John Katzenbach - The Madman

Occasionally, someone would join her at the table, either Mister Evil, who seemed most interested in everything she was doing, or Big Black or Little Black, who immediately turned any conversation over to sports. Sometimes some of the nursing staff would sit with her, but their stark white uniforms and peaked caps set her even more apart from the regular hospital routine. And when she conversed with one of her companions, she seemed to constantly slip-slide her glance around the room, giving Francis the impression that she was a little like a field hawk soaring on wind currents above them all, looking down, trying to spot some movement in the withered brown stalks of the early New England spring and isolating her prey.

None of the patients sat with her, including, at the start, Francis or Peter the Fireman. This had been Peter's suggestion. He had told her that there was no sense in letting too many folks know that they were working with her, although people would figure it out for themselves before too much time had passed. So, at least for the first days, Francis and Peter ignored her in the dining hall.

Cleo, however, did not.

As Lucy was carrying her tray to the refuse station, the portly patient accosted her.

"I know why you're here!" Cleo said. She was loud, and forcefully accusatory, and had it not been for the usual dinnertime clatter of dishes, trays, and plates, her tone of voice might have grabbed everyone's attention.

"Do you now?" Lucy calmly replied. She stepped past Cleo and began to scrape leftovers from a sturdy white plate into a trash canister.

"Indeed, yes," Cleo continued with a matter-of-fact tone. "It is obvious."

"Really?"

"Yes," Cleo went on, filled with bluster and the peculiar bravado that madness sometimes has, where it releases all the ordinary brakes on behavior.

"Then perhaps you should tell me what you think."

"Aha! Of course. You mean to take over Egypt!"

"Egypt?"

"Egypt," Cleo said, waving her hand to indicate the entire room, motioning in a slightly exasperated fashion at the clarity of it all, which had initially eluded Lucy Jones. "My Egypt. Followed pretty damn fast by seducing Marc Anthony and Caesar, as well, I wouldn't doubt."

Cleo harumphed loudly, crossed her arms for a moment, block like in Lucy's path, and then added, as was her usual response to just about everything, "The bastards. The damn bastards."

Lucy Jones looked quizzically at her, then shook her head. "No, in that, you are decidedly mistaken. Egypt is safe in your hands. I would never presume to rival anyone for such a crown, nor for the loves of their life."

Cleo lowered her hands to her hips and stared at Lucy. "Why should I believe you?" she demanded.

"You will need to take my word on this."

The large woman hesitated, then scratched at the twisted mangle of hair she wore on top of her head. "Are you a person of honesty and integrity?" she asked abruptly.

"I am told that I am," Lucy replied.

"Gulp-a-pill and Mister Evil would say the same, but I do not trust them."

"Nor do I," Lucy said quietly, leaning forward slightly. "On that count, we can certainly agree."

"Then, if you do not mean to conquer Egypt, why are you here?" Cleo asked, putting her hands back on her hips, and resuming an aggressively intuitive tone.

"I think there is a traitor in your kingdom," Lucy said slowly.

"What sort of traitor?"

"The worst sort."

Cleo nodded. "This has to do with Lanky's arrest and Short Blond's murder, doesn't it?"

"Yes," Lucy replied.

"I saw him," Cleo said. "Not well, but I saw him. That night."

"Who? Who did you see?" Lucy asked, suddenly alert, leaning forward.

Cleo smiled catlike, knowingly, then she shrugged. "If you need my help," she said, a sudden portrait of haughtiness, her voice dripping with entitlement, "then you should apply for it in an appropriate fashion, at the correct time, at a proper place."

With that, Cleo stepped back, and after taking a moment to light a cigarette with a flourish, she spun away, a look of satisfaction on her face. Lucy appeared a little confused, and took a step after her, only to be intercepted by Peter the Fireman, who had carried his tray up to the refuse counter at that moment, although Francis could see that he had barely touched any of his food. He began to scrape his plate, and thrust the utensils through an opening into the cleaning station. As he did this, Francis heard him say to Lucy, "It's true. She saw the Angel that night. She told us that he entered the women's dormitory, stood there for a moment, then exited, locking the door behind him."

Lucy Jones nodded. "Curious behavior," she said, although even she realized that this particular observation was somewhat useless inside a mental hospital where all the behavior was, at best, curious, and at worse, something truly awful. She looked over at Francis, who had risen and now stood next to them. "C-Bird, tell me why would someone who has just committed a violent crime, taken the extraordinary trouble to cover up his tracks and worked hard to see that someone else is blamed for the crime and should by all rights want to disappear and hide, enter into a room filled with women who, if any one of them happened to awaken, might remember him?"

Francis shook his head. He wondered to himself: Could they remember him? He could hear several of his voices vying within him to answer that question, but he ignored them and instead fixed on Lucy's eyes. She shrugged.

"A riddle," Lucy said. "But an answer I'll need sooner or later. Do you think you could get me that answer, Francis?"

He nodded.

She laughed a bit. "C-Bird has confidence. Good thing," she said.

And then she led them out into the corridor.

She started to say another thing, but Peter held up his hand. "C-Bird, don't let anyone else know what Cleo saw." Then he turned to Lucy Jones. "When Francis first spoke with her, and she first mentioned that the man we're seeking entered the women's dormitory, she was unable to really provide any sort of coherent description of the Angel. Everyone was pretty upset. Perhaps, now that she has had a little more time to reflect on that night, she might have noticed something important. She likes Francis. I think it might be wise if he went and spoke with her again about the events that night. This would have the added advantage of not drawing any attention to her, because as soon as you start questioning her, people will understand she might have some connection to all this."

Lucy considered what Peter said, and then nodded. "That makes some sense. Francis, can you handle that by yourself, and then get back to me?"

Francis said, "Yes," but he was unsure of himself, despite what Lucy had said about his confidence. He couldn't remember actually ever questioning someone to try to elicit information.

Newsman wandered past them at that moment, stopping a few feet distant, doing a little ballet like pirouette on the polished floor, his shoes squeaking as he spun, then saying, " Union-News: Market plunges in bad economic news." Then, with a flourish, he spun about again, and tacked down the hallway, a newspaper held out in front of him like a sail.

"If I go talk to Cleo again," Francis asked, "what will you do, Peter?"

"What will I do? It's a little more like "What would I like?" What I would like, C-Bird, is for Miss Jones to be more forthcoming with the files she has brought with her."

Lucy didn't reply at first, and Peter turned to face her.

"It would help us to have a little better idea of the details that brought you here, if we are to help you while you stay."

Again, she seemed to hesitate. "Why do you think," she started, only to have Peter interrupt her. He was smiling, in that offhand way he had, which meant, at least to Francis, that he had found something amusing and slightly unusual, all at once.