Legion

  “Yes, Doctor Amfortas.”

  “You’re certain? Would you like to check the records?”

  “No, I’m positive.”

  “Why are you positive?”

  “Well, it’s unusual. The resident usually does that. But I think he’s got a sort of special interest in her case.”

  The detective looked puzzled. “But I thought Doctor Amfortas doesn’t work on the ward anymore.”

  “That’s right. That was as of last night,” said the nurse.

  “But he was in this girl’s room?”

  “That’s not unusual. He visits her a lot.”

  “At such hours?”

  Keating nodded. “The girl’s got insomnia. So does he, I would think.”

  “Why is that? I mean, why do you think that?”

  “Oh, for months now he suddenly pops up on my shift and just stands there and chats with me, or just sort of roams around. Up here we call him ‘the Phantom.’ ”

  “When was the last time that he spoke to Miss Freitz at such an hour? Or was there such a time?”

  “Yes, there was. That was yesterday.”

  “What time, please?”

  “Maybe four or five A.M. Then he went into Father Dyer’s room and talked for a while.”

  “He went into Father Dyer’s room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you able to hear any part of their discussion?”

  “No, the door was closed.”

  “I see.” Kinderman thought for a while. He was staring through the window at Atkins. The sergeant was leaning on the desk, staring back. Kinderman returned his attention to the nurse. “Who else did you see around the ward at this time?”

  “You mean staff?”

  “I mean anyone. Anyone walking around in the hall.”

  “Well, there was only Mrs. Clelia.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s a patient in Psychiatric.”

  “She was walking in the hall?”

  “Well, no. I found her sprawled in the hall.”

  “You found her sprawled?”

  “She was sort of in a stupor.”

  “Where exactly in the hallway?”

  “It was just around the corner from here near the entrance to Psychiatric.”

  “And what time was this, please?”

  “It was just before I found Father Dyer. I called over to the open ward in Psychiatric and they came here and got her.”

  “Mrs. Clelia is senile?”

  “I really couldn’t tell you. I would guess so. I don’t know. She looked a little catatonic, I would say.”

  “Catatonic?”

  “I’m just guessing,” said Keating.

  “I see.” Kinderman thought for a moment, then stood up. “Thank you, Miss Keating,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  Kinderman handed her another tissue and then left the tight office and spoke to Atkins. “Get the telephone number for Doctor Amfortas and bring him in for questioning, Atkins. In the meantime, I am going to Psychiatric.”

  Soon Kinderman was standing in the open ward. The events of the morning had not touched it. The usual throng of silent starers was already clustered around the television; all the dreamers were in their chairs. An old man in his seventies approached the detective. “I want cereal this morning and figs,” he said. “Don’t forget the damned figs. I want figs.” An attendant was slowly coming toward them. Kinderman looked for the nurse at the charge desk. She was back in her office, talking on the telephone. Her face looked drawn and strained. Kinderman started to move toward the desk. The old man remained behind and continued to address the empty air where the detective had been standing. “I don’t want any goddamned figs,” he was saying.

  Suddenly Temple appeared. He came springing through a door and looked around. He looked disheveled and only half awake; his eyes were still caked with sleep. He saw Kinderman and met him at the desk. “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe this. Is it true the way he died?”

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  “They called and woke me up. Jesus Christ. I can’t believe it.”

  Temple flicked a glance at the nurse and looked sour. She saw him and quickly got off the phone. The attendant was leading the old man to a chair. “I would like to see one of your patients,” said Kinderman. “Mrs. Clelia. Where would she be?”

  Temple eyed him. “I can see you’ve been getting acquainted,” he said. “What do you want with Mrs. Clelia?”

  “I’d like to ask her some questions. One or two. It couldn’t hurt.”

  “Mrs. Clelia?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d be talking to a wall,” said Temple.

  “I am used to this,” Kinderman assured him.

  “What did you mean by that?”

