The Last Good Man

by A. J. Kazinsky

  CENTRAL ARCHIVES.

  The sign and the arrow gave him a little boost of energy. He continued down the hall, rounded the corner, and found himself in front of a door. It didn’t say ARCHIVES, but it was the only door that the arrow could be pointing to. The door was locked. Of course. What now? Could he kick it open? That might have been possible if he were in top physical condition. But not at the moment. Besides, it would make too much noise. What about the workshop?

  Niels’s legs responded before his brain did; he was already on his way back down the hall. The door was still open. He took his chances and switched on the light. Posters of nude girls hung on the walls. An FCK soccer scarf was draped over a chair. Niels opened a drawer and took out a big screwdriver. A hammer hung from two nails on the wall. Someone had even drawn the outline in ink around it, which reminded Niels of a murder scene and the neat lines that the crime techs often drew on the ground around the victim.

  Niels managed to wedge the tip of the screwdriver into the small crack between the door and the frame, just above the lock. Then he gave it a hard whack with the hammer. Even after the first try, he could tell it wouldn’t take long to get the door open. The screwdriver was now lodged a bit deeper in the crack. After ten more tries, the metal lock released. Niels had to stop and collect himself. He took a deep breath, trying to focus.

  Then he stepped inside the Central Archives of the National Hospital.

  Fifteen kilometers of patient records. Niels remembered the nurse telling him that.

  How many files would there be? Hundreds of thousands? Millions? For men, women, and children of all ages. Everyone who had ever been treated at the National Hospital over the past seventy years would be listed in these files.

  There was a faint scent of ammonia. Niels stood still and listened. A low, constant hum came from electrical installations and various pipes, the type of sound that was noticed only when it stopped. He switched on the light. He held his breath as he looked with dismay at the seemingly endless rows of file cabinets, catalog systems, and shelves that stretched farther than the eye could see. The nurse had said the archives were a complicated system that very few people would understand. Niels believed her. When the archivist—wasn’t Bjarne his name?—decided to retire, it would probably be wise to hire his successor well in advance so there would be plenty of time for training.

  Niels heard a sound that made him turn off the light.

  Voices. Maybe someone had noticed that the door was open. Maybe they’d seen the light on and wondered why anyone would be in the archives in the middle of the night. Or had he merely imagined the sounds? Voices produced by the growing paranoia that was starting to take over his mind. Niels decided to take his chances and continue on. Fumbling his way forward, he walked down the aisles of shelves and file cabinets. He wasn’t positive, but he had the feeling he’d entered through the back door. Maybe it would be easier to get an overview of the place if he started at the other end. When he reached the door on the opposite side, he found a table. A worn-out old metal table with rusty legs and cluttered with coffee cups, half-empty water glasses, a box of throat lozenges. Niels looked around. It had to be possible to form some sort of overview.

  His gaze fell on a number of leather-bound books standing side by side on the bottom shelf of a bookcase. They continued on to other shelves. Niels pulled one out: Admittance Records. He was holding the one for October to November 1971. That wasn’t what he needed. 1966. 1965. He went over to the other side of the aisle. 1952. 1951. The 1940s. Niels felt his heart beating faster. 1946. 1945. 1944. Finally: 1943. There were several books for that year. He leafed through one of them. The pages were as thin as rice paper and kept sticking together; it must have been years since the books had been opened. He looked under “W” for “Worning” but found nothing. Why? Weren’t the patients listed in alphabetical order? Then he saw it: The names were alphabetical, but the list started over each month. This book contained patient names only for the months of January, February, and March 1943. He put the book back and took out the next one. April, May, June 1943. There were two patients named Worning. Julia and Frank but no Thorkild. He tried another book. A couple of pages had come loose. July, August, September. None in July or August. But in the admittance records for December 1943, at the very bottom of the page, it said Thorkild Worning. Niels found a ballpoint pen in a drawer. On top of the bandage on his hand covering the incision from the IV, he wrote what he saw in the book: Section H, file no. 6,458. Then he went back to the aisles of shelves.

  What next? Only now did he notice the tiny handwritten labels on the bookcases. Letters of the alphabet: A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H. Niels looked at the bookshelf in front of him. It stood so close to the others that it would be impossible for him to squeeze between them. Then Niels caught sight of a handle sticking out from the shelves. He grabbed it and pulled. The bookcase slid to the side, and Niels stepped in between. He saw boxes holding small index cards, again labeled by year. There were several boxes for each year. 1940, 1941, 1942, 1943. Niels pulled out one of the boxes for 1943. January, February, March. The next box. September, October, November. And finally: December. Niels ran his fingers over the tops of the index cards. Yellow pieces of paper. Rosenhøj, Roslund, Sørensen, Taft, Torning, Ulriksen. There it was! Thorkild Worning. Niels took out the card and stared at it. Thorkild Worning, admitted on December 17, 1943. Dermatological patient. Medical record number 49,452. Niels stared at the number. 49,452. He stuck the card in his pocket and stepped back out into the aisle. The shelves on the other side contained the patients’ records: 26,000 to 32,000. He walked down the long row: 35,000 to 39,000. He was so stressed he was thinking about cigarettes. 48,000 to 51,000. He stopped. This was it. He pulled on the handle, and the bookshelves slid away from each other. He paused and took a deep breath, sensing that his body was wound up tight. He had a bad chemical taste in his mouth. He cast a quick glance at the card he was holding, even though that wasn’t really necessary. He had memorized the number: 49,452. The medical record belonging to Thorkild Worning.

