Legion (13 page)

“No sweat,” said Temple.

“You’re sure?”

“This place is my baby. I’m proud of it. Come on and I’ll show you around.” He opened the door.

“You’re positive?”

“Positive,” said Temple.

Kinderman walked through the door. Temple followed. “It’s this way,” said Temple, pointing to the right; then he bounded off. Kinderman trailed him, struggling to catch up . with the springing steps. “I feel so guilty,” said the detective.

“Well, you’re with the right man.”

Kinderman toured the open ward. It was a maze of hallways, most of them lined with the patients’ rooms, although in some there were conference rooms and offices for the staff. There was also a snack bar, as well as a physical therapy set–up. But the center of activity was a large recreation room with a nurse’s station, a Ping–Pong table and a television set. When Temple and Kinderman arrived there, the psychiatrist pointed to a large group of patients who were watching something that sounded like a game show. Most of them were elderly and stared dully at the television screen. They were dressed in pajamas, robes and slippers. “That’s where the action is,” said Temple. “They bicker all day over what show to watch. The duty nurse spends all her time refereeing.”

“They seem happy with it now,” said Kinderman.

“Just wait. Now, there’s a typical patient,’’ said Temple. He was pointing to a man in the group watching television. He was wearing a baseball cap. “He’s a castrophrenic,” Temple explained. “He thinks enemies are sucking all the thoughts from his mind. I dunno. He could be right. And then there’s Lang. He’s the guy standing up in the back. He was a pretty good chemist, then he started in listening to voices on a tape recorder. Dead people. Answering his questions. He’d read some kind of book on the subject. That’s what started him.”

Why does that strike me as familiar? wondered Kinderman. He felt a strangeness in his soul.

“Pretty soon he was hearing all these voices in his shower,’’ said Temple. “Then in any kind of running water. A faucet. The ocean. Then in branches in the wind or rustling leaves. Pretty soon he was hearing them in his sleep. Now he can’t get away from them. He says the television drowns them out.”

“And these voices made him mentally ill?” asked Kinderman.

“No. The mental illness made him hear all these voices.’’

“Like the clicking in the ear?”

“No, the guy is really wacked. Take my word. He really is. See that woman in the crazy hat? Another beauty. But one of my successes. You see her?” He was pointing to an obese middle–aged woman who was sitting with the television crowd.

“Yes, I see her,” said Kinderman.

“Oh–oh,” said Temple. “Now she sees me. Here she comes.”

The woman was rapidly shuffling toward them. Her slippers slid gratingly against the floor. Soon she was standing directly in front of them. Her hat, made of rounded blue felt, was covered with candy bars that were held to it with pins. “No towels,” the woman told Temple.

“No towels,” the psychiatrist echoed.

The woman turned around and started back toward her group.

“She used to hoard towels,” said Temple. “She’d steal them from the other patients. But I cured that. For a week, we gave her seven extra towels every day. Then the next week twenty and the next week forty. Pretty soon she had so many in her room she couldn’t move, and when we brought her her ration one day, she started screaming and throwing them out. She couldn’t stand them anymore.” The psychiatrist was quiet for one or two moments, watching as the woman settled into her place. “I guess the candy comes next,” said Temple tonelessly.

“They’re so quiet,” observed the detective. He looked around at some patients in chairs. They were slumping and listless, staring into space.

“Yeah, most of them are vegetables,” said Temple. He tapped a finger against his head. “Nobody’s home. Of course, the drugs don’t help.”

“The drugs?”

“Their medication,” said Temple. “Thorazine. They get it every day. It tends to make them even spacier.”

“The drug cart comes in here?”

“Sure.”

“It has drugs besides Thorazine on it?”

Temple turned his head to look at Kinderman. “Why?”

“Just a question.”

The psychiatrist shrugged. “Could be. If the cart is on its way to the disturbed ward.”

“And that is where electroshock therapy is done?”

“Well, not so much anymore.”

“Not so much?”

