But this was as harsh an understanding as any that had ever come to me unbidden. It frightened me almost as much as the sound of the Angel's voice. I pressed back, and as I cowered, I heard the telephone ringing in the next room. The jangling only added to my nervousness. After a moment, it stopped, and I heard the answering machine that my sisters had purchased for me click on. "Mister Petrel? Are you there?" The voice seemed distant, but familiar. "It's Mister Klein at the Wellness Center. You have not arrived for the appointment that you promised you would attend. Please pick up the telephone. Mister Petrel? Francis? Please contact this office as soon as you get this message, otherwise I will be forced to take some action…"

I remained rooted in my spot.

"They will come for you," I heard the Angel say. "Can't you see, C-Bird? You're in a box and you can't get out."

I closed my eyes, but it did no good. It was as if sounds increased in volume.

"They will come for you, Francis, and this time they will want to take you away forever. They will think: No more little apartment. No more job counting fish for the wildlife survey. No more Francis walking the streets getting in the way of everyday life. No more burden for your sisters or your elderly parents, Francis, who never loved you all that much anyway, after they saw what you would become. No, they will want to shut Francis away for the rest of his days. Locked up, strait jacketed drooling mess. That's what you will become, Francis. Surely you can see that…"

The Angel laughed a little before adding:"… Unless, of course, I kill you first."

These words were as sharp as any knife blade.

I wanted to say "What are you waiting for?" but instead, shifted about, and crawling like a baby, tears dripping down my face, crossed the floor toward the wall of words. He was right with me, every step, and I didn't understand yet why he had not seized hold of me. I tried to block out his presence, as if memory was my only salvation, and remembering Lucy's authoritative demand that seemed to cut across the years.

Lucy strode forward. "No one should touch a thing," she demanded. "This is a crime scene!"

Mister Evans seemed confused by her appearance and stuttered some reply that didn't make immediate sense. Doctor Gulptilil, also taken aback by her outward change, shook his head, and stepped just slightly into her path, as if he could slow her pace down by forming some sort of obstacle. The security guards and Big Black and Little Black all shifted about uncomfortably.

"She's right," Peter said forcefully. "The police should be called."

The Fireman's voice seemed to penetrate past Evans's surprise, and he pivoted toward Peter, saying, "What the hell do you know?"

Gulptilil held up his hand and neither shook his head negatively, nor nodded in agreement. Instead, he shifted about in his place, as if switching his pear-shaped body amoeba-like from one position into another. "I would not be all that persuaded," he said calmly. "Did we not just go through this sort of discussion with the prior death in this ward?"

Lucy Jones snorted. "Yes, I believe we did."

"Ah, of course. An elderly patient who passed away from sudden heart failure. Which, I recall, you also wanted to investigate as a homicide."

Lucy gestured toward Cleo's misshapen body, still hanging grotesquely in the stairwell. "This, I doubt, could be attributed to sudden heart failure."

"Nor does it have the earmarks of your cases," Gulp-a-pill replied.

"Yes it does," Peter said briskly. "The severed thumb."

The doctor pivoted about and spent a few seconds staring at Cleo's hand, and then down at the macabre sight on the floor. He shook his head, as he often did, but replied, "Perhaps. But then, Miss Jones, prior to engaging the local police, and all the trouble that act implies, we should examine the death ourselves, and see if we can reach some consensus. For my initial inspection does not suggest this is a homicide in the slightest."

Lucy Jones looked askance, started to say one thing, then stopped. "As you wish, Doctor," she said. "Let's take a look at the scene. As you wish."

Lucy followed the physician into the stairwell. Peter and Francis moved aside, watching them as they progressed into the small area. Mister Evil trailed after them, as well, after fixing Peter with a snarling gaze, but the others all hovered in the doorway area, as if getting much closer would somehow increase the potency of the image in front of them. Francis saw nervousness and fear in more than one set of eyes, and thought the portrait of Cleo's death managed to transcend the ordinary boundaries of sanity and insanity; it was equally unsettling to the normal and the mad, just the same.

For nearly ten minutes, Lucy and Doctor Gulptilil slowly walked around and through the small area, both sets of eyes reaching into every corner, surveying every inch of the space. Francis saw Peter watching them both closely, and he, too, tried to follow their vision, as if he could place their thoughts into his own head. And, as he did this, Francis began to see. It was a little like a camera out of focus, where everything was indistinct and fuzzy, but as he stood there, a certain sharpness slowly came to him, and he began to imagine Cleo's last moments.

Finally, Doctor Gulptilil turned to Lucy. "So, tell me Madam Prosecutor, how does this measure up as a homicide?"

She pointed to the thumb. "My perpetrator has always severed fingers. She would be the fifth. Thus, the thumb."

He shook his head. "Look about," he said slowly. "There are no signs of a struggle. No one has as yet stepped forward to say that there was a disturbance in this area last night. I would find it hard to imagine that your killer or any killer for that matter would be able to force a woman who possessed this bulk and strength, into a noose without attracting some attention to his efforts. And the victim here… well, what about this death reminds you of the others?"

"Nothing, not yet," Lucy said.

"Do you imagine, Miss Jones," Doctor Gulptilil said cautiously, "that suicide is unheard of here in this hospital?"

And there, Francis thought, it is.

"Of course not," Lucy replied."

"And was not the woman in question unhealthily fixated on the nurse-trainee's murder?"

"I don't know that for a fact."

"Perhaps Mister Evans can enlighten us?"

Evans stepped out from the doorway. "She seemed to take a far greater interest in the case than anyone else. She had had several significant outbursts, where she claimed knowledge or information about the death. If anyone is to blame, it is me, for failing to see how critical this obsession had become…"

He said this last mea culpa in a tone that implied the exact opposite. In other words, Francis thought, he thinks he's the least to blame. He looked up at Cleo's bloated face and thought the entirety of the situation surreal. People arguing back and forth about what had taken place literally beneath the feet of the dead woman. He tried to remember her alive, but had trouble. He tried to feel sad, but, instead, he was mostly exhausted, as if the emotion of the discovery was like climbing some mountain. He looked around again, staying quiet, and found himself thinking: What did happen?

"Miss Jones," Doctor Gulptilil was saying, "death is not unheard of in the hospital. This act fits a sad scheme that we are familiar with. It is thankfully not as frequent as one might imagine, still, it does occur as we are sometimes slow to recognize the stresses that drive some patients. Your alleged killer is a sexual predator. But here we have no signs of such activity. Instead, we have a woman who, in all likelihood mutilated her own hand as her delusions connecting her to the prior murder grew out of control. I imagine we will find scissors or a razor hidden among her personal items. In addition, my guess is that we will discover that the bedsheet that she fashioned into a noose comes from her own bunk. Such is the resourcefulness of a psychotic bent on taking his own life, alas. I am sorry…"