The Madman's Tale (47 page)

“What?” Harris said, his voice rising an octave instantly. “Somebody said I did what?”

“You heard me. So explain why you’re boasting in the dormitory, it’s Williams, right? Tell me why you would say what you said.”

“I haven’t said anything like that! You’re crazy!”

“This is a crazy place,” Lucy said slowly. “Tell me why.”

“I didn’t. Who told you this?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge the source of information.”

“Who?”

“You have made claims that have been overheard in the dormitory where you live. You have been indiscreet, to say the least. I’d like you to explain yourself.”

“When did …”

Lucy smiled. “Just recently. This information only came to us recently. So you are denying saying anything?”

“Yes. It’s crazy! Why would I boast about something like that? I don’t know what you’re driving at, lady, but I haven’t killed nobody yet. It don’t make sense …”

“You think everything in here should make sense?”

“Somebody’s lying to you, lady. And somebody wants to get me into trouble.”

Lucy nodded slowly. “I will take that into consideration,” she said. “All right. You can leave. We may, however, have to speak again.”

Harris fairly vaulted out of the chair, taking a step forward, which caused Big Black to uncurl from his position, a movement which the slight man couldn’t help but notice. It made him stop. “Son of a bitch,” he said. And then he turned and exited, after stubbing his cigarette butt on the floor beneath his feet.

Evans was red-faced. “Do you have any idea the trouble those questions might cause?” he demanded. He pointed at the file, slapping his finger down at Harris’s diagnosis. “See what it says, right there. Explosive. Anger management issues. And you provoke him with a bunch of off-the-wall questions that you know won’t elicit any response other than fury. I’ll bet Harris ends up in an isolation cell before the end of the day, and I’ll be in charge of seeing him sedated. Damn! That was simply irresponsible, Miss Jones. And if you’re intending to persist with questions that will only serve to disrupt life on the wards, I’ll be forced to speak with Doctor Gulptilil about it!”

Lucy pivoted toward Evans. “Sorry,” she said. “Thoughtless of me. I’ll try to be more circumspect with the next interviews.”

“I need a break,” Evans said, rising angrily. He stormed out of the room.

Lucy, however, felt a sense of satisfaction.

She, too, rose up and stepped out of the office into the corridor. Peter was waiting, wearing a small, elusive smile, as if he understood everything that had taken place outside of his presence. He gave her a small bow, acknowledging that he had seen and heard enough, and admired the ploy she’d come up with on such short notice. But he didn’t get the chance to say anything to her because at that moment Big Black emerged from behind the nursing station bars, holding a set of hand and foot cuffs. The chains made a rattling sound that
echoed in the corridor. More than one patient wandering through the area saw the attendant, and saw what he held in his hands, and like startled birds taking wing, they swirled out of his path as rapidly as possible.

Peter, however, remained stock-still, waiting.

From a few feet away, Cleo stood up, her immense bulk swaying back and forth as if buffeted by a hurricane wind.

Lucy watched Big Black approach Peter, whisper an apology, and then snap the cuffs on his wrists and attach them around his ankles. She kept her mouth closed.

But as the final restraint clicked shut, a red-faced, infuriated Cleo abruptly shouted out, “The bastards! The bastards! Don’t let them take you away, Peter! We need you!”

Silence hammered the corridor.

“Damn it to hell,” Cleo sang out, “We
need
you!”

Lucy saw that Peter’s face was set, and that all his grinning insouciance had fled. He lifted his hands up, as if testing the limits of the restraints, and she thought she could see a great agony sweep through him, before he turned and passively allowed Big Black to lead him down the corridor hobbled like a wild beast that couldn’t be trusted.

P
eter cautiously shuffled down the hospital pathway at the side of Big Black in the unmistakable loping manner caused by the restraints binding his legs and hands. The huge attendant remained silent, as if embarrassed by the escort duty. He had apologized once to Peter as they stepped outside of the Amherst Building, and then shut up. But he was walking quickly, which prompted Peter to half run to keep up, and forced him to keep his head down, eyes on the black macadam walkway, concentrating on what he was doing so that he would not stumble and fall.

