Pity Him Afterwards

“I would not want to see you paint Robert Ellington in your newspaper as a sex maniac,” Dr. Peterby told him. “As I have said, he has absolutely no prior history of sex crime or sexual pathology or sex-based violence. His is a sick mind, a deranged mind. Therefore, no certain predictions can be made about what he will do. It is possible he will attempt rape. It is also possible he will attempt to kill himself. I think both possibilities very unlikely. Remember that while his mind is sick, it is also a highly intelligent mind and a very clever mind. I have no doubt he could carry off a masquerade of normalcy for a limited period of time, with no question in those around him that he is other than what he seems. He is far from inarticulate. He can be, in fact, extremely wordy and facile and chatty, if these happen to be the characteristics of the person he is mimicking. However, and this does relate to the sexual question raised a moment ago, he can be articulate only on non-stress subjects. He cannot express a strong opinion of his own, or a strong emotion of his own, through the play-acting of being someone else. Nor can he successfully simulate strong emotion or strong opinion on the part of the person he is imitating. Once strong emotion is brought into play, he is reduced to a mute condition, necessitated by the need to hide his true self from himself.”

A police officer said, “Doctor, this business about his being in a big city like New York, and stealing to make a living — how good do you think the odds are?”

“What is the chance that I’m wrong?” Dr. Peterby smiled. “A very good chance,” he said. “You must remember that we are dealing with a sick mind, and we can never be absolutely sure what that mind will do. It is entirely possible that at this very moment Robert Ellington is on a farm somewhere, the newly hired handyman, doing the chores and minding his own business and causing trouble to no one. I think this unlikely, because he has no rural background, and because despite his derangement he is clever. I am basing my guesses on the belief that he will consider his situation, decide that anonymity is his best chance to avoid recapture, and further decide that anonymity is much more readily found in a large city than in either a small town or a farm area, where strangers are much more noticeable. I am basing my guess that he will rob rather than work on the same assumption that he will consider his primary goal to be anonymity and so will take no chances on a regular job.”

He spread his hands. “There’s really nothing more I can add.”

They thanked him, and promised to keep him informed, and the newsmen asked a few more questions in search of the sensationalism which paid their salaries, and slowly the office emptied.

Once they were gone, Dr. Peterby switched off the ceiling light. Thick draperies flanked his windows, dimming the sunlight that brightened the world outside. Now in the afternoon the sun was around on the other side of the building, leaving this side in shade. Dr. Peterby switched on the desk lamp, creating a small circle of warm glowing light around the desk. He sat in the middle of this warm circle, picked up his telephone, and phoned someone to come take all those chairs away.

Mel’s room was seven by eleven, with an eight-foot ceiling; six hundred and sixteen cubic feet. The bottom was varnished, the sides were painted pale green, the top was painted off-white. This box contained a bed with white-painted metal head and foot, a small and chunky dresser enameled black, a small walnut-toned table with a green blotter on it to indicate it was a writing desk, two wooden chairs without arms, a scarred black bedside table with uneven legs, and a black metal wastebasket graced on one side by an enormous rose decal. A small green rectangular rug lay on the floor to the left of the bed. There was a mirror on the closet door, doubling everything.

Without the mirror, there were three light sources: a ceiling fixture shaped vaguely like a flying saucer, a gooseneck lamp on the writing table, a pink-shaded porcelain-bodied lamp on the bedside table. All three were lit. The six-hundred-sixteen-cubic-foot box was bathed in light.

It was 9:15 P.M. Mel lay on the bed, supine, gazing at the ceiling.

The policeman, Sondgard, had finished with the individual interviews a little before seven. Then he’d come in and talked to them all together. He’d thanked them for their co-operation, and then he asked them if they would co-operate with him further. There were only two things he wanted from them: First, if anyone remembered anything that might be of any help at all, he or she should get in touch with Captain Sondgard at once. And second, none of them were to leave Cartier Isle until further notice.