said. “It’s always the person doing the asking that thinks whatever it is ain’t that big a deal. But, Miss Jones, we’re still listening. Not saying yes. Not saying no. Still listening.”

  “Instead of you two going to each person and transporting them, I want just one of you to go.”

  “Generally, Security thinks should be two guys with any transfer like this. One walking on either side. Those are the hospital rules.”

  “Well, let me tell you what I’m getting at,” she said, taking a step closer to the men, so that only that small group might hear her, which was probably unnecessary in the hospital, but more a natural response to the meager conspiracy that Lucy had in mind. “I’m only modestly optimistic that these interviews will turn up something, and I’m really about to rely on Francis probably far more than he’s aware,” she said slowly. The others looked over at the young man quickly, who blushed, as if singled out in class by a teacher he had a crush upon. “But as Peter pointed out the other day, what we really have here is a lack of hard evidence. I’d like to try to do something about that.”

  Both Big Black and Little Black were now listening intently. Peter, as well, took a step forward, narrowing the small group further.

  “What I would like,” Lucy continued, “is while I’m talking with these patients, that their living areas get thoroughly searched. Have either of you ever shaken down a bunk and storage area?”

  Little Black nodded. “Of course, Miss Jones. On occasion, that’s a part of this fine job.”

  Lucy stole a quick glance over at Peter, who seemed to be controlling his desire to speak with some difficulty. “And,” she added slowly, “what I’d really like is for Peter to be a part of those searches. Like, in charge.”

  The two attendants looked at each other, before Little Black spoke up. “Peter’s got a No Exit ticket on his jacket, Miss Jones. What that means is he ain’t allowed out of the Amherst Building except on special circumstances. And it would be Doctor Gulptilil or Evans who says what those special circumstances would be. And Evans hasn’t let him outside these doors even once.”

  “Is he supposed to be a flight risk?” she asked, a little like she would at a bail hearing before a judge.

  Little Black shook his head. “Evans put it on the case file. More like a punishment, really, ’cause he’s facing some serious charges back in your part of our fine state. Peter here under a court order to get evaluated, and that No Exit on the jacket, it’s a part of that evaluation, I’m guessing.”

  “Is there a way around it?”

  “A way around everything, Miss Jones, if it’s important enough.”

  Peter had dropped into quiet. Francis saw again that he was anxious to speak, but had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Francis noted that neither Big Black nor his brother had as yet said no to Lucy’s request.

  “Why you think you need Peter to do this, Miss Jones? Why not just my brother or me?” Little Black asked quietly.

  “A couple of reasons,” Lucy said, perhaps a little too rapidly. “One, as you know, Peter was a fine investigator, and knows how and where to look and what to look for and how to treat any evidence, if we can come up with some. And, because he’s been trained in forensic evidence collection, I’m hoping that he will spot something that maybe you or your brother might miss …”

  Little Black pursed his lips together, a small movement that seemed to acknowledge the truth in what Lucy was saying. She took this as encouragement, and continued.“… And another reason—I’m not sure I want to compromise either you or your brother in all this. Say you come up with something in a search. You’re obligated to tell Gulptilil, who will, in turn, then control the evidence. Very likely, it will get lost, or screwed up. Peter finds something, quote and unquote, well, he’s just another crazy guy in this hospital. He can leave it, tell me about it, then we can obtain a legitimate search warrant. Keep in mind, I’m hoping that there’s going to come a time when we’re going to need a policeman to come in and make an arrest. I need to preserve some sort of investigative integrity, whatever that is. You see what I’m driving at, here, gentlemen?”

  Big Black laughed out loud, although there was no joke pending, except for the concept of investigative integrity inside the mental hospital. His brother put his hand to his head. “Man, Miss Jones, I think you’re gonna get us into some heavy duty trouble before all this is finished up.”

  Lucy merely smiled at the two men. A wide smile, that showed her teeth and was accompanied by a glistening, welcoming look in her eyes, that spoke of a conspiracy of both need and elegance. Francis noted this, and thought for the first time in his life how hard it is in life to turn down a request from a beautiful woman, which probably wasn’t fair, but true nevertheless.

  The two attendants were looking at each other. After a second, Little Black shrugged and turned back to Lucy Jones. “Tell you what, Miss Jones. My brother and I, we’ll do what we can. Don’t you let Evans or Gulp-a-pill know ’bout this.” He paused, letting a small silence hover over all of them. “Peter, you come talk to us in private, maybe we work something out. I got an idea …”

  Peter the Fireman nodded his head.

  “What we supposed to be looking for, anyway?” Big Black asked.

  Peter stepped in, to answer this question. “Bloodstained clothes or shoes. That would be the most obvious thing. Then somewhere there’s a knife or some other sort of handmade weapon. Whatever it is, it will have to be sharp as hell because it was used to cut both flesh and bone. And the missing set of keys, because our Angel has a means of getting into locked areas pretty much whenever he seems to have the need, and doors don’t seem to mean all that much to him. Anything else that points to a greater knowledge about the crime poor Lanky is in prison for. Or anything that points at the other crimes that have gotten Lucy’s attention, from the other part of the state. Like newspaper clippings. Or maybe an item of woman’s clothing. I don’t know. But I do know there’s one thing out there that’s still missing and it would be helpful to find,” he said. “Things, actually.”

  “What’s that?” Big Black asked.

  “Four severed fingertips,” Peter said coldly.

  Francis shifted about uncomfortably in Lucy’s small office, trying to avoid the glare that came h
is direction from Mister Evans. There was a heavy silence in the room, as if the heater had been left on at the same time that the outdoor temperature soared, creating a sticky, sickly kind of heat. Francis looked over toward Lucy and saw that she was busy with one of the patient files, flipping through pages with scrawled notations, occasionally taking a note or two of her own on a yellow legal pad at her right hand.

  “He shouldn’t be here, Miss Jones. Despite what assistance you think he will bring, and despite the permission from Doctor Gulptilil, I still think it remains highly inappropriate to involve a patient in this process in any capacity. Certainly any insight that he might have is significantly less educated than any that I or any of the other support staff here in the hospital might incorporate into these proceedings.” Evans managed to sound undeniably pompous, which, Francis thought, wasn’t his usual tenor. Generally, Mister Evil had a sarcastic, irritating tone, that underscored the differences between them. Francis suspected that his pretentious large-word and clinical vocabulary was a tone Evans generally adopted in hospital staff meetings. Making oneself sound important, Francis realized, wasn’t exactly the same thing as being important. The usual chorus of agreement stirred within him.

  Lucy looked up and simply said, “Let’s see how it works. If it creates a problem, we can always change things around, later.” Then she dipped her head back to the file.

  Evans, however, persisted. “And, while he’s in here with us, where is the other one?”

  “Peter?” Francis asked.

  Again, Lucy lifted her head. “I’ve got him doing some of the more menial tasks associated with this inquiry,” she said. “Even though we remain somewhat informal, there’s always some really dull but necessary stuff to do. Given his background, I thought he was extremely suitable.”