“Well, from time to time,” said Temple. “When it’s needed.”

“Have you patients in this ward who have medical knowledge?”

‘‘Funny question,’’ said Temple.

“It’s my albatross,” said Kinderman. “My bear. I cannot help it. When I think of a thing, right away I have to say it out loud.”

Temple looked disoriented by this answer, but then turned and made a gesture toward one of the patients, a middle–aged, slender man in a chair. He was sitting by a window, staring out. Late afternoon sunlight slanted across him, dividing his body into light and dark. His face was expressionless. “He was a medic in the fifties in Korea,” said Temple. “Lost his genitals. He hasn’t said a word in almost thirty years.”

Kinderman nodded. He turned and glanced around at the nursing station. The nurse was busy writing a report. A well–built black attendant stood near her, resting his arm on the station counter while keeping his eye on the patients in the room.

“You have only one nurse here,” Kinderman observed.

“That’s all it takes,” said Temple easily. He put his hands on his hips and stared ahead. “You know, when the television set’s turned off, all you hear in this room is the shuffling of slippers. It’s a creepy sound,” he said. He continued to stare for a time, then he turned his head to look at the detective. Kinderman was watching the man by the window. “You look depressed,” said Temple.

Kinderman turned to him and said, “Me?”

“Do you tend to brood a lot? You’ve been broody since you came to my office. Are you broody all the time?”

Kinderman recognized with surprise that what Temple was saying was the truth. Since entering his office, Kinderman hadn’t felt like himself. The psychiatrist had dominated his spirit. How had he done that? He looked at his eyes. There was a whirling within them.

“It’s my work,” said Kinderman.

“Then change it. Somebody asked me once, ‘What can I do about these headaches that I always get from eating pork?’ You know what I told him? ‘Stop eating pork.’ “

“May I see Miss Lazlo’s room now, please?”

“Would you please brighten up?”

“I am trying.”

“Good. Come on, then, I’ll take you to her room. It’s close by.”

Temple led Kinderman through a hallway, and then into another, and soon they were standing in the room.

“There’s very little in it,” said Temple.

“Yes, I see.”

In fact, it was bare. Kinderman looked into a closet. Another blue bathrobe was there. He searched the drawers. They were empty. There were towels and soap in the bathroom; that was all. Kinderman looked around the little room. Suddenly he felt a cold draft against his face. It seemed to flow through him, and then it ebbed. He looked at the window. It was closed. He had an odd feeling. He looked at his watch. It was three fifty–five.

“Well, I must be going,” said Kinderman. “Thank you very much.”

“Any time,” said Temple.

The psychiatrist led Kinderman out of the ward and into a hall of the neurology wing. They parted by the doors to the open ward. “Well, I’ve got to get back inside,” said Temple. “You know the way out from here?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Have I made your day, Lieutenant?”

“And my evening as well, perhaps.”

“Good. If you’re ever depressed again, just call or come in here and see me. I can help you.”

“What school of psychiatry do you follow?”

“I’m a diehard behaviorist,” said Temple. “Give me all the facts and I’ll tell you ahead of time what a person is going to do.”

Kinderman looked down and shook his head.

“What’s the shaking of the head for?” asked Temple.

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“No, it’s something,” said Temple. “What’s the problem?”

Kinderman looked up into eyes that were belligerent. “Well, I’ve always felt sorry for behaviorists, Doctor. They can never say,
‘
thank you for passing the mustard.’ “

The psychiatrist’s mouth tightened up. He said, “When are we getting Lazlo back?”

“Tonight. I will arrange it.”

“Good. That’s swell.” Temple pushed in on a door. He said, “See you ‘round the campus, Lieutenant,” and disappeared into the open ward. Kinderman stood there a moment, listening. He could hear the rubber soles quickly springing away. When the sound was gone he felt an immediate sense of relief. He sighed, then had the feeling he’d forgotten something. He felt at a bulge in a pocket of his coat. Dyer’s books. He turned right and walked swiftly away.

