Praying for Sleep

gaps in the building, which had been constructed a century ago. The walls of Adler’s office were made from the same red granite used throughout the hospital but he was its director so the walls were paneled. Because this was a state hospital, however, the wormwood was fake and badly warped. The office seemed like that of a bail bondsman or an ambulance-chasing lawyer.
    Adler flicked the light on and tossed his overcoat onto a button-studded couch. The summons tonight had found him between the legs of his wife and he’d leapt off the bed and dressed hastily. He noticed now that he’d forgotten his belt, and his slacks hung below his moderate belly. This embarrassed him and he quickly sat at his desk chair. He gazed momentarily at the phone as if perplexed it wasn’t ringing.
    To the young man, his assistant, Adler said, “Let’s have it, Doctor. Don’t hover. Sit down and tell me.”
    “Details are pretty sketchy. He’s built like Callaghan.” Peter Grimes aimed his knobby hair toward the body in the loading dock. “We think he—”
    Adler interrupted. “And he is . . . ?”
    “The one who escaped? Michael Hrubek. Number 458-94.”
    “Go on.” Adler fanned his fingers gingerly and Grimes placed a battered white file folder in front of the director.
    “Hrubek, it seems—”
    “He was the big fellow? Didn’t think he was a trouble-maker.”
    “Never was. Until today.” Grimes kept retracting his lips like a fish chewing water and exposing little, even teeth. Adler found this repugnant and lowered his face to the file. The young doctor continued, “He shaved his head to look like Callaghan. Stole a razor to do it. Then he dyed his face blue. Broke a pen and mixed the ink with—” Adler’s eyes swung to Grimes with a look of either anger or bewilderment. The young man said quickly, “Then he climbed into the freezer for an hour. Anybody else would’ve died. Just before the coroner’s boys came by to pick up Callaghan, Hrubek hid the corpse and climbed into his body bag. The orderlies looked inside, saw a cold, blue body and—”
    A barked laugh escaped from the director’s thin lips, on which to his shock he detected the scent of his wife. The smile faded. “Blue? Incredible. Blue?”
    Callaghan had died, Grimes explained, by strangulation. “He was blue when they found him this afternoon.”
    “Then he wasn’t blue for long, my friend. As soon as they cut the sheet off him, he was un -blue. Didn’t the fucking orderlies think of that?”
    “Well,” Peter Grimes said, and could think of nothing to add.
    “Did he hurt the meat-wagon boys?” Adler asked. At some point tonight he’d have to total up how many people might sue the state as a result of the escape.
    “Nope. They said they chased him but he disappeared.”
    “They chased him. I’m sure.” Adler sighed sardonically, and turned back to the file. He motioned for Grimes to be quiet and began to read about Michael Hrubek.
    DSM-III diagnosis: Paranoid schizophrenic . . . Monosymptomatic and delusional . . . Claims to have been committed in seventeen hospitals and escaped from seven of them. Unconfirmed.
    Adler glanced up at his assistant. “Escaped from seven hospitals?” Before the young man could answer the question, to which there really was no answer, the director was reading once more.
    . . . committed indefinitely pursuant to Section 403 of the State Mental Health Law. . . . Hallucinatory (auditory, nonvisual) . . . subject to severe panic attacks, during which Pt. may become psychotically violent. Pt.’s intelligence is average/above average. . . . Difficulty processing only the most abstract thought . . . Believes he is being persecuted and spied upon. Believes he is hated by others and gossiped about . . . Revenge and retribution, often in Biblical or historical contexts, seem to be integral parts of his delusion. . . . Particular animosity toward women . . .
    Adler then read the intake resident’s report about Hrubek’s height, weight, strength, general good health and belligerence. His face remained impassive though his heart revved up a few beats and he thought with dread and clinical admiration, The son of a bitch is a killing animal. Jesus, Lord.
    “ ‘Presently controlled by chlorpromazine hydrochloride, 3200 mgs./daily. P.O. in divided doses.’ Is this for real, Peter?”
    “Yes. I’m afraid so. Three grams of Thorazine.”
    “Fuck,” Adler whispered.
    “About which . . .” The assistant rocked