"Room 660" by Deborah Cullins Smith

                                                                                                 ROOM 660

                                                                                      By Deborah Cullins Smith



The stench was overpowering.

Donald hated hospitals; nursing homes stood at the gates of hell.  His disdain, reflected in his grimace, grew like a shadow cast against the dinghy walls.  He hated them, always had, these outcasts of society.  The elderly, the deformed, the diseased – the dregs of humanity withering in the forgotten corners of the world.

And now he was joining their ranks.
    
Wheelchairs lined the walls.  Ancient crones sat, their spastic limbs twisted into gross caricatures of the vibrant lives they had once lived.  Most seemed catatonic – mere extensions of the chairs that held their shattered remains.  A few glared, seething at the circumstances that chained them to this dreary exile.

 “How much further?” he asked the silent orderly who escorted him through these horrid hallways.  He wanted – no, needed – solitude.  The pain around him was a monstrous entity with a life of its own.

“Just about there,” replied the uncommunicative man behind him.  “Room 660.”

Donald had seen the man when he was checked in at the front desk.  Tall, thin, with dark, shoulder-length hair, he had deep set fathomless eyes that showed no signs of warmth or human comfort.

A short, fat woman waddled into the hallway from a room on the left.  Her angry black eyes bore into his own with contemptuous arrogance.
    
“Whatchu looking at, Pig!”  she shouted at him.  “No excuses!  There’s no excuse for an ugly mess like you.  You could look better if you just tried.  But oh, no!  Not Mr. Hotshot.  Look atchu.  Ain’t nothin’ but a lump o’ lard now.”

Rolls of fat wriggled with indignation, dementia shooting sparks like lightning bolts from her twisted features.

Her belligerance crackled like static as other patients came to life and added their own epitaphs.

“Not so fancy now, are ya’?”  shouted a skinny woman in a ratty robe, her hair sticking out in tangled strands.  “Stuck in here with the rest of the outcasts.  Serves you right!”

“Hey, Big Shot!” screeched a hunch-backed man, his toothless gums visible in the leering grin.  “So you’re stuck in this place just like all the rest of us.”  His maniacal laugh came straight out of an old horror film.
    
‘Igor’ would have been envious, thought Donald wryly.

Obscenities followed him all the way down the long corridor.  Where was he going?  Outer Mongolia?  The headache had set in from the moment Donald crossed this institution’s threshold and it didn’t show any signs of disappearing in the foreseeable future.

If only this stupid intern would pick up the pace, Donald thought angrily.  I can’t stand this place and I haven’t even seen the room yet.  Mingling is definitely NOT going to be on my agenda.

The abrupt turn through an open door to the right took Donald by surprise. Room 660, and it was worse than he had imagined.  He surveyed the spartan room with distaste.  Donald had enjoyed extravagance all of his adult life.  This pristinely plain room – four walls, a window with tan curtains, a single hospital bed, and a tacky vinyl chair – did nothing to boost his morale.

Donald missed his study with floor-to-ceiling cherry shelves filled with leather-bound classics and medical reference books.  His massive, hand-carved desk held a state-of-the-art computer, engraved daily calendar cube, pens in a brass holder, and a gold clock in a glass dome.  Elegant wing-back chairs flanked the fireplace, and a fully stocked liquor cabinet graced the corner by the patio doors.  The room proudly proclaimed itself a gentleman’s retreat.  Heavy damask curtains with gold roped tie-backs framed the view of neatly manicured lawns and the lavish rose gardens.

Donald had spent hours in his study.  After long days at the Baybridge Institute for the Mentally Ill, he was always quite ready for a scotch and soda, and an hour or two of privacy.  The days he visited the Bellington State Hospital required Crown Royal, a double, no ice.  He detested those visits.  It was a dumping ground for the poor and destitute handicapped.  And Donald hated weakness of any kind.

The orderly reached down and snapped the foot rests up on the wheelchair as he simultaneously locked the wheels.  Wordlessly, he tucked a supporting arm around Donald and hoisted him out of the chair.  Two steps to the bed, and Donald found himself perched by a stainless steel hand rail.

Still silent, the orderly unlocked the wheels and glided out of the room.  His departure was most certainly swifter than his journey to this room had been.

