The Madman's Tale (29 page)

“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 lurched 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.”

W
hen Lucy emerged from Mister Evans’s office, she carried a legal-size yellow pad of paper in her right hand and a look of significant displeasure on her face. A long, quickly scrawled list of names ran down one side of the top page on the pad. She moved rapidly, as if driven to increase her pace by a sense of dismay. She looked up when she spotted Francis and Peter the Fireman waiting for her, and she gave a little, rueful shake of her head, as she approached them.

“I’d thought, rather foolishly it turns out, that this would simply be a matter of checking dates against hospital records. It’s not that simple, primarily because the hospital records are something of a mess, and not centralized. A lot of busywork involved. Damn.”

“Mister Evil wasn’t as helpful as he said he might be?” Peter observed archly, asking a question that already had its answer contained within it.

“No. I think that would be a safe assessment,” Lucy replied.

“Well,” Peter said, affecting a mock, slightly British accent that almost managed to sound like Gulp-a-pill, “I am shocked. Simply shocked …”

Lucy continued down the corridor, her pace as rapid as her thoughts.

“So,” Peter asked, “what were you able to find out?”

“What I learned was that I’m going to have to check every other housing unit, in addition to Amherst. And, beyond that, I’m going to have to find records for every patient that might have had a weekend furlough during the
relevant time period. And, further complicating matters, I’m not at all sure that there’s any sort of master list, which would make that easier. What I do have is a list of names from this building that more, or less, fit into the range of possibilities. Forty-three names.”

“Did you eliminate some by age?” Peter asked, the jocularity now removed from his voice.

She nodded. “Yes. That was my first thought, as well. The old-timers, well, no need to question them.”

“I think,” Peter said slowly, as he started to rub his right hand across his cheek, as if by friction, he could loosen some ideas stuck within, “that we might consider one other important element.”

Lucy looked at him.

“Physicality,” Peter said.

“What do you mean?” Francis asked.

“What I mean is that it requires some strength to commit the crime that we’re concerned with. He had to overpower Short Blond, then drag her to the storage room. There were signs of a struggle in the nursing station, so we know that he didn’t manage to sneak up behind her and knock her out with some lucky punch. In fact, if I were to guess, he probably looked forward to the struggle.”

Lucy sighed. “True. The more he beat her, the more he got excited. That would fit what we know of this type of personality.”

Francis shuddered, hoping the others didn’t see him. He had a little trouble discussing so coldly and casually some moments that were, he thought, far beyond horror.

“So,” Peter continued, “we know we’re looking for someone with some muscle. That rules out a bunch of people inside here right away, because, although Gulptilil would probably deny it, this place doesn’t exactly seem to attract the physically fit. Aren’t too many marathon runners and bodybuilders inside here. And we should also reduce the pool of candidates to a range of ages. And then, it seems to me, there is one other area that might help further narrow the list. Diagnosis. Who is here with some significant violence in their past. Who suffers from the type of mental illness that might be expanded to include murder.”

Lucy said, “My thinking exactly. We come up with a portrait of the man we’re seeking, and things will come into focus.” Then she turned to Francis. “C-Bird, I’m going to need your help in that area.”

Francis bent toward her, eager. “What do you need?”

“I don’t think I understand madness,” she said.

Francis must have looked confused, because she smiled. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I understand the psychiatric language and the diagnosis criteria and
the treatment plans and all the textbook stuff. But what I don’t understand is how it all seems from the inside, looking out. I think you can help me in that regard. I need to know who could have done these crimes, and hard evidence is going to be tricky to come by.”

Francis was uncertain, but he said, “Whatever you need …”