He had seen stains like that before. In his training as an arson investigator. In his time in the jungle in Vietnam.
Peter held the shirt in his hands for a second, rubbing the fabric beneath his fingers as if he could tell something more by touching it. Little Black was a few feet away and finally insistence crept into his voice. "Peter, we got to leave now. I don't want to have to do any explaining that I don't have to, and I sure as hell don't want to have to explain nothing to the big doc, if I don't need to."
"Mister Moses," Peter said slowly. "Look at this."
Little Black stepped forward, so that he could lean over Peter's shoulder. Peter said nothing, but he heard the attendant whistle softly.
"That could be blood there, Peter," he said after a moment. "Sure looks like it."
"That's what I thought," Peter replied.
"Ain't that one of the things we're supposed to be looking for?" Little Black asked.
"It is, indeed," Peter replied quietly.
Then he carefully folded the shirt back precisely as it was when he'd discovered it, and slipped it into the same position that it had occupied before he had drawn it forth. He returned the foot locker to its customary spot beneath the bed, hoping that it was positioned as it had been. Then he stood up. "Let's go," he said. He glanced over at the small gathering of men across the room from him, but whether they had noticed anything or not was impossible for Peter to tell from the vacant eyes that stared back at him.
Chapter 19
Peter slid out of the white attendant's uniform in the area just inside the door to the Amherst Building. Little Black took the baggy pants and loose-fitting jacket from him, folded them up and stuffed them beneath his arm, while Peter pulled on a pair of wrinkled jeans. "I'll stash these," he said, "until we're sure Gulptilil has finished his rounds and we can get back to business." The wiry attendant then looked narrowly at Peter and added, "You gonna tell Miss Jones about what we saw and where we saw it?"
Peter nodded. "As soon as Mister Evil steps away from her side."
Little Black grimaced. "He'll find out. One way or another. Always does. Sooner or later, man seems to know everything going on around here."
Peter thought that was an intriguing bit of information but he didn't comment on it.
For an instant, Little Black seemed indecisive. "So, what we gonna do about a man got a shirt hidden away all stained with blood we don't think is his own?"
"I think we need to keep quiet and keep what we found to ourselves for the time being," he said. "At least until Miss Jones decides how she wants to proceed. I think we need to be very careful. After all, the man whose bunk that was is in there talking with her right now."
"You think she's gonna pick up on something, talking to him?"
"I don't know. We just need to be cautious."
Little Black nodded in agreement. Peter could see that the attendant was alert to the volatility of the knowledge they had acquired. A single bloodstained T-shirt, that could cause all sorts of difficulties. Peter ran his hand through his hair, as he considered the situation, recognizing that he needed to be both wary and aggressive. His first thought was technicaclass="underline" How to isolate and proceed against the man who slept in the bunk where he'd made his discovery. There was much to do, he realized, now that he had a genuine suspect. But all his training suggested caution in his approach, even if that contradicted his own nature. He smiled, because he recognized the familiar dilemma that he'd faced throughout his life, the balance between small steps and headlong plunges. He was aware that he was where he was, at least in part, because of a failure to hesitate.
In the corridor outside the office where Lucy was conducting interviews, the larger of the Moses brothers was standing, keeping watch on a patient that rivaled him in size, and perhaps in strength as well, though if this detail concerned Big Black, he didn't show it. The man was rocking back and forth, a little like a truck with its wheels stuck in mud, running through the gears until he found one that would help him to get going. When Big Black spotted Peter and his brother approaching, he nudged the man forward.
"We need to be escorting this gentleman back to Williams," he said, as they closed distance. Big Black made eye contact with his brother, and added, "Gulp-a-pill's upstairs, doing rounds on the third floor."
Peter didn't wait for the attendants to tell him what to do. "I'll just wait here for Miss Jones," he said. He pushed himself up against the wall, trying, as he did so, to get a really good assessment of the man Big Black was accompanying. He attempted to look into the man's eyes, to measure his posture, his appearance, as if he could see into his heart. A man that might be a killer.
As Peter slouched nonchalantly, and the trio of patient and attendants stepped past him, he could not resist speaking out loud, but under his breath, a whispered impulse designed for the ears of the man being escorted past: "Hello Angel," he said. "I know who you are."
Neither of the Moses brothers seemed to overhear his greeting.
Nor did the patient hesitate in the slightest. He merely shuffled along, plodding just behind the Moses brothers, seemingly unaware that he'd been spoken to. He moved a little bit like a man wearing hand and leg restraints, in short choppy steps, although there was nothing actually restricting his motion.
Peter watched the man's broad back disappear through the front door before he lifted himself off the wall and stepped toward the office where Lucy Jones waited. He didn't exactly know what to make of what had just happened.
Before he reached the office, however, Lucy Jones emerged, closely followed by Francis, who was hanging back, as if to distance himself from the psychologist. Peter could see that C-Bird had a troubled look, as if some thought or some idea had diminished him slightly. He looked lighter. But the young man lifted his head up abruptly, saw Peter approaching, and seemed to recover in that second, immediately moving away from Mister Evil toward Peter. At the same time, Peter saw Gulptilil enter the hallway from the far stairwell, leading a small coterie of staff members. Lots of notepads and pencils, scribbling observations, taking notations. Peter saw Cleo, cigarette dangling from her lower lip, launch herself out of an old and uncomfortable chair, and directly into the medical director's path. She held her ground like some ancient warrior defending the gates of her city.
"Ah, Doctor!" Her voice was just a little shy of being a shout. "What do you intend to do about the inadequate food portions being served at mealtimes? I don't believe that the state legislature envisioned starving us all to death when they established this place. I have friends who have friends who know people in high places, and they just might have the governor's ear on issues of mental health…"
Gulp-a-pill hesitated and turned toward Cleo. The group of interns and resident physicians accompanying him paused, and like a chorus line at a Broadway show, turned in unison. "Ah, Cleo," the doctor replied unctuously, mimicking her choice of words. "I was unaware that there was a problem, and equally unaware that you had complained. But I do not think it necessary to involve the entirety of state government in this matter. I will speak with the kitchen staff and make certain that everyone gets all they need at mealtimes."
Cleo, however, was just getting started.
"The Ping-Pong paddles are worn," she continued, picking up some momentum with each word. "They need replacing. The balls are frequently cracked, thereby rendering them useless and the nets are frayed and held together with string. The table is warped and unsteady. Tell me, Doctor, how is one supposed to improve their game with inferior equipment that doesn't meet even the minimum United States Table Tennis Association standards?"