A hospital gown lay draped across the cotton waffle-weave blanket at the foot of the bed.  Donald eyed it with distaste.  His luggage was supposed to be delivered here, though it was nowhere to be seen.  His own pajamas were navy satin and would be far more comfortable than that ragged cotton gown with no back to it.

Without warning, his door opened and a tall man with coal black hair, grown out rather long over his collar, strode into the room.  His white coat was crisply immaculate, tie perfectly knotted, and leather shoes gleamed with polish.  A hint of Pierre Cardin wafted into the room with him.  The overall effect radiated prosperity, professional prominence, and polished perfection…  the same essence that Donald himself had exuded until about two years ago.

“Mr. Donald Jones,” the man read, eyes glued to the chart.  He had yet to actually make eye contact with his disgruntled patient.
    
“Dr. Jones, if you please,” Donald stated stiffly.

“Hmmmm…?” the man was still immersed in the notes.  Looking up at Donald with a bemused expression, the man flashed a condescending smile.  “What was that, Mr. Jones?”
    
“DR. Jones,” Donald repeated, slightly louder this time.

The man eyed Donald as though amused.  “Come now, Mr. Jones, you haven’t practiced medicine in … what? … five years or more?”

Donald’s temper was rising as bright splotches of color flamed on his high cheek bones.  He was accustomed to deference and respect.  This man’s insolence was totally unacceptable.

The man flashed Donald a look of strained patience over a superior mocking smile.

“What if I just call you ‘Donald’?” he suggested.  “Maybe that would be more appropriate to your current … ah … situation.”

Now Donald was trembling with rage.

“Maybe,” he said with gritted teeth, “you should call me DR. Jones.  You know, as a sign of respect for one of your professional colleagues, Doctor.  I was practicing in mental health fields while you were still sucking your thumb and wetting the bed.”

The doctor’s smile hardened and his voice became cold as an Arctic blizzard.  “Well, you don’t practice any longer, Donald, and I am the professional here.  I’m afraid you’ll have to play by my rules now.”

Donald’s rage exploded.

“Why, you…”
    
His reply was cut short as the doctor stepped forward and pinned him to the bed.  Before he knew what hit him, Donald felt the jab of a hypodermic syringe in his shoulder and the world faded to black with a dull hum.

                                ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


The world slid in and out of focus, and voices buzzed like pesky flies at the periphery of Donald’s consciousness.  The fuzzy drone was annoying, but he couldn’t decipher specific words or phrases.  He tried to move, but his muscles didn’t seem to be obeying his commands.

The plain white walls reflected the sunlight filtering through the plain tan curtains, and shone against the plain gold vinyl of the single chair in the plain room.  The plain white blanket was pulled up to Donald’s chest, the plain blue hospital gown peeking at him defiantly just above the covers.  Much more of these plain surroundings and Donald felt he would rapidly deteriorate into one of the demented patients he saw on his way to this devilishly plain world.

Donald groaned, closed his eyes, hoping this nightmare would disappear when he opened them again.  It wasn’t a nightmare.  The room didn’t vanish.  Donald moaned and tried to massage his temples with his fingertips.  To his dismay, his hands wouldn’t reach his face.  He frowned.  This couldn’t be good.  He tried again and realized that restraining straps locked his wrists to the bed rails.  He jerked at them, shocked at this unwarranted assault on his person.  This was outrageous!  How dare they restrain the prominent psychiatrist, Dr. Donald Albert Jones!

The indignity of the situation sliced through him like a dagger.  He felt shame and humiliation shroud his heart.

Why didn’t I curb my temper, he thought bitterly.  I should have seen this coming.  It’s exactly what I would have done with an angry patient.

Donald closed his eyes as pain washed through his heart.  Remorse hit hard, then faded in a wave of self-pity.  Donald had never given much credence to remorse.  It was a waste of time and energy, and he usually dismissed it as a commodity unworthy of his consideration.  After all, he was a professional, paid to deal with the pathetic masses.  If they gave way to dementia, fell off the wagons of substance abuse, or suffered nervous collapses, they were weak, self-indulgent creatures who deserved to be locked away.

Society hates weakness, he reasoned.  I only facilitate the shift from family burden to institutional closet.

Then the epiphany hit.
    
I’ve become the burden I’ve hated all these years.

