Elizabeth Hand: 12 Monkeys

“You have him in restraints,” Kathryn Railly said in a low voice.

“Were you listening?” Franki punched the wall in frustration. “We got two officers in the hospital! Yeah, he’s in restraints, plus the medic gave him enough Stelazine to kill a horse! Look at him! Raring to go!”

Kathryn sighed. The man looked more like he was ready to pass out. As she watched, his head swiveled, slowly, until he was staring directly at her. His eyes narrowed, giving him a ferociously intense look. Kathryn found herself backing away slightly from the window.

“That would explain the bruises, I guess,” she said. “The struggle.”

Franki sighed. “Yeah, yeah. You want to go in? Examine him?”

“Yes, please.” She glanced at the page in her hand. “This is all you have on him? You ran it through the system?”

“No match up.” A click as Franki unlocked the door. “No license, no prints, no warrants. Nothings. I should probably go in with you.”

She stepped around him and into the cell. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

Franki watched her, nodding. “Well, I’ll be right here. Just in case.”

She crossed the cell, moving confidently but with care, always mindful of the door behind her. “Mr. Cole?” she said warmly. “My name is Dr. Railly—”

The gaze he turned on her was as innocent and beatific as a child’s — or a lunatic’s. She felt a small spark of unease, recalling Detective Franki’s words: No drugs. You believe that? She cleared her throat and went on.

“I’m a psychiatrist, Mr. Cole. I work for the county. I don’t work for the police. My concern is your well-being. Can you tell me what happened this evening?”

The man stared at her, unblinking. “I need to go now.” His voice was low and unthreatening, almost soothing, as though she were the one in trouble. Kathryn tilted her head, nodding.

“Mr. Cole, I’m not going to lie to you. I can’t make the police let you go. But I will try and help you — if you cooperate. Can you do that, James?” She glanced at the page in her hand. “May I call you James?”

“James!” The man snorted. “Nobody ever calls me that.”

Kathryn frowned. “Have you been a patient at County? Have I seen you someplace?”

He shook his head, the restraints biting into the bruised skin of his neck. “No, not possible.” He sounded more agitated; his gaze flickered nervously from Kathryn to the door to the observation window. “I… I have to get out of here. S’posed to be getting information.”

Mood liability, apprehension, possible hostile paranoia , thought Kathryn. She nodded sympathetically and asked, “What kind of information?”

“It won’t help you. You can’t do anything about it. You can’t change anything.”

“Change what?”

Cole’s voice rose. “I need to go.”

Definite hostility and poor frustration tolerance . Kathryn slapped the paper against her palm. “Do you know why you’re here, James?”

“Yes. I’m a good observer — I have a tough mind.”

“I see. You don’t remember assaulting a police officer? Several officers?”

“They wanted identification,” said Cole. “I don’t have any identification. I wasn’t trying to hurt them.”

“You don’t have a driver’s license, James? Or a Social Security card?”

“No.”

Kathryn hesitated, noting possible side effects of the Stelazine: facial muscle spasms, those nervous glances that might be indicative of blurred vision. “You’ve been in an institution, haven’t you, James? A hospital?”

“I have to go.”

“In jail? Prison?”

Cole sighed resignedly. “Underground.”

“Hiding?”

He gazed up at her. Once more his expression grew childlike. “I love this air,” he said softly. For the first time he smiled. It made him look sweet, boyish. “This is wonderful air.”

Kathryn ventured a half-smile in return. “What’s wonderful about the air, James?”

“It’s so clean and fresh. And no germs!”

“Why do you think there aren’t any germs in the air, James?”

He went on as though he hadn’t heard her. “This is October, right?”

She shook her head. “April.”

“April?”

“What year do you think it is, James?”

“1996.”

“You think it’s 1996?” Kathryn asked, her voice steady. Delusional, possibly hallucinating . “That’s the future, James. Do you think you’re living in the future?”

Cole’s expression clouded into bewilderment. “No, 1996 is the past.”

“1996 is the future, James,” she said calmly. “This is 1990.”

He looked up at her, too stunned to speak. For a moment Kathryn gazed at him, taking in those impossibly deep eyes — incredulous now, almost desperate. “Thank you, James,” she said at last, and turning she strode quickly to the door. Detective Franki held it open for her.

“Well?” he demanded.

“He’s certainly delusional,” she said, sighing. “Maybe even mildly schizophrenic. Hard to tell when all you can see is his face, and that’s been beaten black-and-blue.” She shot Franki an icy look. “Oh, I know: ‘potential cop killer in a major psychotic episode.’ But it’d sure make my job easier if you hadn’t tranked him up so much I can’t make a valid diagnosis.”

Franki rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You gonna sign or what?”

“Oh, I’ll sign,” she said coolly. She followed him to his desk and filled out a set of forms. “Seventy-two hours observation, some more drug testing. If he lands on the street again, I hope it’s not in your jurisdiction.”

Franki smiled. “Me, too. Thanks, Dr. Railly.”

She stood to go, brushing a tendril of hair from her eyes. At the door she paused. “Oh, and Detective Franki — it’s difficult to make impartial judgments when you’re so obviously stressed.”

He snorted. “Yeah, well, I could use a fucking vacation.”

“I was thinking more like Prozac,” she said sweetly. “Think about it.” And she left.

In his cell, Cole blinked and stared dazedly at the padded gray wall, the tiny lozenge of thick glass where shadowy figures came and went. The bitter taste in his mouth was so strong now that he almost gagged. He tried to focus on something besides rising nausea and the painful throbbing above his left eye. Had there been a woman here, asking questions? Or was that another nightmare, like the one with the scientists? He licked his lips, tasting blood and bile, and looked up when he heard the door grinding open again. Two surly policemen entered. One roughly undid the restraints that bound him to the chair. The other knelt and clapped a pair of heavy manacles about Cole’s ankles.

“C’mon,” he snapped, yanking Cole to his feet.

“Where you taking me?” Cole asked thickly as he lurched forward.

One of the policemen reached over to tighten the straightjacket. “South of France, buddy. Fancy hotel. You’re gonna love it.”

Cole jerked his head back. “South of France. I don’t want to go to the south of France.” He frowned, ragged bits of memory — or was it a dream? — coming back to him. “I want to — to make a telephone call.”

The policeman smirked as he led him from the cell. “Zip it, ace. You fooled the shrink with your act, but you don’t fool us.”

Cole stumbled down the hall between them until they stopped in front of a steel door. One of the policemen unlocked it. A moment later the door swung out. Cole blinked, amazed, as morning overwhelmed him, a dazzling fury of white light.

“Send us a postcard, okay, ace?” The policeman laughed as he led Cole into the waiting prison van.

“Yeah,” the other cop sneered, holding the door open for his colleague. “Don’t forget to write.”