The Madman - Страница 102

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By midday it had started to rain, an erratic drizzle, interrupted frequently by stronger downpours, or even the occasional overly optimistic light break that spoke of clearing, but which soon enough was swept aside by another line of dark showers. Francis had hurried along at Big Black's side, dashing between the dampness and sticky humidity, almost hoping that the attendant's huge bulk would carve a path through the gloomy weather, and that he could remain dry in the big man's wake. It was the sort of day, he thought, that suggested unchecked epidemic and rampant disease: hot, oppressive, sultry, and wet. Almost tropical in character, as if the usual conservative dry New England world of the state hospital had been suddenly overtaken by some alien, bizarre rain forest sensibility. It was weather, Francis thought, that was every bit as out of place and insane as all of them. Even the light breeze that swept rain puddles from the asphalt sidewalks had an otherworldly thickness to it.

As was the custom in the hospital, the release hearings were held in the administration building, inside the modestly sized staff lunchroom, which was reconfigured for the occasion into a pseudo courtroom It had a thrown together, makeshift quality to it. There were tables for the hearing officers and for the patient advocates. Uncomfortable steel folding chairs had been arranged in rows for the hospital inmates and their families. A desk was provided for a stenographer and a seat for witnesses. The room was crowded, but not to overfilling, and what few words being spoken were whispered. Francis and Big Black slid into chairs in a row at the back. At first, Francis imagined the air in the room was stifling, then, upon reflection, thought perhaps it was less the air, than it was the cloud of eager hopes and helplessness that filled the space.

Presiding over the hearing was a retired district court judge from Springfield. He was gray-haired, overweight, and florid, taken to making large gestures with his hands. He had a gavel which he banged every so often for no apparent reason, and he wore a slightly frayed black robe that had probably seen better days and more important cases' some years in his past. To his right was a psychiatrist from the state Department of Mental Health, a young woman with thick eyeglasses who kept shuffling through files and papers, as if unable to find just precisely the right one, and to his left a lawyer from the local district attorney's office, who lounged in his seat, with a young man's bored eyes, clearly having lost some office pool which led to the assignment at the hospital. At one table, there was another young lawyer, wiry-haired, wearing an ill-fitting suit, slightly more eager and open-eyed, who served as the patients' representative, and across from him, various members of the hospital staff. It was all designed to give an official flavor to the proceedings, to couch decisions in conjoined medical and legal terms. It had the veneer of authenticity, of responsibility, of system and attentiveness, as if every case being heard had been carefully examined, properly vetted, and thoroughly assessed before being presented, when Francis immediately understood the exact opposite was the truth.

Francis felt a world of despair within him. As he looked around the room, he realized that the critical element of the release hearings had to be the families sitting quietly, waiting for the name of their son or daughter or niece or nephew or even mother or father to be called out. Without them, no one got released. Even if the initial orders putting them in Western State had long since expired, absent someone willing on the outside to take responsibility, the gate to the hospital remained closed. Francis could not help but wonder how he would be able to persuade his parents to open their door to him again, when they would not even come to the hospital to visit.

Inside his head, a voice insisted They will never love you enough to come here and ask for you to be returned to them… And then another, speaking quickly, saying Francis, you must find a different way to prove you're not crazy.

He nodded to himself, understanding that what he hid from Mister Evil and Gulp-a-pill was crucial. Francis shifted about in his seat and slowly began to survey the people seated about the room. They seemed cut from all sorts of cloths, rough-edged, rough-hewn. Some of the men wore jackets and ties that seemed out of place and he knew that they had dressed up to make a good impression, when, in truth, the opposite was far more likely. The women wore simple dresses and clutched Kleenex, sometimes to dab away tears. Francis thought there was a great deal of failure loose in the room, and an accordant amount of guilt. More than one face carried the marks of blame, and for a moment he wanted to say it’s not your fault we turned out the way we did… but then, he wasn't at all sure that that was accurate.

