"Keep your head down," Little Black said, as they approached the side entrance to Williams.

Peter lowered his head again, and dropped his eyes so that he was staring at the dusty black path they walked. It was difficult, he thought, because every shaft of sunlight that hit his back reminded him of being someplace else, and every breath of warm wind suggested happier times. He stepped forward, insisting to himself that it served no purpose to remember what he had once been, and what he now was, and that he should only look to what he would become. This was hard, he realized, because every time he looked at Lucy he saw a life that might have been his, but which had eluded him, and he thought, not for the first time, that every step he took only brought him a bit closer to some fearsome precipice, where he teetered unsteadily, maintaining his balance only with the most tenuous grip on icy rocks, held in place by thin ropes that were fraying quickly.

The man directly across from her smiled blankly but said nothing.

For the second time, Lucy asked, "Do you remember the nurse-trainee that went by the nickname Short Blond?"

The man rocked forward in the seat and moaned slightly. It was neither a yes moan, nor a no moan, simply a sound of acknowledgment. At least, Francis would have described the sound as a moan, but that was for lack of any better word, because the man didn't seem discomfited in the slightest, either by the question, the stiff-backed chair or the woman prosecutor sitting across from him. He was a hulking, broad-shouldered man, with hair cropped short and a wide-eyed expression. A small line of spittle was collected at the corner of his mouth, and he rocked to a rhythm that played only in his own ears.

"Will you answer any questions?" Lucy Jones asked, frustration creeping into her voice.

Again, the man remained silent, except for the small creaking noise of the chair he sat upon, as he rocked back and forth. Francis looked down at the man's hands, which were large and gnarled, almost as weathered as an old man's hands, which wasn't at all right, because he thought the silent man was probably not much older than he was. Sometimes Francis thought that inside the mental hospital, the ordinary rules of aging were somehow altered. Young people looked old. Old people looked ancient. Men and women who should have had vitality in every heartbeat, dragged as if the weight of years marred every step, while some who were nearly finished with life had childlike simplicity and needs. For a second, he glanced down at his own hands, as if to check that they were still more or less age appropriate. Then he looked back to the big man's. His hands were connected to massive forearms, and knotted, muscled arms. Every vein that stood out spoke of barely restrained power.

"Is there something wrong?" Lucy asked.

The man gave out another growling, low-pitched grunt, that had little to do with any language Francis had ever heard before he'd arrived at the hospital, but one which he'd grown accustomed to hearing in the dayroom. It was an animal noise, expressing something simple, like hunger or thirst, lacking the edge that it might have, if anger was the basis of the sound.

Evans reached over and took the file away from Lucy Jones, quickly running his eyes over the pages collected inside the folder. "I don't think interviewing this subject will be profitable," he said with a smugness that he couldn't hide.

Lucy, a little angry, pivoted toward Mister Evil. "And why?"

He pointed at a corner of the file. "There's a diagnosis of profound retardation. You didn't see that?"

"What I saw," Lucy said coldly, "was a history of violent acts toward women. Including an incident where he was interrupted in the midst of a sexual assault on a much younger child, and a second instance where he struck someone, landing her in the hospital."

Evans looked back down at the folder. He nodded. "Yes, yes," he said rapidly. "I see those. But what gets written on a folder is often not a precise recounting of what took place. In this man's case, the young girl was the neighbor's daughter who had frequently played with him in a teasing fashion and who undoubtedly has issues of her own, and whose family opted to not press any charges, and the other case was his own mother, who was pushed during a fight that stemmed from the man's refusal to do some mundane household chore, and hit her head on a table corner, necessitating the trip to the hospital. More a moment where he was unaware how strong he was. I think, as well, that he lacks the sort of keen criminal intelligence that you are searching for, because, and correct me if I'm mistaken, your theory of the murder suggests that the killer is a man of some considerable sophistication."

Lucy took the folder back out of Evans's hands and looked up at Big Black. "I think you can take him back to his dormitory now," she said. "Mister Evans is correct."

Big Black stepped forward and took the man by the elbow, lifting him up. The man smiled, and Lucy said, "Thank you for your time," not a word of which the man seemed to understand, although the tone and sentiment must have been apparent, because he grinned and made a little wave with one of his hands, before dutifully following Big Black out the door. The pleasant smile he wore never wavered.

Lucy leaned back in her seat and sighed. "Slow going," she said.

"I have had my doubts all along," Mister Evans replied.

Francis could see that Lucy was about to say something, and in that second, he heard two, maybe three of his voices all shouting at once Tell her! Go ahead and tell her! and so he leaned forward in his own chair and opened his mouth for the first time in hours.

"It's okay, Lucy," he said slowly, then picking up some speed. "That's not the point."

Mister Evans instantly looked angry that Francis had said anything, as if he'd been interrupted, when he hadn't. Lucy turned toward Francis. "What do you mean?"

"It's not about what they say," Francis said. "I mean, it doesn't make sense, really, whatever questions you might ask, about the night of the killing, or where they were, or if they knew Short Blond, or have they ever been violent in the past. No matter what questions you ask about that night, or even about who they are, it's not really important. Whatever they say, whatever they hear, whatever response they make, not one word will be what you should be listening for."

As Francis might have guessed, Mister Evans waved his hand dismissively. "You don't think that anything they say might be important, C-Bird? Because, if not, then what is the purpose of this little exercise?"

Francis shrank back in his chair, a little afraid to contradict Mister Evil. There are some men, he knew, that stored up slights and affronts, and then paid one back at some later time, and Evans was one of them.

"Words," Francis said slowly, a little quietly. "Words aren't going to mean anything. We're going to need to speak a different language to find the Angel. A wholly different means of communicating, and one of these people, coming through that door, will be speaking it. We just need to recognize it, when it arrives. We can find it in here," he continued, speaking cautiously, "but it won't exactly be what we expect."

Evans snorted slightly, and then pulled out his notebook, and wrote a small notation down on a lined sheet. Lucy Jones was about to respond to Francis, but she saw this action on the psychologist's part, and instead she turned to him. "What was that?" she asked, pointing to the notebook.

"Nothing much," he said.

"Well," she persisted. "It had to be something. A reminder to pick up a quart of milk on the way home. A decision to apply for a new job. A maxim, a play on words, a bit of doggerel or poetry. But it was something. What?"

"An observation about our young friend, here," Evans replied blankly. "A note to myself that Francis's delusions are still current. As evidenced by what he said, about creating some sort of new language."