By Reason of Insanity Read online

  “Right now?”

  “Now,” he roared, already back on the steps.

  In the outer room Baylor was waiting for him. He introduced himself and ushered the sheriff into his office. It had been decorated to Baylor’s taste although the furniture was somewhat rearranged for the meeting. The eighteenth-century desk was small and tidy and the chair behind it, the doctor’s chair, stately and tall. In front of the desk three straightbacked chairs with red brocade seats had been lined up with neat precision. A Princess Anne couch graced the side wall nearer the desk, its dainty tapered legs resting comfortably on the thick pile carpeting.

  Two of the chairs were occupied, as Oates shook hands with Spanner and was introduced to Dr. Walter Lang, the hospital’s chief of staff There was no attempt at small talk. The sheriff eyed the empty chair, obviously intended for him, and wheeled instead over to the couch, mumbling something about comfort. Spanner watched Baylor’s lips tighten in disapproval and he made a mental note about the man. By the time Baylor had seated himself behind the desk Oates was settled in the couch, his uniform in sharp contrast to the delicate floral pattern around him.

  Disregarding the two doctors for a moment, he turned his attention to John Spanner. The man was not one of his great favorites. He was just a small-town cop with no real motivation in him. But he was good at his job, maybe too good. He watched people all the time, just as he was watching Baylor now. He always looked for a loose thread, something that didn’t fit, instead of seeing the overall picture. In the sheriff’s mind this was always a mistake in police work. A team effort, that’s what good police work was all about. Use everybody’s feet and muscle and brains, use every scientific trick there was to catch the bastards. Manpower and teamwork, yessir, that’s what got results, that’s what it was all about. Spanner was too much of a loner, he relied too much on himself and his damn intuition about people’s motives. Maybe he was part Mexican, what kind of name was Spanner anyway? One thing was sure. Somebody like that was unpredictable, he always had to be watched. It took the sheriff a few seconds to realize that Spanner was now watching him. He pulled his eyes away and made a noise in his throat. Not for the first time he wished he could get John Spanner on his staff Would serve the bastard right, he muttered savagely to himself

  “Gentlemen,” Dr. Baylor began smoothly, “I take it we all know why we’re here this morning.” He lowered his eyes. “A most distressing incident.” Lang blinked in consternation, he would not have called it just an incident. “Apparently sometime during the night,” Baylor was saying, “two patients escaped from the new experimental wards by gaining access to the roof and jumping to the rain-softened earth below. The building, I should add, is only two stories. What exactly—”

  “How’d they get to the roof?”

  The doctor, annoyed at the interruption, looked blankly at Oates. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The roof. How’d they get there?”

  Spanner watched Baylor’s eyes harden. “In the experimental building, doors are not kept locked—except for the main door to the outside, of course. I imagine they simply sneaked past the night attendants on each floor and walked up the stairs to the roof.”

  “Kind of careless, wasn’t it?”

  “Careless?”

  “Why weren’t the doors locked to the wards, to the stairs, to the roof? Wouldn’t you call that careless?” asked Oates.

  “Certainly not.” Baylor snapped defensively. “The experimental plan was approved by the state medical society and by the department of corrections. It was—and is—merely an experiment. I would suggest if you—”

  “Okay, okay,” Oates said, defeated.

  Mollified, Baylor began again after a moment. “As I was saying”— he looked pointedly at the sheriff—”what exactly happened when they reached the ground is only conjecture at this time. What we do know is that one of them then attacked the other in a most brutal manner.”

  “What was the weapon?”

  Baylor looked uncomfortable and Spanner came to his rescue. “I saw the body, Jim,” he said quietly. “It had to be an axe or a meat cleaver.”

  “That bad, eh?”

  Spanner nodded, his eyes remembering the body. It was the worst hatchet job he had ever seen, and he shuddered at the maniacal fury needed to do such a thing.

  Baylor continued. “After the attack on Thomas Bishop, that is— was—the dead man’s name, after the attack the other patient apparently was able to leave the grounds. We don’t yet know exactly how.”