The door to his room opened, and a tall thin man entered.  He didn’t look like a doctor.  Dressed in a black silk shirt and black slacks, the man exuded an air of quiet reserve, of infinite patience, and a calm detachment.  His tie was a geometric blend of black, gray, and pearly white.  Salt and pepper hair, neatly groomed, gray eyes, clean- shaven, the man in black took in Donald’s humiliation without a word.  His unruffled demeanor gave no hint of superiority or condescension.

“Dr. Jones, I presume?” the man said with a tilt of his head.

Donald’s pride rose, as did his chin.  “Are you in charge of this facility?” he asked.

The man in black smiled ever so slightly.  “We-e-e-e-ell, let’s just say I’m here to help you settle in.”
    
“I do not wish to settle in,” Donald seethed.  “Your staff is inconsiderate, your doctor arrogant, and these rooms look like they were decorated by Better Prisons and Outhouses.”
    
The man in black looked around and summoned a wry smile.  “Guess they do lack a touch of class, don’t they.”  His eyes shifted back to meet Donald’s.  “Let’s do away with these,” he said nodding toward the restraints.  “Maybe things will look better once we’ve made you more comfortable.”

Donald’s arms were free in a heartbeat.  He rubbed his wrists ruefully.  The mild manner of his visitor was disarming.

“Just who are you?” asked Donald.  “Do you run this nuthouse?”

“You may call me Gregory,” the man in black said.  “I don’t like to stand on too much ceremony with our guests.  And especially with a prominent physician such as yourself.”

Gregory’s smile had a soothing effect, but Donald wasn’t quite ready to capitulate to the man’s charm.  The sting to his pride was still painful, and he made a show of rubbing his chafed wrists.

“Well, Gregory,” Donald said, stressing the name with a touch of sarcasm.  “Your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Aside from our obvious lack of décor and a … hmmmm … slight tiff with Dr. Boniface,” he smiled, “what else seems to disturb you?”

Donald bristled.  Tiff? He thought.  Understatement of the century…

The slow stroll down the corridor flashed through Donald’s mind, and a frown creased his forehead.

“What is the point of that little reception committee out there?” he asked.  He shuddered at the memory of the abusive comments and insults hurtled at him in the hall.

“Well, Dr. Jones, think back to your own practice.  Most people resent institutions like this one.  No one ever thinks dementia will happen to him.  It’s a shock when they find their minds failing, their relatives unable to cope.  Don’t you remember your own cases?”
    
Donald was startled to realize that he did.  In detail…

“Why don’t you tell me?” said Gregory as he settled into the tacky vinyl chair.

Donald could picture her clearly.

“Three hundred fifty pounds,” he said.  “Mrs. Allacardan.  Her husband came to me.  He said she had waved a butcher knife at him.  He was concerned for his own well being, he said, but he was afraid she was going to hurt herself as well.”

Donald sighed.

“Did you counsel her?”

“Counsel?” Donald snorted with disdain.  “The woman was psychotic.  Paranoid Schizophrenia.  She needed round-the-clock care and heavy medication.”

Donald shifted restlessly under the steady gaze of his visitor.  Doubts had always assailed his conscience over Mrs. Allacardan.

“What’s the matter, Dr. Jones?” asked Gregory.

“Donald,” he said grudgingly.  “You can call me Donald.”

Gregory smiled, but Donald couldn’t look him in the face for long.  Somehow he knew that Gregory was not going to let the subject of Mrs. Allacardan slip away.  Sure enough…

“Why don’t you tell me about Mrs. Allacardan, Donald?”

“Harrison Allacardan was my investment advisor,” Donald said with a sigh.  “His corporation specialized in T-bills and ‘creative’ IRA accounts.  Their clients were the cream of society.  They catered to – no, courted – the best in all fields.  Medicine, engineering, computer sciences, law…  It was a high rung on the social ladder to rub shoulders with their clientele.  Harrison’s wife was …” Donald hesitated, “… a liability.”

“Poor Gladys had a gift for sticking her foot in her mouth.  She cost the corporation several big accounts with tactless comments.  Harrison was constantly pulling her aside to tell her to shut up.  No party was complete until Harrison had apologized to half a dozen guests for his wife’s behavior.”

Donald sighed again and focused on the porous ceiling tiles.

