Karl Wagner: Why Not You and I?

To Kirby McCauley

The best friend a writer can have is an agent who truly believes that that writer is half as good as he thinks he is.

— Roger Wade, interviewed by Kent Allard in Possible Dreams

Originally, back during the War (which Marlowe understood to be World War II), Graceland State Psychiatric Hospital had been an army base, and some of the old-timers still referred to the center as Camp Underhill. Marlowe was never certain whether there had been a town (named Underhill) here before the base was built, or whether the town had grown about the periphery of the base (named Underhill) at the time when it was carved out of the heart of the scrub and pine wilderness. Marlowe probably could have found out by asking one of the old-timers, had he ever thought to do so, or had he even cared to know. It was more to the point that no wing of the red brick hospital was of more than two stories; further, that each wing was connected to the next by a long corridor. This, so Marlowe had been told upon coming here, had been a precaution against an air raid — an enemy sneak attack could not annihilate the outspread base with its absence of central structures and its easy evacuation. Marlowe was uncertain as to the means by which an Axis blitzkrieg might have struck this far inland, but it was a fact that the center contained seven miles of corridors. This Marlowe had verified through many a weary weekend of walking to and fro and up and down through the complex, making rounds.

On this weekend Marlowe was feeding dimes into the slot of a vending machine, chained to the tile wall of one labyrinthine corridor. After judicious nudges and kicks, the packet of crackers was spat from its mechanical womb in a flurry of crumbs. Marlowe eyed the tattered cellophane sourly. An industrious mouse had already gnawed across the pair on the end. He should have tried the machines in the staff lounge, but that meant another quarter of a mile walk.

At his belt, the beeper uttered a rush of semi-coherent static. Marlowe, shaking the nibbled crackers onto the tile floor, thumbed the beeper to silence with his other hand and plodded for the nearest nursing station. He swiped a cup of virulent coffee from the urn there, washed the crackers from his throat with a gulp of boiling fluid, and dialed the number to which he had been summoned. “This is Dr Marlowe.”

“You have an involuntary admission on South Unit, Dr Marlowe.”

“I’ll be down once I finish one on North.”

The voice persisted. Marlowe sensed the speaker’s anxiety. “The patient is combative, Doctor. He’s delusional, obviously hallucinating. If you could give us an order….”

“What’s the problem? Do we know anything about this one?”

“This is his first admission here, and all we have are the commitment papers the deputies brought. He’s obviously psychotic. He says he’s Satan.”

“Hell, that’s my third this month. All right, seclude and restrain. I’m coming right down, and I’ll sign the order when I get there. ” Marlowe glanced at his watch. It was past ten, he still hadn’t eaten dinner, and the deputies from Beacon City were due to arrive on East with that adolescent runaway who’d slashed her wrists. Best take care of South Unit quickly. The coffee was sour in his stomach, and he regretted discarding the mouse-chewed crackers.

He was in North Unit, which was actually Central, since the northernmost unit was the Alcoholic Rehab Unit, but the walk was going to be a brisk five minutes in addition to the time lost in unlocking sectional doors. Marlowe, who showed a footsore limp under the best of circumstances, knew better than to wear himself out this early in the weekend. It was Friday night. Until 8:00 Monday morning he would be the only doctor on the grounds at Graceland. In that time he might have twenty to thirty admissions, on an average, in addition to the task of overseeing the well-being of some five hundred patients within the state hospital complex. A demanding situation under the best of circumstances, and impossible without a capable staff. Marlowe often wished for a capable staff.

He was tall and lean, with a profile that might have made a good Holmes if the haphazardly trimmed beard and randomly combed black hair hadn’t more suggested Moriarty. His eyes were so deep a blue as to seem almost black; one patient had told him he looked like Lord Byron, but many patients had called him many names. In a three-piece suit Marlowe would have fit the TV-romantic ideal of the distinguished young physician; however, around the hospital he favored open-necked sport shirts of imaginative pattern, casual slacks, and scuffed Wallabies. The crepe soles of these last were generally overworn to one side, giving him almost a clubfooted stance, but tile corridors are not kind to feet, and Marlowe liked such comforts as were permitted.

Lie unlocked an outside door, stepped out to cut across a courtyard. The summer night was hot and still. Behind electrified grates, ultraviolet lamps lured nocturnal insects to their doom; harsh crackles made the only sound other than the soft crunch of gravel beneath Marlowe’s crepe soles. There was a full moon, hot and electric itself, and Marlowe knew he would get little rest this weekend.

There was sound again when he unlocked the door to South Unit’s admission ward. The door to a seclusion room stood open, and inside three attendants were just fastening the padded cuffs. Spread-eagled on the bed, a young black man struggled against the wrist and ankle restraints and screamed curses. At the end of the hall way, several of the ward patients hovered anxiously, until a nurse’s assistant shooed them back to bed.

An attendant handed Marlowe the commitment papers. He glanced through them: 2 3-year-old black male, combative and threatening to life and person of family and neighbors since last night, apparently hallucinating, claimed to be Satan released from Hell. Today fired shotgun at neighbor’s house, subdued by officers; involuntary commitment papers signed by family, no previous history of mental disorders.

Marlowe entered the seclusion room, studying his patient. His dress was flamboyant, his appearance well-groomed; he was lean but not emaciated, with prominent veins standing out from the straining muscles of his arms. Marlowe’s initial impression was psychotic drug reaction, probably angel dust or amphetamines.

“Mr. Stallings, my name is Dr Marlowe. I’m your physician, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I am His Satanic Majesty, Lucifer God, Son of the Sun, Prince of Darkness and Power! Ye who seek to chain me in the Pit shall be utterly cast down! Bow down to me and worship, or feed the flames of my wrath!”

Marlowe played his stethoscope across his heaving chest. “Anyone able to get a blood pressure?”

The ward nurse handed him a sheet. “Don’t know how good these vital stats are — he’s been abusive and combative since the deputies brought him in. He’s strong as a horse, I can tell you.”

“These are about what they recorded at Frederick County when they examined him,” Marlowe said. “We still don’t have a chart on him?”

“First admission to Graceland, Dr Marlowe.”

The patient shouted obscenities, ignoring Marlowe’s efforts to examine him. Verbal content was a jarring mixture of street slang and religious phrases, frankly delusional. There seemed little point in continuing with the examination at this point.

Marlowe turned to the ward nurse, who was showing anger despite her experience with abusive patients. “Thorazine, 100 mgm IM.”