  “I’m just talking.” Kinderman’s shoulders raised and he offered up the palms of his hands. “My mouth opens, it comes out before I know what I’m saying. It’s just shtuss. For the meaning, we would need the I Ching.”

  Temple appraised him with a calculating look, and then turned to the nurse. She was standing at the charge desk gathering papers and looking busy. “Where’s Mrs. Clelia, snooks?” Temple asked her.

  The nurse did not look up. “In her room.”

  “You’ll indulge an old man and let me see her?” asked Kinderman.

  “Sure, why not?” said Temple. “Come on.”

  Kinderman followed him and they were soon in a narrow room. “There’s your girl,” said Temple. He’d gestured toward an elderly, white-haired woman who was sitting in an easy chair by a window. She was staring at her slippers and grasping at the ends of a red woolen shawl, pulling it tighter around her shoulders. She didn’t look up.

  The detective took his hat off and held it by the brim. “Mrs. Clelia?”

  The woman looked up with empty eyes. “Are you my son?” she said to Kinderman.

  “I would be proud to believe so,” he said gently.

  For a moment Mrs. Clelia held his gaze, but then looked away. “You’re not my son,” she murmured. “You’re wax.”

  “Can you remember what you did this morning, Mrs. Clelia?”

  The old woman started crooning softly. The melody was tuneless and unpleasantly discordant.

  “Mrs. Clelia?” prodded the detective.

  She seemed not to hear.

  “I told you,” said Temple. “Of course, I could try to put her under for you.”

  “Put her under?”

  “Hypnosis. Shall I try it?” said Temple.

  “Absolutely.”

  Temple closed the door and pulled up a chair facing the woman.

  “You don’t make the room dark first?” Kinderman wondered.

  “No, that’s nonsense,” said Temple. “Oogah-boogah.” From an upper pocket of his medical jacket he extracted a small medallion. It hung from a short length of chain and was triangular. “Mrs. Clelia,” said Temple. She immediately turned her gaze to the psychiatrist. He lifted the medallion and let it swing gently before her eyes. Then he spoke the words “dream time.” Instantly the old woman closed her eyes and seemed to slump in her chair. Her hands fell gently to her lap. Temple turned a self-satisfied look to the detective. “What should I ask her?” he said. “Same thing?” Kinderman nodded.

  Temple turned back to the woman. “Mrs. Clelia,” he said, “can you remember what you did this morning?”

  They waited but she made no answer. The woman sat motionless. Temple began to look puzzled. “What did you do this morning?” he repeated.

  Kinderman shifted his weight a little. There was still no reply. “Is she sleeping?” the detective asked softly.

  Temple shook his head. “Did you see a priest today, Mrs. Clelia?” the psychiatrist asked her.

  Suddenly the woman broke her silence. “Noooooo,” she answered in a tone that was low and drawn out, like a groan. It had an eeriness about it.

  “Did you go for a walk this morning?”

&nbs
p; “Noooooo.”

  “Did somebody take you somewhere?”

  “Noooooo.”

  “Shit,” whispered Temple. He turned his head and looked at Kinderman.

  The detective said, “All right. That’s enough.”

  Temple turned back to Mrs. Clelia. He touched her forehead and said, “Wake up.”

  Slowly, the old woman began to sit up. She opened her eyes and looked at Temple. Then she stared at the detective. Her eyes were innocent and blank. “Did you fix my radio?” she asked him.

  “I will fix it tomorrow, ma’am,” said Kinderman.

  “That’s what they all say,” replied Mrs. Clelia. She stared at her shoes and hummed.

  Kinderman and Temple stepped into the hall. “Did you like that question about the priest?” asked Temple. “I mean, why cock around? Get right to it. And how about the one about somebody taking her over to Neurology? I thought that was a good one.”

  “Why couldn’t she answer you?” asked Kinderman.

  “I dunno. To tell the truth it kind of beats me.”

  “You’ve hypnotized this lady many times before?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “She went under so quickly,” said Kinderman.

