Peter sidled into the space next to Francis, must have thought the same, and whispered, "When the revolution comes, she'll be on the barricades. Hell, she'll probably be leading the rebellion and she's big enough to be a barricade all by herself."

"What revolution?" Francis asked.

"Don't be so literal, C-bird," Peter said with a small laugh. "Think symbolically."

"That may come easy for the Queen of Egypt," Francis replied. "But I don't know about me." The two of them grinned.

Gulptilil, however, still apparently unamused, approached them. "Ah, Peter and Francis," he said, the lilting tones returning to his voice, but with none of the pleasantry ordinarily associated with the lighthearted sound. "My pair of investigators. And how is your progress?" he asked.

"Slow and steady," Peter replied. "That is how I would describe it. But it is really for Miss Jones to determine."

"Of course. She determines one sort of progress. I, and the others in charge here, are more concerned with a totally different sort of progress, are we not?"

Peter hesitated, then nodded.

"Of course, we are," Gulptilil said. "And to that end, this is a fortuitous meeting. Both of you need to come to my office this afternoon. Francis, it is time you and I had a chat about your continuing adjustment. And Peter, you will have a visitor of some significance this afternoon. The Moses brothers will be informed when they arrive, and they will escort you to administration."

The pear-shaped medical director arched one eyebrow upward, as if curious as to the reactions of each man. He watched both their faces for an unsettling half minute or so, then continued on a few paces, turning to Lucy. "Miss Jones, good day to you. And have you managed to make inroads in your dilemma?"

"I have managed to eliminate a number of potential suspects."

"That, I presume, is something you consider valuable?"

She did not reply.

"Well," Gulptilil continued, "please keep at it. The sooner we have some conclusions, the better for all involved, I believe. Mister Evans has proven to be of assistance in your inquiries?"

"Of course," Lucy said rapidly.

Gulptilil then pivoted toward Mister Evil. "You will keep me posted, as well, as matters develop and the circumstances warrant?" he said.

"Of course," Evans said. This, Francis thought, was all a bit of bureaucratic playacting. He was certain that Evans was keeping Gulp-a-pill assessed of everything at every point. He assumed that Lucy Jones knew this, as well.

The medical director sighed, and then continued down the corridor, and exited by the main door. After a moment, Evans turned to Lucy Jones, and said, "Well, I gather we're taking a break now, and I have some paperwork to do." He, too, exited quickly.

Francis heard someone from the dayroom laugh out loud. High-pitched and mocking, it swirled around the Amherst Building. But when he turned to see where the laughter was coming from, it stopped, fading away invisibly in the shafts of midday sunlight that filtered through the barred windows.

Peter peeled himself from the wall, whispered to Francis, "Come on," and approached Lucy. In that moment the Fireman changed abruptly, immediately focused on something other than Cleo and her demands or his pleasure at seeing Gulptilil discomfited. Francis saw that Peter's face was set. He took Lucy Jones by the elbow, turned her around and said, "I found something I need to tell you about."

Wordlessly, she nodded, after, Francis thought, measuring the look on Peter's face. The three of them returned to her small office.

"That last man," Peter said, as they took chairs around the desk, "What sort of impression did you get speaking to him?"

Lucy arched an eyebrow up. "The short answer is none," she said, and then she turned to Francis. "Isn't that right, Francis?"

He nodded, and she continued: "The man, while possessing the physical strength and the youth to do some of the things we are considering, is severely retarded. He wasn't able to communicate anything of any importance, mostly just sat there about as dense to what I was asking as imaginable, and Evans thought he should be ruled out. The guy we're looking for has some brains. At least enough to plan his crimes and avoid detection."

Peter looked a little surprised, then said, "Evans thought that man should be eliminated as a suspect?"

"He made that point," Lucy replied.

"Well, that's curious, because I discovered a bloodstained white T-shirt hidden near the bottom of his belongings."

Lucy rocked back in her seat, initially not saying anything. Francis watched her absorb this information and noted how guarded she became. His own imagination was energized, and after a second, he leaned forward and asked, "Peter, can you describe what you found? How can you be sure it was what you say?"

It only took Peter a moment or two to fill in a picture for the two of them.

"You are absolutely sure that it was blood?" Lucy finally asked.

"As sure as I can be without lab tests."

"There was spaghetti for dinner the other night. I'm wondering whether this guy has trouble manipulating utensils. He might have spilled sauce on his chest…"

"It wasn't that sort of stain. It was thick, a maroonish brown in color, and was smeared about. Not as if it had been dabbed at, by someone with a damp rag who wanted to clean it up. No, this was something that someone wanted to keep, intact."

Lucy spoke slowly, "Like a souvenir? We're looking for someone who wants to keep souvenirs."

"I suspect," Peter said, in reply, "that this had more or less the same effect as a snapshot. For the killer that is. You know, a family goes on vacation and later, they have their pictures developed, and they sit around watching slides of the trip and reliving the memories. My guess is that for our Angel, this shirt would provide much the same thrill and satisfaction. He could hold it up, touch it, and remember. I would imagine that remembering the moment is probably nearly as powerful as the moment itself," Peter concluded.

Francis could feel a din of voices within him. Conflicting opinions, advice, fear, and unsettled feelings. After a second, he nodded, in agreement with what Peter was saying. But he asked Lucy, "Was there any indication, in any of the other killings, that anything was taken from the victims, other than the finger joints?"

Lucy, on the verge of responding to what Peter had said, shifted gears, and pivoted toward Francis. She shook her head. "Not that we could tell. No articles of clothing were missing. At least, not from any inventory of items that we came up with. But that doesn't completely rule it out."

Francis was troubled by something, but he was unable to say what, and none of his voices were clear and decisive. They echoed contradictory opinions within him, and he did his best to shut them out so that he could concentrate.

Lucy was nervously tapping a pencil on the tabletop. She turned to Peter, and asked, "Did you find anything else that was incriminating?"

"No."

"The fingertips?"

"No. And no knife, either. Or the building keys."

She leaned back, but it was Francis who spoke.

"I think," he said slowly, "that what I said earlier is true." He was a little surprised that he was as forceful as he was. "Before you came back, Peter. When Evans was here." It was a little, he thought, as if he was hearing his own voice, but that it was coming from some other Francis, not the Francis that he knew he was, but a different Francis, a Francis that he hoped he someday might be. "When I said we need to uncover the Angel's language."

Peter looked at Francis with an intrigued eye, and Lucy bent to his words. Francis hesitated for an instant, ignored a surge of doubt and then said, "I wonder if this isn't the first lesson in communication." The others remained quiet, and then he added, "We just need to find out what he's saying, and why."