When Kinderman entered Dyer’s room the priest looked up from reading his Office. He was still in his bed. “Well, it took you long enough,” he complained. “I’ve had seven transfusions since you left.”

Kinderman stopped at the side of the bed and dumped the books on Dyer’s stomach. “As you ordered,” he said. “The Life of Monet and Conversations with Wolfgang Pauli. Do you know why Christ was crucified, Father? He preferred it to carrying these books in public.”

“Don’t be snobbish.”

“There are Jesuit missions in India, Father. Couldn’t you find one to work in? The flies are not as bad as they say. They’re very pretty; they’re all different colors. Also Scruples is translated now into Hindi; you’ll still have your comforts and usual
chotchkelehs
by your side. Also several million copies of the Kama Sutra.”

“I’ve read it.”

“No doubt.” Kinderman had moved to the foot of the bed, where he picked up Dyer’s medical chart, gave it a glance and put it back. “You’ll forgive me if I leave now this mystical discussion? Too much of aesthetics always gives me a headache. I have also two patients in another ward, both priests: Joe DiMaggio and Jimmy the Greek. I am leaving you.”

“Leave then.”

“What’s the hurry?”

“I want to get back to Scruples.”

Kinderman turned and began to walk out.

“Is it something I’ve said?” asked Dyer.

“Mother India is calling you, Father.”

Kinderman went out into the hall and out of sight. Dyer stared at the empty, open doorway. “Bye, Bill,” he murmured with a fond, warm smile. After a moment he returned to his Office.

Back at the precinct, Kinderman waddled through the noisy squad room, entered his office and closed the door. Atkins was waiting for him. He was leaning against a wall. He wore blue jeans and a thick, black turtleneck sweater underneath a shiny black leather jacket. “We’re going too far down, Captain Nemo,” said Kinderman, eyeing him bleakly from the door. “The hull cannot take all this pressure.” He strode toward his desk. “And neither can I. Atkins, what are you thinking of? Stop it. Twelfth Night is at the Folger already, not here. What’s this?” The detective leaned over his desk and picked up two composite sketches. He eyed them numbly, then darted a querulous look at Atkins. “These are the suspects?” he said.

“No one got a clear look,” said Atkins.

“I can see that. The old man–looks like a senile avocado trying to pass for Harpo Marx. The other one, meanwhile, boggles my mind. The man in the windbreaker had a mustache? No one mentioned a mustache in the church, not a wo
r
d.”

“That was Miss Volpe’s contribution.”

“Miss Volpe.” Kinderman dropped the sketches and rubbed a hand across his face. “Meshugge. Miss Volpe, meet Julie Febre.”

“I have something to tell you, Lieutenant.”

“Not now. Can’t you see a man trying to die? It takes absolute, total concentration.” Kinderman wearily sat at his desk and stared at the sketches. “Sherlock Holmes had it easy,” he complained gloomily. “He had no sketches of the Hound of the Baskervilles to cope with. Also, Miss Volpe is doubtless worth ten of his Moriarty.”

“The Gemini file came in, sir.”

“I know that. I see it on the desk. Are we surfacing, Nemo? My vision is no longer blurred.”

“I have some news for you, Lieutenant.”

“Hold your thought. I’ve had a fascinating day at the Georgetown Hospital. Are you going to ask me about it?”

“What happened?”

“I’m not ready to discuss it at this time. However, I want your opinion on something. This is all academic. Understand? Just assume these hypothetical facts. A learned psychiatrist, someone like the Chief of Psychiatry at the hospital, makes a clumsy effort to make me think that he is covering up for a colleague; let’s say a neurologist who is working on the problem of pain. This happens, in this hypothetical case, when I ask this imaginary psychiatrist if anyone on his staff has a certain eccentricity about his handwriting. This make–believe psychiatrist looks me in the eye for two or three hours, then he looks away and says ‘no’ very loud. Also, like a fox, I find there’s friction between them. Maybe not. But I think so. What do you induce from this nonsense, Atkins?”