John Katzenbach - The Madman

"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, bullet like 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 quasi judicial 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."

"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 f 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?"