"Did you eliminate some by age?" Peter asked, the jocularity now removed from his voice.

She nodded. "Yes. That was my first thought, as well. The old-timers, well, no need to question them."

"I think," Peter said slowly, as he started to rub his right hand across his cheek, as if by friction, he could loosen some ideas stuck within, "that we might consider one other important element."

Lucy looked at him.

"Physicality," Peter said.

"What do you mean?" Francis asked.

"What I mean is that it requires some strength to commit the crime that we're concerned with. He had to overpower Short Blond, then drag her to the storage room. There were signs of a struggle in the nursing station, so we know that he didn't manage to sneak up behind her and knock her out with some lucky punch. In fact, if I were to guess, he probably looked forward to the struggle."

Lucy sighed. "True. The more he beat her, the more he got excited. That would fit what we know of this type of personality."

Francis shuddered, hoping the others didn't see him. He had a little trouble discussing so coldly and casually some moments that were, he thought, far beyond horror.

"So," Peter continued, "we know we're looking for someone with some muscle. That rules out a bunch of people inside here right away, because, although Gulptilil would probably deny it, this place doesn't exactly seem to attract the physically fit. Aren't too many marathon runners and body builders inside here. And we should also reduce the pool of candidates to a range of ages. And then, it seems to me, there is one other area that might help further narrow the list. Diagnosis. Who is here with some significant violence in their past. Who suffers from the type of mental illness that might be expanded to include murder."

Lucy said, "My thinking exactly. We come up with a portrait of the man we're seeking, and things will come into focus." Then she turned to Francis. "C-Bird, I'm going to need your help in that area."

Francis bent toward her, eager. "What do you need?"

"I don't think I understand madness," she said.

Francis must have looked confused, because she smiled. "Oh, don't get me wrong. I understand the psychiatric language and the diagnosis criteria and the treatment plans and all the textbook stuff. But what I don't understand is how it all seems from the inside, looking out. I think you can help me in that regard. I need to know who could have done these crimes, and hard evidence is going to be tricky to come by."

Francis was uncertain, but he said, "Whatever you need…"

Peter, though, was nodding his head, as if he could see something that was obvious to himself and should have been obvious to Lucy, but which still eluded Francis. "He can do that, I'm sure. He's a natural. A teacher-in-training. Can't you C-Bird?"

"I'll try." Deep within him, he heard a rumbling, as if there was an argument going on within his inner population, and then, finally, he heard one of his voices insist: Tell them. It's okay. Tell them what you know. He hesitated one second, then spoke, feeling as if his words were being directed from sources within. "There's one thing you should realize," he said slowly, cautiously. Both Lucy and Peter looked at him, as if they were a little surprised he was joining the conversation.

"What's that?" Lucy asked.

Francis nodded to Peter. "Peter's right, I guess, about being strong, and right, too, that there aren't a lot of people inside here who would appear to have the physical strength necessary to outfight someone like Short Blond. I mean, that makes sense, I guess. But not completely. If the Angel were hearing voices commanding him to attack Short Blond, and these other women well, it's not true that he would have to be as strong as Peter suggests. When you hear these things, and the voices are telling you to do something I mean, really screaming and insistent and without compromise well, pain, difficulty, strength, all these things become secondary. You simply do what they demand. You overcome. If a voice told you to pick up a car, or a boulder, well, you would do it, or kill yourself trying. So it is not necessarily true when Peter suggests that the Angel is a strong man. He could still be almost anyone, because he could find the necessary strength. The voices would tell him where to find it."

He paused, and he heard a deep echo within saying That's right. Good job, Francis.

Peter looked deeply at Francis, then broke out into a smile. He punched Francis on the arm.

Lucy smiled, too, followed by a long sigh. "I will keep all that in mind, Francis. Thank you. I think you might be right. It just goes to show that this isn't your ordinary type of investigation. Rules are a bit different inside here, aren't they?"

Francis felt a sense of relief, and was pleased to have contributed something. He pointed at his forehead. "Rules are different inside here, too," he said.

Lucy reached out and touched him on the arm. "I'll keep that in mind." Then she shook her head. "Now there's something else I need you guys to find out for me."

"Anything," Peter said.

"Evans suggested that there are ways to travel between buildings at night where one can avoid being seen by Security. I'm capable of asking him precisely what he means by this, but I'd like to limit his involvement as much as possible…"

"Makes sense to me," Peter said rapidly. Perhaps a bit too much so, for he gained a sharp look from Lucy.

"Still, I wonder if you can't pursue this from the patients' point of view. Who knows how to get from here to there? How do you do it? What are the risks? And who would want to do it?"

"Do you think the Angel came from another building?"

"I want to find out if he could."

Peter nodded again. "I see," he said. He started to say something, but then stopped. "We'll find out what we can," he said after a moment.

"Good," Lucy said with brisk confidence. "I'm going off to see Doctor Gulptilil, and pursue the dates and times a little more carefully. I'll get him to escort me to the other units, so that I can come up with a rough list of names from each."

"You can probably eliminate the men with a diagnosis of mental retardation, as well," Peter said. "That will narrow the field. But only severe mental retardation."

Again she nodded. "Makes sense. Why don't you two plan on meeting me in my office prior to dinner and we'll compare notes."

She turned and walked rapidly down the corridor. Francis noticed that the patients who were moving through the same space all stepped aside as she sailed past, shrinking back from her. He thought, at first, that people must be scared of Lucy, which he didn't understand, but then, he realized it was unfamiliarity that scared them. She was sane, and they were not. More, it was what she represented, which was something alien, a person with an existence that stretched beyond the walls. And last, he thought, what was ultimately the most unsettling thing about seeing someone like her within the hospital was that it drove home a sense of uncertainty about the world they all lived in.

Francis looked closely at the faces of some of the patients and realized that there were very few people in that building who really wanted the disruption to their world that Lucy represented. In the Western State Hospital, patients and staff clung to routine, because it was the only way of keeping all the forces that warred within each patient at bay. It was why so many people were stuck there for so many years, because, very swiftly one came to understand what was dangerous. He shook his head. It was all upside down, he thought. The hospital was a place filled with risk, a constantly bubbling cauldron of conflict, anger, and madness; yet, it somehow measured out to be less frightening than the world outside. Lucy was the outside. Francis turned, and saw Peter the Fireman also watching her departure. He could see a sense of frustration in Peter's face. It was a frustration caused by being imprisoned. They were the same, Francis thought, because they both belonged somewhere else.