The Madman's Tale (46 page)

Gulp-a-pill was standing by his window, staring out across one of the quadrangles. He seemed to linger for a moment, keeping watch on whatever he could see. Francis moved into a chair across from the doctor’s desk, and stared out the same window, to try to see what the physician found so intriguing. He realized that the only times he’d looked out a window that wasn’t barred or grated was in the medical director’s office. It made the world look far more benign than it really was.

The doctor turned abruptly. “A fine day, Francis, don’t you think? Spring seems to have taken hold quite firmly.”

“Sometimes, inside where we are, it’s hard to get a sense of the season changing,” Francis said. “There’s a lot of grime and dirt on the windows. If we had the windows washed, I bet it would help people’s moods.”

Gulptilil nodded. “This is an excellent suggestion, Francis, and one that displays some insight. I will mention it to the building and grounds workers, see if they can’t add some window scrubbing to their duties, although, I suspect, they are overburdened already.”

He sat down behind his desk, gathered himself, and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the surface, lifting his arms to form an inverted V and placing his chin at the juncture of his hands. “So, Francis, do you know what day it is?” he asked.

Francis answered rapidly. “Friday.”

“And how is it that you are so sure?”

“Tuna fish and macaroni on the luncheon menu. Standard Friday fare.”

“Yes, and why would that be?”

“In deference to the Catholic patients, I would suspect,” Francis answered.
“Some still feel it necessary to eat fish on Fridays. My own family does. Mass on Sundays. Fish on Fridays. It’s the natural order of things.”

“And you?”

“I don’t think I’m as religious,” Francis said.

Gulptilil thought this was interesting, but did not follow up on it. “Do you know the date?” he asked.

Francis shook his head. “I believe it is either the fifth or sixth of May,” he said. “I’m sorry. The days seem to blend together in the hospital. And usually I count on Newsman to fill me in on current events, but I haven’t seen him today.”

“It is the fifth. Can you remember that for me, please.”

“Yes.”

“And do you recall who is the president of the United States?”

“Carter.”

Gulptilil smiled, but barely moved his chin from its perch on his fingertips. “And so,” the medical director continued, as if what he were about to say was a logical extension of the prior conversation, “I have met with Mister Evans, who reports to me that although you have made some progress in socialization and in understanding your illness, and the impact that it has upon yourself and those close to you, that he believes despite your current course of medication that you continue to hear voices belonging to people who are not present, voices that urge you to act in specific fashions, and that you still have fixed and settled delusions about events.”

Francis did not reply, because he did not hear a question. Within him, whispers ricocheted about, but they remained quiet, hard to hear, almost as if they were all afraid that the medical director would be able to hear them as well, if they raised their tones.

“Tell me, Francis,” Gulptilil continued, “do you think that Mister Evans’s assessment is accurate?”

“It’s hard to respond,” Francis said. He shifted about a little uncomfortably in his seat, aware, in that second, that any action he made, every word he spoke, every inflection, every mannerism, might be fodder for the doctor’s opinion. “I think Mister Evans automatically considers something that one of us patients says that he disagrees with to be a delusion, and so it is hard to know what to say in answer.”

The medical director smiled, and finally leaned back. “That is a cogent and organized statement, Francis. Very good.”

For an instant, Francis started to relax, but then, as quickly, he remembered to not trust the doctor, and especially not to trust a compliment tossed his direction. There was a murmuring of assent deep within him. Whenever his voices agreed with him, it gave Francis confidence.

“But Mister Evans is also a professional, Francis, so we should not discount what he says too rapidly. Tell me, how is life in Amherst for you? Do you get along with the other patients? The remainder of the staff? Do you look forward to Mister Evans’s therapy sessions? And, tell me, Francis, do you think you are closer to being able to go home? Has your time here so far been, shall we say,
profitable?”

The doctor moved forward, a slightly predatory motion that Francis recognized. The questions hovering in the air were a minefield, and he needed to be cautious in his replies. “The dormitory is fine, Doctor, although overcrowded, and I believe I am able to get along with everyone, more or less. It is sometimes difficult to see the value in Mister Evans’s therapy sessions, although it is always helpful when the discussion turns to current events, because I sometimes fear that we are too isolated here in the hospital, and that the world’s business continues without our engagement in it. And I’d very much like to go home, Doctor, but I’m unsure what it is that I have to prove to you and to my family that will allow me to.”

“None of them,” the doctor said stiffly, “has deemed it necessary or worthwhile to come visit you, I believe?”

Francis looped some coils of control over emotions that threatened to erupt. “Not yet, doctor.”

“A phone call, perhaps? A letter or two?”

“No.”

“That must cause you some distress, does it not, Francis?”

He took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said.

“But you do not feel abandoned?”

Francis was unsure what the right answer was, so he said, “I’m okay.”

Gulptilil smiled, not the bemused smile, but the snakelike one. “And you are okay I suspect because you still hear the voices that have been with you for so many years?”

“No,” Francis lied. “The medication has erased them.”

“But you acknowledge that they have been there in the past?”

Within him, he could hear echoes
no, no, no, don’t say anything, hide us, Francis!

“I’m just not precisely sure I know what you mean, Doctor,” he replied. He didn’t imagine for an instant that this would put the doctor off his pursuit.

Gulptilil waited for several seconds, letting silence flow throughout the room, as if he expected Francis to add something, which he did not.

“Tell me this, Francis. Do you believe that there is a killer loose in the hospital?”