  Oates shoved his long legs outward, leaned back against the couch. “Any chance he’s still around here?”

  Baylor turned to his left. “Doctor Lang?”

  “No,” Lang said hesitantly, caught unawares. Then, more positively, “None whatever. The buildings and grounds have been thoroughly searched. Mungo is not on the campus.”

  “Campus, Doctor?” Spanner asked, amused by the word.

  Lang blushed. “Sorry. Just a conceit of mine, I guess. I like to think of the hospital as a kind of college campus.”

  Oates snorted. “I suppose the nuts in here are just a bunch of students.” He turned to Baylor. “You got a file on this what’s-his-name?”

  “Vincent Mungo.” Baylor handed him a folder from the desk. “You’ll find everything we have on him. It isn’t much. He was a recent transfer, you know.”

  “From where?” Spanner asked.

  “Lakeland.”

  Oates looked up in surprise. “Lakeland isn’t part of—”

  “He was having violent episodes lately,” Baylor hastily explained. “Disciplinary problems. They thought perhaps we could help him.”

  “They? Who’s ‘they’?”

  Lang coughed. “I originally petitioned various state hospitals—”

  “You mean nuthouses,” Oates interjected.

  “State hospitals,” persisted Lang, “to suggest possible patients who might be helped by our new experimental program. It’s the first in the state,” he said proudly. Then, more quietly, “Mungo was one of those suggested.”

  Oates looked at him. “So this is all your doing.”

  Lang bristled as Baylor rushed to his defense. “Doctor Lang is highly qualified in his field and totally competent. We all have the highest respect for his abilities.”

  The sheriff laughed. He knew all about people sticking together, especially those in the same racket. “No offense, Doctor,” he apologized. “No offense.”

  He finished reading the few papers on Mungo in the folder, returning it to the desk.

  “May I?” asked Spanner reaching for the folder.

  “So the two of them get to the roof, just walk through doors and right past guards”—Oates was not going to let go of a thing like that— “and then they—” He stopped. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t the roof door locked, for chrissake?”

  Baylor regarded him for a moment. “As I’m sure you know, Sheriff,” he said smoothly, “state fire laws require all such doors to be unlocked from the inside.” He emphasized the word. “At Willows we must of course comply with all state laws.” He smiled in triumph.

  “Yeah, sure,” Oates blustered. “What I meant was the alarm,” he said, recovering. “What about the alarm? Why didn’t it go off?”

  Spanner glanced up from his reading. “Whipped cream,” he said simply.

  In spite of himself the sheriff had to laugh. “Maybe they’re not so crazy after all.”

  “May I remind you that one of them was killed?”

  “So he was just the dumb one.” Oates had no feeling for crazy people, they were unpredictable.

  “Horrible, horrible,” said Lang suddenly, unable to forget. “His whole face, it was … gone.”

  Oates eyed Dr. Baylor. “What’s he mean, gone?”

  Baylor paused, licked his lips. “Bishop’s face was totally de stroyed,” he said finally. “There were no features left, nothing at all.”

  “Then how do you know it’s Bishop?”

 
“The clothes, the things in the pockets, the wallet, all Bishop’s. Also from the body itself. Wouldn’t you say so, Doctor? You knew the man?”

  Lang nodded. “It’s Bishop all right.”

  “What about fingerprints, just to doublecheck?”

  Lang shook his head. “Bishop came here when he was ten years old. He never had his prints taken, I’m afraid.”

  Oates stared in disbelief. “When he was ten?”

  “At that time,” said Baylor, “this institution was the only one in the state with a children’s ward.” He smiled. “It was experimental then. Now of course they’re quite common.”

  “What did the kid do at ten?” whispered the sheriff.

  Baylor and Lang exchanged quick glances before Lang spoke.

  “He killed his mother,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  Oates grunted as though in pain. He had a sudden urge to be far away from all crazy people, including the nuts who took care of them. Like these two, nothing but trouble. He shook his head sadly.

  Spanner, finished with the file, placed it on the desk.