Peter could feel a little of the late afternoon sunlight on his neck, and he managed to lift his head a couple of times to see that shafts of light were streaking over the rows of buildings, as the sunset took grasp of the end of the day. There was a little chill in the air, a familiar reminder that the spring in New England owns a warning to not be overconfident about the advent of summer. Some of the white paint on the window frames glistened, making the barred glass look like heavy-lidded eyes watching his progress across the quadrangle. The cuffs around his hands dug painfully into the flesh of his wrists and he realized that all the exuberance he’d felt when he’d first sneaked out of the Amherst Building in the company of the two brothers to start searching for the Angel, the excitement that had flooded him with every remembered smell and sense, had fled, replaced by a gloom of imprisonment. He did not know what meeting he was being taken to, but he suspected it was significant.

This thought was buttressed by the sight of two black Cadillac limousines parked in the rotary in front of the hospital administration building. They were polished to a reflective sheen.

“What’s going on?” Peter whispered to Big Black.

The attendant shook his head. “They just told me to get the restraints and bring you along real quick. So now you know as much as me.”

“Which is nothing,” Peter said, and the big man nodded in agreement.

He lurched up the stairs behind Big Black and hurried down the hallway to Gulptilil’s office. Miss Luscious was waiting behind her secretary’s desk, and Peter saw that her familiar scowl had been replaced by a look of discomfort and that she had covered up her usual skintight blouse with a loose-fitting cardigan. “Hurry up,” she said. “They’ve been waiting.” She did not say who
they
were.

The chains jangled with the music of restraint as he hurried forward, and Big Black held the door open for him. Peter shuffled into the room.

He first saw Gulp-a-pill behind his desk. The medical director rose, as Peter entered. There was, as usual, an empty seat in front of the desk. There were also three other men in the room. All wore the black suits and white collars of the clergy. Peter did not recognize two of the men, but the third was a face familiar to any Boston Catholic. The Cardinal was seated to the side, dead center of a couch that was placed along the wall. He had his legs crossed, and he seemed relaxed. One of the other priests was seated next to him, and held a brown leather folder in his hands, a yellow legal-size notepad, and a large, black pen, which he fiddled with nervously. The third priest had been given a seat behind Gulptilil’s desk, just to the side of the medical director. He had a sheaf of papers in front of him.

“Ah, Mister Moses, thank you. Please, if you would be so kind, remove the restraints from Peter’s hands and legs.”

It took a moment or two for the attendant to do this. Then he stepped back, looking toward the medical director, who gave him a small, dismissive wave. “Just wait outside for us to call you, won’t you please, Mister Moses. I’m sure that there is no need for any additional security to be present during this meeting.” He looked over at Peter and added, “We are all gentlemen here, are we not?”

Peter did not reply to this. He didn’t feel very much like a gentleman in that moment.

Without a word, Big Black turned and left Peter standing alone. Gulptilil gestured toward the chair. “Be seated, Peter,” he said. “These men would like to ask you some questions.”

Peter nodded, and sat down heavily, but slid to the front of the chair, poised. He tried to appear confident, but he knew this was unlikely. He could feel a rush of emotions within him, a range from out-and-out hatred to curiosity,
and he warned himself to keep whatever he said short and direct. “I recognize the Cardinal,” Peter said, looking directly at the medical director. “I have seen his picture on many occasions. But I’m afraid I do not know the other two gentlemen. Do they have names?”

Gulptilil nodded. “Father Callahan is the Cardinal’s personal assistant,” Gulptilil said, indicating the figure seated beside the Cardinal. He was a middle-aged, balding man, with a pair of thick eyeglasses that were pushed tight to his face, and stubby fingers that gripped his pen tightly and drummed against the legal pad. He nodded at Peter, but did not rise to shake hands. “And the other gentleman is Father Grozdik, who has some questions for you.”