“Finally Gladys gave up.  Nothing she said or did could measure up to Allacardan’s standards.  While Harrison worked the room, Gladys parked at the buffet table.  Food became her addiction, and she packed on the weight at an alarming rate.  Hell, she’d eat everything but the floral centerpieces.”

Donald pictured the puffy cheeks, the disheveled hair, tent-like dresses that did nothing to conceal the layers and layers of wobbly flesh.  Fat fingers reached for appetizers as though they possessed a will of their own.  

“Gladys Allacardan was once a reasonably handsome woman, but as her depression grew with her weight, she deteriorated into a whale of a human being.  All blubber.”  Donald shuddered.

“She started coming to me for counseling at Harrison’s insistence, but she refused to talk.  I’d ask questions and get these blank stares from her.  She finally said that no matter what she told me, she knew I wouldn’t believe her.  Then she spent the rest of the session staring out the window.”

Gregory’s gaze neither condemned nor condoned.  He simply waited for Donald to continue.

“By the time Harrison came to me with the tales of the kitchen knives, rumors had all ready circulated that he had been seen all over town with one woman after another.  His secretary was playing hostess at more and more of his office functions.  Gladys always ‘had a headache’ or ‘was visiting her mother’.  Everyone saw through the lies, but whispered that Gladys was a nut case or a closet drunk.  And by then, they weren’t very far from the mark.”  Donald closed his eyes as painful memories assailed him.

“So Harrison had all the sympathy, and Gladys was finally packed off to a nursing home.  The day I committed her, she just stared at me with those accusing, angry eyes.”

Donald fell silent.  He refused to add that he’d seen the bruises for months, that he’d heard Harrison Allacardan call his wife horrid, demeaning names, that Gladys had been seen in the emergency room four times for drug overdoses.  Harrison always played it off as his wife’s growing dementia.  But Donald had known the truth.

“What happened to her?” Gregory asked.

Donald couldn’t meet his eyes.  “She died three months after her commitment,” he said softly.  “Squirreled away her sleeping pills for a week, then took them all at once.”

“I see,” Gregory said slowly.  “But you felt there was more to the story than what Harrison Allacardan was presenting.”

“No!” snapped Donald.  “Gladys Allacardan was a ghastly blob of a woman.  She should have taken better care of herself.  There’s no excuse for a self-indulgent woman like that.  Of course, she lost her husband.  Why should he stay with a mental case who embarrassed him at every turn?”

“And Mr. Allacardan?” asked Gregory

“Went from mistress to mistress,” Donald said after a lengthy pause.  “He finally married an heiress from New York City.”

“Then?” prodded Gregory gently.

“Just another variation on the same story,” Donald said wearily.  “Katherine was a classy woman when I first met her.  Heads turned when Katherine and Harrison walked into a room.  But I watched her smoke a little more, and refill the wine glass more often.  Before long, Katherine was downing shots of tequilla the way most people drink water.  Then came the snide remarks, always slightly louder than necessary, about whatever secretary happened to be catering to Harrison.  And I watched Harrison gripping her arm a little tighter as he escorted her out to the hallway for a private tongue-lashing.  Then the inevitable apologies, the excuses, and finally the request that I ‘counsel’ his wife.”

“Let me guess,” Gregory said when Donald paused.  “His business associates chalked it up to a man who constantly chose the same type of ‘defective’ wives.”

Donald rubbed his eyes wearily and nodded.  “Poor Harrison.  That’s what they all said.”

“What happened to her, Donald?”

“Harrison went on a business trip to Chicago with his newest in a long line of secretaries.  The second Mrs. Allacardan jumped off a tenth story balcony while he was gone.”

“Jumped?”
    
“Yes,” whispered Donald.  “That’s the way the police blotter read.”

“But you had doubts,” Gregory surmised.

Angry blotches of color rose on Donald’s cheeks.

“No!” Donald snapped.  “There are other means of dealing with stress besides emptying the booze bottle.  She didn’t have to give in to it.   She…” his voice trailed off.

Gregory regarded him thoughtfully.  

“I suppose Mr. Allacardan’s alibi was impeccable?”

There was a small hitch in Donald’s breathing, and he couldn’t meet Gregory’s eyes.

