"Again, I was unaware that this had arisen as a problem. I will examine the recreation budget to see if there are funds for a purchase."
While this might have placated some, Cleo was far from finished. "There's far too much noise in the dormitories at night to get a good sleep. Far, far too much. Sleep is critical to one's sense of well-being and overall progress toward health. The Surgeon General recommends at least eight hours per day of uninterrupted sleep. And furthermore, we need more space. Much more space. There are death row prisoners with more living space than we have. The overcrowding is out of control. And we need more toilet paper in the bathrooms.
A lot more toilet paper, and…" By now her voice was a cascade of complaints, "… why aren't there more attendants to help people out at night, when we have nightmares? Every night, someone screams for help. Nightmares, nightmares, nightmares. You call and call and cry and no one ever comes. That's wrong, just plain, flat-out goddamn son of a bitch wrong."
"We, like many state institutions, currently have staffing problems, Cleo," the doctor responded with a condescending tone. "I will, of course, register your complaints and your suggestions and see if there's anything we can do. But if the skeleton staff that works the overnight shift were to respond to every cry they overheard, they would be worked to a frazzle within a night or two, Cleo. I'm afraid nightmares are something that we will all have to learn to live with from time to time."
"That is hardly fair. With all the medications you bastards pump us full of, you ought to be able to find something so folks can sleep without being excessively troubled." Cleo seemed to inflate herself as she spoke, rising up with a regal haughtiness, a Marie Antoinette of the Amherst Building.
"I will examine the physician's guide for some additional medication," the doctor lied. "Are there any more issues that you need addressed?"
Cleo looked a little flustered, a little frustrated, but, then almost as swiftly, this look dissolved into something considerably more sly. "Yes," she said briskly. "I want to know what is happening to poor Lanky." And then she lifted her arm and pointed at Lucy, who was standing patiently waiting by the side of the corridor. "And I want to know if she's been able to find the real killer!"
The words echoed in the hallway.
Gulptilil smiled wanly, and answered quietly, "Lanky continues to remain in solitary confinement, accused of first degree murder. I believe I have explained this to you before. He had a bail hearing, but, as one would expect, none was granted. He has been assigned a public defender, and he continues to get his medications from the hospital. He's still being held in the county jail, pending additional court hearings. I am told his spirits are fine…"
"That's a lie," Cleo said angrily. "Lanky's probably miserable away from here. This is his home, such as it is, and we are his friends, such as we are. He should be returned here forthwith!" She took a deep breath, and then, sarcastically, mimicked the doctor's words. "I have told you this before. Why don't you listen to me?"
"… And as to your other question," Gulptilil continued, ignoring Cleo's accusation, "well, that is better directed to Miss Jones. But she is under no obligation to inform anyone as to what progress she feels she has made. Or not made." The last words were underscored by Gulptilil's acid voice.
Cleo stepped back, muttering something to herself. Gulptilil separated himself from her, and like a scout leader on a hike in the woods, waved the accompanying group of residents to follow him down the corridor. He had only taken a few steps, however, before Cleo burst out, loud, insistent and ringing with accusation, "I'm watching you, Gulptilil! I can see what's going on! You may fool some of the people around here, but not me!" Then, slightly under her breath, but not enough so that the physicians couldn't hear her, she added, "You're all bastards."
The medical director paused, half started to turn back, then obviously thought better of it. Francis could see that his face was set, unsuccessfully trying to hide the discomfort of the moment.
"We're all in danger and you sons of bitches aren't doing anything about it!" Cleo bellowed.
Then she gave a little giggle, took a long drag on her cigarette, cackled to herself and slumped back down into her seat, where she continued to watch the director move down the corridor, grinning with a self-satisfied look on her face. Holding her cigarette in her hand like a baton, she waved it in the air. A conductor satisfied with the final notes of the orchestral arrangement.
Francis was oddly encouraged by Cleo's bombast. It seemed to him that her outburst had gained the attention of every patient wandering the ward. Whether it meant anything to any of them, Francis could not tell, but he smiled to himself at her meager display of rebelliousness and wished that he had the same confidence to be as demanding. Cleo, for her part, must have sensed Francis's thoughts, because she blew a large elaborate smoke ring into the still corridor air, watched it dissipate, then gave Francis a wink.
Peter sidled into the space next to Francis, must have thought the same, and whispered, "When the revolution comes, she'll be on the barricades. Hell, she'll probably be leading the rebellion and she's big enough to be a barricade all by herself."
"What revolution?" Francis asked.
"Don't be so literal, C-bird," Peter said with a small laugh. "Think symbolically."
"That may come easy for the Queen of Egypt," Francis replied. "But I don't know about me." The two of them grinned.
Gulptilil, however, still apparently unamused, approached them. "Ah, Peter and Francis," he said, the lilting tones returning to his voice, but with none of the pleasantry ordinarily associated with the lighthearted sound. "My pair of investigators. And how is your progress?" he asked.
"Slow and steady," Peter replied. "That is how I would describe it. But it is really for Miss Jones to determine."
"Of course. She determines one sort of progress. I, and the others in charge here, are more concerned with a totally different sort of progress, are we not?"
Peter hesitated, then nodded.
"Of course, we are," Gulptilil said. "And to that end, this is a fortuitous meeting. Both of you need to come to my office this afternoon. Francis, it is time you and I had a chat about your continuing adjustment. And Peter, you will have a visitor of some significance this afternoon. The Moses brothers will be informed when they arrive, and they will escort you to administration."
The pear-shaped medical director arched one eyebrow upward, as if curious as to the reactions of each man. He watched both their faces for an unsettling half minute or so, then continued on a few paces, turning to Lucy. "Miss Jones, good day to you. And have you managed to make inroads in your dilemma?"
"I have managed to eliminate a number of potential suspects."
"That, I presume, is something you consider valuable?"
She did not reply.
"Well," Gulptilil continued, "please keep at it. The sooner we have some conclusions, the better for all involved, I believe. Mister Evans has proven to be of assistance in your inquiries?"
"Of course," Lucy said rapidly.
Gulptilil then pivoted toward Mister Evil. "You will keep me posted, as well, as matters develop and the circumstances warrant?" he said.
"Of course," Evans said. This, Francis thought, was all a bit of bureaucratic playacting. He was certain that Evans was keeping Gulp-a-pill assessed of everything at every point. He assumed that Lucy Jones knew this, as well.
The medical director sighed, and then continued down the corridor, and exited by the main door. After a moment, Evans turned to Lucy Jones, and said, "Well, I gather we're taking a break now, and I have some paperwork to do." He, too, exited quickly.