  Niels quickly found the right place. Descriptions of the patients’ medical conditions and types of treatment. Some took up half a page, while others were practically a novella. 49,452. “Thorkild Worning,” it said at the top of the page. Admitted on December 17, 1943. There were two photographs, both black and white. One of them was the same picture that he’d seen in the book. The photo of Thorkild Worning’s back. With the same mark as on all the others who had died. Just showing a different number. Thirty-six. Like on Niels’s back. The other picture showed the patient’s face. At first glance, there was something remarkably ordinary about Thorkild Worning. He looked like a man who might be found behind a bank teller’s window in 1943. Dark hair, slicked back and with an impeccable part; not a strand out of place. A narrow, well-proportioned face. Round steel-rimmed glasses. But there was something about his eyes. Something manic, almost demonic about the man’s expression. The text under the photographs was disappointingly brief, written in a cold, clinical style:

  Admitted 12-17-1943

  Clinical findings:

  The patient has today been given a preliminary examination. Complained of bad pain in his back. He was offered relief in the form of cool compresses, but without effect. The patient has significant swelling on his back. He seems hostile and detached. The patient says the mark appeared of its own accord, and the pain is increasing. The patient described the pain as a “searing, corrosive sensation.” And later as “the feeling that my skin is burning from the inside.” He stated that the pain is active not only in his skin but inside his back as well. “In my blood,” as the patient said. The patient was treated with aspirin without the desired effect. The patient appears to be extremely unbalanced and takes a mocking tone with the doctors. An examination of the patient’s back indicated a form of severe eczema, erosion, or possibly an unknown state of inflammation. Testing for metal allergy at Finsen’s dermatology clinic is recommended. No pus w
as found seeping from his back, though the skin is red and swollen. His skin has taken on a distinct pattern. The patient’s aggressive behavior is increasing. He is delirious and producing bloody vomit.

  Patient’s occupation and marital status:

  Telegraphist. Married his present wife in 1933. Resides in a one-bedroom apartment on Rahbæks Allé.

  Tobacco and alcohol consumption:

  Moderate.

  Other organs:

  No specific complaints except for some arthritis in one shoulder. Not thought to be related.

  Psychological evaluation:

  12-23-43: Condition presumed to be a result of mental imbalance. The patient was moved to the psychiatric department of the National Hospital on the morning of December 23.

  Dr. W. F. Pitzelberger

  Niels reread the medical report several times before he stuck it in his pocket. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but he’d been hoping for more. He stepped back out into the aisle, trying to shake off his disappointment and convince himself that this was a necessary intermediate step. It was in the psychiatric department that he would find the answer to . . . what? Wasn’t this exactly what Hannah had tried to tell him? That science had established long ago that human ignorance was monumental? And that every time an advance was made, it merely revealed more and larger layers of ignorance? Finally, Niels asked himself: How did Worning survive?

  Like every police officer in Copenhagen, Niels was familiar with the National Hospital’s psychiatric department, which was located kitty-corner from the hospital. It was there that the police delivered the crazies—those people who couldn’t handle prison. There were plenty of repeat offenders. Too many. It was a frequent topic of discussion at police headquarters: The number of beds in the psychiatric wards was constantly being cut. If the politicians only knew how often psychiatric patients whose treatment wasn’t adequately financed became part of the crime statistics, they might have second thoughts about the budget cuts.

  Niels left the archives, but he had to leave the door standing open.

  Voices were approaching. From the elevator. It was bound to happen sooner or later; of course they would be looking for him.

  “There he is!” someone shouted behind him.

  Niels turned the corner into another corridor, then another corner, and entered a narrower hallway that was almost completely dark. Were they still after him? He paused to listen.

  He heard a lot of well-intentioned words spoken in a harsh voice. “Hey, you! Hey, pal. Patients aren’t allowed down here.”

  Niels didn’t stop. Another hallway. His foot struck something, and he almost fell. But he stayed on his feet and kept going. More than two people were after him; that much he could hear. He didn’t turn around; that would be a waste of precious energy. But it wouldn’t be long before they caught up with him.

  Niels found himself inside the elevator. He must have been going in a circle.

  An orderly reached out and grabbed him. Niels couldn’t see his face, but the man was wearing a lab coat, and he seemed determined to keep a firm grip on Niels’s arm. Niels thought the man might break his wrist. Other people were standing behind him. What are they waiting for? thought Niels.

  “Time to go back to bed, pal.”

  The orderly attempted to pull him out of the elevator. Niels used his anger to call up his last vestiges of strength. He spun around and slammed his knee into the man’s groin. The orderly swore as he loosened his grip. Only for a moment, but enough for Niels to shove him out of the elevator. The last thing he saw before the doors slid shut was the orderly toppling over and hitting the cement floor.

