The Madman's Tale (28 page)

“Perhaps the person I’m seeking isn’t exactly what you would call mentally ill,” Lucy said. “A different category completely.”

“Well,” Evans answered briskly, “that may be the case. In fact, it is likely. But what we have here, in abundance, are the latter, not the former.”

With that, he gestured, bowing slightly and sweeping his arm in the direction of his own office. “You would still like to examine the files?” he said.

Lucy turned to Peter and Francis. “I need to go do this. Get started, at least. I will meet with you later.”

Peter looked angrily at Mister Evans, who did not look back in his direction, but instead, led Lucy Jones down the corridor, dismissing patients who approached him with short, chopping hand motions. It was, Francis thought, a little like a man cutting his way with a machete through the jungle.

“It would be nice,” Peter said, under his breath, “if it turned out that that son of a bitch was the man we were hunting for. That would really be special, and would make all this time in here incredibly worthwhile.” Then he burst out in a short laugh. “Ah, well, C-Bird. The world is never that convenient. And you know what they say: ‘Beware of getting what you wish for.’” But even as he spoke, he continued to watch Mister Evans as he maneuvered down the hallway. He waited a few moments, and then added, “I’m going to go speak with Napoleon.” Peter sighed. “At least, he will have the eighteenth-century perspective on all this.”

Francis would have joined him, but he hesitated, as Peter wheeled and walked swiftly toward the dayroom. In that moment, he saw Big Black leaning up against the wall of the corridor, smoking a cigarette, his white uniform bathed in light that streamed through the windows, so that he glistened. For some reason, the light made Big Black’s skin seem even darker, and Francis saw that the attendant had been watching them. He walked over, and the huge man separated himself from the wall, and dropped his smoke to the floor.

“A bad habit,” Big Black said. “One that is just as likely to kill you as anything else in here. Maybe. Can’t be altogether too sure about that, what with all that’s been happening. But don’t you go and take it up like everybody else in this place, C-Bird. Lots of bad habits in here. And not much to do about them. You try to keep yourself out of bad habits, C-Bird, and you’ll find yourself out of here, sooner or later.”

Francis didn’t reply. Instead, he watched the attendant stare down the corridor, his eyes fixing on first one patient, then another, but clearly, his real attention somewhere else.

After a moment, Francis asked, “Why do they hate each other, Mister Moses?”

Big Black did not answer this question directly, other than to say, “You know, sometimes, down South where I was born, there were these old women who could sense the weather changing. They were the ones who knew when storms were gonna blow in off the water, and especially, during hurricane season, they were forever walking about, sniffing the air, sometimes saying little chants and spells, sometimes throwing bones and seashells on a piece of cloth. A little like witchcraft, I guess, and now that I am an educated man, living in a modern world, C-Bird, I know better than to believe all those spells and incantations. But, trouble was, they were always right. Storm coming, they knew it long before anyone else did. They were the ones got the folks to bring in the livestock, fix the roof of the house, maybe bottle some water, just for the emergency that no one else could see was coming. But which came, all the same. Makes no sense, when you think about it; makes perfectly good sense, if you don’t.”

He smiled, and put his hand on Francis’s shoulder. “What you think, C-Bird? You look at those two and the way they act and feel that storm coming on, too?”

“I still don’t understand, Mister Moses.”

The large man shook his head. “Let me say this: Evans, he’s got a brother. And maybe what it was that Peter did, maybe that did something to that brother. And so, when Peter came here, Evans made right certain that he was the one in charge of his evaluation. He made sure that Peter knew that whatever it was that Peter wanted, he was going to make damn certain that Peter didn’t get it.”

“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 acceptable 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.”