The Madman

Lucy gritted her teeth together. "Yes. In fact, I would like to have that entire location searched."

"Searched? You mean you want to go through and inspect what few private things those patients own?"

"Yes. I believe there remains hard criminal evidence available, and I have reason to believe that some might be located in that dormitory, so I would like your permission to search it."

"Evidence? And upon what do you base this supposition?"

Lucy hesitated, then said, "I have been reliably informed that one of the patients in that area was in possession of a bloodstained shirt. The nature of the wound to Short Blond suggests that whoever committed the crime would have clothing marred with her blood."

"Yes. That would make sense. But didn't the police discover some bloody items on poor Lanky when he was arrested?"

"My belief is that those modest amounts were transferred by another person to his body."

Doctor Gulptilil smiled. "Ah," he said. "Of course. Transferred by this latter-day Jack the Ripper. A criminal genius, no, sorry, I apologize. That's not the word. A criminal mastermind. Right here in our mental hospital. No? Farfetched and unlikely, but an explanation that would permit your inquiries to persist. And of this alleged bloody shirt… might I see it?"

"It is not in my control."

He nodded his head. "Somehow, Miss Jones, I anticipated your response to that question. So, were I to allow this search you request, would this not create some legal problems with any potential items seized?"

"No. This is a state hospital, and you have the right to search any area for contraband or any ba

Gulptilil rocked in his chair for a moment. "So, now, suddenly, you believe my staff and I can be of some assistance?"

"I don't know that I understand the implication in what you say," she responded, which was, of course, a lawyer's lie, for she understood completely what he was saying.

Doctor Gulptilil obviously saw the same thing, for he sighed. "Ah, Miss Jones, your lack of trust for the staff here is most discouraging. Regardless, I will arrange for the search, as you request, if only to help persuade you of the folly of your inquiries. And the names and the bedding arrangements at Williams, these, too, I can provide. And then, perhaps, we can conclude your stay here."

She remembered what Francis had asked, and so she added, "One other thing. Might I have the list of patients scheduled for release hearings this week? If it's not a burden…"

He looked askance at her. "Yes. I can give you that, as well. As part of my efforts to support your inquiries, I will have my secretary provide these documents." The doctor had the ability to easily make a lie seem like the truth, a quality that Lucy Jones found unsettling. "Although, I am not sure what possible co

"I'd rather not, not quite yet."

"Your response doesn't surprise me," he said stiffly. "Still, I will get the list you request."

She nodded her head. "Thank you," and started to leave.

Gulptilil held up his hand. "But there is something I must ask of you, Miss Jones."

"What is that, Doctor?"

"You are to call your supervisor. The gentleman that I had such a pleasant conversation with not so long ago. Now)j would wager, would be a good moment for that call to take place. Allow me."

He reached down and turned the telephone on his desk toward her, so that she could dial. He made no effort to leave.

Lucy's ears still rang with the admonitions of her boss. A waste of time and just spi

And, she had to admit, that the sort of progress that a politician could point to was elusive. She couldn't even prove the links between the cases, other than the style of murders. It was a situation that lent itself to complete insanity, she thought. It was clear to her that the killer of Short Blond, the Angel who'd terrorized Francis, and the man who'd committed the killings in her own district were the same. And that he was right there, under her nose, taunting her.

Killing the Dancer was clearly his work. He knew it, she knew it. It all made sense.

But no sense, at the very same time. Criminal arrests and prosecutions aren't based on what you know, but on what you can prove, and so far, she couldn't prove anything.

She realized that for the moment, the Angel remained untouchable. Lost in a tangle of thoughts, she made her way back to the Amherst Building. The early evening had a touch of chill in the air, and some vacant, lost cries reverberated around the hospital grounds, and Lucy was unaware that whatever agony was attached to any of these plaintive noises evaporated in the cooling air around her. Had she not been so wrapped up in the impossibility of her own beliefs, she might have noticed that the sounds that had so upset her when she first arrived at Western State had now disappeared within her into some location of acceptance, so much so that she was slowly becoming something of a fixture in the hospital herself, a mere tangent to all the madness that lived so unhappily there.

Peter looked up and realized that something was out of place, but couldn't quite put his finger on it. That was the problem with the hospital; everything was twisted around, backward, distorted or misshapen. Seeing accurately was nearly impossible. For an instant, he longed for the simplicity of a fire scene. There had been a sort of freedom in walking amid the charred, wet, and smelly remains of one fire or another, and slowly picturing in his mind's eye precisely how the fire was started, and how it had progressed, from floor to walls to ceiling to roof, accelerated by one fuel or another. There was a certain mathematical precision in dissecting a fire, and it had given him a great amount of satisfaction, holding burnt wood or scorched steel in his hands, feeling residual warmth flowing through his palms, and knowing that he would be able to imagine everything that was destroyed as it had been in the seconds before the fire took grasp. It was like the ability to see into the past, only clearly, without the fogs of emotion and stress. Everything was on the map of the event, and he longed for the easier time where he could follow each route to a precise destination. He had always thought of himself like one of the artists whose duty it was to restore great paintings damaged by time or the elements, painstakingly recreating the colors and brush strokes of so many ancient geniuses, following in the path of a Rembrandt or Da Vinci, a lesser artist, but a crucial one.