He spoke, pausing in such a way as to demonstrate that he was actually not thanking her for anything, before continuing. '… But are you not seeking someone who uses a knife, and who somewhat ritualistically defaces the hands of his victims and who, to the best of your knowledge, confines his assaults to young women?'
'Yes,' Lucy replied. 'You are correct.'
'So, this death would not seem to fit the pattern that interests you?'
'Again, Doctor, you are correct.'
'Then, please, allow us to handle this death in routine fashion.'
'You don't call in outside authorities?'
Gulptilil sighed, but again, this only barely concealed his irritation. 'When a patient dies during surgery, does the neurosurgeon call a policeman? This situation is analogous, Miss Jones. We file a report with the state. We hold a mortality conference with the staff. We contact the next of kin, if there are any listed. In some cases, where doubt factors are large, we hand the body over for autopsy. In others, however, we do not. And oftentimes, Miss Jones, because this hospital is the only home and only family that some unfortunate patients have, we are in charge of seeing our dead directly into the grave.'
He shrugged, but again, a movement that spoke of disinterest and nonchalance, hid what Lucy Jones thought was anger.
In the doorway, a crowd of patients gathered, trying to see into the dormitory. Gulptilil glanced at Mister Evil. 'I think this is bordering on the morbid, Mister Evans. Let's clear those folks out and move the fellow over to the morgue.'
'Doctor…' Lucy started in again, but he cut her off, and turned, instead to Mister Evil.
'Tell me, Mister Evans, did anyone in this unit awaken last night and observe a struggle? Was there a battle that anyone saw? Were there screams and punches thrown and shouted curses and imprecations? Everything that ordinarily fits into the type of conflict that we are accustomed to?'
'No, Doctor,' Evans replied. 'None whatsoever.'
'A fight to the death, perhaps?'
'No.'
Gulptilil turned to Lucy. 'Certainly, Miss Jones, if there had been a murder, someone in the midst of this room would have awakened and seen or heard something. Absent that, however…'
Francis took a half step forward, about to say something, but then stopped.
He glanced over at Big Black, who shook his head slightly. The big attendant was giving good advice, Francis realized. If he described what he'd heard, and the presence that had lurked by his own bedside, it most likely would merely have been considered another hallucination by physicians predisposed to reach that conclusion. I heard something but no one else did. I felt something but no one else noticed. I know a murder took place but no one else does. Francis immediately saw the hopelessness of his position. His protest would have been noted and registered in his file as yet a further indication of how far he was from meaningful recovery and the opportunity to get out of the hospital.
Francis held his breath. In the hospital, the Angel's presence was still neither real nor delusion. He knew the Angel understood this. No wonder, Francis thought, to a chorus of assent within him, the killer was confident. He can get away with anything.
The question, Francis asked himself, was: What is it he wants to get away with?
So he clamped down on his lip, and stared instead at the Dancer. What killed him, Francis wondered? No blood. No marks around the neck. Just a death mask engraved on his features. Probably a pillow held down over the face. Quiet panic. Silent death. A momentary thrashing about and then oblivion. Is that what I heard last night? Francis asked himself. He thought painfully: Yes. I just never opened my eyes to the noise.
The knife that had killed Short Blond, this time had been reserved for him. But the message on the bunk was for all of them. Francis could feel his muscles shuddering. He was still gathering himself together, understanding how close he'd been that night to either real death or being driven into a deeper madness. It was, he thought, as if the two of them went hand in hand, a matched set of unpleasant alternatives.
'I hate these sorts of deaths,' Gulptilil said offhandedly to Mister Evans. 'They upset everyone. See that medications are adjusted for anyone who seems to be unreasonably focused on this event,' the medical director said, throwing a look in Francis's direction. 'I do not want patients dwelling on this death, especially with a release hearing scheduled for later this week.'
'I know what you mean,' Evans said.
Francis, however, suddenly bent toward the doctor's words. He was unsure whether the Dancer's death would prove to be anything more than a curiosity for everyone in the housing unit. But he did know that the news that a release hearing was scheduled for that week would have a dramatic impact on many of the patients. Someone might get out, and hope inside Western State was the half brother of delusion.
He stole one last look at the Dancer and felt an improbable sadness within him. There's a man who got his release unexpectedly, Francis thought.
But within the ebb and flow of fear and sadness that he felt, Francis perceived something else: a juxtaposition of events that he couldn't quite identify, but which gave him a cold suspicion within that worried him.
A gurney was wheeled into the dormitory to remove the Dancer's body. Gulptilil and Mister Evil oversaw the dead man being rolled out of his bunk and placed under a dingy white sheet. Lucy shook her head, watching what she thought might be a crime scene cavalierly eradicated.
Gulptilil turned, and trailing after the body, spotted Francis. He paused, and said, 'Ah, Mister Petrel. I wonder if it might not be time soon for us to have another session.'
Francis knew what the doctor wanted. He nodded, because he didn't know what else to do. But then, in a switch that left the medical director almost openmouthed in surprise, Francis lifted his arms above his head, and pirouetted about slowly, moving his feet and arms as gracefully and ballet like as he could, in conscious imitation of the dead man's dance to music only he could hear.
Gulptilil tried to interrupt him, suddenly asking, 'Mister Petrel, are you okay?' which Francis thought a most fantastically stupid question, as he simply danced out of the doctor's path.
At their regularly scheduled group session that day, the conversation turned to the space program. Newsman had been spouting headlines for the past few days, but there was widespread disbelief amongst the patients at Western State whether any moon walks had actually taken place. Cleo in particular had been defiant, rumbling about government cover-ups and unknown otherworldly dangers, giggling one instant, then growing morose and quiet the next. The swings in her mood seemed obvious to everyone except Mister Evil, who ignored most of the external signs of madness when they reared up. This was his usual approach. He liked to listen, take a note, and then the patient would discover later, when he or she lined up for the evening medication, that their dosage had been adjusted. This had a stifling effect upon much of the conversation, because everyone at the hospital saw the daily medications as so many links of the chain that kept them there.
The Dancer's death wasn't mentioned, although it was on everyone's minds. Short Blond's murder had fascinated and scared them, but the Dancer dying reminded them all of their own mortality, which was a different fear altogether. More than once, patients sitting in the group's loose circle burst out in a laugh, or choked a sob, none of which had anything to do with the course of the conversation, but seemed to erupt spontaneously from some internal thought or another.
Francis thought that Mister Evil was watching him particularly closely. He attributed this to his bizarre behavior earlier that morning.
'What about you, Francis?' Evans asked abruptly, poking at Francis with a question.
'I'm sorry, what about me what?' Francis replied.
'What do you think about astronauts?'
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. 'It's hard to imagine,' he answered.
