Prologue
It was better than the alternative. That’s what he reminded himself during one of the increasingly seldom bouts of guilt. This small measure of self-assurance was usually enough to put his mind at ease, but it warranted repeating. A prayer of sorts. He returned to the main level where the air smelled less of flowers and more of chemical astringent.
Cleanliness was just as important as order. Here, under careful observation, his charges could be cared for. Monitored. Regulated. He knew first hand what it meant to allow these sorts to freely move about society.
Control was vital. Without him to rein in the worst of their excesses, there was no telling what sort of degeneracy they would get up to. That went for the mainstream patients as well as the ones he kept from public view. He caught a whiff of sweet air and wondered if it was something incriminating, but quickly identified it as the natural musk of one of the floral arrangements.
Dammit, but he had to be somewhere. Without even slowing down, George motioned to the orderly to unlock the gate. He had a key, of course, but it would not do for the staff to see him dirtying his own hands with mundane labor. The white coats gave orders. The white shirts carried them out. Nodding, the orderly hurriedly set to work.
“Good morning, Dr. Corbran,” he greeted, only making eye contact but furtively.
This one hadn’t been here for long, George was sure. Clearly he hadn’t yet learned that the asylum’s Chief Attending valued compliance over courtesy. There had been so many new faces this year. So many unknown quantities. Among them was the new superintendent who could surely complicate matters if he had a mind to. Thankfully, he seemed to know what was good for him and showed no inclination to upset the applecart.
If only all the new arrivals were so accommodating. George indulged a grimace, thinking about Dr. Young. Although, if Carter did his job, that was one headache he wouldn’t have to endure for long – one way or the other.
The large windows on the next ward were wide open. A hot breeze filled the corridor, probably in an effort to help dispel a sordid combination of rubbing alcohol, human waste, and body odor. But once again the smell of fresh lilacs asserted itself from somewhere up ahead.
As he passed through one of the men’s wards, the tinny horn music from an electric gramophone mingled with the drone of several overlapping conversations.
He kept an eye out for Stephen Curry, but thankfully, he didn’t usually make his rounds until midday. While the new superintendent of Greystone Asylum came with a white beard of experience and a sharp eye, he also had a surprisingly progressive view of mental health treatment. And as such, he was a meddling prick.
They had had some prior interactions, but George preferred to limit those as much as possible until such time as he was able to find some useful leverage.
Under the stewardship of the previous super, George could expect to run the place as he saw fit. It amounted to blackmail, but it had also cemented his rule. Stephen Curry, on the other hand, had no obvious skeletons in his closet that George might exploit and so he had been obliged to play things safe for the time being.
Not content to let that stand, he had sent inquiries to Curry’s last post as an initial foray. Thus far, nothing had come up, but there was surely something. There was always something; an illicit vice, a bastard child, dipping into the accounts. Whatever it was, George would find it. However, today was not the day for it.
This next appointment was more important.
His 11 o’clock was already waiting in the visitor’s parlor when he entered the administration building. George held back a sigh. At least he’d get this over and done with. The man, dapper as ever acknowledged him with an artificial smile.
“You have good news for me, I hope?”
George cut the air with his hand. “Not here,” he hissed and motioned toward his office. “What name did you use today?”
“Does it really matter? I didn’t use the same one as last time and that blabbermouth at the desk didn’t care. She just scratched it into the book like usual.”
“Look, things have changed around here and we may need to keep things discrete for a while longer.”
“How discrete? I’ve got a big fish for the next party.”
“It’s off until I say otherwise.”
“Wha-?”
George motioned for him to be quiet until they reached his office. It was austere as far as working areas go. The only adornments were several diplomas mounted to the wall, but they were only there as a matter of expected formality. In truth, he had not given them much thought in years. The lofty ambitions of his youth and the prestige of medicine had lost much of their luster.
There was a time when he had believed in a calling; that he was somehow obliged to offer help to those that needed it. Perhaps if someone had done so for him during formative and desperate years, things might have turned out differently.
He fooled himself. Such sentiments could not withstand the corrosive erosion of long experience. It was difficult to pick a year when the change had occurred. Likely, it had been a gradual thing, but soon the truth was inescapable; too many were simply beyond saving.
It was only after he shut the door and switched the desk fan on for noise that he motioned for the dapper prick to continue. The guest wasted no time stating his grievance.
“What do you mean the party’s off? When were you going to tell me?” he demanded.
“Look, I’m under more scrutiny than usual at the moment and I need it to settle before we make any moves.”
“Scrutiny? I thought you said you ran this place as it suited you.”
George narrowed his eyes. “As far as you’re concerned, I am the patriarch, pontifex maximus, and chief executive of this institution.” But even a king had to be wary of treachery within his court. “There’ve simply been a lot of changes lately. This new superintendent in particular has been breathing down my neck.”
“Why, what’d you do?”
“Never mind that. Rest assured that I am making progress to ameliorate the situation and this is only a precaution until I can be sure.”
“A precaution? Is that what you want me to tell Anthony Casso? Because they don’t call him ‘Gaspipe’ because he fits plumbing. He beat a man to death for reneging on a deal.”
While George was reasonably sure that it was not Mr. Casso himself who beat the offender to death, the point still stood. Despite the Luchese gang’s sordid reputation, they were fair and reliable customers and business partners, and George had something they needed.
“If he wants to continue to receive a steady supply of his most lucrative product, things will continue to be just fine,” George replied.
His guest opened his mouth, apparently thinking about arguing the point, but instead contented himself with working his jaw instead. Furtively, the man’s eyes flicked to the far wall; there was more on his mind than a simple delayed payday.
“What ah… what about that other thing?”
“That will go on as scheduled.”
“It’ll be… clean?”
“Don’t you worry about that. I’ve been researching a new procedure. Very modern. The good news for you is there’s already been one recorded death. So nothing suspicious.”
For the first time, he looked away, though whether it was due to reluctance or remorse was unclear. As a one-time practitioner of psychological medicine George was familiar with the different ways that emotions – especially troubling ones – might express.
It was possible that George only imagined it as a projection of his own reluctance. Secretly, he hoped the whole thing would be called-off and he wouldn’t have to actually follow through with the despicable act. Even putting aside his personal feelings, it would be a dreadful waste.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, desperately hoping that the tremor in his voice wasn’t as obvious as it felt. His face, at least, remained a porcelain mask. The other man’s response was interesting.
“What’s it to you, Doc?” he asked in a careful tone.
Guarded. Interesting. The question had gotten his hackles up.
“It just seems there are some unresolved issues between you and your sister.” “Heh heh. Don’t try to analyze me. Not if you want your cut. Just do what you do. Then, we get back to business.”
Wes Verde 