  “Well, I’m good,” said Temple. “I told you. Jesus Christ, I can’t get over what was done to that priest. I mean, how is that possible, Lieutenant?”

  “We will see.”

  “And he was mutilated?” asked Temple.

  Kinderman stared at him intently. “His right index finger was severed,” he said, “and on his left palm the killer carved a zodiacal sign. The Twins. The Gemini,” Kinderman told him. His gaze probed unwaveringly into Temple’s. “What do you make of that?” he asked.

  “I dunno,” said Temple. His face was a blank.

  “No, you wouldn’t,” said Kinderman. “Why should you? Incidentally, you have somewhere a pathology section?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where they are making autopsies and so on?”

  Temple nodded. “Down below on Level B. You take the elevator down from Neurology and turn left. Are you going there?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t miss it.”

  Kinderman turned and walked away. “What do you want in Pathology anyway?” Temple called out to his back. Kinderman shrugged and kept on walking. Temple cursed beneath his breath.

  * * *

  ATKINS WAS leaning against the charge desk when he saw Kinderman coming down the hall. He pushed off from the desk and walked forward to meet him. “You reached Amfortas?” the detective asked him.

  “No.”

  “Keep trying.”

  “Stedman and Ryan are finished.”

  “I am not.”

  “There were prints on the jars,” said Atkins. “All over them, in fact, and very clear.”

  “Yes, the killer is bold. He is mocking us, Atkins.”

  “Father Riley’s downstairs. He says he wants to see the body.”

  “No, don’t let him. Go down there and talk to him, Atkins. Be vague. And tell Ryan to hurry up with the prints. I want comparisons immediately with the prints that he took from the confessional. In the meantime, I am going to Pathology.”

  Atkins nodded and both men walked to the elevators and caught one going down. When Atkins got off at the lobby, the detective caught a glimpse of Father Riley. He was sitting in a corner with his head in his hands. The detective looked away and was glad when the elevator door had closed.

  Kinderman found his way to Pathology and at last to a quiet room where medical students were dissecting cadavers. He tried not to see them. A doctor in an office faced with glass looked up from the desk where he was working and saw the detective prowling around. He got up and came out and confronted Kinderman. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Could be.” Kinderman flashed his identification. “Have you any sort of instrument used in dissection that resembles a pair of shears, perhaps? I was curious.”

  “Sure,” said the doctor. He led the detective over to a wall where various instruments were sheathed. He plucked one down and gave it to Kinderman. “Be careful with that,” he warned.

  “I will,” said Kinderman. He was holding a gleaming cutting instrument made of stainless steel. It resembled a pair of shears. The blades curved sharply into a crescent, and when Kinderman turned them they flashed with reflected light from above. “These are something,” the detective murmured. The instrument gave him a feeling of dread. “What do you call them?” he asked.

  “Shears.”

  “Yes, of course. In the land of the dead there is no jargon.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.” Kinderman carefully pulled at the handles in an effort to separate the blades. He had to strain. “I’m so weak,” he complained.

  “No, they’re stiff,” said the doctor. “They’re new.”

  Kinderman looked up with his eyebrows raised. “You said ‘new’?”

  “We just got them.” The doctor reached out and peeled a sticker from a handle. “It’s still got the price tag on it,” he said. He crumpled it up and let it drop into a pocket of his jacket.

  “You replace these very often?” the detective asked him.

  “You must be kidding. These things are expensive. Anyway, there’s no way to damage them. I don’t know why we’d be getting in a new one,” said the doctor. He looked up and scanned the rows of hooks and sheaths on the wall. “Well, the old one’s not around,” he said at last. “Maybe one of the medical students copped it.”

  Kinderman gingerly handed him the shears. He said, “Thank you very much, Doctor—what was your name?”

  “Arnie Derwin. Is that all you wanted?”

  “It’s enough.”

  When Kinderman arrived at the neurology desk, a cluster of nurses were gathered around as Atkins and the Chief of Staff, Doctor Tench, stood head to head in a confrontation. Kinderman reached them in time to hear Tench saying, “This is a hospital, sir, not a zoo, and the patients come first! Do you understand?”