  “Okay,” said the sheriff energetically. “What we’re looking for is a nut crazy enough to kill in a rage for no reason but sane enough to escape from a prison—”

  “This is a hospital,” corrected Baylor.

  “—prison hospital in a way we can’t even figure out—”

  “Yet,” suggested Lang.

  “Yet!” roared Oates, at the end of his patience. “Now, is that a fair summation?”

  Dr. Baylor sighed, an audible sigh that carried with it, at least for Oates, a premonition of disaster. He fancied himself as having a nose that could smell trouble, and he had a lot of experience at it. Here it comes, he thought to himself, here comes the curve that’s always there.

  “There’s one more thing, gentlemen,” Baylor said slowly. He looked at each of them in turn. “The body, you see, had one of the fingers hacked off.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose a moment before focusing on them again. “And I’m afraid that the finger is missing.”

  Nobody said a word.

  The sheriff closed his eyes. He swore softly to himself. This just wasn’t going to be his day. Here he was in a nuthouse looking for a maniac who had a thing against faces, and now he’s told about fingers being chopped off. It all began to sound like a cult killing to him. He wondered what else was going on at Willows, and he made a mental note to do a little checking on the staff, including Dr. Baylor. He also wondered if he should take his vacation now.

  John Spanner cleared his throat. “Doctor Baylor, when you say the finger is missing, could one of the guards have taken it for evidence?”

  “They’ve all been checked,” said Lang hastily. “It’s just gone.”

  “Maybe it was valuable,” Spanner said with a smile. Lang stared at him as though he were mad. “Perhaps a ring,” Spanner continued. “A ring that the killer couldn’t get off the finger.”

  The sheriffs ears perked up.

  “Yes,” said Lang, reflecting. “Bishop did take to wearing a ring recently, a birthstone ring, I think it was. But it couldn’t have been of any value.”

  “Maybe the killer didn’t know that. Was it on the body?”

  Lang thought a moment. “No, and neither was Bishop’s watch,” he cried excitedly. “He always wore a wristwatch. That was gone too.”

  Oates was beginning to see reason again. A motive. Always look for a motive, even in a nuthouse. Good boy, John, he said silently. Aloud he asked for descriptions of the ring and watch. Lang promised to get them for him.

  “So we got a motive,” he said to the group. “Mungo gets this Bishop to go with him on the escape—”

  “How do you know it was his idea?” interrupted Spanner. “He was only here a short while. How would he know where to get out? Bishop was here—how long?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “That’s a long time. Maybe Bishop knew a way out and was just waiting for something.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “I don’t know,” Spanner admitted. “But you don’t know that it was Mungo’s idea.”

  “So say the escape came from Bishop, what’s the difference? The point is they’re out of the building and Mungo turns on the guy suddenly, without warning, and kills him and takes the watch. He can’t get the ring so he chops the finger off and takes that too.”

  “Only one thing wrong with your theory,” said Spanner softly.

  “What’s that?”

  “Say it was Bishop’s idea. Did you ever hear of a prisoner planning a break and telling the others beforehand where it would be?”

  “They weren’t prisoners,” Oates shouted. “They were nuts.”

  “Why would Mungo kill him before he knew how to get out?”

  The sheriff felt his anger rising. “Number one, you’re just guessing. You don’t know it was Bishop’s plan. I say it makes more sense coming from Mungo. Why would a man wait if he knew how to get out? But Mungo comes in fresh, spots it right away, and it happens. That makes more sense to me.”

  “Could be you’re right.” Spanner smiled. “And what’s number two, Jim?”

  “Number two is I don’t think it’s just a theory. I think that’s what happened. And when we catch Mungo you’ll see it.”

  Spanner turned his attention to Baylor. “I don’t suppose Mungo ever had his prints taken either, being he was a regular mental patient.”

  Baylor frowned. “No, I don’t think there would have been any reason.”

  “I see.” He pointed to several objects on the desk. “Are those the things from the body? I should take them along with me.”