  13

  2:41 A.M.—13 hours before sundown

  The cold was malicious and personal. It followed Niels wherever he went.

  He was running in his socks through the snow. Across the parking lot, heading toward the psychiatric department. He pulled off the socks and tossed them away. They weren’t helping. A taxi driver gave him a startled look as he climbed out of a cab. Niels knew what he was thinking: Good thing that lunatic is running toward the loony bin and not away from it. Niels wondered if he should get into the cab. Go home, pick up some cash from his apartment to pay the driver. Find his passport and . . .

  The psych ward’s ER was open around the clock. Sudden attacks of anxiety, disturbed behavior, depression, paranoia, or thoughts of suicide weren’t restricted to regular office hours. A pair of uncomprehending parents were trying to calm their anorexic teenage daughter as the girl screamed that she didn’t fucking want to live anymore. The mother was crying. The father looked as if he felt like giving the girl a good slap. Just inside the door, a man was lying on the floor, asleep. Or was he—Niels dismissed the idea. Of course he wasn’t dead.

  Niels took a number and sat down with the other patients, not wanting to attract attention, even though quite a few eyes were directed at him. Niels looked down at his bare feet. They were red and steaming slightly now that he was inside the warmth of the waiting room. He couldn’t feel his toes. The woman behind the counter sent most people home after a brief conversation. That was her job. She was the system’s first line of defense. A human bulwark. She made a lot of people cry. It was heartbreaking, but Niels knew that there was good reason for her actions. More than any other place, the twenty-four-hour psych ER drew lonely souls who eagerly made all sorts of claims just to win a moment’s attention from another human being. Remember that Danes are the happiest people in the world had been written on the wall by someone trying to be funny.

  The anorexic teenager was allowed through the eye of the needle and would soon disappear into the system. The woman behind the counter got up to accompany the girl and her parents. It was the moment that Niels had been waiting for. He slipped behind the counter and into a long corridor, then stopped to look around. The pastel-colored walls were decorated to a degree that verged on fanatical: scores of Christmas hearts, elves, and garlands. A door opened behind him.

  “Do you want to play?” A beautiful woman in her forties with a shifting, manic look in her eyes was standing behind Niels, giggling like a schoolgirl. She had smeared lipstick over the lower half of her face and didn’t seem to be quite sober. She moved close to Niels. “Come on, Carsten. The kids are asleep. And it’s been so long since we—”

  “Carsten will be here any minute,” said Niels, and hurried down the hall.

  The archives wouldn’t be located in the psych ward, he decided. Archives were always in the basement. That’s just the way it was.

  Brick walls. An old, worn-out basement that had been admitting the damp for years. These corridors were considerably shorter than the ones he’d traversed in the other hospital building. Niels found a couple of empty offices and a room filled with folding chairs and patio tables. But no archives. He kept on going. They had to be here. More offices. And then the door at the end of the corridor. There was no sign on the door, but stacked up outside were boxes containing medical records. Niels glanced around for something he could use to break in. He found an empty yellow oxygen tank. Just before he slammed it against the heavy door, he changed his mind and grabbed the door handle. He was in luck. It wasn’t locked.

  These archives were minuscule compared to the ones he’d just visited. This time he knew the drill: Find the admittance logbook with the file number, then the file card with the record number, then the actual patient’s file. It took him only a few minutes to locate the bookcase containing files for patients from 1943. After that, it was easy to find patient number 40.12, Thorkild Worning. The psychiatric report was much more extensive and detailed than the dermatological report.

  December 23, 1943

  The patient was processed by admissions. The patient complains of severe pain in his back.

  Clinical findings:

  The patient has a skin disease on his back, which at the present time cannot be definitively diagnosed, but it is thought to be due to some form of bacterial infection. A dermatologist from Fin
sen’s clinic was summoned. The patient suffers from mood swings and in seconds can switch from utter silence to shouting and disturbing behavior. He is being treated with an anti-anxiety medicine, but without effect. The patient clearly demonstrates his disapproval of both being examined and the questions I ask him. Signs of schizophrenia. At times he is lucid and understands why he has been hospitalized.

  On the first day the patient was apathetic as he lay in bed. He refused to speak to anyone. He asked for his wife and demanded that she bring him his radio equipment so he could talk to his contacts. Refused to eat anything. In the afternoon he was asked if he’d like to get out of bed, which provoked an outburst of rage, ending with the patient throwing himself to his knees and praying to God to forgive him. Yet later in the evening, he declared that he is not a religious person. He was relatively calm during the night.

  Medications:

  No previous treatment with medication.

  December 23, 1943

  Talked about voices that kept him from sleeping.

  The patient said he was unable to sleep in the night because of an internal voice that kept him awake. The patient didn’t want to explain who the voice belonged to or what it said. He was calm during the daytime. He was seen kneeling in his room as he murmured Bible verses. Asked what verse he was reciting, he refused to answer and seemed on the verge of taking a hostile attitude but calmed down after having a conversation with a psychiatrist. The conversation ended with the patient again stating that he doesn’t believe in God but that he finds it “expedient to pray once in a while.” In the evening he complained of insomnia and pain.