He assessed his alternatives: prison; MCI Bridgewater; maximum security; lockdowns and beatings. Probably for much of the rest of his life, because the considerable weight of the Archdiocese, which at this moment was pressuring prosecutors to allow him to vanish into a program in Oregon, would shift if he rejected the plan, and come down heavily on him. He knew there would be no other deals.
Peter could hear the distinctive clanging sound of a jail door being closed and hydraulic locks shutting with a whooshing noise. This made him smile, because he thought it about as close as he was likely to get to one of his friend C-Bird's hallucinations, only this one was uniquely his.
For a moment, he remembered poor Lanky, filled with fear and delusion, his grasp on the little life that the hospital provided him dropping away, turning and pleading with Peter and Francis to help him. He wished, in that second, that Lucy could have heard those cries. It seemed to him that throughout his entire life people had been calling to him for help and that every time he'd tried to come to their assistance, no matter how fine his intentions, something had always gone wrong.
Peter could hear some sounds from the corridor beyond the bolted door to the isolation cell, and there was a thudding noise of another door being opened, then slammed shut. He couldn't refuse the Cardinal's offer. And, he couldn't leave Francis and Lucy alone to face the Angel.
He understood, that however he managed it, he had to propel the investigation forward, as rapidly as possible. Time no longer allied itself with him.
Peter looked up at the locked door, as if he expected someone to open it right at that second. But there was no sound, not even from the restless corridor beyond, and he remained seated, trying to check his impatience, thinking that in some small way the situation he was in resembled his whole life. Everywhere he'd been, it was as if there was a locked door preventing him from moving freely.
So he waited for someone to come for him, dropping ever deeper into a canyon walled with contradictions, unsure whether he would be able to climb out.
"I see no apparent signs of foul play," the medical director said stiffly, almost formally.
Doctor Gulptilil was standing next to the Dancer's body where it lay porcelain-toned and death-rigid on the bunk. Mister Evil was at his side, as were two other psychiatrists and a psychologist from other housing units. One of the men, Francis had learned, doubled as the hospital's pathologist, and he was bending closely over the Dancer, inspecting him cautiously. This physician was tall and slender, with a hawk nose and thick glasses and the nervous habit of clearing his throat before saying anything and nodding his head up and down so that his slightly unkempt shock of black hair bobbed, regardless whether he was agreeing or disagreeing. He had a clipboard, with a form on it, and he was taking some notes, jotting them down rapidly as Gulp-a-pill spoke.
"No signs of a beating," Gulptilil said. "No external signs of trauma. No obvious wounds of any note."
"Sudden heart failure," the vulturelike doctor said, head moving rapidly. "I see from his records that he had been treated for a heart condition in the past couple of months."
Lucy Jones was hovering just behind the doctors. "Look at his hands," she said abruptly. "The nails are torn and bloody. Those could be defensive wounds."
The doctors all turned to her, but it was Mister Evil that took it upon himself to respond. "He was caught up in a fight yesterday, as you well know. Really, just a bystander who got drawn into it, when two men slammed into him. Not something he would have participated in, but he struggled to get free from the melee. I suspect that's how his nails were affected."
"I suppose you would say the same about the scratches on his forearms?"
"Yes."
"And the way the sheet and blanket are tangled around his feet?"
"Heart attack can be very fast and very painful and he might have twisted about for an instant before being overcome."
The physicians all murmured in agreement. Gulp-a-pill turned to Lucy.
"Miss Jones," he said, speaking slowly, patiently, which only underscored how impatient he truly was. "Death, alas, is not uncommon in the hospital. This unfortunate gentleman was elderly and had been confined here for many years. He had suffered one heart attack in the past, and there is little doubt in my mind that the emotional stress of moving from Williams to Amherst in the past days, coupled with the fight he was caught up in through no fault of his own, and the debilitating effect of substantial courses of medications over the years, all had conspired to weaken his cardiovascular system further. A most normal, to be sure, and not remarkable death, here at Western State. I thank you for your observation…"
He spoke, pausing in such a way as to demonstrate that he was actually not thanking her for anything, before continuing. "… But are you not seeking someone who uses a knife, and who somewhat ritualistically defaces the hands of his victims and who, to the best of your knowledge, confines his assaults to young women?"
"Yes," Lucy replied. "You are correct."
"So, this death would not seem to fit the pattern that interests you?"
"Again, Doctor, you are correct."
"Then, please, allow us to handle this death in routine fashion."
"You don't call in outside authorities?"
Gulptilil sighed, but again, this only barely concealed his irritation. "When a patient dies during surgery, does the neurosurgeon call a policeman? This situation is analogous, Miss Jones. We file a report with the state. We hold a mortality conference with the staff. We contact the next of kin, if there are any listed. In some cases, where doubt factors are large, we hand the body over for autopsy. In others, however, we do not. And oftentimes, Miss Jones, because this hospital is the only home and only family that some unfortunate patients have, we are in charge of seeing our dead directly into the grave."
He shrugged, but again, a movement that spoke of disinterest and nonchalance, hid what Lucy Jones thought was anger.
In the doorway, a crowd of patients gathered, trying to see into the dormitory. Gulptilil glanced at Mister Evil. "I think this is bordering on the morbid, Mister Evans. Let's clear those folks out and move the fellow over to the morgue."
"Doctor…" Lucy started in again, but he cut her off, and turned, instead to Mister Evil.
"Tell me, Mister Evans, did anyone in this unit awaken last night and observe a struggle? Was there a battle that anyone saw? Were there screams and punches thrown and shouted curses and imprecations? Everything that ordinarily fits into the type of conflict that we are accustomed to?"
"No, Doctor," Evans replied. "None whatsoever."