“I heard that Harrison was seen at the airport, slipping into a cab as the plane for Chicago took off.  But the police were never able to substantiate their suspicions.  They found my name in Katherine’s address book.  I’m not sure why.  She refused to see me, even when Harrison tried to force her to seek help.  I guess she thought Harrison and I were too close for her to completely trust me.  Anyway, I was called in to identify the body and make a statement concerning her mental condition.”  

“I see,” said Gregory softly.

Silence stretched as though time had suddenly stopped.  

“What about some of your other patients?” Gregory asked.  “You had a long career.  Surely you must have had many success stories.”

“Of course,” Donald barked.  “I was one of the top psychiatrists in New York City.”  For several minutes, he reeled off the names of patients who left his offices to lead productive lives.  But each name brought to mind confidences shared, money filling his bank account as he feasted on the miseries of the city’s elite.

As his voice faltered, another name floated on the air.  He wasn’t even certain he had been the one to utter it aloud.

Henry Tousignore.

Donald remembered the twisted frame, the vacant eyes, the hand that gripped a bottle of Ripple, the toothless, not-quite-sane expression of the wiry man with yesterday’s grizzled whiskers.  And Henry’s daughter, Lori Tousignore, stage name Lori Tousien.

Seductive, deliciously decadent Lori, the toast of Broadway, the luminous actress whose career was skyrocketing to Fame’s Top Ten.  

Their affair culminated in Donald’s office after hours.  Afterwards, Lori threatened to expose Donald’s less-than-professional conduct unless…  Of course.  There was always an “unless”.  Lori’s deformed and mentally challenged father was an embarrassment, and the steamy actress was determined to keep the old man out of the public eye.  Image was everything in her line of work.  And she certainly didn’t want to chuck out the money to keep him in quality surroundings.  Her earnings were being used to further her social standing.  Daddy needed to disappear into the deepest darkest hole available, one of the places known for swallowing up the indigent population and locking them out of sight.

Donald hated being part of her devious scheme.  But then, his ethics never mattered quite as much as his social position.  Lori could ruin him.  He knew it … and so did she.

So Daddy was moved to Clayton State Hospital with the rest of society’s dregs.  Lori’s career shot to the top – until a tainted batch of PCP sent her out the window of her penthouse apartment.

No matter how badly Donald wanted to release the old man – now that the reason for locking him up was no longer alive to care – his hands were tied.  According to his own records, the old man was a danger to himself and to others.  To free the old man, Donald would have to decry his own diagnosis.  His reputation would be in tatters.  He just couldn’t risk it.  Not for one senile old man…

But Henri Tousignore’s eyes haunted Donald.  Those rheumy, vacant orbs followed him home at night, and watched as Donald downed his Crown Royal, staring at the walls of his study and the dying embers in the fireplace grate.

Henri died almost a year to the day after Lori’s swan dive.  He died alone and unloved, and was cremated, courtesy of the great State of New York.

Donald couldn’t bring himself to divulge these details to Gregory, although he was beginning to be uncomfortably aware that this man in black might all ready know the gory details of his indiscretions.  Somehow Donald felt his very soul was laid open before this strange man.  Outside the window, the sun was setting, casting ominous shadows on those plain white walls.

“I’m really tired now, Gregory,”  he said.  Would you mind if we continued this little tete a’tete tomorrow?”

Gregory drew in a deep breath but remained seated in the tacky vinyl chair.

“I’m sorry, Donald,” he said regretfully, “but you won’t have a tomorrow.”
    
Donald gaped at him in confusion.
    
“Not have a tomorrow?  What are you talking about, man?”  His voice rose in something akin to hysteria.
    
Gregory tugged at his cuffs as if hating what he must say next.  In his hesitation, Donald’s panic grew.

“Don’t you know, Donald?”
    
Silence.

Gregory heaved another regret-filled sigh.
    
“Come now, Donald.  You’re an intelligent man.  Some would even say brilliant.”  There was a hard glint in Gregory’s eyes now.

“What are you saying?  What do you mean?  How can you stop tomorrow from coming?  Who are you?  What are you?”

Gregory watched the hysteria build, a bemused expression on his handsome face.

“I’ll never understand it,” he said, shaking his head.  “You humans think you are immortal.  Especially doctors.  You know, old boy, your lot are the worst of all.”

Donald’s heart was hammering now.  His eyes were wild.  This man before him was either mad or…  The alternative was too awful to contemplate.

Gregory’s expression was impatient now.

