The Psychiatrist: Trilogy to The Doll Collector

Chapter 3: Kristopher

There were usually quiet mornings around here, so the fact that there were seven police units, a coroner's van and not-so-quiet nurses buzzing around, that made it clear that something was wrong.

The alarm siren sounded at 7:28 a.m., and the second and third pairs of locks on our doors turned and clicked, the sound of confinement. It awakened all the patients and alerted us that something was amiss. This had only happened once before, and that was because the mechanism on our first locks broke down, and the staff panicked, initiating the second and third pairs of locks.

By 7:30 a.m. on the dot, all patients were at their doors communicating with a language that had been devised years ago. I'd learned it within a few months of my stay here, Macy had been my teacher. Two knocks travelled from room to room down the hallway until the entire hospital was aware. Two knocks, someone was dead.

There was only one way out of this place and it was feet first in a body bag. The sounds of squeaky wheels caught my attention and drew me to the door. A gurney, perhaps? I made a mental map of what room housed which patient. Macy was next door, Bill Rodriguez across from her and across from me George Brooks. There were many other rooms, but the squeak had been close and had ceased nearby.

It was the murder floor, and very rarely did anyone come down here with the squeaky wheel of a gurney. That sound only ever meant death or a severe decline in health. We were all as healthy as can be and lived forever, but forever hadn't been as long for someone, apparently. I moved back to my bed and knocked three times on the wall. The seconds ticked by and I hated I admit that I grew worried. Then it came, three knocks in response, Macy hadn't been the one to get wheeled away.

The lockdown remained in place for two hours before the three pairs of locks turned and released us one hour late to lunch. Macy met me at my door and together we walked to the dining hall. Chatter was louder than usual, which was good because that's how gossip was passed along.

I took a seat at a lone table, only to be joined by Macy almost immediately. I scared off most of the people around here to avoid being bothered, but Macy wasn't fazed by my lack of interaction or piercing looks. I guess when you dared kill your parents, there was very little you were frightened of.

"George Brooks, he croaked." She said, her eyes were wide and shiny.

Something about murder got her blood rushing. Been there, still there, always there. Sometimes I wondered if what she said about her parents was true, or if the bloodlust had simply gotten to her.

George Brooks was probably the most violent murderer to walk these halls, and that was saying something considering I lived across the hall from him.

He'd brutally murdered his grandmother six years ago, in which he dismembered her body and served her at a dinner party. He was the clear cut definition of a psycho. After that, he frequently stalked and murdered women, serving them to unsuspecting dinner guests.

"He didn't look sick." I said.

"Maybe it was his heart? Maybe it decided he was an evil son-of-a-bitch, and just quit on him." Macy shrugged.

"Did he ever mention being ill?"

"I don't know. I never talked to him. Kris, who cares?"

"Well isn't it weird? He was as healthy as a horse, and he just kicks the bucket in his sleep? When's the last time someone in the murder ward just up and died for no reason?"

"Who gives a shit? He was a murderer." She said in irritation.

"You're a murderer, I'm a murderer."