  “What’s all this tsimmis?” asked Kinderman.

  “This is Doctor Tench,” said Atkins.

  Tench turned around and jutted his chin up toward the detective. “I’m the Chief of Staff. Who are you?” he demanded.

  “A poor lieutenant of police chasing phantoms. You will kindly step aside? We have business,” said Kinderman.

  “Jesus Christ, you’ve got a nerve!”

  The detective had already turned to Atkins. “The killer is someone in this hospital,” he told him. “Call the precinct. We are going to need many more men.”

  “Now listen here!” exploded Tench.

  The detective ignored him. “Post two men on every floor. Lock all exits to the street and put a man on each. No one enters or leaves without proper credentials.”

  “You can’t do that!” said Tench.

  “Whoever leaves must be searched. We are looking for a pair of surgical shears. We must also search the hospital for them.”

  Tench had purpled. “Would you listen to me, please, goddamnit!”

  The detective now whirled on him grimly. “No, you listen to me,” he said sharply. His voice was low and even and commanding. “I want you to know what we are facing,” he said. “Have you heard of the Gemini Killer?”

  “What?” Tench’s manner continued to be querulous.

  “I said the Gemini Killer,” said Kinderman.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him. So what? He’s dead.”

  “Do you remember any published accounts of his modus operandi?” pressed Kinderman.

  “Look, what are you driving at?”

  “Do you remember them?”

  “Mutilations?”

  “Yes,” said Kinderman intently. He leaned his head toward the doctor. “The middle finger of the victim’s left hand was always severed. And on the victim’s back he would carve out a sign of the zodiac—the Gemini, the Twins. And the name of each victim began with a K.
Is it all coming back to you, Doctor Tench? Well, forget it. Put it instantly out of your mind. The truth is that the missing finger was this one!” The detective extended his right index finger. “Not the middle but the index finger! Not the left hand at all, but the right! And the sign of the Gemini was not on the back, it was carved on the left palm! Only San Francisco Homicide knew this, no one else. But they gave the press the false information on purpose so they wouldn’t be bothered every day with some looney coming in and confessing that he was the Gemini and then wasting all their time with the investigations, so they could know the real thing when they found him.” Kinderman moved his face in closer. “But in this case, Doctor, this and another two besides, we have the true M.O.!”

  Tench looked stunned. “I can’t believe it,” he said.

  “Believe it. Also, when the Gemini wrote letters to the press, he always doubled his final l’s on every word even when it was wrong. Does this tell you something, Doctor?”

  “My God!”

  “Do you now understand? Is it clear?”

  “But what about Father Dyer’s name? It doesn’t start with a K,” said Tench in puzzlement.

  “His middle name was Kevin. And now will you kindly let us go about our business and try to protect you?”

  Ashen-faced, Tench mutely nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. He walked away.

  Kinderman sighed and looked wearily at Atkins; then he glanced at the charge desk. One of the nurses from another ward was standing with her arms folded, staring intently at the detective. As he met her gaze she looked strangely anxious. Kinderman returned his attention to Atkins. He took him by the arm and drew him a few steps away from the desk. “All right, do as I told you,” he said. “And Amfortas. Have you reached him?”

  “No.”

  “Keep trying. Go on. Go ahead.” He turned him gently away, and then watched him as he moved toward the inner-office phone. And now a great weight came down upon his being and he walked to the door of Dyer’s room. He avoided the gaze of the policeman on guard, put his hand on the doorknob, opened the door and stepped inside.

  He felt as though he’d entered another dimension. He leaned back against the door and looked at Stedman. The pathologist was sitting in a chair numbly staring. Behind him the rain spattered down against a window. Half the room was in shadow and the grayness from outside washed the rest in a pale and spectral light. “There isn’t a stain or a drop of blood anyplace in the room,” said Stedman softly. His voice was toneless. “Not even on the mouths of the jars,” he added.