Peter nodded. The priest with the Polish name was much younger, probably close in age to Peter himself. He was lean, athletic, well over six feet tall. His black suit seemed tailored to a narrow waist and he had a languid, feline appearance. His dark hair was worn long, but brushed back from his face, and he had penetrating blue eyes that were lodged on Peter, and had not wavered from him since he’d been escorted into the room. He, too, did not rise, offer his hand, or say anything in greeting, but leaned forward in a eerily predatory fashion. Peter met the man’s gaze, then said, “My guess is that Father Grozdik also has a title. Perhaps he would share that with me.”

“I’m with the Archdiocese’s legal office,” he said. The priest had a flat, even voice that betrayed little.

“Perhaps, if the Father’s questions are of a legal nature, I should have my attorney present?” Peter said. He formed this as a question purposefully, hoping to read something in the priest’s response.

“We were all hoping that you would agree to meet with us informally,” the priest answered.

“That would of course depend on what it is you wish to know,” Peter said. “Especially, as I note that Father Callahan over there has already begun to take notes.”

The older priest stopped writing in midstroke. He lifted his eyes to the younger priest, who nodded back at him. The Cardinal remained motionless on the couch, watching Peter carefully.

“Do you object?” Father Grozdik asked. “It might be important at some later point to have a record of this meeting. That would be as much for your protection as ours. And, should nothing come of this, well, then we can always agree to destroy the record. But, if you have an objection …” He let his voice trail off.

“Not yet. Maybe later,” Peter said.

“Good. Then we can proceed.”

“Please do,” Peter said stiffly.

Father Grozdik stared down at his papers, taking his time before continuing.
Peter realized instantly that the man had had training in interrogation techniques. He could see this in the patient, settled manner the priest had, arranging his thoughts prior to opening his mouth with a question. Peter guessed the military, and saw a simple procession: Saint Ignatius for high school, then Boston College for undergraduate work. ROTC training at college, a tour of duty overseas with military police, a return to BC Law and more Jesuitical training, then the fast track in the archdiocese. Growing up, he’d known a few like Father Grozdik, who had been placed by virtue of intellect and ambition, on the church’s priority list. The only thing out of place, Peter realized, was the Polish name. Not Irish, which he thought was interesting. But, then, in that moment, he realized that his own background was Irish Catholic, as was the Cardinal’s and the Cardinal’s assistant, and so, a message was being sent by bringing in someone of different ethnic origins. He wasn’t precisely sure what advantage this gave the three priests. He guessed that he would find out in short order.

“So, Peter,” the priest began, “ it is acceptable that I call you Peter? I would like to keep this session informal.”

“Of course, Father,” Peter said. He nodded his head. That was clever, he thought. Everyone else had an adult’s authority and a status. He only had a first name. He had used the same approach with more than one arsonist that he’d questioned.

“So, Peter,” the priest began again, “you are here in the hospital for a mental evaluation ordered by the court prior to continuing with the charges against you, is that not correct?”

“Yes. Trying to figure out whether I’m crazy. Too crazy to stand trial.”

“That is because many people who know you believe your actions to be, what? Shall we say ‘out of character’? Is that a fair representation?”

“A fireman who sets a fire. A good Catholic boy who burns down a church. Sure. Out of character is fine with me.”

“And, are you crazy, Peter?”

“No. But that’s what most of the folks in here would say if they were asked the same question, so I’m not sure my opinion counts for all that much.”

“What conclusions do you think the staff here have reached so far?”

“I would suspect they are still in the process of accumulating impressions, Father, but that they more or less have reached the same conclusion as I have. They will put it a little more clinically, of course. Say that I’m filled with unresolved angers. Neurotic. Compulsive. Perhaps even antisocial. But that I knew what I was doing, and that I knew it was wrong, and that’s the legal standard, more or less, right Father? They must have taught you that at Boston College law, right?”

Father Grozdik smiled and shifted himself slightly in his seat, and then
replied humorlessly. “Yes. Good guess, Peter. Or did you spot the class ring?” He held up his hand and displayed a large, gold ring that caught some light coming through the window. Peter realized that the priest had positioned himself in such a way that the Cardinal could watch Peter’s reactions to questions without Peter being able to turn and see how the Cardinal was responding.

“It’s a curious matter, isn’t it, Peter?” Father Grozdik asked, his voice remaining flat and cold.