“Oh, all right,” he said testily.  “You need it spelled out for you?  Very well.  Here it is.”

Gregory leaned forward and locked Donald in an unblinking stare.

“This is not one of your ordinary hospitals, Dr. Jones.  All those people in the corridor were your patients.  I believe you would call it ‘a taste of your own medicine’.”  Gregory’s smile was filled with malice.  “I know you’ll forgive that little pun, Donald.  And if you don’t, well…. Where you’re going, it won’t matter much.  You’ll be playing by my rules, as Dr. Boniface would say.”

Terror filled Donald’s veins like ice water, and he shook his head in mute denial.

“Yes, Dr. Jones, your patients,” Gregory asserted, returning to his previous point.  “You were given one last chance at … repentence.”  He said the last word with repugnance.

“He,” Gregory pointed up with disdain, “always insists on these ridiculous last chances.  This was your opportunity to show remorse for your crimes against your fellow man.  But you - didn’t - take - it.” He emphasized the last five words with venomous delight.

Donald experienced one brief moment of horror before his breath froze in his lungs.  Wide-eyed shock was the last expression on his face when his heart stopped beating, and his spirit spun into free-fall, plunging, spiraling, down, down, down…

Gregory stood over the tortured body of the late, great Doctor Donald Albert Jones, psychiatrist, and relished the moment of victory.

“You know, Donald,” he said to the corpse, “it always amazes me, but doctors seem to pass up the chance for repentance far more often than any other species of humanity.  Why is that, do you think?”

His laugh echoed in the cold, unadorned room.

“Ooops!” he said in mock consternation.  “Guess I should have asked that question before you died.  Naughty me.”

Tugging at his cuffs once more, Gregory walked through the wall and down the long corridor.


                                                                  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Bobby was coming on shift.  He hated this place.  There was nothing more depressing than the midnight shift at Clayton State Hospital.

Randall met him at the desk, clipboard in hand.

“You’re not eager to leave tonight, are ya’?”  Bobby asked with a dry smirk.

“Don’t you know it,” Randall said.  “What a day.  It’s all yours, buddy, and good luck.”

“We get any new fruitcakes today?” Bobby asked.

“Yeah,” Randall said, pointing to the log’s single new entry.  “Dr. Donald Jones, room 660.  Seems he’s suspected of complicity in the deaths of about a dozen patients right here on our wards, and maybe conspiracy in a couple of other deaths in the City.”

“No kidding!” Bobby said with an impressed whistle.

“Yeah,” said Randall.  “Boniface is supposed to be evaluating him for the State’s Attorneys Office.  Remember that actress, Lori – something?  Took a nosedive out of her penthouse window a few years back?  Sounds like they think maybe he gave her the PCP to shut her up.”

“Holy ...,” Bobby cut off his expletive.  “Has he said anything today?”

“Are you kidding?” Randall said, rolling his eyes.  “That looney has been arguing with the walls all day like some crazy hopped-up energizer bunny!  The guy is well on his way to an insanity plea.”

The two men made their way along the corridor, checking on sleeping patients as they made their change-of-shift rounds.  At the door to room 660, they stopped short and uttered a string of  expletives, as they fumbled for the keys and bolted into the darkened cell.

Donald lay on his hospital bed, an expression of terror frozen on his stiffening corpse.

“So much for leaving on time,” muttered Randall.

“Hey…” Bobby shouted, as a figure disappeared around the corner to the stairwell.  He charged down the hallway, Randall running after him.

“Bobby, get back here!”  Randall gasped.  “What’s the matter with you?”

“Did you see that guy?” Bobby asked, searching the stairwell frantically.

“What guy?” Randall asked.  “There’s no one on this floor but you and me.”

“No,” Bobby said.  “There was a guy… gray hair, black shirt… didn’t you see him?”
    
“Come on, Bobby,” Randall objected irritably.  “Don’t go looney tunes on me, man.  There’s no one here but us.  And the stiff.  Let’s go, we’ve got a coroner to call, and a ton of  reports to write.”

“Yeah … ok…” Bobby muttered.  “Must have been my imagination.”


                                                         ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~



A figure in a black silk shirt and gray geometric tie looked up at the Clayton State Hospital with a malicious smile.  With one last look of pure satisfaction, he disappeared in the misty moonlit night.