Francis inhaled sharply. He hadn’t expected this question, although, he understood, it would have been fair to say that he hadn’t expected
any
question.
For a moment, he let his eyes race around the room, as if he was looking for a way out. His heart was pounding and all his voices were silent, because they all knew that hidden within the doctor’s question were all sorts of important notions, and he had no idea what the right answer would be. He saw the doctor lift an eyebrow quizzically, and Francis knew that delay was as dangerous as anything.

“Yes,” he said slowly.

“You do not believe that this is a delusion and a paranoid one, at that?”

“No,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to not sound hesitant.

The doctor nodded his head. “And why do you think this?” he asked.

“Miss Jones seems convinced. And so does Peter. And I don’t think that Lanky …”

Gulptilil held up his hand. “These details we’ve discussed before. Tell me, what has changed in the ah,
investigation
, ah, that suggests that you are on the correct path.”

Francis wanted to squirm in his chair but didn’t dare to do so. “Miss Jones is still interviewing potential suspects,” he said. “I don’t believe that she has reached any conclusions yet about any individual, other than some that have been cleared. Mister Evans has helped her with that.”

Gulptilil paused, assessing the answer. “You would tell me, would you not, Francis?”

“Tell you what, Doctor?”

“If she had made some determination.”

“I’m not sure …”

“It would be a sign, at least to me, that you have a much firmer grasp of reality. It would show some progress on your part, I think, if you were able to express yourself on this score. And who knows where that might lead, Francis? Taking charge of reality, why that’s an important step on the road to recovery. A very important step and a very important road. And that road would lead to all sorts of changes. Perhaps a visit from your family. Perhaps a furlough home for a weekend. And then, perhaps greater freedoms, still. A road of significant possibility, Francis.”

The doctor bent toward Francis, who remained silent.

“I make myself clear?” he asked.

Francis nodded.

“Good. Then we will make time to speak of these matters again in the next few days, Francis. And, of course, should you think it important to speak to me at any time, about any details or observations you might have, why, my door is always open to you. I will always make the time available. At any time, do you understand?”

“Yes. I believe so.”

“I am pleased with your progress, Francis. And pleased, as well, that we had this talk.”

Francis again remained silent.

The doctor gestured toward the door. “I believe we are finished for this moment, Francis, and I have to prepare for a rather important visitor. You may let yourself out. My secretary will arrange for someone to escort you back to Amherst.”

Francis pushed himself up out of the chair and took a few tentative strides toward the office door, when he was stopped by Doctor Gulptilil’s voice. “Ah, Francis, I almost forgot. Before you leave, can you tell me what day it is?”

“Friday.”

“And the date.”

“The fifth of May.”

“Excellent. And the name of our distinguished president?”

“Carter.”

“Very good, Francis. I hope we will have an opportunity soon to speak some more.”

And with that, Francis let himself out the door. He didn’t dare to look back over his shoulder, to see if the doctor was watching him. But he could feel Gulptilil’s eyes boring into his back, right into the place where his neck met his skull.
Get out now!
he heard from deep within his head, and he was eager to oblige.

The man seated across from Lucy was wiry and small, a little like a professional horse racing jockey in build. He wore a crooked smile, that seemed to her to bend in the same direction that the man hunched his shoulders, giving him a lopsided appearance. He had stringy black hair that encircled his face in a tangled mass, and blue eyes that glowed with an intensity that was unsettling. Every third breath the man took seemed to emerge in an asthmatic wheeze, which didn’t prevent him from lighting one cigarette after the other, so that a smoky haze surrounded his face. Evans coughed once or twice and Big Black retreated to a corner of the office, just close enough, just far enough. Big Black, Lucy thought, seemed to have an instinctive knowledge of distances, almost automatically going to just the right amount for every patient.

She glanced at the file in front of her. “Mister Harris,” she said. “I wonder if you might tell me if you recognize any of these people.”

With that, she thrust the crime scene photographs across the desk at the man.

He took each one carefully, spending perhaps a few too many seconds examining each. Then he shook his head. “Murdered people,” he said with a lingering
emphasis on the first word. “Dead and left in the woods, it looks like. Not my cup of tea.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No. I don’t know them.” His lopsided grin expanded slightly. “And if I did, would you expect me to admit it?”

Lucy ignored this. “You have a record of violence,” she said.

“A fight in a bar isn’t a murder.”

She looked closely at him.

“Nor is drunk driving. Or beating up some guy who thought he could call me names.”

“Look carefully at that third picture,” she said slowly. “Do you see the date inscribed on the bottom of the photograph?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me your whereabouts during that time?”

“I was here.”

“No, you weren’t. Please don’t lie to me.”

The man Harris shifted about. “Then I was in Walpole on some of those bogus charges they like to hit me up with.”

“No, you weren’t. I repeat: Don’t lie to me.”

Harris shifted about. “I was down on the Cape. I had a job down there working for a roofing contractor.”

Lucy looked at the file. “Curious time, wasn’t it? You’re up on some roof somewhere, claiming to be hearing voices, and at the same time, after hours, all sorts of houses within blocks of where you’re working are getting ripped off.”

“Nobody ever filed those charges.”

“That’s because you got them to ship you here.”

He smiled again, showing uneven teeth. A slippery, awful man, Lucy thought. But not the man she was hunting. She could sense Evans growing uneasy at her side.

“So,” she said slowly, “you had nothing to do with any of this?”

“That’s right,” Harris said. “Can I leave now?”

“Yes,” Lucy said. As Harris started to rise, she added: “As soon as you explain to me why another patient would tell us that you boasted of these killings.”