  Oates was satisfied. “If we’re finished here I want pictures and a full description on Mungo. I’ll get it statewide by tonight.”

  “Doctor Lang will be glad to get those for you,” Baylor said pleasantly. He started to get up. “If I can be of any further service …” He let the sentence trail.

  Spanner remained seated. “There are a couple of points that bother me a little, Doctor.” He reached for something on the desk. “If you don’t mind a moment more.”

  “Not at all.” Baylor sat down again, vastly annoyed.

  “This wallet, for instance. Mungo kills him and takes the watch and the ring however he can. Then he quickly searches the body. The harmonica is junk, he doesn’t take it. Same with the comb. But why didn’t he take the wallet?”

  “There was nothing in it, Lieutenant.”

  “We don’t know that. But the point is, he already had it out to check. Why take the time in the pouring rain to return the wallet to the body? Unless—”

  “Yes?”

  “Unless the killer wanted us to find the wallet.” Spanner opened it. “Whose picture is this?”

  “I believe that’s Bishop’s mother,” said Lang.

  “He kills his mother and then carries her picture around for fifteen years. Wouldn’t you call that a little strange?”

  “Most of the people here are, as you say, a little strange, Lieutenant.” Baylor, smiling, looked at his watch.

  “Another thing is the murder weapon. Where would he get an axe or a cleaver?”

  “We’re checking the entire staff of course, but I don’t mind telling you that I’m equally mystified.”

  “And why take it with him? Why not just leave it?”

  “Maybe he needed it for his work,” Oates suggested sarcastically.

  Spanner ignored him. “But what bothers me most is the attack itself, the insane fury it took to destroy a face like that. Why?”

  Baylor smiled indulgently. “I think you answered your own question, Lieutenant. You used the word ‘insane.’ Some of these poor devils, when they work themselves into a rage there’s no telling what they’re capable of. The face is often the focal point of their rage. It’s the face that lies to them, deceives them, laughs at them.”

  “Maybe,” Spanner said, unconvinced. “Maybe so.”

  Oates stood up. “I have
a question for you.” He looked at Baylor. “What about Mungo? Will he kill again before we can get to him?”

  The director frowned as he too rose from his chair. “I wish I could answer that,” he said quietly. “Disturbed people are like children— they’re unpredictable. I will say only that once an animal has smelled blood …” He spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Any suggestions on where we might look for him?”

  Dr. Baylor thought for a moment. “Not really. I should imagine by now he’s trying to get as far away as he can.”

  “With his face plastered all over, he won’t get very far.”

  Spanner was not so sure. “I got a feeling we might be hearing from him again.”

  Baylor nodded. “Homicidal maniacs, as the press likes to call them, are often very clever people. I shouldn’t forget that if I were you.”

  He opened the door to the outer office and held it for them as they passed through. The woman stopped her typing and watched. For the first time in three hours Baylor felt a sense of relief. “I’m told Bishop had no relatives, so we will bury the body. After the autopsy of course. Is that suitable to you, Lieutenant? Good. Then I won’t keep you gentlemen any longer.”

  His eyes followed the two men until they were again in the hall. After reminding the woman to cancel the Fourth of July celebration on the lawn, he reentered his office and shut the door.

  For the next half hour the two doctors discussed certain legal implications of the murder of Thomas Bishop and the escape of Vincent Mungo. Questions regarding policy and procedure were sure to be raised, and they knew that appropriate answers would have to be found.

  “He must have gone berserk,” Lang kept repeating. “Something snapped inside and he just went berserk.”

  “That he is a berserker is obvious,” Baylor reminded him. “What is not yet obvious is our position in the matter.”

  “Suppose the police can’t find him,” insisted Lang. “Suppose he kills again. And goes on killing.”

  Baylor grew impatient. “See here, the police are certainly capable of finding this man. They have his description and his picture. He has nothing. Wherever he goes his face will be recognized. Kindly allow the police to do their job. Meanwhile our job is to see that no blame for this unfortunate incident attaches itself to Willows. Or to us.”