He heard the red-faced judge blurt out, "Let's move on…" as he pounded the gavel sharply two or three times and Francis turned to watch the proceedings.

But before the judge could clear his throat, and the psychiatrist with the files and confused look could read out a name, Francis heard several of his voices all at once. Why are we here, Francis? We shouldn't be here at all. We should run, fast. Get away. Go back to Amherst. It's safe there… Francis pivoted first to the right, then the left, assessing the gathered people. None of the patients in the room had noticed him come in, none were staring at him, none were eyeing him with malevolence, hatred, or anger.

He suspected that might change.

And he took a deep breath, for he knew that he was, if he was right, in as much danger right in that moment, surrounded by patients and hospital personnel, and even sitting in Big Black's shadow, as he'd ever been. Danger because of the man he thought was in that room with him. And danger because of what he was letting loose within himself.

He bit down on his lip and tried to clear his imagination. He told himself to simply be a blank slate, and wait for something to be written upon it. He wondered if his shallow breathing and sweaty forehead, or the clamminess he suddenly felt in the palms of his hands might be observed by Big Black, and with an immense force of will, he insisted to himself: Be calm.

And then, he took a deep breath, and inwardly spoke to all his voices: Everyone needs a way out.

Francis squirmed in his seat, hoping that no one, especially Big Black or Mister Evil or any of the other administrators could see how much turmoil he was in. He was pitched to the edge of his chair, nervous, frightened, but compelled to be there, and to listen, for he expected to hear something that day that was important. He wished that Peter was at his side, or Lucy, although he didn't think he could have persuaded her that listening was crucial. Francis at for this moment was alone, and guessing that he was closer to an answer than anyone else might imagine.

Lucy came through the doors to the hospital's morgue and felt the chill of too much air-conditioning. It was a small, basement room, located in one of the distant buildings on the fringe of the hospital grounds that was generally used to house out-of-date equipment and long-forgotten supplies. It had the questionable virtue of being near the makeshift burial ground. There was a single, shiny steel examination table in the center of the room, and a bank of a half dozen refrigerated storage containers built into one wall. A glass paneled and polished steel bureau held a modest selection of scalpels and other surgical implements. A filing cabinet and a desk with a battered IBM Selectric typewriter were stuffed into a corner, and a single window was set into the cinder block wall, high up, looking out onto the ground, and only permitting a single shaft of wan, gray light to slip in past a crust of dirt. A pair of insistently bright overhead lights hummed like a matched set of large insects.

The room had an empty, abandoned quality, save for a slight smell of human waste that lingered in the cold air. On the examination table there was a clipboard with a set of forms attached. Lucy looked around for an attendant but no one was around, and so she stepped forward. She noticed that there were sluicing channels on the examination table, and a drain in the floor. Both wore dark stains. She picked up the clipboard and read a preliminary autopsy report that stated the obvious: Cleo had died by strangulation caused by bed-sheet. Her eyes dwelt for a second on the entry: Self-Mutilation, which described her severed thumb, and for a moment on her diagnosis, which was schizophrenia, paranoid type, undifferentiated, with delusions and suicidal tendencies. Lucy suspected that this last observation had been, like so much else, added postmortem. When someone hangs themselves, their preexisting potential for self-destruction becomes a little clearer, she thought.

She read on: No next of kin. There was an entry for In case of death or injury please notify: which was answered with a line through the space.

A medical examiner, a famous man in forensic circles, had once addressed her senior year class on evidence, and had, in most grandiose terms told all the law students that the dead spoke most eloquently about the means of their passing, often pointing directly to the person who had illegally helped them on their path. The lecture had been well attended and energetically received, but in this moment, Lucy thought it was ridiculously abstract and very distant. What she had was a silent body in a refrigerated cooler in the corner of a dingy, forgotten room and an autopsy protocol crammed onto a single sheet of yellow paper fastened to a clipboard, and she didn't think it was telling her anything, especially something that might help her in her pursuit of a killer.

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